Second Annual List of "Firsts" (2011 Edition)

It's that time of year again. So, without further fanfare:

I ran my second half-marathon at the Davis Stampede.

I visited my son while he was away at college in San Diego and watched him play in two lacrosse games. I marveled at his ability to clean the house which he shared with a group of boys so I wasn't mortified when I saw it. I mega-shopped at Costco for food with him and burst into tears when we said good-bye.

I ran my first marathon, 26.2 miles in Napa, CA. Together, with my ex-husband's wife and children's stepmom, we raised over $8,000 for breast cancer in her honor.

I began writing for the San Ramon Patch, posting my blog. I also attended meetings with my women's writing group whenever I could attend. One of my favorites was about a student named Marco. That boy touched my heart but never did graduate. I hope he comes back.

I bicycled around the island of Maui, six days after my first marathon and carrying all of my clothes, shelter and food. I cannot describe how amazing this trip was for me. I was reminded how it was about the journey, not the destination. I made new friends, was challenged physically and saw amazing sights.

I completed my first Bay-to-Breakers race, enjoying myself immensely. I counted lots of naked men and only one naked woman. I hear there were more, I must have missed them.

I watched my oldest daughter graduate from college. I was proud of her as we celebrated this monumental day with both sides of the family. I am, however, still waiting for her to finish her thank-you notes.

I practiced riding and running in heat to get ready for my first Half-Ironman. I got heatstroke while training on my bike with two friends who took very good care of me. This got me a little worried so I went out and bought new gear to wear with cooling technology for race day.

I completed my first Half-Ironman, Vineman 70.3. The weather was relatively pleasant. No heatstroke. I used my heart monitor and enjoyed myself following my three rules: finish, have fun, don't puke. My daughters surprised me and showed up to celebrate with me post-race. I did not need that new gear to wear but think somehow it was insurance against overheating.

I began to train for my second marathon, having been given an entry (well, I had to pay but I got into a lottery-based event).  

I went to Tahoe for what has begun to be my annual trip each summer. I swam in choppy waters at Fallen Leaf Lake with my friend. A day later I went back and wore my new bikini, something I have not done in approximately 31 years. No one fainted and I didn't burn my butt-white belly. I felt a bit more confident about myself that day. I felt I could handle a lot that life has thrown at me.

Later that same day I was challenged in my personal life and have to dig deep(er) than I ever had to before that day. This continued for quite some time.  I rediscovered some semblance of inner strength. My family supported me in the wings. And friends. And teammates. And co-workers. And more. I felt and feel loved. I loved and love.

I ran on a mild day and got my second bout of heatstroke. My running mates, a group I had just met take care of me, making sure I have enough water to finish the run.

I had to sometimes miss runs with my running mate. He was steadfast in his faith and optimism. I had to run alone. I ran to keep sane. I withdraw a little bit. I begin to come home at lunch rather than eat with co-workers. I stay home some weekends rather than go out with people. I retreat, regroup and regain strength.

My youngest daughter completed all 12 college applications, some in-state, some out of state, public and private.

We attempted family photos in October but it was not our day.

My oldest daughter moved to Cleveland to become a labor and delivery nurse. She has found her calling. I visited her and know this is her path. I'm amazed at the hospital, love her new friends and enjoy her new neighborhood. She and her dad have chosen well.

I completed my second marathon and have two very dear and special friends root for me. I'm touched. I somehow completed it even though I'm somewhat physically undertrained. Mentally I celebrated. And smiled. All 26.2 miles of the NIKE Women's Marathon I continued smiling. I'm reminded once again that it is not about the destination, it's about the journey. I see that a theme has developed this year.

I completed my second half-marathon of the year two weeks later, my third one ever. I'm dressed as Robin Hood for a team costume contest (which we lost). But we didn't care. I once again finished another event,  I had fun and I didn't puke. I continued to smile.

I dressed-up that night as Barbie for a Halloween party, looking for Ken. I wondered if this was somehow symbolic but decided to analyze another day. I came home early and check-in with my son who happened to be home.

I analyzed my Barbie costume and decided it was all in fun, I am not Barbie and Ken doesn't exist. If he did, I'm not the gal for him.

My daughter heard back from five of the twelve colleges. So far, all are a "yes."

I'm still challenged but I'm hopeful. I have not wavered in my love or belief that this too shall pass. 

We attempted family photos again in December. It went a bit better but we haven't ordered any yet (cards not sent as a result, my apologies).

I celebrated Christmas with all three of my children at midnight on Christmas Eve. I feel loved by them and my heart is touched. I sense and trust that they feel loved by me, too. I cry happy tears. The year is nearly over. 

I grew a wee bit wiser in the ways of love and relationships. Again. And again.  And again. With room for further growth.  I continued to see the glass half-full and am reminded again it's about the journey, not the destination. 

