Training Triathlete Overtaken By 5-Year-Old On Training Wheels

It was a hot and humid July morning when Sara took to the Great Guernsey Trail for a 14-mile bike ride. In town for the holiday weekend and with a race just eleven days away, a training ride couldn’t be missed. She accessed the trail on the western end just east of Cambridge, unfortunately, having to walk her bike the first quarter of a mile due to a construction vehicle backing its way to the parking lot. 

Once she cleared the work zone, she mounted her bike, clipped into her pedals and was off. It was a beautiful ride through the wooded countryside. She appreciated the shade the trees provided and was grateful for the bench at the turnaround where she sat just long enough to capture a photo and drink some water. Seeing some wildlife, a couple other bikers, and numerous runners and walkers, it was a busy trail, but not too congested that it slowed her down. After less than an hour she returned to her car and loaded up to go retrieve her training partner for the second sport of the day. 

Although Lilianna incessantly tried to invite herself along on Sara’s ride, the answer was no. She was quite frustrated that she wasn’t allowed to ride her bike alongside Sara especially given the fact she knew she would be riding on the trail as opposed to a road. In a plea bargain, it was decided that Sara would ride first and then return to pick up Lilianna and together they would go to the city park where Lilianna would ride her bike while Sara did a training run. 

At first everything went well. Lilianna rode down the trail while Sara ran alongside. They pointed out things they noticed along the way - flowers, a couple of turtles, a few guys riding lawn mowers off in the distance. They enjoyed the warm sunshine high above them and each other’s company. Lilianna made it to the end of the trail which was actually further than Sara anticipated, but as they made the turn to head back, things took a turn for the worse. It began when Lilianna asked for water. Apparently, in the excitement of picking up Lilianna and getting her bike in the car, they forgot to bring along any water. Thankfully, Lilianna, now more interested in water than the bike ride, said it would be okay to just ride and run back to the car and head home.

As they made their way back, Lilianna kept her little legs pedaling, but about halfway back, it was clear she was growing impatient with the distance between her and the car and so she kept trying to pedal faster. As they neared the end, she pedaled as fast as she could and she began to pull ahead. Sara just couldn’t seem to keep up and she watched Lilianna move further and further away from her and closer and closer to the final destination. Lilianna didn’t stop until her bike came back to the spot where they began and as Sara finally brought her run to a stop and joined her near the car, Lilianna immediately said, “You would have been able to keep up if you were on your bike.”

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Breaking News".

The Race That Wasn't, But Maybe Will Be?

I swam on Monday and I ran too. 

I cycled on Tuesday before my personal training session. 

I had a swim lesson on Thursday. 

I ran on Saturday and Sunday, and swam once more on Monday.  

On Thursday the governor announced the closure of schools and I ran that evening to process the news.

I met with my personal trainer the next morning for what would be my last time. 

I swam the next Monday knowing it too would be my last, with gyms being ordered to close.

That was the beginning of March 2020. Ohio came to a close just 19 weeks before my biggest race yet - the Ohio 70.3. I had been swimming, biking, running and strength training all with this particular goal in mind until it all came to a sudden stop. Even if I were to keep running and biking outdoors, I knew I couldn’t do that distance of a swim without the lessons and pool time. My plan to participate in this race evaporated almost overnight. Months later the race was canceled as well.

After spending half a year in the midst of a global pandemic running and biking sporadically, I decided to train for my first marathon. I didn’t have a race in mind, but instead planned to run 26.2 miles the day before my 36th birthday. It would keep me focused and moving throughout the winter. And it could provide the base I would need for my now deferred Ohio 70.3.

I ran 58 miles in December 2020 followed by 113 in January and 114 in February.

I ran in the wind, rain, cold, ice and snow. I ran in layers. I ran with yaktrax.

