Challenge

Christy, the woman who taught my personal training certification class, said one thing that made a big impression on me, bigger than any of the other information she conveyed about fitness, fitness assessment, nutrition, or training.  She said, “Challenge yourself.”   Two simple words.  Two powerful words.

It’s not like I don’t challenge myself.  I try to improve my running times and distances, and I include weight training, flexibility training  and cross-training in my fitness program.  I have clients of various ages and fitness levels, who all have different fitness goals, and I love the challenges of creating exercise prescriptions that are tailored to their specific needs and goals.  I am constantly reading about and studying cutting edge material in my field so I can help my clients improve their fitness, vary their routines to keep things fresh and interesting, and also meet their specific nutritional needs.

Challenge translates to my personal life as well.  Parenting, working, and taking care of our home and day-to-day lives are all constant my life.  Supporting my husband as he deals with work pressure with fortitude and grace, helping my college-aged teenager navigate sophomore year (only when I’m asked to!),  and guiding  my high school sophomore  to utilize her time and intelligence to maintain her GPA as she thinks about college all take a lot of energy.   When work comes my way I take it— whether it’s teaching, house painting, fitness training, interior design consulting, or consigning my art or handwork— I do whatever it takes to contribute to tuition, groceries, or the infamous Rockport water bill.  It’s not that much in the big scheme of things, but I do the best I can.  And I still cook dinner almost every night.

The biggest challenge for me is finding and then maintaining the balance of this short, precious life.   Some days it’s basic, like scheduling three clients in between school drop-off and pick-up, and stealing an hour in there for a run.  Other days it’s not so basic, like when some boy breaks my daughter’s heart and I have to be the best mom I can possibly be—  when I tell her she’s smart and beautiful and worth more than any boy could ever imagine as she leans her head on my shoulder and sobs— when I hold her and let her grieve.  There are lots of in between times with plenty to do, as each person who squeezes in time to read this knows.

Hearing Christy say to challenge myself really made me stop and think.  It made me think about who I am, what I do, and what I want to do and achieve in life.  It made me realize how hard I can be on myself and the people in my life, and maybe, maybe, the biggest way to challenge myself is to ease up on everyone I love, and to ease up on me, too.   To realize that every aspect of life is a challenge, and to take the lighter road once in a while. Thanks, Christy!

How do you challenge yourself?

Pizza Break!!!

Happy Post-Thanksgiving, Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and Christmas Rush to all!

It feels good to have celebrated the big bird holiday with most of our family.  I even managed to sneak in my very own Turkey Trot on Thursday morning while the pumpkin custard baked in the oven.  I took Friday off to weight train and avoid the downpour outside, then it was back to my very best gazelle imitation on Saturday and Sunday. I logged more than 30 miles for the week.  I am proud to have made that goal during a holiday week.  The weather made it pretty easy, though.

It’s time for a turkey break, so here’s my bird-free, get away from big messes in the kitchen, easy post- feast Friday night meal:

Scampi Pizza

Ingredients:

1 pizza crust (we like whole wheat, but make or buy your favorite)

10 oz. goat mozzarella or cheese of your choice

1 pound extra large shrimp: defrosted, peeled and deveined

3 cloves garlic, blanched and minced

1/2 pound asparagus, ends trimmed and sliced into 1/2 inch pieces

12 oz sliced crimini or baby bella mushrooms, sauteed in olive oil over high heat until juices release.

Method:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.  Lightly oil and sprinkle with cornmeal a large single layer baking sheet or pizza stone.  If using a pizza stone, preheat it in the oven first.

Drain mushrooms.  Reserve liquid for a future soup or stew if you wish.

Stretch out pizza dough to fit your baking sheet or pizza stone.

Sprinkle cheese onto dough.  Layer on mushrooms, garlic, and asparagus.  Arrange shrimp on top of vegetables.

Bake pizza in lower third of the oven for 20 – 25 minutes, or until cheese bubbles and crust is crisp.

Serves 4.  Enjoy!

Giving Thanks for that Little Octopus in the Kitchen

This morning my running friend Sue was sick, and so I took to the street by myself.  It’s a cool but not cold, bright but not sunny, damp but not raining, perfect Thanksgiving morning to run.  I took my usual route and ran 6 miles in 50 minutes, a surprise because yesterday I ran 7.3 in 61.  I was expecting to be tired, and for this morning to be harder.  It seems the more I run, the easier it gets and the better I feel.

The roads were car-quiet, but plenty of folks were out running and walking their dogs.  I cheerfully greeted each and every runner, walker, dog walker, and newspaper gatherer with a bright “Happy Thanksgiving”, and in between people, I tried to focus and meditate on all the reasons I have to be thankful.  Here’s a partial list:  my husband, my children (and how good they have always been!), my parents, my sister and her family, my mother-in-law, my dear friends, my health, home by the sea, the fact that I can run at all, never mind the whopping 9 miles two weeks ago!!!, and life just as it is- joyous, miserable, scary, easy, hard, challenging, bountiful, scant— all of it.  I topped the final hill and walked for a couple of minutes, catching my breath and thinking about what I had to cook and pack before leaving for a family dinner at my sister’s house.  Hot, sweaty, thirsty, I burst in the front door and went right to the kitchen.