Rich In Love

Growing up I would explain to others that my family was rich. They knew this was not true in a monetary sense. My mom was a nurse and dad was a probation officer. Together they had four children in less than five years and though they managed to take two weekly vacations a year there was not a lot of money left over for extras growing up. We were, however, rich in love.

How do I explain it? Our family was far from perfect. We fought. We had family meetings. We cried happy, mad and sad tears. As the fourth child and third daughter, I wore and received hand-me-downs. The oldest memory of a hand-me-down that I loved was my faded red “biggie” bike. It was a three-wheeled tricycle that I’m guessing I got for my third, fourth or fifth birthday. I loved it. It was slightly bigger than a traditional toddler’s tricycle, the size you would find in a kindergarten playground. I did not feel like I had missed out when I received that old bike. I remember mom and dad’s happiness as I jumped on it and began pedaling around our driveway on Wilson Avenue.

Growing up the color red must have had some significance. I remember the summer my mom bought us each a pair of summer sandals. Mine were red leather Salt-Water Sandals. I proudly wore them one hot summer day and put them in the green check-in swim bag. The only glitch was that I did not check the bag in with the lifeguards. Instead, I hung it inside the locker room. Later that afternoon when I went to get dressed, the sandals were missing, having been stolen some time earlier. I cried. Mom and dad held a firm stance on the fact that they would not be replaced. And though it was a difficult lesson to learn, I understood. Even that experience added to my rich life.

I slept in a room with my two sisters until my oldest sister was in junior or senior high school. My parents later added on a new master bedroom. Somehow even this fact did not bother me. I had many hours of wonderful make-believe games that included playing “house,” “school” and more. I (mostly) didn’t mind sharing my room though it did make me a bit of a neat freak. I wanted to keep my stuff separate from my sisters. This neatness lasted years later, that is, until I was married and became the mother of my own three children. I distinctly recall a turning point in my life as a neat-nick. I was starting to get upset about my messy house. I decided my children could look back at me as being a picky housekeeper or they could have fond memories filled with childhood inspiring craft projects or forts in our family room kept up for a day or two to be admired and enjoyed. I knew from being raised by parents who unknowingly chose memories over maintenance which route to choose. Mine was a rich inheritance.

Another thing my parents’ prioritized money spent was for our sporting activities. Over the years we settled upon football for my brother and synchronized swimming for my sisters and myself. Though we often only saw airports and swimming pools while we competed, we did travel all over the United States. Dad was frequently a driver and chaperone, sharing coffee with our swim coach for long drives throughout the night. At the swim meets he was a timer. When mom chaperoned with others, they improvised a kitchen and mastered crockpot spaghetti that fed 8-16 hungry teenaged girls. We had many adventures and loads of stories to tell when our family would all eagerly await to pick us up at the airport. Being a reflective family we would regale one another with our stories upon our return. Our stories added to our families’ fortune.

My brother’s love of football allowed us to travel to watch his games while he played for both his junior college and college teams. I’ll never forget chanting, “We beat the slot machines!” after his victory against a Nevada team. Great memories, even when it involved the car stopping in the middle of the freeway while traveling filled our love bank. It was scary having cars zoom past us until we could get help, not easily summoned pre-cell phones.

Dad’s love for adventure was a monetary priority too. Somehow my mom and the other wives allowed their husbands the luxury of traveling over Valentines’ weekend several years in a row to go skiing. Dad would return from his trip with four small velvet heart-shaped boxes of chocolates for us accompanied by a much larger version of the Valentine’s Day box for mom. And there was always a card for her too. It was always mushy and always sentimental despite dad’s macho bravado. He was a softie in matters of the heart.

I remember bringing friends over the years to my house for the first time. There were many whom lived in much more expensive homes up in the hills or across the Valley. They were pristinely painted and landscaped and decorated with stylish new furniture. There were newer and nicer cars parked in their driveways. Even so, as I walked friends through the front door and into our living room I always felt proud to bring them inside. I felt rich. Yes, I knew it wasn’t monetary, even then. But in matters of the heart, my family lived abundantly.

The Traditional, Untraditional Christmas Tree

As a teacher I have received many ornaments to don my Christmas tree: apples, miniature desks, photos, “greatest teacher” and more. Some of them have been store-bought and some hand-made.

As a mom I’ve purchased many ornaments over the years for my own three children. I’ve written the year it was given to them with a black Sharpie pen along with each child’s initials. The idea being that when they moved out on their own they would have an assortment of ornaments for their own Christmas tree.

