Who says egg rolls don't grow in trees?

Sometimes, you just have to believe, even if it flies in the face of what others view as common sense.

Emotional Web

So on Friday night, I took my girls to the high school play. But I did not go to play at my new school. Instead, I drove the 30 minutes to Bethlehem to see Freedom's production of Charlotte's Web.

The show, as usual, was outstanding, thanks largely in part to the talents of my dear friend Jen, an exceptional English teacher but an even more exceptional theater goddess. Wonder Woman has nothing on her.

But the best part of the show, and the worst part as well, was seeing several of my squirrels perform on stage, two years since I had last seen them. They seemed to have sprouted into young adults overnight, no longer the much more shy freshmen and sophomores that I remember. They exuded confidence and bravado as they took the stage and the aisles.

I cried at the end, and not because the spider died. I cried for the slight feeling of guilt for leaving behind people for whom I cared greatly, my students and my colleagues. One of my former students, Robbie, lit up when he saw me, grabbing me for a tight hug and laughing hysterically when I asked him to sign my program. He said: "Oh, Ms. Reaman. You know you are one of the only teachers who has ever made me laugh constantly. You 'got' me. And I sure do miss you tremendously."

On the way home, a way that I no longer drive five days a week, I felt a sense of catharsis. I know that I was but a small influence on their lives as they carry on to new challenges and greater tasks. But I will always feel that this school will be a home away from home, not matter how much time passes.

Lucky

For several months I labored over the idea of trying to register for a full Ironman race. I know there was only one that I could finish without too much suffering, and it was Florida.

But the chances of getting into the race are rather slim. People fly down for the weekend, just so they can register in person the morning after. And they are in line with volunteers who also fly to Panama City for the chance to have priority sign-up.

And then there are the competitors who can sign up on Friday, the day before they do this year’s race, for the following year.

I knew that I’d have to be lucky to get in.

Well, just like the day I decided to register for New York on a whim, I was lucky.

Within 3 minutes of the race opening its doors for the remaining spots. I got in.

And now? Well, now that my heart has slowed down, I am coming to the realization that a $600 race is really like a $2,000 race. And I can’t screw this up. This is something that I need to do for myself, not for anyone else, not to qualify for something, not to win some age award, not to see some spectacular destination or get a great medal.

This is for me. Because. Because I can, or at least I hope I can.

Someone asked me why. And I just have to say that it’s something I need to do. Not want to do. Need.

I have a few lazy weeks remaining before I need to step back into the water, remount my bike and build up my calluses, step back onto the road and begin building mileage.

I am lucky—lucky to have secured a bib, lucky to have the salary (buoyed by my education) to pay for this, lucky to have friends who will help me train, and lucky to have a supportive family that understands that this is important for me personally, even if they don’t quite get why. And that’s ok, just as long as they are there for me.

One small glass of milk

It's nice to hear parents extol the virtues and accomplishments of their kids, how they scored a goal during the soccer game, how they gained entry into an overpriced college, how they got through AP calculus without ever opening the book. Often, so many parents blather on, almost as if they themselves conquered the task at hand. But in the end, I smile, nod, and think: "You are clueless as to how lucky you are."

For me, I am proud to say that for the first time in nearly five years, my child drank something other than water.

Yep, I know the progenitor of the AP kid will guffaw, roll his or her eyes. Drink? Something other than water?

Yep, that's what I said.

My child has not drank anything other than water since she was two and half, the point in her young life when her disability emerged from the dark crevices and stole her growth, her ability to talk, her level of tolerance to most foods including any liquid besides water.

And so for years, she has not tasted milk or juice of any kind.

But after a long awaited visit with a dietitian last week, we set forth a plan to introduce small amounts of foods into her diet, all with some coercion. That included small sips of chocolate milk, which we assured her tasted like brownies, one of 10 foods that she currently eats. (Of course, brownies may soon fall to the wayside, just as all foods do at some point.) It took us the better part of 30 minutes to get her to swallow the quarter-cup of flavored cow juice, and she nearly threw it up twice due to her gag reflex.

Yes, it was a baby step. But it was a step in the right direction. And I wasn't anything short of proud of her for agreeing to try it, for forcing it down, for not spewing it back up as she often does with foods she deems as foreign.

