In this moment

There are times I do not enjoy being a parent.

These times are pretty easy to break down:

1. When they are sick - No one likes seeing their kids suffer, and no one likes cleaning up their sheets after they puke all over them, and no one (especially me) enjoys getting sick after they are sick. I used to never get sick. I got sick maybe once in five years. This year, thanks to the little germ generators and the fact that marathon training wears down your immune system, I have been sick, I think, around 96 times this year. Last week I had strep throat. Right now, thanks to yet another little cold my kids brought home, I'm coughing like a coal miner.

2. When they are tired - There is NOTHING worse than a 2-year-old who can't function. I'd rather listen to a Britney Fox album than one of the girls' tantrums when they're overtired. It's usually about the most mind-numbing, stupidest stuff, too, like Allie got a pink cup instead of orange. Oh, the horror!

3. When they are in their Miss Independent stage (and Mr.) - This is when they don't listen, when they want "Mommy to do it," when they want to do it themselves (even complicated things like washing their hair, which NEVER works and they get soap in their eyes and then they scream at you for that), when they want food you have or a piece of candy or more cookies or a bite of the dog or a sip of your beer (don't tempt me kids) or when they don't want to go to bed despite the fact that they are overtired. They are in this stage approximately 97 percent of the time.

The other times are great.

Lately I'm a little fascinated at how alike parenting is to distance running. That's mostly because my LIFE is distance running. Seriously I have no good stories to tell in bars any longer, unless they want to hear about the time I got up at 5:30 a.m. Tuesday to run in a park and saw a fox (the actual animal, not the 1976 term for a pretty lady). Which, honestly, nobody sober wants to hear.

But it is, and the reason for it is when you're parenting, you sort of enjoy the bad moments, even if you're not enjoying them in the moment. Distance running (and mountain climbing too) is much the same way. I didn't necessarily ENJOY getting up at 4 a.m. and running through that same park in the dark on my way to a 19-mile run, but I look back on that time with a certain fondness.

You love running even when you don't at the time, and your kids are the same way. I smile now when I think about last night's tantrum, about how Allie's face turned a new shade of red - I think I'm going to call it Temperta - even though I wanted to flush her down the toilet at the time.

There are times I love being a parent in the moment as there are times I love running in the moment.

I can only hope as they get older, the two will begin to mesh more.

A crack in the armor

The first twinge of an ache hit me around 6:30 Monday night. When I felt it, I blew it off, as I always do, as if that would help it go away. Sometimes it works. Usually it doesn't.

"Um, what did you say you felt," I asked Kate, who was crumpled up on the carpet in a ball after suffering through a sick day laid up with strep throat. She told me. It matched what I was feeling.

Oh, shit.

By 8:45, I knew I was screwed. It's an awful, sinking feeling when you know you're getting sick. There aren't many feelings like it. Maybe waiting for an hour alone at the dinner table for a date and starting to realize you're getting stood up, or when that first flush card hits and you know you're about to get runner-runnered by a douchebag for a huge pot. 

A creeping sickness is probably the only time I tend to feel deeply sorry for myself. "Ah, man, why me?" I even squealed around 7:45 p.m. I went to bed an hour later and woke up at 7 a.m. feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.

Now I know that's a cliche, and a pretty bad one at that. But I really, honestly felt that way. Maybe not a tractor-trailer - there'd be nothing left of me if that was the case - but definitely an F-150. Every joint ached, my throat like a piece of barbed wire had lodged in it, and I had the energy of a hibernating grizzly.

"Tell the kids I loved them," I croaked to Kate.

Unfortunately there's a larger theme to this post. Remember what I said just a couple weeks ago about running good, like I was on a hot streak at poker, in training for my marathon? Almost, I worried, too good? It appears my Aces are now being cracked. The sickness was only part of it.

I ran 20 Saturday, and once again, it went well. Really well. I felt great and enjoyed being tired at the end. Again.

Only Sunday I woke up and went for a four-mile recovery run, and on my way up a hill, my right knee started to hurt.

Now I should say me and the knee (a good title for a novel, I think) have a history. Ten years ago, I tore the ACL in it ever-so-slightly in a mountain climbing accident. Doctors said it would be fine, but now I wonder if it's coming back to haunt me.

I've said this before - probably to the point where it sounds like crybaby whining - but marathon training is stretching me much more than I anticipated. It's lowered my immune system - obviously - and now it may be unearthing an old injury. 

I can take a lot of pain. Endurance athletes usually can and, in some ways, we enjoy it. But this is, I have to admit, scaring me a bit. This is not what I call "safe" pain, which is muscle soreness or a contusion or just general suffering. This is a possible injury that, if it gets worse, could, pardon my language, fuck the marathon.

I'm probably overreacting. I've been too lucky during my short running career. I've never really been hurt. Even the knee isn't that painful. I could certainly run 26.1 on it if knew it wasn't going to snap on me. My guess is my body is saying WTF to me running, say, 20 on Saturday. 

Still. I honestly loved training for the marathon because it was predictable. If you did the training, you handle the increasing distance, and it was true, so very true, almost too true. I like my life to be predictable and orderly. 

Yet I'm finding out that training for such a demanding event is, in fact, unpredictable. You don't know how your body will react to the increasing demands, and all you can do is hope - and I guess pray a bit - that it will hold up. That's what I'm hearing from all my friends who have done them. It's chaotic. It's exactly like raising twins, and the chaos was by far the most frustrating thing about having kids in the first place. 