Our typical traditional tree usually had white lights, homemade popcorn garlands, multi-colored beaded garlands, silver tin icicles, and a vast array of colorful non-matching ornaments. The ones from my students, the ones I’ve purchased or have received from family members and all the ones that Santa stuffed very specifically into the stockings of Morgan, Troy and Shelby. They have been displayed oh-so-carefully on a very symmetrical, very large live pine tree. I’ve adorned the bottom of the tree with an antique quilt, a wagon, dolls, and a teddy bear. The tree was sometimes placed in an ancient enormous ceramic crock. They were always beautiful.

One year I kept the traditional tree in the family room and decided to decorate another smaller tree. On that tree I also had popcorn garland and white lights but I also added many pairs of tiny shoes from when my children were babies and toddlers. I tied them together with raffia and hung them throughout the branches. I added their tiny silver baby spoons. Next came a silver baby cup. I added their first baby photos in silver frames. It was a sweet eye-catching “baby” tree.

Another year my youngest daughter Shelby and I went to our school district’s Christmas tree lot. We looked at all of the traditional trees but kept circling back to one fat chubby tree that was about two feet tall. We looked at one another with smiling faces.

“How about this one Mom?” Shelby joked.

“Nobody will want it,” I said to Shelby. “I kinda feel sorry for it.”

We looked at one another, giggled, and later found ourselves unpacking the chubby tree into our home.

That year it was a more elegant themed tree: silver and mercury glass ornaments, both tin and glass beaded garlands with snowflake shapes and white paper star ornaments from my sister and her husband’s store. The tree was placed upon an old weathered side table with a smaller white quilt adorning the bottom of it. It was small but stunning.

The next year we looked for something different. This time it was a tree that looked like something from a Dr. Seuss book. It was a Hawaiian fern of some sort I believe. I have to admit, Shelby may have been the one to come up with the car freshener idea, I’m not really sure. I do know I loved the idea while walking through Target earlier that day. We bought TONS of red and green pine-tree-shaped automobile air fresheners to use.

When home we decided to add our outdoor white light bulbs, they were much bigger than our standard bulbs. Next came a giant red ice bucket for the tree to be placed inside. The finishing touches were red and green pine-tree-shaped automobile air fresheners. It looked rather retro. “Mom, that looks so cool!” Shelby exclaimed. And because our tree was not our typical pine tree we were happy to have the scent created by the car fresheners.  It was magical looking in a unique, creative science fiction kind of way. I captured it by taking a photo.

All was well in the world of Christmas trees in our household. That is, until about 3am that particular holiday season.

That is because at about 3am I awoke nauseous and feeling like I was about to get sick. I was queasy. I got up and realized obnoxious pine-y smell was permeating throughout my entire home. ICK!

I headed downstairs to where our retro tree was located. The smell downstairs was so strong I was gagging. I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. I plucked each and every one of those scented car fresheners, choking back the urge to get sick. I ran down another flight of stairs and threw the now zipped Ziploc bag into the garage. I ran back up and proceeded to open up all of the windows to let in fresh air. I turned the ceiling fan on high. It was particularly cold that night but I did not care. Cold and clean air was superior to warm and toxic.

This year?

My home was “holiday ready” shortly after Thanksgiving this year. I had placed live topiaries, small pine trees and white poinsettias mixed with various Santas and antique watering cans and candles throughout my home and front porch. It definitely looks like a chick’s pad but somehow it all just works.

I look around and it makes me happy inside.

My tree? 

I haven’t bought it yet. 

I do know this fact; it is bound to be a traditional, untraditional Christmas tree.

And this: it most definitely won’t smell like pine-tree-shaped automobile air fresheners.

Track Marks

Dedicated to “Coyote” plus one

I am, by all accounts a mentor and teacher. When “bad stuff” (*sxxx*) happens I’m the glass half-full kind of girl. Most of my friends know they can count on me to see the good in any, if not all, circumstances. But every once in a while even a glass-half-full gal can find herself in a tough spot.

This summer was mine.

Without going into the circumstances, because really, that it is another’s story to tell. Let me just call it the “big awful.”

Before the “big awful” this year was looking and feeling pretty darn good. At the age of 40+ (7 years, if you’re counting) life had become more balanced. I began to think that’s what age had brought me, a little gift of wisdom, cultivated after some ups and downs in life. I had entered the age of post-menopausal womanhood a wee bit wiser, a wee bit more grateful and a whole lot “more.” More happiness. More joy. More sure of my many flaws and myself. More awareness of these shortcomings and the acknowledgement that the aforementioned are surely not fatal. I was more assured of choices I made. More sure of the path I wanted to take for the next leg of my life’s journey.