I ran four times a week and I did not miss a single run on my training plan - that is until the last week of the month. On a 40 degree February day I ran 8 miles fast, apparently too fast. That evening, as I walked down the stairs after my shower, I noticed some pain in my right ankle. It was enough for me to notice, but not to cause alarm. The next day, on an almost 50 degree day,  I ran 5 miles, much slower, with a little bit of pain at first that increased as I went. By the end, I was a little hurt and I was a little concerned. I took the next three days off from running, skipping that week’s long run. On the last day of February, a day where the temperature almost reached 60 degrees and my ankle was feeling better, I ran 5 miles. My pace was solid and I felt good - until that evening when I again walked down the stairs and could feel the pain even more than before.

With just four weeks until my first unofficial marathon, my doctor advised me to stop running for six weeks and to work with a physical therapist. I did as the doctor ordered, aware that this too would keep me from not only running a marathon, but would also make showing up to the Ohio 70.3 startline really difficult. I eventually decided that goal race was still not to be. 

Physical therapy went well. I saw my homework exercises as a training plan all its own. I worked hard. At the end of 6 weeks, I was released to run a quarter of a mile and slowly build from there. The running wasn’t hard, but finding my drive seemed impossible. Being goal oriented, I registered for a sprint triathlon as motivation to train again. It worked some days and other days it didn’t. I trained the most sporadically I ever have. I swam at our local pool occasionally. I biked somewhat frequently. I ran the most the week leading up to the race. The sprint tri was hard, the swim the hardest part of the course. I was most confident on the bike. The run I just kept shuffling one foot in front of the other. Crossing the finish line was a humble moment. I was grateful I let the goal race go for another year. 

I didn’t run again for two and a half weeks, but I had another race event yet to come. In the midst of pretending to train for the sprint triathlon, I sought out a coaching program to help get me ready for the Michigan Ragnar which I was committed to running to support an organization I deeply love. When I signed up, I was really excited about having a solid plan to follow again and loved the additional community that was a part of this program. But it didn’t go well. I attended the first coaching call, but only a couple of others that followed. My one-mile time trial was exhilarating as I pushed myself around the local track, but that runner’s high didn’t last long as I didn’t go on to run either of the 5k time trials. My ankle pain slowly reappeared, a little at first, sometimes not at all deceiving me into thinking I was good, until I ran too hard again. I contemplated for weeks whether I could do the Ragnar, but I knew because time didn’t matter for the team, I could - even if I had to walk 16.5 miles - which thankfully I didn’t have to do. My pace was slow, slower than it’s ever been for a race, and yes I walked some of that 600 feet in elevation, but I did it. 

Then I didn’t run for a week. Then I ran four times in one week. Then I didn’t run for two. On again, off again is how my running went through the end of the year. When I realized that my ankle was winning, I decided it was time to switch years. I showed up to my local Y in the middle of November for the first time since March 2020. My body didn’t pick up where it left off, but in some ways, my mind did. My goal that first week was to show up and swim three times. I have continued swimming consistently averaging 3-4 times each week. I am working on my form. I am making improvements. I hope I am getting quicker. Just like I was when the gym shut down. 

As I move into the new year, I am swimming. I am again working with a physical therapist. I am working on strength and will begin to add cycling soon. Eventually my running will return. 

I still have my goal - Ohio 70.3 - now in 2022 - now in a new location.

But I’m not hooked like I once was. At first I was lamenting the missing desire.

Now, I’m okay with this season being whatever it might be. 

Perhaps this race will be the one that is or it will be the one that is no longer meant to be. 

***This post is part of a blog hop with other runner-mother-creatives. Click here to view the next post in this series on running, mothering, and making.

Happy Advent...How many sleeps until...?

 Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth, and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all day long.

 ~Psalm 25:4-5 

How many sleeps? 

How many sleeps until you come to visit? 

How many sleeps until I go to school? 

How many sleeps until Christmas?

How many sleeps until...

The number of sleeps between the present moment and the anticipated moment is how my 5-year old niece Lilianna marks her periods of waiting. Both big and small events are marked in this way and she keeps the countdown going from when it begins to when the time finally arrives. 