Maybe I'm in denial, but maybe I'm still running well. Maybe I got sick at just the right time, when my body obviously needed rest. I'm feeling much better, so I ran for a couple miles today, something to get my body back into it. And the knee didn't hurt. Much. I didn't even feel the twinge as I ran down that slight hill today.

Denial works well. Right now it's all I got. 

Thoughts on a good but disappointing season

I will not lie right now. I'm pissed.
I know I shouldn't be too much. I even feel spoiled saying it. But yeah, I"m upset.
Part of me thinks of the incredible waste this is. We put together a wonderful team and worked hard to lose only one game in a terrific conference. And we're the overall #1 seed. And we're done.
What a waste.
Part of me wishes we could have somehow shaken the nerves that haunted us the entire game. It took us nearly the entire game to finally fight and play our game.
What a tragedy.
Part of me also honestly wonders why I bother. This is not rational thinking right now, or even logical, but why put all my energy into a team when it just ends in a wasteful heartache every year?
We've had our fair share of chokes as a #1 seed, haven't we? More than our fair share?
But then I have to pause and think why I'm a fan. Is it really for the end result? Do I watch Temple in December only to hope they play that well in March?
No. At the beginning of the season, I pledged to enjoy the journey and the ride. And I did. As hard as it is right now, I truly enjoyed this team. Right now it truly sucks - I mean this is the toughest loss I can remember since 1998 or maybe 1997 - but we're so lucky to be Kansas fans.
We'll be back next year.
And so will I.

P.S. I just hope Kentucky doesn't win.

How to Make a Mix

I consider myself a music aficionado, which is a tea-and-crumpets way of saying I think it's pretty awesome.

(I had to look up how to spell aficionado through Google).

And so I also consider myself a master Mixer. Not like Dre so much, of course, but still pretty damn good. And I've made myself that way by following a few guidelines along the way, both in how I make the mixes for others and how I make them for myself (which I continue to do, both for my iPod and for CDs). And I know it's March Madness and I'm doing my first 20-miler this weekend and I'm actually running good at Rush Poker finally, and I should post about those things, but you'll hear plenty about both of those, believe me, and so here's a fun break.

1. Start with a banger - Did Judas Priest ever start with a rumination on Cleopatra, complete with French Horns? No. Did Metallica ever lead an album with a noodling acoustic guitar feature? No. So why the hell are you putting the waterfalls and pipe flutes first? Start with a rocker or, if you're not making a rock mix, as up tempo as you can get.

2. Avoid the cliches - This is a great tip for writing as well, but cliches in mixes, as in writing, should be avoided like the plague (get it? LOL!). This means you do not put that goddam Patrick Swayze sung "She's Like The Wind" song on the first mix tape/CD you make for her. 

(By the way, I'll use "she" or "her" for the rest of this because I'm a guy. If you're a girl, you can substitute it for "he" or "him." Unless you're a lesbian.) You do not put "You Shook Me All Night Long" on there either to appear saucy. And putting "You Light Up My Life" is not nearly as clever as you think it is.

3. A band or obscure song is a good idea - Especially if it means a lot to you. There's nothing cooler than discovering a favorite song through a mix CD someone makes for you (I fell in love with "Under The Milky Way" because of this).

4. But don't overdo it - I generally save Testament, Flotsam and Jetsam and Shadows Fall for my own enjoyment. For some reason, not everyone loves heavy metal or enjoys hearing guys who sing like they're an extra in the torture-porn film "Hostel." I have yet to figure out why this is, but it's true.

5. If it's played on classic rock formula radio, leave it off - No one - and I really do mean no one - wants to hear "Sweet Home Alabama" on a CD mix. You don't either. If you discover, say, an Irish band covering that song, that's funny and therefore should make the mix. But otherwise leave off "Pour Some Sugar on Me" or "Slow Ride." The idea is to entertain you or someone else, not to encourage them to put a hot poker in their eyes.

6. Mix it up - Heh. I know. That's what a Mix CD IS, silly! (LOL!). But if you're making, say, a running mix for your iPod, you don't have to put hard, fast and loud all the time. I'm usually relieved to hear something slow and mellow after an hour of guitars and aggressive drums and vocals during a long run by myself. 

7. Bring on the quirky, funny shit - Offspring had an "Intermission" segment on its most famous album (yep, the one with "Come Out And Play" that you went nuts to at those sorority parties or school dances and congratulated yourself at how "edgy" you were). I used to put it on side B. It got lots of LOLs. Seriously.

8. Jazz is fine, too - I know you like to show how smart and sophisticated you are, and nothing seems to do that better than jazz. Classical music works, too, but those pieces are longer than you think (commercials only take the best snippet). I would suggest Miles Davis, John Coltrane or maybe some Duke Ellington. You can overdo this too. You don't need to put a 23-minute tone poem on there. That really won't make you look smarter. Just a bit snobby and obtuse. 

Enjoy!

Looking over my shoulder

There are times, probably too many times, when it's not a good thing to be a poker player.