My children were doing well and I felt I had a strong relationship with each of them. My “job” was going well. I was speaking at different venues throughout San Ramon valley and sharing about the hidden gem where I work, Venture School. It is a unique school setting, one where I have the fortune of seeing young people achieve their dreams. I was traveling. Exploring. I had set some goals physically and achieved them (first marathon, first extensive bike tour without support, half-ironman). I was writing (my blog, the local Patch blog, and more). Relationsip wise, I was in a good spot with someone who was seemingly a good match (intellectually, hobbies, core values, energy, attraction). And I had more goals I had yet to achieve, but the confidence that in time I would.

One of these goals had come months earlier. I was able to secure a spot with the San Francisco NIKE women’s marathon. This race serves as a fundraiser for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Foundation. This holds a special spot in my heart because my father died from Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. It would marry two causes near and dear to me: fitness and raising money for a charitable organization that is meaningful to my family or me.

In short, I was happy.

The “big awful” happened.

I resorted to crisis mode. I retreated from public outings, postings, writing and contact with friends, family and my good match. My job was re-prioritized, as was everything else in my life.

I was dealing with what was happening and that took all of my focus. I was in survival mode.

One.

Moment.

At.

A.

Time.

When the “big awful” occurred I knew somehow some day something good would come from it.

Time passed.

Slowly.

More things and people took a backseat. Running did too.

But after the first few weeks, I knew I needed to run to keep sane. On multiple occasions I would receive my emailed workout and intend to run at the track workout or tempo run with my running buddy. Inevitably I would then have to cancel. That is not my modus operandi. I’d contact my running buddy and he would always cheerfully reply and assure me he’d run with me the next time. He offered me hope and belief in myself by his optimism and constant understanding.

My coach from the Diablo Harriers told me not to worry. He suggested I back out of the marathon, to take care of the “big awful” and to take care of myself.

I chose not to quit.

Because running helped. Even if only a thread barren amount.

Another thing I did do was read. Somehow I came across this online quote about track marks for heroin addicts. Don’t ask how I got to this, I don’t even recall. 

“Dear Dr. H, 


I was wondering how long these awful track marks will last. The ones on my hands are the most shameful.

         Sincerely, 
Maria 


Dear Maria, 


You need to distinguish between tracks and scars. What you have are almost undoubtedly scars. Tracks are made up of needle holes which have coagulated closed. Tracks go away in a week or so if they are not replenished by fresh injections. If you inject into the same area long enough, the skin will become damaged--scarred. This usually happens because when users find a good vein, they use it until they can't anymore.

            There are a couple of things that will help--how much is unclear. You might try cocoa butter, aloe vera, or vitamin-E oil or cream. There are more "high tech" creams that are said to remove scars. I have not tried any of             these but I am highly skeptical about them.”

            Site: http://www.heroinhelper.com/user/admin/tracks.shtml

My running buddy traveled during this time period frequently so when I did run, it was alone. My coach encouraged me despite my paltry attempts.

I was digging deep within myself to get through the “big awful.” Sometimes it was very difficult.

I continued to run at the local track and think about track marks and scars. I would think about Dr. H’s distinction between them. I came to the conclusion that in life all of us have had track marks, or new problems or circumstances. And all of us have more permanent ones, scars.

The “big awful” created new track marks for me, ones that were deeper and more difficult than I had ever experienced.

When I was in the midst of newly created track marks from the “big awful,” I had a teammate from Forward Motion Race Club experience the worst tragedy possible. That is, John Fulton lost his beautiful son, Will. He was killed in an automobile accident in Orlando, Florida while interning for Disney. His son’s amazing, inspiring life was cut too short for his family, friends, schoolmates, co-workers and more. It was a loss with a far-reaching ripple affect.

During the “big awful” my teammate and friend, Johnny-Man John Fulton, and I exchanged emails. I was able to share with him with complete candor. He had lost his son. We shared our anger and pain.

I was ashamed to share my sadness, worry and more during the “big awful” to Johnny, as his loss was acute. And unfair. And terrible. But I was desperate, and even though it was uncomfortable to do so, I continued to share with John on occasion. What is amazing, in spite of his own family tragedy, Johnny reached out to me.

             “….Funny, how during "the moment' our battles and circumstances become bigger than us, then with opportunity for reflection after survival, we become experienced spokespersons. One thing I know for sure, noone on this planet will escape emotional, financial or physical loss or devastation. Not trying to be negative, but with our complicated lives, I really do not know anybody that has not been hit with some form of loss or another. But, if your mind is healthy, loss creates the opportunity for enhanced appreciation. I have lost homes, retirement accounts, dogs, parents and now a child. Today, love and colors are not only HD but inIMAX as well…..”

In a very real sense, John Fulton is like miracle cream to scar tissue. He is a hero. He is a teacher, even in the very worst possible circumstances. He gently reminded me to appreciate life. Even during the “big awful.”

As a result of John’s email and my earlier resolve to learn from this, my runs took on renewed meaning. Alone or with others, I took it all in. Some of my God-loving friends may take issue with this, but running was my church.