On the counter, on a wooden cutting board, lay a small— by that I mean maybe a 12 inch tentacle spread— cooked octopus.  Mmmm hmmm.  That’s right.  The smell, well, let’s just say low, low tide is the best I can do to describe that.  I am an adventurous eater, especially when it comes to fishes and sea creatures.  I have tried all our local sushi chef has to offer.  Let me be really honest and say whole octopus does not lo0k anything like that slender slice of purplish flesh gently laid across a ball of sticky rice.  And perhaps at room temperature the smell is a bit more subtle…  I inhaled deeply through my mouth and grabbed my water bottle, then took myself out the back door for a good long stretch and some fresh air.

You are looking for the back story, aren’t you?  Here it is.  My non-meat-eating teenager asked a few weeks ago if she could prepare her own entree to bring on Thanksgiving.  I said of course she could.  After all, I was a vegetarian for years and understand what it’s like to sit down to a meal drenched in animal fat, or laced with animal flesh, be hungry, and see nothing I can put in my mouth and enjoy.  Yesterday I took the teenager to the fish market, then the grocery store, and helped her select her meal for today.  I knew it was octopus.  I did.  And I knew she would cook it at home and bring it with us today; however, I did not expect to meet that blanched little purple guy in my kitchen this morning before breakfast.

As for the title of this piece, one thing in particular for which I am grateful is the way my children are comfortable enough with who they are to go ahead and forge their new territories without embarrassment or fear.  While raising them, I have encouraged them to be themselves and not worry about what other people think.  To trust themselves and do what feels right, whether it’s preparing and bringing octopus for Thanksgiving dinner or coming home on weekends from college because they are not ready for parties and are doing their best to stay safe.  So, yes, I am thankful, especially, for that little octopus in the kitchen…

I invite you to use the comment section of this post to write something for which you are thankful today.  Happy Thanksgiving!

P.S.  I am not posting the octopus recipe unless someone asks for it…

Gone

I was out running the other morning.  The sun was rising over the Twin Lights on Thatcher Island, and I kept stealing glances at the sky while trying to avoid tripping in the various potholes and landing in the puddles that make up Eden Road.   The tide was low, and the rocks were dark with moss and seaweed.  White curls of waves lapped and licked at the growth upon the granite stone, the water rose up like deep breaths from the sea.  Morning sunlight twinkled on the water, catching hungry gulls and ducks off-guard, thinking bird-thoughts about flashing fishes.

I was listening to the Corrs playing “Haste to the Wedding”, a rollicking jig that rolls into a reel, when I realized you were gone.  I don’t know if it was the music, the sea, or the pace of the run that slammed the knowledge into me.  Perhaps it was the nothingness of it.  In a really good run, everything becomes nothing.  I don’t think.  I just am.  I am a wide open space, and that morning, you rushed in.  With every breath, every stride, every beat of my heart, I knew a part of my life was over.  And somehow, in my day-to-day waiting for you to go, I had not noticed.

I felt a tiny ache thinking I had missed your going.  I wondered, as I turned onto the road between the marshes, should the ache be bigger?  Do people cry?  I didn’t feel like crying.  I smiled as each breath pulled in and flowed out.  As I hit the soft sand along Pebble Beach, I thought of the summer you surfed on the next beach over, Cape Hedge, and how I worried only a little each time you tumbled into the waves as they crashed the shoreline.  I thought of the way you surfaced in your black wetsuit, your straight blonde hair dripping ocean into your green eyes.  The way you grabbed your bright blue board and headed right back out to catch the next wave.

I smiled  again, thinking you have a headstart on me, because now I must wait for your sister, too, to go.   I attacked the hill rounding up Penzance Road, pushing, pushing, pushing hard to the top, and began the long, slow climb up South Street.  I burst past Emily’s house and remembered you and her together, that first girl, that first perfect year you had, and then the second not-so-perfect year.  I think of all the nights you and she cried over and for each other and how many nights you turned to me to talk.  You learned about love, loss, anger, moving on and starting over.  You shared it all with me.  Somewhere in there, in that learning, you were packing to go.

I didn’t put a lot of thought into the actual going part.  I looked forward to it, to not wondering where you might be when you are not home, to not trying to be quiet in case you were sleeping late behind your closed bedroom door. I have looked forward to your next stage in life, when you have the chance to figure out who you are and who you want to become.  I have equally looked forward to my next stage.  Even though I love you, and your sister, and have always loved being your mother, I’m feeling ready to spend some time alone with your father, and to regain some of the freedom that I gave up to be a full time mother twenty years ago.