The game is so beautiful, with the intoxicating allure of money, the rush and more fun than anyone really deserves, that you put up with all the crap that goes with it. Losing streaks that make you constantly cranky, the douchebags who always seem to infect your table and just the goddamn unfairness of it at times (and I'm not just talking about suckouts) can always make you wonder why you play.

And there's another reason too.

You're constantly wondering when you'll stop running so good.

Running so good is the best grammatically incorrect feeling in the world, and right now, I'm running really good.

No, not in poker, though that hasn't been too bad either, thanks to Rush Poker. No, I'm talking about my marathon training.

I ran 19.5 Friday. I had to get up at 4 a.m. to do it. I ran 9 the day before in a nasty wind that felt as if I was being thumped in the chest by a demon. Friday was the longest I've ever run in my life. By the end, by all rights, I should have been dragging. But I wasn't. I was stronger by mile 14 than I was in mile 12. I pushed the tempo again. It was, dare I say it, fairly easy.

Every time, in fact, I've run the longest I've run, I've felt stronger at the end.

I feel great right now, perhaps the best I've felt in my life.

So really, what's the problem?

Well, I've got three 20-milers waiting for me, but even that isn't really the issue.

The issue is I'm wondering when the good run will end.

That's what you always think as a poker player, and that's not what I need right now. I've been an endurance athlete most of my life - in fact I've been one longer than I haven't - and most of that was mountain climbing. Even so, I've never considered myself a good athlete, and my track record growing up will back that up. I'm not being modest here. I'm proud of what I've done. But there are always doubts, warranted or not. Doubts, if you really think about it, usually aren't warranted.

The game's still going. It ends May 9 when I cross the finish line. I just need to keep the rush going, so that when doesn't turn into an if.

Down with the sickness

I'm having a hard time believing exercise can make you feel younger.

Training for a marathon is aging me.

These days I'm in bed by 10 p.m. and at up at 6 a.m., even on the weekends. I still drink coffee but I prefer green tea. I don't drink much alcohol, am trying to watch my diet more and get a little cranky when those damn kids drive by the house squealing their tires.

But I don't like to compare it to getting older. I think it's more like a sickness.

Following the training plan for a marathon involves six days of running, and all of those days are at least 3 miles. You don't have to, but I do speed work, meaning intervals, hill repeats or hard tempo runs (running at 10K pace for a specific amount of time) twice a week. There's also a marathon pace run the day before the long run. So if you're running, say, 16 that weekend, you run 8 the day before at your planned race pace. For me that's 8:45 per mile.

This week I've got perhaps the toughest one of all my plans. I've got a 19-mile run that I'll have to start at 4 a.m. so I can head to Winter Park with my Dad and a 9-mile pace run the day before. I've got hill repeats, a tempo run and two 4-mile runs ahead, plus two lifting and core workout sessions. That's my week. 

Halfway through my 18-week training plan, all this is taking its toll, as you would expect, even as I've felt far better than I thought I would. Just so you don't think this is whining, in some ways, the training is easier, not harder, than it was a month ago. That became apparent to me during my last two long runs. Two weeks ago, I ran 17, the longest I've ever run, yet I felt so good, I was running the last four faster than the first four. And last Saturday my long run was only 12 miles in what we call a fallback week (a week that lets you recover from the tough two weeks that preceded it and gets you ready for the next two tough weeks), and it felt like it was "only" 12 miles. 

Just a few months ago, 12 was a lot. Hey, it IS a lot. It's practically a half marathon. Now it's easy. 

Yet the margin of error is much, much thinner than it's ever been. If I don't get eight hours a night - hell, if I only get 7 one night - it kicks my ass. I've been sick three times since I started training, and I think that's only partly thanks to my three little petri dishes. And though my body feels good, I have to be careful about doing anything else. I thought it was crazy that bikers training for the Tour de France refuse to walk up even one flight of stairs. Now I understand.

It's shocked me how much of a toll the training takes. I mean, I've been active my whole life. Before I started running, I climbed about 20 peaks a year, and last year I ran six half marathons. But it feels like I've constantly got the flu, only without the nausea. I've got to go to bed early, don't do anything crazy and avoid the hard living. 

When I tell my friends about the toll I'm paying - all of them marathoners or Ironman finishers - they just nod. Yep, that's the way it is. The goal is to get through it all without getting hurt. The race, they say, isn't nearly as big a deal as the training leading up to it.

Still, it's been a fun journey so far. The weariness isn't just a reminder that I need to go to bed early. It's a way to remind myself that I've worked hard. I'm halfway through the goal, and after these two weeks, when I run 20 next week for the first time, I've got to start thinking that it's really gonna happen. 

Plus there's been a lot of little rewards along the way. 17 miles isn't a lot when you think about the fact that a marathon is 9 miles more, but I felt like a badass the whole day, and I've already said that's probably the biggest reason for doing this.

And there's a certain magic to being outside for hours at a time, in the early morning hours, when your neighbors are just starting to brew their coffee.

Today the first light cast a glow over the sky. I was near the start third hill repeat, gasping for breath, lost in my weariness. And I looked to my right and saw a golden eagle. It's a rare sight to see one this time of year, in a suburban neighborhood, albeit one on the edge of town. It's as if nature was encouraging me.

I stared at the eagle. And then my watch beeped, and I started to fly like one.

Let the sun shine

I slipped on the shorts the way a retired skier slips on his suit for the first time. 

It felt like ages. 