My appreciation grew. My joy. My optimism.

I faltered.

I still do.

And yes, I ran the NIKE marathon.

I had a dopey grin the entire 26.2 miles. I was reflecting on the “big awful” with appreciation every step of the way.

I have come to this conclusion: we all have scars. We can learn from them. And when we’re able, we can reflect and share what we’ve learned, helping others and ourselves in the process.

We can appreciate life in IMAX, Johnny Man John Fulton style.  

We Are Family

Everyone has his or her own version of family. Mine, until recently, had included my three children, my immediate family and their children, as well as my mom. My dad died exactly three years ago, but he’s in the equation too … as are my aunts, uncles, cousins, their spouses and children. 

Biologically, my children’s dad and his family were part of our tree but since we separated and divorced  that part had been fractured. His portion of the family tree included all of his extended family as well.

The fact that that piece of the tree had been severed has always been difficult for me. I missed many of them, but especially the children, my nephews and nieces. In time, one of his siblings reached out to me via Facebook, as did most of his nephews and nieces. But it has not been the same.

Seven summers ago my kids, their father and I moved out of our home at the base of Mt. Diablo. It had an ideal setting. Our children had had the perfect neighborhood to grow up. A creek located behind our house was hunting ground for frogs, bugs and included a rope swing that was a perfect balance of being both challenging and thrilling.

Rock City was a short car ride up the hill, which included caves carved into the giant rocks and trails explored. We had neighborhood Easter egg hunts, sleepovers with other families on a regular basis, a fourth of July bike parade, movie nights, barbeques and the game “Sharks and Minnows” at our local pool.

As they got older we allowed them to walk or ride their bikes to and from their friends’ homes or the pool as long as they carried their high-powered walkie-talkies to stay in communication with one us. They were a short distance to the middle and high school.

They had friends nearby and they felt supported by the community. We camped in our backyard in tents or under the stars. We had family birthday dinners, holiday celebrations and hosted a good majority of them for both branches of their family tree. 

When their dad and I decided to divorce we both would have liked to keep the kids in the house but we financially could not afford to do so. We sold the house and eventually moved our separate lives into separate homes. 

Mine was a condo located in a different kind of neighborhood. I will say it was an adjustment for nearly everyone. A big one for my children was the girls shared a room again now, after having just getting their own. My son's network was still intact, but no longer within walking distance. 

I’ve since heard, on the day I moved in and my sister and sister-in-law drove into the back of my little alleyway. My sister cried looking at our new abode. My sister-in-law in her protective nurturing way told her to buck up for my sake (after a sympathetic hug, I’m sure) and put on a good face for me. 

I never knew. 

On the day we moved in my children were at their dad’s and I was busily hanging pictures, arranging furniture and deciding what should go where. My big protective brother and brother-in-law were helping, as were friends from the old neighborhood.

A teacher and her spouse lined every cupboard in my kitchen and bathrooms. I think of them every time I open a door. Another friend’s husband moved in the heavy stuff along with one girlfriend and her husband, whom I had just befriended when she heard of my impending divorce and move. 

She had brought over Matzo Ball soup, milk, bread, a gallon of milk and cupcakes with pink frosting the day she heard we were separating. I was teaching full time, caring for our three kids and packing up our belongings for the eventual move that would follow six months later. She and her husband helped me label and sell and discard nearly every item that had accumulated from my 17 year marriage. I was touched. They had five children of their own and barely knew me. I call her Saint Laurie who swears. 

Another girlfriend, Susie,  and her husband, Randy, took my newly formed family of four under their wing. They’d come over and play board games, a sense of normalcy for her boys, my kids, and myself at the time.

I remember the first Christmas when life was so raw she surprised me with two wreaths from Restoration Hardware for me. I’d been eyeing them but was living within my more-meager means. It was a sweet generous gesture and only one among many that I’m making mention, serving as a touching example of her kindness and strength and love.

The kids and I were still in our home at the base of the mountain and it felt partially empty without their dad. We finished out the year and continued through the spring. In June, the school year ended and so did our time in that magical setting. 

Just as my local siblings had helped me move into my home during the summer, my sister Laura flew out just as we began our first Thanksgiving in our little condo helping me in a different fashion. Somehow, without making me the least bit sad or sorry for myself my sister guided me through the difficult waters of transition.

By then life had settled down but the holidays proved to be a daunting task. What had always brought me joy filled me with a sense of dread, facing all of the decorations for Christmas, yet again. Only this time out of our house and into our condo.

My sister set about matter-of-factly taking me to Target to purchase a few items. I bought another wreath, covered with cheery silver bells. It made a soft tinkling sound that was just so every time the door was opened. We bought a live juniper tree, which has survived heat, cold, and neglect in the seven seasons that have since passed. It still sits on my porch as a testament of a sister’s love. 