Last year we packed your things to go, gathering fresh bedding in extra-long twin size, text books, a new pair of warm winter boots– remember when I splurged on those soft green suede UGGs?—and boxes of gum, crackers, tea, and a water filter for your room.  You came back home nearly every weekend and it was as if you hadn’t left at all.

At the end of your second semester, you moved your clothes and shoes, bedding and books, and your self back. You were soon up to your old tricks, heading out to the beach every day, then to work in the late afternoon, slipping in the front door quietly in the middle of the night while the rest of us were asleep.  Your room looked like the center of a cyclone.  You used the floor as an enormous shelf, littering it with damp towels and board shorts, dirty tee shirts and open water bottles, papers, mail, and text books from your last semester.  I hated to wake you, but I never saw you, so I peeked in around noon each day if I was home, just to look at your long strong man’s body thrown carelessly across your bed in sleep.

When the time came for you to return to school this year, I let you pack and get ready by yourself.  I thought you would like privacy and space.  I also thought it was time for you to learn to do this without me.  I did help you with the actual move into your new dorm.  You and I lugged heavy boxes and bins from the car up flight after flight of stairs, and down the long corridors to your apartment.  It was like hauling rocks. I wondered what you had packed.  Everything?  When I returned home, your room didn’t seem very empty.  No wonder you used your floor as a shelf.  And still, I hadn’t really thought you’d gone.

This semester, you don’t come home on the weekends.  You call once in a while, and you send me text messages. You ask how I am, how the rest of us are. You talk about your courses, your roommates, and skateboarding from class to class.  You sound both settled and excited.  During this run, it occurred me that you talk to me.  You told me this week that Tuesday is your laundry and grocery day. You!  Laundry and grocery day!   I never expected you to be so ready, so good at life right away.  And I guess I wasn’t sure that we’d keep the same kind of relationship we had when you were younger, particularly the way we easily communicated, when you left.  I did not let myself count on it, in case you turned out to be one of those boys who left and never looked back.

I picked up the pace for the last third of the run.  Long, hungry strides propelled me toward home.  I sprinted and I grinned to myself.  This is why the ache is so very, very small.  I know you will never really be gone.

Sprouting Wings, Then Wheat Berries

I set the alarm for early this morning.  It’s Friday, and hubby is working from home, so he can take the teenager to school and I can run before the client I am training arrives at 7:45.  I get up right away, not using the the snooze button even once.  I have to drink that first cup of coffee before I run, otherwise I might as well stay in bed.

I quietly slip out of the bedroom and head for the kitchen, where my favorite brew, Starbucks House Blend, is hot and ready in the coffee maker.  Before I go back upstairs, I make a cup for the hubby.  I dress, throw together a lunch for the teenager, and head out.

It’s warm, and I am glad I wore capri running pants instead of the winter ones.  There is a bit of mist in the air, but the sky does not look at all menacing and so I begin my regular 5.3 mile loop.  I am about a quarter of the way through my run when that friendly mist starts to become a light drizzle, and a couple of streets before  Eden Road, it actually starts raining.  As I have mentioned before, I don’t run in the rain.  I hate the feeling of water dropping on my head and my face.  I hate how slippery my skin feels when rain and sweat mix.  I hate the fear of slipping on wet leaves and falling hard on my back or butt.  I start a little internal conversation.  Okay.  If the rain stops before I can see the lighthouses I’ll keep going.  Don’t be such a baby.  It’s not that bad.  Just keep going.  Maybe when the hubby goes out, he will notice the rain and come find me- he will rescue me.  Drive me home.  He’s not going to come find me.  He’s thinking I knew it was going to rain and decided to go anyway.  He’s thinking I have my cell phone and I’ll call him if I want a rescue.

There is a 90 degree bend partway down Eden Road where the view of Thatcher Island and the Twin Lights begins.  It’s one of the most breathtaking views of my loop and every day I pay close attention to that part of the route.  Every day the island and lighthouses look a little bit different.  Sometimes they are not even visible if there is heavy fog.  Sometimes the sun is just coming up between the two lighthouses and the water sparkles and it looks like heaven’s gate.

sunrise over Thatcher Island

Today when I turn the corner the wind picks up like mad but the rain has softened and I can see the island and the lights settled comfortably in the gray, smooth water, and the sky above is a lighter shade of gray, almost silver.  I have a feeling, one from my dreams when I was younger, that I can fly.  As I run, I open my arms wide and lift my face,  letting the wind push against me.  I can almost feel myself lifting off of the rough, uneven pavement, and that gentle rain feels good on my hot skin.

I wonder, when I return home— drenched, winded, joyous with the exhilaration of today’s run—  if I should have waited.  A bright yellow sun has broken through the grayness, and it feels like June.  My client comes, we walk and then weight train, finishing off the session with some core work and stretches.  I walk her to the door, and see that rain is pouring down in wide, torrential sheets, landing and cascading down the road in a river-rush.  I wonder if my friend Michelle is out there in it, or if she ran early like I did today.  I think I’ll send her an email and ask.  And tell her I am not dry-clean-only after all.