My legs looked it, too. Despite my love for the outdoors, I have pale skin, the kind worn by couch potatoes who squint at 10 a.m. and prefer to play Dungeons and Dragons in dank, dark, basements and other settings worthy of dungeons (and, apparently, dragons). 

My skin gets copious amounts of Vitamin D every year and millions of minutes of sunshine, yet by the end of the summer, I still only have as much color as a 1982 newspaper. 

Sure enough, my legs looked more like an X-ray than actual flesh. 

It had been a long, cold winter, and I had worn tights since early October.

One thing runners have always loved about the sport is its simplicity. In that sense it's the complete opposite of mountain climbing. It used to take me hours, if not days, to pack for a trip, even if I was only planning to climb for a few hours. You need to pack food, water, energy gels, sunscreen, emergency equipment, extra clothing, shoelaces, a hat, gloves, a trash bag and...do you really want me to go on? 

But the winter makes you plan your runs, too. When I'd run, I'd have to slip on tights, put on running crampons, a hat, gloves, wear two or three layers, a jacket, a face protector and...do you really want me to go on?  By last Saturday I was so sick of dressing for 15 minutes just to go for a damn run that I grumbled to my wife, "It feels like I'm going mountain climbing."

Ah, but Wednesday came, and with it the threat of a day over 55 degrees. I paused before throwing in just a pair of shorts and a shirt for my intervals track workout later that afternoon. It felt so LIGHT. 

When I did throw on my shorts and my shirt, it did feel light. And I began my run around the track. My legs almost stung from the bright sunlight. I actually sweated in my minimal clothing. I needed a lot of water when I was done.

It was warm. It was almost like spring. And it was wonderful. 

The long-ago death of the album - and what we're missing as a result

So I was driving down to Denver Saturday to pick up some awards from the Colorado Press Association listening to Judas Priest's "Screaming for Vengeance." (I mean, duh, metal is pretty much AWESOME stuffy award ceremony music.) And I was thinking, "Wow, this really is a great album."

And it hit me. I rarely listen to those anymore.

(By the way, did you like how I subtly snuck in the bragging? Pretty sneaky, huh?)

We download singles if we like it. We don't buy the album any longer. And if we do, we chop it up and shuffle it on our iPod.

I don't know if this really is a bad thing or not. I'm not here to rant against the death of the album. That's been done a lot, and quite frankly, I'm as responsible for that as anyone. I bought five albums in the last two years. I love singles. I love my iPod. I love making my own mixes. And more than half  of the albums I've bought in my lifetime - and that probably numbers into a thousand - mostly sucked, save for the one or two good songs I heard on the radio.

But I am here to mourn what we're missing.

• The opening track - Metallica's "Death Magnetic," my last favorite album, features a classic, "That Was Just Your Life." There's a great lead-in to the song, a slow heartbeat, followed by the opening chords, followed by a message that this is going to take you back to the good, old, fast days. You could always count on Metallica to open with a blister, and you could always count on the first song always being one of the best on the record. It's the tone setter. It's the fun joke or random thought before the boring speech. And sometimes it's not the best song, but if not, it usually is the perfect setup to it, i.e. Ozzy's "I Don't Know" bringing you into "Crazy Train" on "Blizzard of Oz" or "So What" carrying you to "All Blues" on Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue."

• The opening of the B side - This was more of an issue when we weren't buying CDs. Yes, kids, there were things called albums and cassette tapes (my choice), and there was a B side, or the side you'd listen to after that kick-ass first couple of tracks. And almost without fail, that first track on the B side was usually awesome. "Modern Day Cowboy?" "Screaming for Vengeance?" "Hot For Teacher?" "Blind in Texas?" Those all were B-side openers, not opening tracks.

• The surprise second-sider - On even some of the best albums, the B side was generally littered with fillers, experimental (i.e. usually crappy) tracks or just plain awful stuff. "Feel Your Love Tonight," for instance, is a B sider on the undeniably great "Van Halen I." But as you waded through them, occasionally, you'd find gold (Olympics analogy alert!). "The Last Command" by W.A.S.P. "Ice Cream Man" on that same "Van Halen I." "I'll Wait" on VH's "1984." These tracks were the best simply because you looked forward to them. You could get through a guitarist noodling a bit too much, for instance (or playing yet another ripoff solo of "Eruption") because the magic was coming.

• The closer - "Damage Inc." is the closing track on "Master of Puppets." 'Nuff said.

• The desert island debate - Hardly anyone debates the SONGS they would take if they were stranded on an desert island. They debate the books, the movies and the dessert (yep, I know how to spell the two words). And they debate the albums. (Personally, I would take a cell phone so I could get off the damn island). And yet you don't hear those fun debates as much any longer. 

I really kinda miss these things. 

Then again, maybe it's up to me to follow these rules on my own CDs.

Icy milestone

My alarm threatened to go off at 6 a.m. It was 5:57 a.m. I turned off the alarm and peeked outside under the warmth of my covers.

It looked kinda nasty.

Saturday was what my veteran marathon friends call "the breakthrough day." It would be the day that I would run farther than I've ever run in my life. In this case, that was 16 miles. I hadn't run more than 13 in three years. A big day.

Of course, a fresh blanket of snow awaited me. Friday, a day I ran 8, I ran through snow, but it was nice. As I debated about what to wear, Saturday's snow did not look nice. It looked awful, in fact.