After she finished, I tried to hold in the tears, knowing that she may just be one step closer to what society deems as "normal." No, she won't score the winning goals in soccer. No, she most likely won't get into a prestigious university. And no, she is not calculus material.

But sadly, I know of children who have hurdles that are far more difficult than Grace's, and I feel for them, for their parents. So we take what we can get, even if it is only one small glass of milk After all, there are many more half-full glasses that await us.

Dogs run wild

This afternoon a strong wind exhaled across the path as I tried to reel in the dogs on our daily trek by Tyler’s spot. The terriers steadily pulled, their harnesses firm against their chests, the leashes taut as they extended five feet ahead. They furiously sniffed for trickles of urine sprung from the bladders of bitches unknown.

It was a quick two miles, not nearly enough to satisfy my pressing need to suddenly break into an open sprint beneath the sun. But I couldn’t, and I found myself fighting back tears as I walked faster and faster, a speed that some “runners” call “running.” For me, it is not.

Ever since I decided to follow my doctor’s orders, I have felt overwhelmingly frustrated with the idea of not running for six weeks. Right now, I’m at Day 23. That’s a mere 3.5 weeks in.

So how to sate my need to run?

Bike until my knees hurt. Walk the dogs until they protest. Do P90x even though I’m no longer in love with Tony Horton. So I bike 30 miles in a sitting. I walk 9 miles in a day. I do the plyometrics and the squats and the lunges.

Still, the underlying desire remains, like a stain-seeking terrier restrained by a leather harness. I feel as though I want to pull, pull away from this fast walking pace and find a stride that leaves me breathing hard, makes my heart race, gives me a reality check that life is too precious to not extend myself.

People who don’t run cannot truly imagine the frustration of hearing a doctor tell you that you are sidelined. It’s as if a part of you has been removed, a vital part that largely defines who you are and what you do. And so as I bike and as I walk, I close my eyes and envision that I am running along the path, past Tyler’s spot, beneath the clouds and the azure backdrop. I think of the young man who died too young, a boy who now runs wild only in spirit, in memory.

And so I am like the unknown bitch that runs free, without harness, without leash, without my owner holding me back as I pull steadily away in the fields of bull thistle and dandelion. Free, I run, like a dog who knows no limits. Lucky dog.

I am an Ironman 70.3

It’s official. My seven-month relationship has ended.

As difficult as it was to part ways, I severed my commitment to my bike, to my swim, to my run. OK, sever isn't wholly accurate; we're on a break. That’s because I finally conquered my goal of becoming an Ironman. OK, an Ironman 70.3, but an Ironman, nonetheless.

Deciding to tackle this mighty monster came last year when I realized that running alone was not satisfying my desire to push myself further. And so I signed up for the Timberman Half Ironman in New Hampshire that takes place in late August. It came with trepidation for sure, especially since I knew that a serious injury seemed to be looming. And with full force it arrived in March, threatening my ability to finish this race, let alone start it.

As the official training plan began, the plantar fasciitis in my right foot worsened. I cut back on running—even stopped for several weeks—to curb it. That didn’t work. I endured cortisone, a night boot, ice, heat, a Strassburg Sock [insert trademark], over-the-counter orthotics, custom orthotics, and crying sessions in front of my podiatrist. Eventually, as a last resort before “procedural intervention,” as the doctor called it, he ordered physical therapy three times a week.

PT was my godsend.

Granted, Nick, my therapist, pushed—and continues to push—me to sweat-inducing limits during rehabilitation. I shed a few tears, sometimes wondering if I would ever be able to run 13.1 miles after biking 56. On the Wednesday before my race, Nick seemed to have me run through a gamut of exercises. The result? I had so much pain that I walked out in bitter tears. My damn race was 100 hours away, and I couldn’t walk on my heel.

And so I truly tapered. I did practically nothing for four days—not even bike, nor swim. I kept my feet up, watched TV, rode shotgun for nearly 9 hours to the race, hardly walked at all besides at the expo where I saw Dick Hoyt, an incredible man with an incredible story of pushing his paraplegic son through marathons and triathlons.

Knowing what he has accomplished made me realize how lucky I am.

Still, come race day, I felt like bagging it, for I dreaded the pain that might return, as it did in Philly.