Here is a recipe for sprouted wheat berry cookies I emailed Michelle today, after my ‘real’ shower.

From the Celebration of Wellness cookbook:  Sprouted Almond Croquettes

1 cup sprouted wheat berries
1/2 cup applesauce
1/3 cup raw cashews
3/4 cup currants
1/2 tsp almond extract
1/4 cup toasted, minced almonds

Preheat oven to 250 degrees.
1.To sprout wheat:  put wheat berries in a bowl or jar and cover the wheat berries with water, let soak for 24 hours.  Drain out the water, then rinse with fresh water and drain again.  Rinse and drain morning and night for 2 more days or until white sprout tails appear.

2. Pulse chop the sprouted wheat in a food processor, stop and scrape down the sides.  Pulse chop in applesauce and cashews, then add the currants and almond extract, blending for another 30 seconds.

3.  Lower oven temperature to 200 degrees.  Stir in almonds into mixture and drop the cookie dough by tablespoonfuls onto a lightly oiled cookie sheet and bake for 1 1/2  hours at 200 degrees.

Yield: 20 cookies

Notes from personal trials:
Measure out about 1/3 cup wheat berries to soak.  That yields a little over a cup for the recipe. Make sure to lower the oven temp before you put them in, otherwise the bottoms turn a little bit black.
The cookies don’t spread at all, so you can fit all 20 on one large cookie sheet.
You can substitute golden raisins, dark raisins, apricots, dried cherries, or any combination of these for the currants with great success.
Tasting the batter can be a big mistake.  It’s so delicious, you may not have enough left to make the cookies.  I think the batter makes an excellent breakfast.
These cookies freeze well, so I have doubled the recipe twice so far.

A little about sprouted wheat berries:  Sprouting converts its starch into simple sugars, the vitamin E content triples, the vitamin B content increases from 20 to 1200 percent, and the vitamin C content increases by a factor of 6.  Baking the cookies at a low temperature allows the nutrients to remain intact.  Wow!  Bring it on!

Coffee Cake for a Day Off

Yesterday I ran 7.2 miles in 64 minutes.  I felt great. It was a gorgeous morning, cold and sunny. The air was still.  I ran part of my route with the other Sue I meet up with sometimes, (a powerful runner with great form and intense commitment to running!), and we chatted about our kids.  She has four!  Her last one attends the same college as my first one.  We traded notes on the benefits of going to Salem State College, and how nice it is for them to be away at school but close enough to visit sometimes.  I ended my run by looping around Bearskin Neck, sprinted down the little hill there, then taking an easy jog back home.

As the morning grew into the day, an intense ache wormed its way into the depths of my head, and by the time dinner time rolled around, I felt a little queasy from the pain.  I had morning plans- to run, of course, and then tea with a friend, so we could catch up on each others’  lives.  I sent her a quick email to let her know we would need to check in this morning, in case I actually was sick.

I woke up with the headache still there, but recessed.  I decided to drug up.  Three liquid gels later, I turned on the oven and took out what I needed to make my best coffee cake.  There were 15 minutes left on the timer when the phone rang.

“How are you this morning?”

“Fine, fine.  The headache is much better.  I’m not sick.”

“That’s great.  But I’m not coming.  Tessie’s sick.  She turned to me in the car on the way to school, smiled sweetly, then threw up.  We came right back home.  She’s on the couch with a glass of  ginger ale and the television on.”

Tessie is her granddaughter.  And my friend is a very good, and very available Grandma.

“Yuck!  I’m so sorry.  We can reschedule.”

“Yes, that’s fine.  But I’m really going to miss that coffee cake.”

“Oh, don’t worry- it’s easy to make.  I’ll do it again next week when you come.”

So I’m taking today off from running, and eating coffee cake all by myself.

Sour Cream Coffee Cake

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Ingredients for the batter:

1/4 lb butter, 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, ( I use egg beaters), 1 cup lowfat plain yogurt, (did you really think I would use sour cream?),  1 tsp vanilla extract, 2 cups whole wheat flour, dash salt, 1 tsp each baking soda and baking powder, 1 cup fresh cranberries.

Ingredients for the sprinkle-y stuff that makes it coffee cake:

1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans, 1 tsp ground cinnamon, stirred together in a separate bowl.

Method:

Cream butter and sugar well, beat in eggs, then the yogurt, and vanilla.  Add dry ingredients and mix well.  I use a counter top mixer,  but you can use whatever works for you.  Just make sure you fold in cranberries at the end.

Oil a large pie dish or tube pan.  Spread 1/2 of the batter in the bottom.  Sprinkle 1/2 of the sugar and nut mixture over the batter.  Spread remaining batter over top, then the rest of the sugar and nut mixture.  Bake for 45 minutes.