The sleety, sticky stuff stuck to my windshield like Superglue and seemed to giggle at my defroster as I tried to peek through the small hole the warm air created. I had a 15 minute drive to the start of my run. I played W.A.S.P., thinking it would help. It didn't.

The treadmill was not an option. If I wanted to run in place, I would come back in my second life as a hamster. I've run more than 3 miles on a treadmill once in my running career. The wind was 40 mph, the snow was sideways, and the temperature was -18. Even then, I considered it - in fact I was heading out the door - when one of my friends saw me and suggested I wear an avalanche beacon so they could find my body on the trail.

We met inside, ready for action. We debated how many layers to wear. It honestly didn't seem too bad. It's all relative.

Sometimes I pick the route, and other times, I'm just a lab being pulled along for the ride. This was one of those days. Saturday's route included a long, long hill - "Heartbreaker's Hill" in the Boston Marathon looks like a gopher's mound in comparison - and by mile 8, facing a stiff, cold wind that cuts into my face, I'm a little cranky. 

"This sucks!" I yell, and two of my running mates turn around. It's really not like me to complain too much. They see I'm not injured, grin and turn around.

Around mile 13, my jacket is coated in ice, and my legs start to feel wooden. I somehow catch a second wind - it must be the Cliff Bar chew Blocs, which taste like gummy bears - and pick it up a notch. I've got to get used to running hard tired. 

At 15.1, I can see my car, only we've already passed it. We're tacking on a small road so I can get my 16. It sounds anal, but you won't increase your long miles by more than two in one week, so it's actually fairly important to get that last mile in, as I think you earn more in that mile than any other.

My legs are tired, wooden and even a little painful as we approach the driveway. 16.2. I feel good. I'm in good spirits. But I don't want to go another mile. I'm really cold, I'm slathered in ice and my body's barking at me a bit.

I'm proud, really proud, actually, and this is the unspoken joy of a marathon. It's not just the event itself. There are a lot of milestones along the way as you train for it. 

Still. Two thoughts. The first is obvious. Please, God, let it be a nice day on that day. And second? Hmm. 16 miles. I'm really supposed to run 10 more?

Fire and Ice

I'm sitting here watching the women's downhill skiing, rooting my ass off for Lindsey Vonn, knowing how much pain she'll be in, and the last two women have crashed.

Their bodies looked like rags attached to spandex as they slammed down the crusty surface. I would imagine rolling out of a car at 30 mph wouldn't look much worse.

They walked away, but I watched each run a little bit harder after seeing those.

If the Summer Olympics is about power, speed and maybe a little grace, it seems to me the Winter Olympics is about danger.

Power, speed and grace, too, but definitely far more danger than the summer games. And that's part of their allure too.

That was apparent even before this year's opening ceremonies, when Nodar Kumaritashvili died on a juiced Luge track. I hate to admit this, but it made me watch Luge a bit more, too.

One of my favorite events is the short track skating. I love the speed, the passes and the elbow-throwing, but I also love the fact that they're racing on blades that could be used by Jason to hack up teenagers during one of the Friday the 13ths. American JR Celski won the bronze just months after one of his blades slashed his leg in a crash. It took 60 stitches to close it, and an inch or two deeper, and the cut kills him.

Holy Cow. Another ski crash. This one by one of the top skiers (so I'm told), and she just destroyed one of the gates after flying a football field down the hill.

She walked away too, though that one had to hurt.

(Man, they're tough. Are they all like Vonn? And I think distance runners are tough? I'll have to remember them Saturday, when I run 16, farther than I've ever run before.)

I know what they're feeling. I've done a few climbs with knife edges and long miles and a more than a couple moments where my heart was in my throat. I will probably not do a few of them again. People love danger, and yeah, I do too, in some ways. One of those climbs was Capitol Peak, one I did this summer for the second and probably last time, and my article on it got more hits and reads than any other story I've done on my climbs.

But then again, I don't know the intensity of a downhill, a luge or even a short-track race, and that's a big reason why we watch, I think, even if we don't want to admit that. What is it like to stare a scare like that and dominate it? We'll never know. But we can't turn away, even when the course wins. Because the course may win.

I'm watching as Vonn just let out a scream as she tore up the course and crossed the finish line. It was not of pain. It was of joy, and maybe, a little bit of relief.

Yeah, I hear you, girl, and I'm with you.

Mr. Mom's live blog. The Saturday edition, 2010 version

Friday is my first day with the kids. Kate flies off for a four-day Vegas vacation (well earned, by the way). It goes smooth. I almost get cocky about it. Hey, maybe this won't be as bad as last year, I think to myself.

And then Saturday comes around.

2:03 a.m. - Jayden sneaks into the bed. The 4-year-old still loves to climb into bed with us, but he's usually good about waiting until 5:30 a.m. or so to do it. Sometimes I can even sleep when he does it, though half the time I think sleeping with a pile of ferrets would be easier. I honestly wonder if that kid ever holds still. Actually, I really don't wonder. The answer is no.

2:05 a.m. - Jayden plasters himself against me. It's nice that Jayden likes to cuddle, except when you're trying to sleep.

2:33 a.m. - Jayden is, no joke, sleeping on my head. Is he part housecat?