I awoke at 3:30 and headed to transition. In the parking lot, I met a couple parked next to us who also drove up from Bear Swamp, which settled my nerves. But I then met up with Victoria, a woman from New York in my age group who had paid a trainer to coach her through preparation. I felt intimidated by her confidence, her “let’s go” attitude, her knowledge of what to expect. Still, she offered to swim with me, bike with me, even run with me to get me through the race. I declined. I didn’t want to hold her up.

Later, we stood in the water of Lake Winnipesukee and watched the pros make it look easy. I feared the water would be choppy as it had been two days before when I stood on the edge of the finish area in steady 25-mph winds. On race day, the first 600 meters out were smooth; however, that all changed as we swam parallel to the shore. The waves crashed onto our left, the side on which I breathe. I swallowed a lot of water, but forged on as best I could. I need to rely on breaststroke in some portions when I gagged on a wave.

On at least four to five stretches, I ended up swimming too far to the left because the crests in the water prevented me from seeing the buoys. In all, due to my poor sighting, I figure that I swam an extra 50 yards beyond the 1.2 miles. That’s not a great distance, but it’s enough when you’re battling waves, anxiety, and deep water.

But eventually I made it back to the beach where I unzipped my wetsuit and left the “strippers” pull it off the rest of the way.

The next round, 56 miles on a very hilly course, tested my mental and physical limits. I make no secret about it: the bike is my weakest sport. Blame arthritis, blame bad knees that go back to childhood, blame my fear of crashing and losing my front teeth. Blame everything. But I fear the bike.

There were portions of bike course during which I felt like quitting. I wept silently at least twice, when the pain in my knee greatly outweighed my desire to finish, when it rained hard and consistently, leaving me somewhat blinded and nearly defeated.

But in my heart, I knew that I could not quit. I had prepared for this, and so in the dark moments, I repeated my mantra continuously: “Today is not the day to quit.”

When I headed back into transition—after getting passed by nearly everyone behind me, or so it felt—I knew that I could just walk the half marathon and still be done with it. But I’m not a TNTer. I don’t walk races. I run them until I can no longer stand the pain.

And so I laced up my Asics, outfitted with my new orthotics, and headed out along a double-loop course. The first few miles felt great. I remember coming in to finish the first 6.5 miles and thinking: “Great, I’m halfway done…great, I have to do this again and it’s going to hurt.” By mile 8, I was correct. My plantar was calling the shots, but I didn’t let it win. I ran-walked those last five miles as best as I could. My goal was to not have an 8 on the clock, and my stretch goal was to see 7:3X on the clock.

As I looked at my watch, I knew that I would not only meet my stretch goal, but I would beat it. Just knowing that I had time in the bank eased my mind. In the end, with about 100 yards to go, out of nowhere I spotted my family. Keni jumped up and down, yelling for me. She rushed out onto the course, and I began to cry.

Despite my exhaustion, the pain, the doubts, I sprinted as best as I could toward the finish to the sound of Coldplay's "Clocks". They announced my full name, my hometown. And I continued to cry. I had done it, reached a goal that some people thought might be beyond my ability.

My watch read 7:26. I had beaten my stretch goal with 3 minutes to spare. Immediately, I knew I had a new goal: to beat 6:59.

In hindsight, I was far from speedy. I was far from top form. I was injured, and I still am. However, I was there. Unfortunately, Victoria, the confident woman who had hired the professional trainer, was not. She didn’t finish. Somewhere along the race, she dropped out, didn't get to run across the last timing mat.

But I did. I am an Ironman, and I have the medal to prove it.

Dancing Baby Moment.

Sometimes, it's the little things that matter.

On my run today, I felt a little sluggish, largely due to the resistant right heel that simply prefers to stay home than take it to the streets. But I pushed on in my attempt to run 10 miles, which was eventually successful. Still, along the way, i was feeling the humidity, feeling the pain when I saw a man pulling a sprinkler into the middle of his lawn. He looked over at me, called out: "Hey, how ya doing?" I looked up, managed to say that I was fine, asked about him. "I'm doing great."

But he didn't stop there.

He added: "Hey, you look great! Keep on going, keep on pushing..."

Suddenly, with those small words, I felt like dancing, even if I couldn't run much faster than I already was. I felt like the Dancing Baby.

All too often we try to impress people with hollow promises, opulent materials. None of that matters. What does matter is sincerity, humility, dancing babies.