You can substitute blueberries, chocolate chips, raspberries, or a combination of any of the above for the cranberries, but the tartness of the cranberries really works well in this cake.  It’s good warm or room temperature, with coffee or tea, but best when shared with a friend…

Barefoot

My mother-in-law clipped an article from the Boston Globe the other day and passed it on to me.  It was about running barefoot.  A local group of runners swear by it.  The article quoted some  runners who were experiencing pain in sneakers and are now running barefoot and pain-free.  Reading that article brought back memories of my younger days as a runner, when night time was the right time, when I had no gear and bare feet were the best thing to run in, when I had so much energy I didn’t know what to do with myself other than run it off.  There was a time when… and there was a boy…

My feet slap the surface of the street, over and over, the thwuck- thwuck  of my soles echoing with each step.  The street lights are on, and as I run under each one I see my shadow approach me, then disappear.  The road is lumpy, the tar mixed with small stones and bits of smooth glass,and I can feel them first under the balls of my feet, then under my  toes when I dig into each step.  The bottoms of my feet are thick and black, like the pads on the feet of a dog.

Tonight I am wearing a very short tank dress with just a pair of white cotton panties underneath.  I run with my hair down, and it bounces upon my back, landing at my waist each time and brushing my elbows.

Soon I am far from the house on the corner of Nashua Street in Oak Bluffs, where my friend Amy and her seven housemates live together this summer.  Rita, a friend from off-island, is still there, slumped in an old tattered armchair in the living room, either asleep or passed out.  As I tried to slip out the back door, Javier, the sexiest of Amy’s housemates had called out to me.

“Adonde vas?”

“Just out.”

“Por que?”

“I’m going for a run.”

“Ahora?  Es las una!”

“I know it’s one o’clock.  But I’m still wide awake.  I have too much energy.  I gotta go.”

“No.  No.  Vienes conmigo!”

He gestured with his left hand, sweeping his arm toward his bedroom door.

“No, Jav.”

“Pero tus zapatos!”

“I don’t need my shoes.  See?”

I turned one foot up, then the other for inspection.

“No zapatos.  Hasta luego.”

“Yeah.  See you later.”

I turned and went out into the darkness.

It’s hard to see, and I’m still a little drunk from partying with Amy and and the housemates.  I had tripped on the front walk, but once I hit the street, I was fine.

I run and run, almost to Vineyard Haven along the dark roads.  My head is filled with leaving, although I have been gone for more than a year.  I think about the boy I left, who really left me first but then changed his mind.  I think about my family I left, and am running so fast and hard that each breath is a gasp.  I am far beyond the streetlights.  There is no moon.  The tiny stones in the pavement glow enough to show the road.  No cars pass, no lights are on in any of the houses I pass.

I loop around in the middle of the street and stop for a moment, feeling the smooth white stripe of paint marking the center, and head back toward Amy’s.  I am running slower now, my breath comes in long, even pulls.  There is a rhythm in the running and the breathing, and I am sober.  My mind slips into a peaceful silence.  Before I reach the streetlights I hear another runner.  I peer ahead into the darkness and see a faintness of white flashing on the ground, falling into my rhythm.

“Que tal?  Vienes a casa?  Tienes hambre?  Maria is cooking breakfast.”

Javier, hero of the night, has come to find me.  He pivots and falls in step with me, our strides long and slow.  We run in silence.  We reach the streetlights, turn to each other, and grin.  At once, we break stride and sprint, our steps now leaps, our arms pumping fast and hard.  I can barely breath.  I am churning up the street beside Javier.  I shout out.

“Stop!”

And we do.  Tumbling and laughing, we fall into each others arms.  We are damp with sweat and the night’s thick, salty ocean air.   We stand together outside the house, our breath coming in ragged, panting gasps mingled with laughter and I feel good.  My mind has stopped its nonsense, I am exhausted, and although by no means am I in love with Javier, I like him very much. He is an avid fan of me- the dancer, the runner, the girl who is not afraid to throw up in front of him, the one who laughs as easily as she cries.  Javier kisses me and I kiss him back.

He pulls me into the darkened living room, and Rita still sits slumped in the chair.  She snores loudly, and I put my hand over my own mouth to stifle a giggle.  We tip-toe past her and into the kitchen.  Maria sits at the oak table.  Her eyes are bloodshot, her short blonde curls a tangled mess framing her pretty, round face.

“Hey.  Where did you guys go?”

“Just for a run.  Javier said you were making breakfast.”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Here.”

She pushes a plate across the table toward us.   Little, brown, odd-shaped bites are each stuck with a toothpick.  I notice a skillet on the stove and a strong animal smell.

“What’s this?”

“Chicken livers.  Love ’em!”

She grabs a toothpick and holds it up, wiggling the brown liver in front of my face.

“Here.  Try one!”

My eyes grow round and I take a step backward, turning my head.  Javier is grinning like a maniac.

“Come on.  Eat it!”