The Advent season is its own period of waiting and there are a variety of ways for how to mark this time. This Advent devotion is one way, and perhaps you have others such as a wreath or a calendar or a paper chain. 

As I ponder this season of waiting I invite us to wonder about what it is we might be waiting for. Are we waiting for Christmas? For family to gather, for celebrations to be had, for baby Jesus to be welcomed? Are we waiting for a prayer to be answered? For hope to be restored? For love to be made known? Are we waiting for all of creation to be made new?

As the psalmist waits for God, they do so wanting their waiting to be illuminated by God’s presence, for God to make known their ways, for God to lead and guide, and for God to share their truth. There is a reciprocal relationship in this waiting. There is acknowledgement of who God is and a prayer for what God might do for us. There is also trust that there will come a time both now and in the future where God’s promises will be fulfilled.

The psalmist lingers in the waiting. It is a daily waiting as much as it is a seasonal or lifetime period of waiting. We wait for the gifts of God for the people of God. As we wait though, God acts. Life still happens in between each sleep. God shows up sometimes in the places we expect and oftentimes in the places we don’t. God’s love and grace is all around us, calling out to us, inviting us in, filling us up, strengthening us, equipping and empowering us. In the midst of our waiting, remember God is always at the ready, loving you and this world. 

Dear God, I wait for you. Help me to open myself to your presence and your power each and every day. Guide me as I strive to follow you. Gift me with your grace. Enable me to love your people as you love me. Watch over me as I sleep and as I rise. Bless me and keep me today and everyday. In Jesus name, Amen. 

The First 3.1

The Color Run is marketed as “the happiest 5K on the planet” and it only has two rules: begin the race wearing all white and finish covered in color. It was all that and more. 

For the six or so years before that July morning, I was what I call a sporadic runner. I would go through phases where I would run consistently and then I wouldn’t for months. I can’t remember my first run or why I decided I would try it out, but somewhere along the way of balancing school and work, family and friends, I added running to my life. There aren’t that many memories, but  I can bring to mind an occasional run if I try really hard. There was an early morning track run in the rain, the day I tried to run in the Australian heat after a long day of student teaching, and the first time I ran from my grandmother’s house in my hometown. I also can remember long periods of time where there was no running at all. 

Eventually, though, my running increased. Again, I’m not sure when and I’m not sure why. I joined a gym during my internship year and that is where I slowly became a little more consistent. I found myself frequently running on the treadmill. I was working on getting a little faster, going a little further, and I got to the point where I was even feeling confident in my progress and I kept at it. I wasn’t running far. I definitely wasn’t running fast. I didn’t even call myself a runner. 

But then, I decided the time had come. It was time to think about a race and to begin to make a plan. The Color Run was what energized me to commit. It was low stakes. It was friendly to beginners. It wasn’t even timed. It was meant to be fun. And I decided it should be a family affair. I had a few others in my family who had been getting active in their own ways and so it made sense that we would do this together. 

Deciding to sign-up for my very first race was the easy part. Getting to the start line and then on to the finish, would take some work. A couch to 5K training plan became my friend. I downloaded a free app on my phone and with a few runs each week, I got to it. Over the course of a couple of months, I ran and walked, eventually running more than I walked, eventually running without walking at all. 

My race goal was to run the whole 3.1 miles, which I did, but a few other things didn’t quite go as planned. On the morning of the race, I got up early to have a good breakfast and to drink plenty of water. I wanted to be sure I was properly nourished and hydrated. I didn’t wear my race shirt (starting a habit I still have today), but I did wear a white t-shirt. I also wore old shorts and shoes so as to not have to worry about colored powder staining anything good. When I was picked up to head downtown to the race, I was feeling ready. And I was excited. 

