Rocking Chair Test

I believe I have mentioned my new friend and mountain guide Terra, who has been showing me the ropes with my new addiction: trail running.  Terra is fit, wise, interesting, passionate, funny, strong-minded/strong-willed, and up for anything.  She has two children, including a 7-month-old baby girl, yet she scrambles up these mountains billy-goat-style while I (who can no longer claim postpartum fitness levels when my girls are 6) huff and puff like the big bad wolf.  She also manages a serious case of diabetes, running with a monitor and pump to control her own insulin levels.  This means I cannot comfortably complain about my own erratic blood sugar and energy mood swings.  Meeting Terra is proof that you can be the new kid on the block anywhere and by doing what you love or even venturing outside your usual comfort zones, you can make real friends in short order.  One day we did a long run up Romero Canyon trail and when we headed back along the single track, she pointed out the route we had just ascended from across the canyon.  When I saw the winding path we had traversed, I got chills. We ran up that thing?  Who, me?  I had to stop and admire the accomplishment, squeal and hug her, totally erasing any semblance of cool.  At least that is out of the way.

One day Terra asked me to consider running a local race called 9 Trails, in late November.  It is 35 miles long, on trails, some of these trails I have seen and attempted and I cannot even imagine stringing them together and running an ultra.  She did not settle for my usual attempt to use humor as my way out of answering difficult questions.  She wanted to know what I was afraid of.  How did she know I was afraid? Did my chattering teeth, goosebumps, and lack of eye contact give me away so easily?

I have avoided answering this question for at least two weeks.  It has made headlines in my journal though, and I'm still working through the answers.  Like anything of magnitude (and 35 miles certainly qualifies) the answers have implications beyond surface level.

I started to respond to her via e-mail this morning, then figured I may as well share it with you:

TOP TEN REASONS WHY I FEAR 9 TRAILS OR ANY ULTRA
by Kristin Armstrong

1. I am a newbie, need time to progress before making an utterly enormous and seemingly unfeasible commitment.

2. Ultras are for ultra people.  I am regular.  Happily so.

3.  35 miles.  'Nuff said.

4.  I can barely survive 26.2, flat.  My calves cramp up, I have cried before, total chick whiny-baby. Not sure how or where this fits in with tough, outdoorsy culture.

5. I am a homework girl.  Need more reconnaissance.  At least a year.  And would have to make headway with trails in Austin to show my devotion.

6. I thought I did not like dirt or flies or sweat mixed with dirt becoming paste.  But I think I actually like it.  But not the flies.

7. My sense of direction (or lack thereof).  I could get utterly dropped and become a pilot for a whole new Lost series.  Or an episode of Without a Trace.

8. I don't live here.  I would need to run these trails over and over and over and over until familiarity trumped fear.

9.  What if I liked it?  Or was good at it?  Then I can't hide behind my veneer of wimpiness, what then?

10. What if I can't finish what I start?  The old adage of biting off more than I can chew really matters.  The older I get, the more this means to me.

Terra said something intriguing to me about making decisions.  She employs the Rocking Chair Test to life's more compelling questions.  She explains this as, "When you are old and sitting in a rocking chair talking to your grandchildren, how would you want to tell the story?"

I am not sure how this story will be told, or when this particular chapter will be written, it might be a couple years from now.  But I do know that trying new things and meeting new friends is one of the best adventures of all.  And I plan to tell my grandchildren all about that.

Bellissima!

Last week as I was getting dressed to run a local 5-K race, my daughter Bella appeared in my room wearing a running skirt, running shoes, and a shirt.  She asked me to put her hair in one ponytail in the back, like mine.

I said, "Honey, you look cute.  Are you going to come cheer for me tonight?" 

"No, mama, I'm running with you tonight!" she replied with a big toothless smile.

I had big ideas about attempting to beat my previous time and those thoughts went immediately and happily out the window.  I made the ponytail and we headed to the beach.  We were a bit late, parking was nuts, and she wanted to fill out the registration form herself in her very best handwriting, and sign her name in cursive.  Then there was much debate about whether she liked her number (545) on the front or the back of her shirt, or maybe on her skirt in case she wanted to take her long-sleeve shirt off if she got hot.  She thought it would be best on the back of her shirt because most people might be trying to catch up with her.  We carefully pinned the number on the shirt, twice. (The first time, it was crooked.)

Then we started walking to the start line at the top of a big hill.  We passed a couple of people who said, "You two better hurry; they already started the race!"  Oh dear.  Bella took off at a full sprint up the hill to try to chase down the pack.  This was before I had a chance to tell her about the importance of pacing herself because the first half of the race is uphill - a steep uphill.  Even steeper if you are 6.  I caught up with her and breathlessly (no warmup for me) told her about the importance of pacing ourselves, even though I already conceded the fact that at this rate we would likely be walking most of the hill.  We passed the usual starting point and there were no runners to be seen.

"Where is everyone, Mommy?"

"Honey, I think we missed the start.  Let's not worry about that and run our own race. This is something very important to learn how to do if you really think you might like to be a runner."

So we slowed down a bit and ran side by side, at Bella pace.  Which, I might add, is not slow.  We talked about breathing in through our noses and out through our mouths.  We talked about how pretty the sunset was, and how it looked exactly like a red playground ball.  We talked about how nice and clean the air is when you are by the sea.  I asked her how she was doing and told her she got to choose if we ran fast or slow, or if she wanted to walk or stop and stretch.  She said she was just fine, so we continued status quo.

Finally we came across the race leaders who had already made the turn at the crest of the hill.  They looked even faster on the downhill.  We cheered for them and Bella had concerns about being in last place so she picked up the pace.  I followed suit.  When we could see the cones indicating the turnaround, I told her we were almost there.  She was smiling so big that her air intake was entirely through the window created by her missing front top and bottom teeth.  By this time we were back in the pack, and people started to cheer for cute little number 545 with the blond ponytail.  Every time she heard her number, her smile got impossibly bigger.

We turned the corner and she let out a huge, "WAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as we started going downhill.  I was incredulous that we had climbed that entire hill without stopping once.

"This is much better," she said.  I had to agree.

But better than better, undeniably best of all, was the sudden awareness I had that I was running next to my daughter.  I was sharing one of my most treasured passions with another of my most treasured passions and my eyes filled up with tears at the glory of it all.  The red sinking sun cast the entire hillside and coastline in a warm glow that matched my heart.  My sweet reverie was broken by number 545, making a hard right and rolling very dramatically (classic Bella) onto the grass.  I plopped down next to her, breathing hard.

"Mommy, I am SO TIRED!  It hurts right here." And she pointed to a spot under the left side of her ribcage.  I explained that she had a cramp and that we could stretch for a bit and walk it off.  I taught her how to poke at it and take deep breaths.  She thought this was funny and a tickle war ensued.  We got rid of the cramp and kept walking down the hill together, holding hands and talking.  Anytime anyone cheered, "GO 545!  You can do it!  Looking good!" she would pick up the pace long enough to sustain the compliment and then go back to walking.  We did this for the rest of the race...until the finish line was in plain view.  There she saw her cute little friends Kate and Sammie cheering from the sidelines. 

"Bella," I asked her, "do you want to know the most important thing about crossing the finish line?"

"What is it?"

"You have to smile."

And so, my sweet little speedster got her second wind and went full throttle for the finish line, smiling the whole way.  From there it was full body hugs, high fives, a million kisses, and ice cream to celebrate.

I am quite sure she slept well that night, with echoes of "Go 545!" in her mind.  The next day I saw her number stabbed into the bulletin board in her room with one of the safety pins from her shirt. 

I have a feeling that number won't be her last.