“Oh, ah, no thanks. ”

Maria squints up at me, still waving the chicken liver, which is not centered on the toothpick and twirls by itself to gain balance.  Her eyes are so bloodshot and blue all at once that I stare and forget the liver for a second.  Javier sees his chance and grabs the liver from the toothpick.  He stuffs it into his mouth.

“Gross, Jav.  Don’t eat that!  It’s a liver!”

Maria looks hurt.

“I love these.  I sauteed ’em in garlic.  My mom used to make them for me all the time.  I wanna share them with you guys.  Come on.”

She drops her head, and the toothpick falls from her hand onto the table.  She leans forward, folds her arms across her chest, and pouts.

“Thanks, Maria, but I don’t eat meat.  I thought you might be making pancakes or toast or something.  Breakfast.  Where’s Amy, anyway?”

“Who cares?”

She looks up again, the bright light form the chandelier once more  illuminating those eyes.

“I’ll eat ’em all myself.”

“I’m sorry Maria.”

Javier puts his hand on Maria’s shoulder.

“I like theeese.  Leeevers.  Bueno.”

He pops another one into his mouth and I watch him chew, his dark eyes unfocused, his full lips glistening from the oil on the meat.  He reaches for my hand and pulls me close to him, but the smell of the liver on his breath turns my stomach, makes me turn my cheek when he tries to kiss me.

“I’m gonna go wake Rita and take her home.”

“She’s out.  Duerma.  Tiene sueno.   Vienes conmigo.”

“Sorry, Jav.  I’m not coming with you, cute as you are.  You just ate chicken livers.  Ugh.  But thanks for the run. Thanks for finding me.  Now go have your breakfast. I’m going to find my shoes and go home.”

I gently push him back to the kitchen, Maria, and the glistening plate.

Gear

Gear.  What is gear?  Gear is the all the stuff, like shoes, shorts, pants, sports bras, shirts, jackets, gloves, socks, water containers and the like, that make running a little easier.  Everything I have read about running encourages people who want to run to invest in a good pair of running shoes suited to their particular foot shape and gait.  Runner’s World, my current magazine addiction, (which by the way, sends me surveys asking if I have noticed particular ads, which I never do, so they drop me from the survey two questions in every time, as if all they care about is the ads!  Come on, the articles are fabulous!!!), has quarterly features on the newest high-tech running shoes.  Woman’s Health, Prevention,  and Health Magazine all also say just make sure you get the right shoes. That’s all you need. I have learned to do that, to find the right shoes, and also how to cut the insole material just the right way so I can fit my partial orthotics in there.  But I need more.

Gear.   I try not to buy too much.  It’s expensive, and takes up room in the closet.  I am still working hard to draw the line between spending the money on an extra pair of winter running pants and using too much water by doing an extra load of laundry that is half-full so that my favorite pants will be clean and dry for the third consecutive run day of the week.  I have been known to go around our house begging my husband and teenagers for anything that might be even a little bit dirty so I can do a full wash load.  I agonize over this.  Clean- gear guilt.  But what I wear really does matter.

I am no fashion show when I run.  Even if I start out clean, after 15 minutes I am a mess.  Even if I have on the cute little top from Athleta that wicks away moisture.  Even if I have on the naked-feeling shorts.  Even if it’s freezing outside and my face is numb.   I am forever drenched in sweat from top to bottom.  My hair is plastered to my head.  My back is cutting out its own little river.  Of course, with aerobic exercise, this is the goal.  The chemical reaction that takes place in an aerobic exercise session produces, in the end, ATP,  CO2 and H2O.  I am definitely making that happen.

That being said, the athletic wear out there- heat gear, cold gear, compression gear- is amazing.  If the manufacturer says am item wicks moisture, it does.  If they promise warmth in a thin garment, it’s there.  Clothes don’t ride up, slip down (much), or stink if they’re antimicrobial.  There are even clothes out there with built-in sun block!  It’s true that anything I have been drenching with sweat will wring out when I take it off, but while I’m wearing it, it feels dry.  If an item promises compression, I get it.  My muscles are squeezed so tightly they barely know they’re speeding along at 7 mph.  Okay.  7 mph on a good day.

My favorite running shorts have built in briefs.  I love the thin, soft material.  I tell everyone I feel like I’m running without any bottoms on at all.  (I imagine the neighbors are glad that’s just my own illusion.)  And there’s one sports bra that holds the girls down without squishing them to nothing.  I own two pair of winter running pants I bought at a discount store.  They are the same.  They are black, thin and lightweight, with a windproof exterior and a micro fleece lining.  Last winter, I wore them outside on runs when the temperature hovered in the teens and I never felt the cold. I call them the miracle pants, as I have never before been that warm during the winter season, either inside or out.  I have a favorite shirt, too.  It’s a long sleeved, silky, powder blue H. Toad jersey I picked up at my church rummage sale for $1.  Best dollar I ever spent.  It’s one of those comfy, sleeves- a -little- too- long -so- perfect- to- pull- down- over- cold- fingers- until -I warm- up shirts that are very hard to find.   I try to avoid carrying anything unless it’s over 80 degrees out.  Holding a water bottle irritates me.  All that sloshing makes me lose my focus.