A family photo was taken right before the start.  Five of us showed up at the start line together. But only two of us stayed together from beginning to end. My cousin and I ran the whole course side by side. Along the route, I got a little thirsty and I was grateful that I had decided to bring a water bottle along after all. As I took one drink, my body immediately reacted by sending a signal from my bladder to my brain. I needed to pee. But I was running a race. I kept moving, trying to focus on getting to the finish, when my mind was overtaken. I started to pee. But I kept running. I’m not sure how many seconds passed as my bladder released itself and sent warm liquid running down my legs and into my shoes all while I kept my legs moving forward. 

I just kept running and finally finished. I crossed the finish line with a smile on my face having run the whole thing. I didn't have a smartwatch back then, but I did have a watch with a stopwatch feature that I used. I don’t remember the time, but I remember being pleased. We found the others and took another photo capturing all our color and our accomplishment. Following the race we went to brunch, another habit that continues to today. Between ordering and our food and drink arriving, each of us took turns using the one-stall bathroom to change our clothes. After we were all cleaned up and I was dry, I told my story. I told them about the time I peed myself while running my very first race. 

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Novel".

From One Pastor to Another

Three witches occupy my neighbor’s yard this time of year. 

Surrounded by crows, bones, rats, chains and broken pumpkins, one witch, the one closest to the passerby, comes alive in the darker hours. Standing over her black kettle, she methodically stirs the substance hidden within, the sounds of moving liquid not to be missed. Beyond her, along the back, there is a coffin propped up horizontally, the lid opened, exposing a skeletal man dressed in black.

The summer lawn that once contained green grass, tulips, blue jays and cardinals in the tree and flower boxes along the window frames is now a graveyard. This is a house I walk by almost daily, but usually try to avoid during the month of October. In years past this was another Halloween display that creeped me out, made me uneasy, caused me to cross the street to the other side.  This year, though, I have a new perspective. 

As I made my usual walk home one late afternoon, I got to witness the project being constructed. Many of the pieces were in place, but not all. The owner of the house and his friend, the masterminds behind the creation, were hard at work. I slowed my pace to watch them a little and took the opportunity to acknowledge their artwork. In the midst of the conversation, I decided to ask the question I have long wondered about. 

“Is the man in the coffin supposed to be a pastor?” 

Both men stopped what they were doing and looked at me.

 “You’re the first person that we know of who has ever noticed.”

___________________________

Another house on my street, one that is almost equal distance between the one with the graveyard and my own, contains a single Halloween decoration, but it’s presence is looming. Across the walkway is an inflatable arch. The center contains the head of a clown with its hands reaching out through the pillars. Across the top are the words “fun house.” 

When I saw the arch for the first time, I immediately recognized it because a few days earlier I had received a photo of the very same decoration. The picture my mother sent wasn’t of the one found on my street, but one my 5-year old niece had spotted in my hometown. The story goes that when my niece Lilianna saw the “fun house” arch with the big clown face, she immediately asked my mother to stop the car and to then take a photo. Accompanying the picture my mother sent was also a video where my niece explained what she was up to. She wanted to play a little trick on her Aunt Sara. She wanted to see me “freak out like a little baby.” She too knows how much I dislike Halloween, likely thanks to my sisters who like to pull their own little pranks. 

___________________________

It is no secret that I do not like Halloween. 

I have never ever and I doubt I ever will. 

I do not like clowns, masks, costumes, or bad drag. 

I do not go to haunted houses.

I do not watch scary movies. 

I do not pass out candy to trick-or-treaters by myself. 

This year though, thanks to a coffin in my neighbor’s graveyard scene, I am acknowledging fears within fears. 

My fear of most things related to Halloween is parallel to my other fears - 

my fear of the unknown, of things being beyond my control, of failure, of death

I am often motivated by fear - 

the fear of not being loved, of not being enough, of being misunderstood.

__________________________

In talking with the two men about their vision for the pastor in the coffin, I realized that I don’t want to be that pastor. The story that this scene is meant to accompany is that the pastor is responsible for attempting to burn the three witches at the stake, but they don’t die. 

In retaliation, they then burn the pastor.

