Fitness, Nonsense

A Public Service Announcement for dorks

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Sunny_toes
My toes at a Vegas pool. Photo courtesy of my awesome friend, Sally.

I really thought I’d be able to get a video of my cute skin doctor, Steve, saying “use sunscreen, you dumb dorks,” but he wouldn’t agree to saying something that straightforward, even when I told him it was for the children.

And there’s some restriction that has to do with HIPAA or something, so I couldn’t take any kind of video of him and his assistant in his office this morning.

You’re not going to get to see how cute he is. Sorry.

In November, 2012, I had a huge basal-cell carcinoma removed from the left side of my nose via a procedure called Mohs.

Don’t worry, the doctor told me, no one has ever lost a day of her life from this type of cancer. So I blithely went about my routine, scheduled a family trip to Guatemala, as well as a presentation in front of a couple hundred people, and another half marathon.

Okay, the doctor said, maybe you should worry a little more than that.

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Fitness, Parenting

Just call me ‘coach mom’

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jack_runningA week or so ago, Jack texted me during the day:

I want to run a half marathon.

Not today, honey, I texted back. Put your phone away in class.

But he was serious.

Jack’s been involved in a triathlon training club at our local Y for about a year, not because he necessarily wants to be in a triathlon, but because he’s tired of swim team. Tri-Club gives him variety, and it’s about the most laid back athletic team or club there is from a parental standpoint. No schlepping raffle tickets, or chocolate bars to raise money, no team parties or uniforms, no trophies, no need to sit through a six hour referee clinic, don goofy pads and a mask and steel myself to be yelled at by parents. No cajoling or bribing anyone to wear an athletic cup.

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Fitness, Nonsense

No you don’t actually resemble a Manatee

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Maybe you can outrun a manatee, but how about your preschooler?
Maybe you can outrun a manatee. Can you outrun your preschooler?

Today is the day people all over the region will vie for a spot in what’s billed as the toughest half marathon in the Northwest. Because I have weird issues about absurd challenges, this particular half marathon was also my very first. If I get in this year, it will have been my ninth consecutive Race to Robie Creek.

Since that first race, I’ve run eighteen events of half marathon length or more, but I only seriously got back into running about three years ago, when I realized it took far less effort to pop out the door for a quick 5K than it did to convince the kids that they should peel themselves away from the Xbox long enough to come with me to the Y for my spin class.

Because I know I’m not the only one who looks at entry into the Race to Robie Creek as a good motivation to amp up a lackluster running regimen, I have a few tips for people who don’t want to suck at running:

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Fitness, Parenting

He ‘Aint Heavy, He’s My Brother

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Beths_phone 244“It’s probably best to leave Jack alone for a little while,” I hear Colin tell his dad in the other room. “He’s in a pretty bad mood. I bugged him just a little bit and he picked me up and threw me.”

Although not encouraged, these kinds of demonstrations of Hulk-like strength are not terribly uncommon around here. Otherwise, the boys generally get along. We’ve talked to them – and will likely continue to do so ad nauseam – about the virtues of managing their actions, particularly when they’re feeling angry or frustrated or humiliated, and want to lash out.

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Fitness, Parenting

The weight of water

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taking in a few laps after their Journey Through Hell (aka Swim Meet)
C-man & his buddy taking in laps after their Journey Through Hell (aka The Swim Meet)

This weekend’s swim meet induced a weighty case of sports anxiety in my eleven year-old.

I know. Swimming? Sports anxiety? What’s going on, Richie Incognito in the locker room?

Both boys have participated in rec league swim team for the last six summers – on advice from their swim instructor when I complained after multiple lessons that they still acted like it was their first time blowing bubbles under water.

Swim team ended the dog paddling. They went from barely staying afloat, to swimming half a dozen laps in the time I’d be mustering courage to exit the locker room in a swimsuit.

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Fitness, Nonsense

Thank you thighs

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Thunder thighs finishing up the 16 mile Aldape Challenge. Like a boss. A really, really slow boss.
Finishing up the 16 mile Aldape Challenge in 2013. An earlier me would have had a problem continuing after realizing my shorts were on backwards.

Thank you, thighs.

Sixteen year-old me would have never dreamed I’d one day appreciate you. I’ve always thought of you as a tad oversized. Thirty or so years ago, I was consistently pissed that you wouldn’t fit well into a reasonably sized pair of Levi’s 501s. Today, it was your muscle and sinew and bone that carried me across the finish line of my latest half marathon.

While we’re at it, I’d like to say thanks to you heart and lungs. I don’t know why you’ve stuck it out all these years, and done so well, but I appreciate it. I would like to apologize for my lack of attention to nutrition and fitness earlier in life and any effect it may have had on you.

There aren’t any words to explain the smoking thing, guys. I apologize profusely for that and promise to let a good long time pass before you ever have to deal with that nonsense ever again. I would say ‘you’ll never have to deal with it again,’ but I made a deal with frontal cortex: if we all last another four and a half decades, we give ourselves permission to pick the habit back up (between you and me, lungs, it’s likely that frontal cortex will be slowing down by then. She’ll probably forget our promise in favor of taking up puzzles with cats on them or something. I wouldn’t worry).

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Fitness, Nonsense

Running at a loss for words

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start_line
Chillin’ at the start line at Mount Hood

I’m never sure when I pass someone running in an event if I should say “good job,” or “keep it up” or something like other runners say to me when they pass – which is a far more likely scenario. I always credit their encouragement to the fact that I look like I’m about to fall over dead and they probably want to see if I’ll respond, just to make sure they don’t have to flag down someone with a defibulator.

I do pass other runners on occassion. The difference is that the person passing me could be anyone from a lithe, 20-something college track star to a senior citizen, but the person I’m likely to pass – my “road kill” in running vernacular – is someone who looks to be further along on the spectrum of risk for myocardial infarction than I. I worry about coming across as a condescending jerk; panting “keep going, you can make it,” as I pass slowly enough for there to be an awkward pause if the person doesn’t respond.

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