I keep my gear in its own special area in the closet, sorted by bras, tops, and bottoms.  I send seasonally inappropriate items to the back.  I hoard the favorite things just in case there’s a day I might not feel like running.  Then, I can dig around for that jersey, or those naked shorts.  I put them on, and suddenly am raring to go.

As for the shoes, I believe the theory that they should be replaced before they show wear.  Most running articles I have read recommend new running shoes every 300 – 500 miles.  I tend to lean toward the 300 mile marker, because it takes me a while to find a new pair I like.  Shoes should not ever have to be broken in.  They should feel good right from the start.  I keep the old ones, as they are great for gardening and walks downtown.  Once I did let my shoes carry on too long.  I panicked when I noticed I could see my sock through the sole.  Not wanting to miss a run, I bolted to the mall that same day and paid a little more than I would have online.  As my friend’s three year old says, it’s hard to keep up with everything.

Oh.  One last thing.  The socks.  I am particular about the socks.  SmartWool makes arch support running socks which really do give extra arch support.  But my favorite by far are the SmartWool mid-weight hiking socks.  They gently hold my foot inside my shoe.  They are cushion-y, not at all hot, and wash beautifully.  I have more than two pair of those, much to my relief!

Although I do like my gear, the truth is it all contributes to the run.  Today I ran 5.3 warm, dry miles.  The sun was out, I remembered my lip balm, and listened to old-school rap.  I ran fast at the start, backed off in the middle, and finished strong.  My goal for tomorrow is 6.3 miles- if I have a pair clean pants in the closet.

Follow Up

Some readers have asked how my friend who had brain surgery made out.  I found out today.  As I ran along Eden Road I saw her partner, out walking the adorable puppy they adopted near the end of summer.  I stopped to ask how things went, and she joyfully told me all was well.  The operation went smoothly, and after only one night in ICU, and another day in care, my friend came home on Friday, feeling pretty good.  The doctors decided the best way to treat her was to block a main artery to stop the regrowth of the aneurysm, and although she will be on blood thinners for a month, the prognosis is excellent.  I hugged the woman, petted the golden ball of fur bouncing by my feet, and continued along the puddled road.  The puppy looked after me longingly as I returned to my run, and I waved to them both, the pleasure of the news buoying me for the rest of my loop.

Today’s run was an easy recovery one, pain-free.  It served as an extended cooldown of yesterday’s run.  I took the usual route, into the wind.  The sun was shining and playing along the water, the waves were  bigger swells than usual, but contained by the beach.  I found myself grinning all the way home.

Musings On Trying to Be Cool

Friday turned out to be a hurried 5.3 mile run.  I went early for me for this time of year, 6:30, and had hubby take the teenager to school.  I thought they might pass by me on their way, so I tried to run all fast, cool, and with super-heroine form.  I wanted to impress them with my mad running skills, since they have never run with me, or watched me run.   What a surprise when I came panting in the front door to find they had not even left yet!  I made really good time, though.  Spent the rest of the day on a painting job.  Water bill money, electric bill money, Christmas money.  Call it what you like, it’s the extra we always seem to need in our family.  Friday was such a long day that we broke down and had take-out for dinner.  Friday night is homemade pizza night in our house.  Always.   Take-out is a desperate measure, but worthwhile on days this full.  (Will reflect on full-time working mothers later, but bless them- I can’t imagine what that is like.  I am lucky.  And spoiled.  Part-time work is my fortune for now.)

Hurricane Ida drenched us yesterday.  I didn’t set the alarm clock.  I  planned to sleep in, knowing there would be no run, thinking perhaps a little weight lifting might be in order.  Or not.  I lay in bed and hung out with my hubby, drinking coffee and watching those Saturday morning news shows that sum up the country’s affairs  in about one hour, and that include tips on how to keep my kitchen germ free.  I decided to take the day off and just do errands.  We shopped for dinner together, then headed out with the teenager to share our meal with close friends.   We made sushi and drank sake and plum wine, ate some more, and completely relaxed.  I had a good feeling about the long run planned for today.

My friend Sue and I decided to try for more than last week’s 8.  We bumped into each other at the market and made the plan.  She would pick me up at 9.  She knew a good long route.  We would drive over to the start spot, park, and go.  As far as we could.  And make it back to the car.  If it wasn’t raining.

“It’s going to be done raining by 9.  We’re definitely going.”

“Okay, if you say so!”

Sue has a slightly impish grin, the kind that makes me think she doesn’t quite trust my convictions sometimes.  Like about the rain.  Then later, when we started out.

“I hope we can finish.”

“Of course we can finish.  Look how far we ran last week.  And it’s not raining, is it?  No?  Trust me.  We will do it!”

She gave me that sideways grin again, and down the hill we flew.