This summer, our seventh in our new little home, I can quietly reflect on our surroundings. We may not have a nearby creek, a neighborhood pool or even a backyard for starry sleepovers. We do have the convenience of being able to walk to the movies, the grocery store, the pharmacy or enjoy the most interesting people watching at the shopping center. 

Mt. Diablo, ever the constant, is a bike ride distance from us. There is Snake Park for playing hoop with the guys and filled multiple lacrosse and soccer-filled memories or late night talking sessions for each of my children and their friends.

And I’m not entirely naive, I’m sure there have been some make-out sessions too, they are, after all, adults or nearly grown. And though the friendships formed in the old neighborhood are still intact, we have all formed ones in this neck of the woods. Sometimes it involves a further walk or a car ride, sometimes it doesn't, they're right here. But the point is, we have a support system. We are loved and we love.

Many of our friends have moved from the old neighborhood, some from our new one have, too. And though we have not moved, we have moved on.

I walk into my cozy little condo today and feel safe and loved. The carpet upstairs needs replacing and like all homes there are glitches. But it’s mine, ours. There are antique tin geese and watering cans and ticking striped pillows, lots of pillows.

It is a bit of a chick's pad, much to my son's chagrin but there is a respectable TV for his sports to be watched and a decent collection of iTunes music for my youngest and a fridge to be raided for my oldest.

I look around and have happy memories here too. 

My version of family has changed over time as well.

What was once seen as severed, their dad’s side of the family tree, isn’t. It’s still there. He and his family are still there. And there has been a graft which now includes his wife and her entire family. The strains of divorce that had taken their toll on our three children, their dad and myself are healing.

WE are healing.

Anger has been replaced by love. We’ve come full circle. I can say, with complete honesty that I love their dad. And his wife. In time, more repairs of strained relationships will heal. 

So from where I sit, my version of family now includes my three children, my immediate family and their children, and my mom. My dad, as mentioned earlier is in the equation, as are my aunts, uncles, cousins, their spouses and children. Only now, my version includes their dad and his wife.

We are a family. 

The following was chosen by my family to be put into my dad’s memorial program years ago. It states perfectly how I feel about my version of family today. 

“Our family is a circle of strength and love. With every birth and every union, the circle grows. Every joy shared adds more love. Every crisis faced together makes the circle stronger.” — Anonymous

Vineman Ironman 70.3

I am not having a mid-life crisis. I am, though, enjoying life. 

On July 17 I completed my first Half Ironman event in Sonoma. This included: 

1.2 miles of swimming

56 miles of biking

13.1 miles of running 

Interestingly my first half-marathon last October was in Healdsburg. My first marathon in March was in Napa and this particular Ironman was located in Sonoma County. And even though I am not a big drinker I must apparently be drawn to vineyards. 

During each of these events I did feel like I was participating in a foreign country. All three were beautiful; rolling vineyards, majestic oak trees and quaint antique farm houses and barns. 

I do not like the heat. Or rather, it doesn’t like me. 

Running in October was slightly risky but there was a slight drizzle of rain during the half-marathon. I was happy. 

In March there was more than a slight drizzle of rain as I ran my first-ever marathon. I was more than happy. 

And so as I approached the Half Ironman training these past few months I seriously considered dropping out due to the possibility of hot weather. As luck would have it, we had a wet and cold spring so I reconsidered. 

Three weeks ago Northern California had a patch of hot days. I inadvertently chose one to go on a 50+ mile mid-week ride with two friends. We did not realize that by the time we finished the ride our thermometer would climb past one hundred. 

I had my first brush with heat stroke that day: I felt nauseous, my head ached, I got the chills and after it was over had a prickly heat rash up and down my thighs. Due to the quick-thinking of my two friends, lots of sports drinks, Shot Blocks, ice water and more, I recovered and finished the ride. 

I went home and read online everything I could about fueling and training in hot weather. Friends sent me articles, I asked other people their opinions, and I even purchased a new triathlon kit. I was ready to go to Vineman…though I was a bit intimidated by the thought of the hot weather. 

All this is to say I was prepared.
My goals going into this event were simple and easily:      

1. Have fun.      

2. Finish.      

3. Don't puke.

Realistically I knew the time for me to finish my first Half Ironman would be between six hours, fifteen minutes and seven hours. I figured if I could try to finish in around six and one half hours that would be a decent time.

My teammate, Pamela Herbert, and I drove down Saturday to pick up our registration packets. We needed to watch a presentation of the course, set up our running transition area and check-in at registration. 

Afterward we headed to our hotel where after a reservation mistake  we lucked out and they gave us two rooms for the price of one. After hotel check-in we met others and went out for a pre-race dinner.

