Bed head, anyone?

Getting out of bed before the sun comes up means I’m rarely lookin’ fresh for my early morning workouts. I’m a stickler about sweating with clean teeth, but beyond that there isn’t much prep time associated with my pre-dawn fitness. Hair in pony, coffee in cup, grab the nearest (sometimes not-so-clean shirt) and I’m out the door.

I’m pretty sure we all share that routine to some degree (though you may always be confident your shirt is clean). For most of us, the main priority is getting out quietly, not getting out pretty. We don’t dare wake the kids or we’re up early and without our daily dose of fitness.

That said, there is something wonderful about working out with other people when we’re most ourselves, no primping, no prepping and probably no deodorant. What you see is what you get, wrinkles and all. Perhaps that why some of my fondest memories of fitness, some of my best fit-friendships, have grown during those early hours when the light is dim.

For me, getting out of bed in the morning ranks up there with cleaning the bathroom or making school lunches: Not. Much. Fun. But like most of the really great things in life, there is payback in the effort. The friendships hold me accountable, keep me climbing out of bed and lacing up my shoes.

As darkness takes over a little more of the morning, resist the urge to crawl back under the covers. Remember those friendships, those naked truths we love to see in each other, and keep moving! Even if the only face you see is your own reflection in the window, remember there is someone waiting for you and continue to embrace the dawn!

--Laurie

Why Run 50?

It was mile 25 and my daughter heard my plea: “I’m so tired. I just want to quit.” I was exhausted from four and a half hours of trail running in the Minnesota Northwoods and felt nauseous thinking about running the course again in reverse.

At 9 years old, Cady didn’t quite understand why, when I had just said I wanted to stop, I was about to turn around and head back. “Just stop, Mom.” Simple logic.
My husband, on the other hand, pulled me up out of the chair I’d just crumpled into and got me turned back toward the finish. “We’ll see you at the next aid station!” Somehow he’d tricked me into moving again.

The Minnesota Voyaguer Ultra is a 50-mile foot race on some of the most beautiful and rugged trails I’ve ever run. It’s rocky, rooty, hilly, and muddy with a few stream crossings, scramble-on-your hands-and-knees ascents, and slide-on-your-butt-descents. For the first 25 miles, it’s more fun than anything else. But at the turnaround it becomes a test of wills, an exercise in mental toughness.

So as I started to climb the trail out of the Duluth Zoo, I began thinking about why I was running this distance. What it was that was keeping me going. I came up with a few reasons that, even in my post-race return to sanity, sound pretty compelling:

 

My kids had fun, but the day was mine.

1. As a mom, there are few things I do that are JUST for me. This race, this weekend, was all about me. Like it or not, it’s something my kids need to experience. They need to see Mom as an individual, her own person with goals and aspirations. Hopefully it’s something they’ll remember (and replicate in their own way) when they have children of their own.
2. Self-confidence isn’t always easy to come by for me. Running 50 miles reminds me that I am worthy and capable of much more than I sometimes give myself credit for.
3. There is a sense of community I feel when running these races that is unmatched anywhere else. It’s not like a quick trip through a water stop during the marathon or 5K. It’s people taking the time to figure out what you need and get you back on your way. Each individual’s finish is really a group effort. I love that.
4. Trail runs are beautiful. There is a sense of peace when running in the woods that I don’t get anywhere else. Trail runs are the perfect excuse to run through mud, and splash through puddles and streams. I get to “wear” the beauty that surrounds me, and that is pretty cool.
5. I enjoy the solitude of the run. It’s fun to start out with a group of runners, but I really enjoy the alone time offered in the middle and late portions of a trail run when there isn’t anyone around me. It’s a great time to think, or as is sometimes required, to turn off my mind and just focus on what I’m doing.

As the day wore on and I got closer to the finish, I grew increasingly excited to see my husband and daughters at the aid stations along the way. My body was tired, but knowing they were waiting for me kept me moving at a steady shuffle. Maintaining that slow jog helped me catch and pass a number of runners, all of who offered enthusiastic words of encouragement.

Coming into an aid station, excited to see my hubby and the girls.

 I crossed the finish line with my daughters in 10:27:54 (6^th woman, 1^st masters woman). I’m a little sore, but feel much better than expected. Big thanks to my husband, Tony, who pushed food on me at each aid station (who knew potato chips on PB&J would taste so good!), and kept me going with salt, fluids and his amazing smile.

Crossing the finish line with my girls, who wouldn't hug me because I was too sweaty!

The Sins of Our Fathers

Every parent has some seemingly brilliant, tragically misguided idea that haunts their children's memories into adulthood. One such memory for me involves a large bag of powdered milk stationed just inside our kitchen doorway. With four kids to feed, my dad thought it was pure genius--save money on milk, clear out more room in the refrigerator, and spare my mom more frequent trips to the grocery store.

And while my dad made every effort to convince us that powdered milk tasted just the same as or, get this, even better than regular milk, we knew better. His speeches were too rehearsed, too well thought out. He was obviously trying to convince himself too. It was understood that our mom found the stuff equally disgusting as us kids--I don't think I ever saw her take so much as a sip of milk when I was younger. But she made no efforts to stop the insanity. Yep, she stood by and watched the torment. We begged, we whined, we cried, we even tried to destroy the powder by dropping rubbish into the large garbage can in which it was stored. But still, we drank the froth at every meal.

In a perfect world, we would learn from our experiences. But this, unfortunately, is not a perfect world.

After successfully avoiding every one of my household duties for the past week, the milk supply ran dry this morning. And while looking in the cupboard for cereal, I noticed a box of powdered milk left over from my husband's week-long John Muir Trail trek last summer. "She'll never notice," I thought, feeling a little bit guilty. I was right. Worked great on cereal, slipped it right past her. Then, the real test. She wanted straight milk. I stood in the corner of the room trying not to laugh as she eyed up the froth. Knowing something was off, she took a cautious sip. Her eyebrows furrowed, the expression on her mouth changed. "This milk tastes funny," she said. My experiment was complete. Yes, I am now a hypocrite. But the kid in me is tremendously happy. And, now I know another "sports supplement" that works for kids in pinch. Just don't drink it straight.