“We should slow down a bit if we want to run the whole way.”

“Yeah”, I agreed, and still we pretty much kept up our pace.

We plodded up Atlantic Avenue and stripped off jackets and vests, tossing them onto my front porch, sweating freely from the first couple of miles.  We did ease up a bit after Marmion Way’s steep grade, and were able to talk about food, which seems to be where I always lead a conversation.

“I love twice baked potatoes!”  Sue declared as we pressed down the far end of South Street.  “Too bad they’re so bad for you!”

I had never thought of them that way.

“I made them the other night.  What’s bad about them?”

“All that sour cream…”

“What sour cream?  I don’t put that in…”

We turned the corner onto Penzance Road.  The tiny sea-level road was wrecked.  Rocks had been washed up all over the road, and seaweed, wave-pounded and beaten gulls, even a little dead seal had been sacrificed on the rocks.  Sue saw it first, pointed it out, and my heart gave a tug as I looked at it’s round, still body.  I glanced back a couple of times,  wishing I had my camera to record this wreckage.  We were behind a single runner, and there were a couple of other runners together up ahead.  We split apart and passed the single runner.  The tide was high, the surf pounding, the sandy road wet.  Right after we passed the single runner, a wave came rushing up over the lip of the road and swooshed across the entire surface.  We did not stop, but sort of jumped/ran over and around the salty water, yelping and laughing.  I was not surprised that neither of us waited a moment for the wave to recede back before continuing ahead.

We squished out most of the water from our sneakers with long strides as we increased our speed on the flat road surface between the marshes by Lob Lolly Cove.  We spent the next mile or so chasing each other uphill, and went back to taking about potatoes as we headed down  South Street.

I felt a serious burst of energy as we came down Cove Hill, and began to consider the possibility of a half marathon.  Sue has been interested in training for one last summer, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to run that far.  Then she hurt her back and we didn’t even consider it again.  Yet today this long run felt fairly easy, and definitely good.  I comfortably pushed it through town and onto Beach Road.

Sue, as it turns out is a finisher.  What I mean by that is, when we hit the last half mile, she pulled ahead a bit and pressed hard.  The last bit was fairly steep uphill, and she just moved!  I felt my legs grow weak as I tried to stay close behind her, and wondered for a minute if I was going to make it.  I took my mind back to the start of the run. Of course I’m going to make it.  I said the rain would stop.  It did.  And I said we would finish.  So we will.

I have to confess I am a tiny bit intimidated by my friend.  She is tall, slender, fit, light on her feet, and altogether extremely nice.  She has impressive manners. She’s very pretty.   And she can really run.  She’s humble, the kind of humble where when I tell her how fast she runs, or how fit she is, she smiles demurely and shrugs it off in a self-depreciating way.  And she worries about making our running goals.  Then she blasts through them, taking me  right along with her.  I am the cocky one on the outside, the one with the pep talk, who, while trying to be cool, does finish too, but not quite a gracefully as I’d like.  I don’t think I should worry about what’s next, but will consider being grateful for where I am right now, and maybe work on a little grace. But I did it.  I ran the long run and finished.

We lean against her car, bend forward to stretch, catching our breath.  I open my water bottle and offer it to Sue, who sips a few swallows and passes it to me.  I down most of it, offer her the rest.  She declines, and we finish our stretches and drive home.  I check to see how far we ran.  8.88 miles.  I sparkle inside.

I think I’ll ask Sue if she wants to train for that half-marathon she tried to talk me into last summer…

Twice Baked Potatoes

4 large or 6 medium baking potatoes, scrubbed well so you can eat the skins

1/2 cup grated smoked cheese (we like Gouda), 3/4 cup plain low-fat yogurt, 2 tbsp butter, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/8 tsp ground black pepper.

1- 14 oz can canellini beans, drained, rinsed, and mashed, 5 oz defrosted cut leaf spinach, 1 12 oz box fresh mushrooms, sautéed in olive oil until browned, 1 scallion, green ends only, minced.

Bake potatoes at 425 degrees F for 1 hour or until tender.   While potatoes are baking, prepare other ingredients and mix together in a bowl.  When potatoes are done, let cool enough to handle.  Split them lengthwise and scoop the insides into a large bowl.  Add 1/2 cup skim milk and mix until fluffy.  You can use an electric mixer or a fork.

Stir in the remaining ingredients.  Stuff the potatoes.  Go ahead and over-stuff them.  There will be lots of filling.  If you can’t use it all up in the skins, feel free to share what’s left with a loved one.  Don’t be greedy and eat it all yourself, because you won’t have any room left to eat your delicious dinner!

Bake potatoes again, this time in a large baking dish, at 350 degrees F for 30 minutes or until potatoes are piping hot and lightly browned.  Serve for dinner as is- there’s protein, fiber, a green vegetable, magically nutritious mushrooms, calcium, potassium, you get the picture- but if you need something more, a side salad is yummy with this, too.