I will say I had an unexpected ailment. My tooth. I lost about 1/4 of it on Friday and it was bothering me. Cold bothered it, heat bothered it and it was throbbing. I had an appointment for Monday and just hoped it would not get unbearable before then. 

At 4:40 the next morning my alarm woke me up. I needed to eat two hours before competing and also drive to the swim transition area. I ate oatmeal with ½ of a banana. I drank some water and a little bit of sports drink.

When I arrived at the Russian River in Guerneville with my two friends Kaaren Smith and Pamela, it was still very early. I noticed my prescription sunglasses were loose on my head. I went to a bike booth hoping for a small screw driver to repair the glasses but no such luck. There was not much I could do about it at that point and decided to not fret. 

As my friends and I walked into the transition area we were all marked with a permanent marker. Our participant race numbers were written on our arms and upper thighs. Our ages were on our left calf in GIANT numbers.

We headed toward the bike racks and set up all of our swim and bike gear. I felt honored to set up my area next to Karin LaBerge, my teammate and former Olympic swimmer. She is humble and kind and reminded me to set my bike up in a nice easy gear as the bike transition started with an uphill climb.

I ate the rest of my banana and a few Sports Beans. Eventually we suited up into our wetsuits, posed for a photo with friends and headed toward the river. The temperature was not bad. I had a full-body wetsuit but had rented a sleeveless one for today because the water was close to 78 degrees.

I had been forewarned to head toward the bushes during the swim because of currents. Well, I did. I am a proficient swimmer and because of the advice, I swam along the far short hitting the bushes with my strokes. It was the worst swim I'd ever done in a triathlon (note to self: preview the swim course whenever possible!). I swam in the shape of a backwards capital "B."  Let's just say I took the L-O-N-G route. I did get kicked in the nose at one point and stopped briefly to see if it was broken or bleeding. It didn't appear to be so I continued moving forward.

At the halfway point the water was very shallow and most people stood for the turn-around. I was no different. After finding the rocks a potential for getting cuts, I dove headfirst into the water to continue my swim.

As I swam upstream I decided to head toward the buoys in the middle of the river. The bit of banana I'd eaten just before the swim came back up. I had just managed to miss one goal, that is, to not puke. I had a sense of humor about it and made note to mention it in my write-up. I kept swimming and headed toward the finish. I decided the banana pre-swim was okay but not the Sports Beans,  or to give myself a bit more time for digestion. Even though my stomach was not cooperating I felt alright. I was still having fun. 

Before exiting the water, I knew I had well over five to six hours left to race. As you are swimming you have to try to "void" your bladder, or rather, pee while you can. Try swimming and peeing simultaneously. It isn't easy. 

I exited the water while unzipping my wetsuit and pulling off my cap and goggles. I ran to the beach towel I'd set up and tried to wipe off the gravel, dirt and sand on my feet before putting on my bike socks. I am usually fast at transitions. Today I took my time, knowing the bike and run were going to last a long time. I put the sunglasses on my face, unrolled my race bib which I'd worn under my wetsuit and clipped on my bike helmet. I tucked my wetsuit into a plastic bag, threw everything else into my plastic bag for volunteers to bring to the finish and grabbed my bike.

I ran across the T-1 pad and decided to run up the hill, rather than ride. I jumped on my bike and began the fifty-six mile portion of the race.

I loved the ride, we had perfect weather and I had no issues with flat tires. I tried to be good about fueling during this portion of the race, so I would have energy later for the run. I had one time where I almost fell but caught myself. It was as I was drinking and eating and somehow got off balance for a moment.

There was support on the bike portion with water, Gatorade, Gu, etc. I had purchased a new bottle for my aero bars before the race in addition to traditional bottles.

The volunteers would stand with their arms outstretched to hand off the water or Gatorade bottles. I would open the cap of my bottle, squeeze the support water into my aero water bottle and toss the  now-empty water bottle toward the garbage bags or cans. I have to say I got a bit of an ego boost at the last station. There was a bike club of young men gathered together on the opposite side of the road watching racers at the support station. I saw them in the left corner of my vision but concentrated on receiving the water bottle. I poured it into my aero bottle, emptied it's contents. Next I swiftly tossed my empty bottle hard to my right, hitting the garbage can stationed there. It made a loud THONG sound as I continued riding around the corner. The bike club all yelled, "Whoa, what a badass!" (and for just the teensiest moment I felt like one). I laughed out loud and continued around the corner.

My goal was to try and eat/drink around 250 calories per hour during the bike portion of the race. All in all, I did an okay job. I had Cytomax in my extra bottles, Shot Blocks and Gu in my bendo box and I even tried a bit of Aussie bites in the first half of the bike portion. I wanted my stomach to be settled for the run and knew I could not eat anything heavy after the first half of the bike was finished.