3:25 a.m. - I peel him off me - he has a lot of room, after all - and push him over into that space.

3:33 a.m. - He plasters against me again. This goes on all night. At 7:05 a.m., I sigh and get up.

8:15 a.m. - After a quick shower, it's time for a trip to the zoo. We should be out of here by, say, 8:25 a.m.

8:55 a.m. - Um, yeah. Well, OK, at least I didn't forget anything.

8:57 a.m. - We're filling up at the gas station, and I realize the kids have not hit the potty. The zoo is an hour away.

That math won't work with two 2-year-olds. We go by the house again.

9:05 a.m. - OK now we're on our way.

9:07 a.m. - Forgot juice boxes.

9:35 a.m. - I answer, for the 55th time, that yes, we are, in fact, going to the zoo.

This is one of the hardest things about having this many small kids, and yet it's almost never talked about. Not only do you never really get a break, but when you ARE somewhat at rest, like you're driving, your MIND never, ever rests because it's constantly bombarded with inane questions that you answer over and over and over and over and...get the idea?

10:30 a.m. - We make it to the zoo. I strap on the girls' leashes. Yes, leashes. You try corralling toddler twins and a 4-year-old.

Most of the day is me telling me not climb up on something, for Jayden to come here, not to try to pet the Tiger, please keep their jackets on, quit climbing up on something, please don't get out of the wagon, eat your french fries and to stop climbing on something.

I honestly wish I had more moments where I was just holding their hand or hugging them or laughing at the funny things they say and a lot less moments where I'm being stern. But at their age, and at their numbers, I can either be stern or I can probably leave the zoo with one or maybe two less kids. They prove the law of physics that states a body in motion must remain in motion. Right now honestly it's hard to enjoy them on days like these.

12:05 p.m. - We're eating lunch, and Andie tells me she needs to go potty. The clock is ticking at this point. About three months ago I made the mistake of thinking Andie could wait a few minutes when she told me she had to go at Target, and that few minutes later I was cleaning up a puddle on the floor with some paper towels.

We just went potty, so I've got a little time, but not much. I tell the kids to hurry and eat, and I start to gobble my chicken fingers. Andie grimaces a couple minutes later. I can tell she really needs to go.

We wrap it up, practically sprint to the building next door and hit the bathrooms. Andie makes it. Good girl!

Whew.

4:10 p.m. - We're home. Time for dinner. They start to play and scream and run around.

5:05 p.m. - We're eating a simple dinner. About three-fourths of the way through, Allie tells me she just pooped (in the potty, at least). This is the third time this weekend I'm getting a meal interrupted for a chance to wipe someone's bottom. This is probably the best example of what it's like to be a parent of three young kids. When I go in the bathroom, the seat is smeared with poop. I'm not sure what Allie was doing. I don't think I want to know.

Here's the other example of what it's like to be a parent of three young kids: It doesn't even bother me. I clean up the poop and wash my hands. Hey, most of it was in the potty. FTW!

6:30 p.m. - After their baths I'm utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. This is, ironically, my "rest" day in my marathon training schedule. Long runs are much easier than this. I've still got an hour to go. I have to constantly remind myself not to yell at them or treat them harshly. We're all tired at this point.

8:05 p.m. - Olympics. Rush Poker. And I'm recharging for tomorrow, when I get to do it all again.

Old/Young Man

The world seems to spin a little faster these days.

Subjects from stories I wrote five years ago wave at me, and they look older. My running coach is 57 and beats men half his age, including me, but he doesn't have much hair anymore. I went to get a haircut today, and I think this was the first time I saw more gray hairs than brown or black. 

Most NFL players are considered graybeards at my age (38) or have long since retired with a limp. Most baseball players not on steroids are in severe decline. Playboy won't even consider a playmate my age.

Yet my obsession with age comes at a time when I haven't felt older. I've felt younger. In some ways, I've never felt younger.

Now don't get me wrong. I've noticed the training. The biggest change I've noticed is I can't do anything else that's even remotely taxing to my system. I went to the KU game Wednesday at CU's campus in Boulder, and I got home at 11:30 p.m. I know, right? LATE.

The next morning I was shattered. I could barely function for two hours before lunch. I felt as if I was hungover. Sad to say, I've been to bed before 10 p.m. both Friday and Saturday lately. 

This marathon training is turning me into a senior citizen.

Yet I went 8 miles Friday and for 14 Saturday. I've run more than 13.1 once in my life. I did not go for 8 the day before. But today, Sunday, I not only felt great, I ran a 5K. My legs felt tired in the first mile, and I took it slow - my time was 24:57 - but that was, I have to say, easy. I remember just a few years ago when 24:57 would leave me gasping and wrung out for three days. I wasn't even remotely sore.

It only gets harder from here. I've got a fallback week - in runner speak that means I only have to run 10 for my long run - but this is also the week Kate leaves for Vegas starting Friday, and I'll be raging solo until Monday afternoon. That will be sure to wear me out. I'm also battling a bit of a chest cold that my wife swears might be swine flu (I ain't buying it).

Then I'll be running 16 for my long run the next week, and the miles will only go up from there. I can only hope I stay healthy.

But Monday morning, around 6 a.m., I'll head out the front door to start another training week. I'll start it with a tempo run, though it's really a race, trying to do my part to outrun Father Time.