During the bike portion I was jockeying for position with a few riders. It was a mixed group, men, women, younger than me and older than me. I felt a sense of camaraderie as we were all working toward this goal. The most impressive person to me was a 71-year-old man. He had a great sense of humor and was teasing me about the hill we were approaching.

I loved when others from the Foward Motion Race Club passed me by throughout the race or I passed them. Frequently, though not always, the others or myself would yell, "Go FOMO!" or "Team FOMO!" This continued throughout the entire race and I will say two of our elite athletes and married couple, Steve and Carrie Chavez both gave me a shout-out. This is really quite something because both of them qualified for the World's in Las Vegas.

Just as we headed toward the last quarter of the bike portion my teammate and former "newbie" member, Janet Tsuji caught me. I loved seeing her and had been expecting her at any point in the race, as she's quite a rider and an excellent runner. We finished the bike course at nearly the same time (though she was much faster than I!) and headed into transition number two.

I quickly took off my helmet and exchanged it for my white Forward Motion baseball cap. I took off my bike socks and exchanged them for running socks and shoes. Normally I don't trade socks during a triathlon but since my feet were in good shape with no blisters, I decided to take the time to put on socks that I love best for running. The truth is, I will begin training for my next marathon and wanted my feet in good shape for that training plan.

I quickly headed out toward the second timing pad, it felt like it was very far away. I couldn't believe I was actually looking forward to the run. This used to be my least favorite part of triathlons but I no longer find that to be the case. I have learned to love running and was especially happy that although it was  warm, it was not record-breaking heat that Vineman has had in years past.

I started off actually at a good clip. I had been coached to consider walking up the hills for this portion of the race, if needed. I decided to watch my heart rate so as to not let the warmer weather affect me.

As I approached the first hill, I walked up it. I reminded myself of my other two goals, to finish and have fun. So far I was enjoying myself and I knew I'd finish the race. I knew that the run/walk combination was slowing me down, and in some ways it felt worse to run after I walked. Still, I continued that method. I alternately walked and ran throughout the half-marathon. I decided I would have to be okay with this today. My legs felt heavy. Just after the halfway point in the run, I stopped at a porta potty to pee. At least I knew I was drinking enough liquids. At each mile there  were volunteers with water, Gatorade, Gu and now, even food, ice, etc. I would take my hat off, pour cool water on my head, drink Gatorade and then sip some more water. This method seemed to work for me. 

My tooth was troubling me but not to the point of keeping me from finishing. Overall I felt pretty good. I could feel chafing on my right arm as it rubbed against the seam of my tri kit top, near the armpit area. Not much I could do at that point. At least my neck and chest felt chafe-free, something I have struggled with in past races, despite using Body Glide as a preventative measure.
As I was running, the thought crossed my mind that I could not imagine doing this race in weather that was 40 degrees hotter. No way.

As each mile marker approached I counted how many I had left to run. Before long, I was headed toward the finish. The thought crossed my mind that this felt more difficult than the marathon I had completed. I think partly because I did not "race" the marathon, I held back on my energy. I had to leave for the bike tour I went on six days later so felt I should play it safe and go at a slow easy pace throughout. 

Today I did not "race" the course either. I had decided I wanted to complete it as a personal milestone but to have fun. I kinda bombed the swim, poured a lot of energy in the bike and slowed down on the run to make sure I finished.

I ran across the last timing pad and felt good. Strong. I was not too terribly sore, like after having completed my first marathon. I did, however, feel very tired. And with good reason. Six hours and twenty-six hours had passed since I first began the event.

The day came to a conclusion with my two daughters and a friend surprising me by showing up. They did not see me race, I finished earlier than we all guessed. I didn't mind, I felt so touched that they drove all the way to come see me.

We waited for the rest of our teammates to cross. Kaaren with her taped ankle, Pamela who scared us after the race as her kidneys shut down for a while. Others from Forward Motion, quite a few, placed so well that they will go to Vegas for the World Championships.

It was, all in all, a good day. I had fun. I finished. And well, OK, I puked too. Reaching two out of three goals is not so bad. 

Swim 1.2 miles

 swim 42:39 pace

2:13rank

1620

Bike 56 miles 

bike 3:12:15mph

17.5rank

1463 

Run 13.1 miles

run 2:24:37 

pace 11:03

rank 1150

T-1 3:39 (we ran from water to racks, had to brush gravel,  bag all of our belongings...)

T-2 2:57 (it was a LONG run with our bikes to rack and then from our bike racks out to the shoot) 

Total Time

6:26:07place 45 out of 86 women in my division

346/676 out of the total women participants or

1140/2094 total men & women participants

To view on Patch: http://sanramon.patch.com/blog_posts/vineman-ironman-703?#c

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