Something to ponder

Saw my Jayhawks last night at CU's basketball arena. After I sweated out an OT win for the Hawks, I saw members of the basketball band walk away dejected, and it reminded me of my time in KU's basketball band.

Wow. Did I really look that young and geeky then? 

More pain, please

My son jumped on the bed at 7:15 a.m. today and looked me over. 

"Daddy," he said. "Why are you just laying there?"

"Well," I answered, "because I don't want to get up."

That's always true. I hate getting up in the morning, even if I almost always rise before 7 a.m. Sunday it was even more true. Sunday, more and more, is becoming The Day After.

In this case, it means the day after my increasingly long runs in training for my marathon. And though the training has gone well, almost too well (making me wonder if I'm doing enough), the miles are adding up. Sunday was the first time I really felt them.

Not only did I run a half marathon Saturday - not a race, just the distance - I ran a hard six Friday evening at marathon race pace. I'm just following the plan, but sometimes the plan hurts, especially when I didn't give myself even 12 hours between those workouts.

When I got up Sunday, I felt as if someone had given the bolts on my joints an extra turn. I'm not a young man anymore. I'm 38. Most athletes not named Favre have long since passed their glory days at my age.

Now understand that I loved those 13 miles Saturday, even if they did wear me out. I have always loved that feeling of sheer exhaustion. It means you've pushed yourself beyond mere discomfort. I was smiling at the end. 

But a marathon plan will humble you at times. Usually those times are the Day After.

Still, I started putting on my running gear Sunday. The plan also calls for a short run the day after you abuse yourself. 

The plan seems to understand that the best way to feel better after something destroys you is to get right back to it.

By mile 3, as I walked in the house, loose, sweaty and with less pain than before, the plan, once again, was right.

Whew

Dodged the sickness. It was bad. Boy had to hit the hospital for an IV, or, in his case, "They put water in me." He was a LOT braver about the needle than most adults I know.

And just to answer a question no one asked, why, yes, I probably would buy a Guitar Hero Kiss edition. Or at least I know someone who would. I'd play it for sure.

Catching the crud

We don't have death hanging over our house. We're not dramatic. But we do have something almost as bad.

The Sick.

We all know what Death looks like. Hooded, skinny figure (I think he's a runner). Black robe. Carries a sharp thing used by farmers to cut wheat or by movie psychos to cut teens.

But Sick? I dunno. Maybe he's sloppy, with man boobs, and he probably coughs a lot and doesn't smell very good, like he hasn't showered for four days. He's probably got a few bedsores and an unshaven face. And pink eye. And gout. And he wears a shirt with grape jelly on it.

He's already nailed the twins. It's been at least two weeks since they were last sick, so it's apparently time again. I'm home now with Jayden, who has not spilled his cookies just yet (something Andie and Allie already did) but has a fever and just isn't himself. I've worked most of the morning but there's only so much you can do from home. Now I'm watching "Up" with him, which isn't a bad thing at all.

I don't mind nursing the kids through their bugs. What I don't like is getting squashed by the bug myself. That's what I mean by the Sick hanging over our house. I'm believe I"m next. 

And I hate it.

I don't like being sick. Who really does? But I can take it. I honestly hate missing my training a lot more. It always seems to take a couple weeks to get your mojo back, and I need that mojo. Mojo is good for marathon training.

Still. Being a parent pretty much means you're going to share just about everything little crap bug your kids pick up.

"I'd rather it just get it over with," Kate said last night, already resigned to catching the pest.

The waiting is, as always, the hardest part. 

These three words

There are worse things than either one of my girls looking at me, saying "I pooped" and not seeing a toilet anywhere nearby.

Mostly it's just three words.

"Mooommmmy do it!"

In the last few months, I've struggled with those three words more than anything, to the point where it came to a head the other night, when I tossed a toothbrush Kate's way - though to be honest I threw it - when Andie was screaming for Mommy to, you know, do it.

It seems like a Dad's dream. Mommy does everything. Hey, I can't help it, I can say with a shrug of the shoulders, and let her wipe their bottoms.

In fact it's exactly the opposite. They're twins, for one, and that means I've had to be Mom as well as Dad. And I get frustrated with that because I believe, right or wrong, that I've put in a good amount of work. My fair share, at the very least. And I don't like being rewarded by hearing, all the time, that I suck.

Kate's frustrated too, of course, because it puts a burden on her.

Finally, there's a certain joy in helping your little ones put on their pjs, clipping them in their car seats and picking them up when they need a little love. I take pleasure in that. I don't mind feeling needed. I doubt anyone truly minds that. And I'm feeling a bit robbed. Eventually they won't want either one of us to do those things. There are only so many pj days left.

Because of my nature, I tend to take it personally, and I really shouldn't. Toddlers want their mommies, and it's worse with twins because they compete for Kate's attention.

Lately, though, I've taken a couple steps to help curb it.

When the girls at night are in their pjs and on the living room carpet playing with them, I get on the floor, too. I've got the Dad's knack for roughhousing. I'm also giving out more dinosaur rides.

And Friday I took the girls and spent the morning with them. It wasn't much. We went to Target, got some fingerpaint, and I did their nails.

It's hard work. When I put them down for a nap, I was far more tired than I was today after my 8-mile run. But it was good, hard work, much like the run.

Today when Kate told the girls it was Jayden's day to go to church with her, they paused. Then said, "We get special time with Daddy?"

Those are words I want to hear.

The early bird gets an early bedtime and that's about it

Sunday I broke an unwelcome streak: Number of days in a row I got up before 7 a.m.

I slept in until 7:30 a.m.

This, I think, is by far the biggest change I've made in having kids, and it's also the most disturbing. Before Children (B.C.), 6 a.m. was the unholy hour (it's no coincidence that there's a 6 in the time). I got up before then only to climb mountains, which was fun, or when I had to go to an assignment, which was usually not fun (Easter Sunrise Service, for instance). And I was always in a horrible mood either way.

Even when Jayden was born, I'd escape the witching hour more often than not. Kate, a morning person, usually got up early with the boy. I'm actually not proud of that, but that's the way it was.

But now? I'm usually up by 6:45 a.m., and now that I'm training for the marathon, I've strapped on a head lamp and began a run at 6 a.m.*

*I swear, seriously swear and hope to die and stick a needle and all that, that this will not become a marathon blog. I'm sure you're sick of hearing about it. It's basically most of what I've got going on in my life right now, so that's why I'm writing about it. I apologize.

I have to admit, I've enjoy the morning these days. There are sunrises, which turn the sky pink, and there is a certain chill in Colorado that you can only find in the morning, and this chill is annoying and special at the same time. Plus I've seen a few more animals on the run, like a few crazy foxes, and that's pretty cool.

But it's also disturbing to be awake, up and bright-eyed and sorta bushy-tailed because, well, it's another sign that I'm becoming my parents. And I usually go to bed by 10:30 p.m. That's kinda lame. I used to stay up playing video games or with my nose in a book until 2 a.m. sometimes. Now at 2 a.m. I'm dreaming about my flushes getting there in huge, multi-way pots (which is proof that it's really a dream, I don't even get excited in my dreams any longer because I know they're just virtual chips that will disappear the moment the roar of Kate's shower jabs me awake). 

I love running in the morning now. I've got a run scheduled for Saturday with a group at 7:30 a.m.

But I'm not a morning person. I'm just a person who gets up early all the time.

 

Bit by bit

Lately I'm finding my favorite reward for the end of a run isn't a bowl of ice cream (as it was in the past). 

It's the X.

The "X" marks off another day on my marathon schedule.

When I looked at the schedule, I admit I felt a little nervous about it. I mean, it looked like a lot. Every day, there was a task, from "easy" 3-mile runs to more punishing runs in the double-digits (yep, even early in the training; this Sunday I'll run a dozen).

But I'm also surprised at how easy it's gone. I feel good, and I haven't been walloped by any aches and pains, despite the fact that I'm already running as many miles in a week as I did when I was in my training peak for my half marathons last summer.

I'm sure the aches and pains will come - the schedule gets considerably tougher as it goes on, and three 20-mile runs lie in wait - but so far I'm relieved that my only-somewhat athletic body is taking the punishment.

The lesson is I have a tendency to look at a large project as a whole, and when I do that, the monster lurks over my shoulder and stresses me out. Professionally this was never a problem - I've completed stories that took me a year to report and write - but privately I'd always manage to raise my blood pressure with something as simple as, say, getting carpet installed in the basement.

I'm keeping the plan after I've Xed out all the squares and, I hope, completed the marathon. It'll be a nice reminder that huge tasks are tackled a day at a time. As we wonder what we can do to help not only our own hurting country but a devastated Haiti, it's a lesson we'll need to repeat to ourselves a lot these next few months.

If it were easy....

Nature and/or God, depending on your beliefs, have banded together to send me a simple message this week.

Training for a marathon ain't gonna be easy, boy.

Temperatures this week have been low enough to freeze Mercury (both the planet and the element), the roads look like a Zamboni drove over them, and yesterday yet another storm brought more snow, only this time it was lofted by 30 mph winds.

We've already had more snow by this time than we usually get for an ENTIRE YEAR. I haven't seen grass since Thanksgiving, and my new running style looks like I'm constantly running the three-legged race in the county fair, as I'm trying to make sure I don't slip on the 378 patches of ice per mile.

Any lingering thoughts of running in the winter being a romantic, peaceful, thoughtful activity are being crushed under a cold, icy boot, then flash frozen and stored in a meat locker. The pretty sights of smoky rivers, huddling geese and crystalized trees are lost when your sunglasses have frozen over by the first half-mile and you're desperately shaking out your fingers so they don't get frostbite.

I've even turned to my most hated enemy, the treadmill. I loathe treadmills. Running is a chance for me to get outside, to see things I've never seen before and to get some fresh air. It ain't so I can stare at reruns of Oprah on the TV while a machine beeps at me to run faster like a nagging wife. And fresh air is in low supply in a gym, no matter how clean it is. A treadmill turns a run into a workout, something to be endured rather than enjoyed. But I've already used it twice this week.

This will be a lot of work. Just this week, my first week of the plan, I've run more miles than I run when I'm peaking in training for my half marathons. They've mostly been easy miles. But still. Even on my two easy running days, I'm lifting, too. 

Still, I have hope. January is the coldest month, and the plan doesn't get too hard until this month is over. I'll survive it until then. The sun came out today. It makes things seem warmer, even if the cold continues to crack tiny fractures in my will.