I doubt I will die from being burned at the stake as a result of my perpetuation and participation in toxic theology. But I also don’t want to die to the institutional church or the status quo or the unjust systems of patriarchy, heterosexism, racism, and white Christian nationalism. I believe the church is in a liminal space. This was true before the pandemic, but has been exasperated because of it. I’m also not the same pastor I was before and I realize there is no turning back. 

Often my fear of many things keeps me from doing what I feel called to do. I am feeling called to see where new innovation and creativity might take me. There is hope to be found in the good news of the gospel and I am being transformed to take my seat at the table and invite others along. Thanks to the unnamed, barely recognized pastor I know now the fear of not following the call that is on my heart is larger than the fear that usually holds me in place.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Unmaking Fears".

Sunday Runs

The Full Moon Trail Series that I signed up for in February was supposed to begin in June. But of course nothing about this year has really gone as planned so the series actually didn’t end up beginning until September 22nd. There were four races to the series with all but one being held on weekday evenings. The fourth and final race was held on a Sunday. 

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Usually Sunday morning races aren’t an option for me, but not this year. Following the announcement of the March shutdown, worship moved to Zoom and was held in the afternoon. This not only allowed me to run this particular Sunday morning race without taking a vacation day, but this change also allowed for many Sunday morning runs.

Sunday runs became one of my favorite things this year. In the year where so much was pivoted, so much was lost, so much was uncertain, these runs grounded me. I didn’t expect Sunday runs to feel so different than any other, but they did. I often ran in the late morning and would be thinking about worship, about my sermon, about the people I serve alongside. I would pray for the people, places and situations that were on my mind.

Worshiping on Zoom is a different experience and spending time running outside helped me to show up better. It pulled me away from the virtual space where so much of ministry is taking place and grounded me in God’s creation. The sunshine, heat, humidity, cold, wind and rain all reminded me of God’s presence in my life and in our pandemic moment. I was moved by the changing of the seasons and was reminded that this will change too. I will change, the church will change, and God will remain faithful.

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The fourth and final race of the Full Moon Trail Series was held on Sunday, November 1. I showed up on a cold and wet morning to run 5 miles with people who are used to running Sunday morning races. As we waited for the race to start, the rain stopped. We socially distanced at the start-line and when the time came, we were sent out in waves again reminding us to be safe and cautious. I ran excited to be racing on a Sunday. I ran knowing that I would lead worship later that day. I ran happy to be moving my body in this way, paying attention to the terrain, moving up and down steep hills, splashing through water, aware of it being a great way to start the day. 

I also ran thankful. I knew on November 1 that November 29 would bring a change to worship time and would put a stop to these Sunday morning runs. Knowing this got me out for a run every Sunday in between. Each time I went out on a Sunday morning, I was grateful for the gift these runs were to me. I knew they wouldn’t last. I knew it wasn’t meant to be a part of my new normal. But it was a gift of this time. It was a highlight of these past 8 months. It was a way in which I showed up for myself in a slightly different way. It was and is a reminder to live in the present and to make room for connection with myself, with God, and with creation. 

national dog day

There I was running down a street in my neighborhood. Our first cold, hard winter in Michigan was behind us. I was happy to be outdoors again, putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in the fresh spring air. Toby and I were making our way down a side road that connected our street to the main one we needed to cross to get to the trail. We were just getting started when we came across a man not even halfway into our first mile. 

“One day you’ll be pulling him,” he called out.

Toby and I were running on the blacktop as there was no sidewalk and Toby was in the lead. He was out front at the end of his regular blue leash. He was pulling, choking himself just a little. His energy was high and he was happy.

As we passed the man working on his lawn, I called out in response, “I can only hope.” 

We continued on our run and I kept chuckling at this exchange. It made me giggle at the time because I just didn’t see it happening. I guess I was naive, but it humored me.

Back then Toby and I were still learning how to run together. Toby was still new to us and I was still fairly new to running. Toby would have been delighted to sprint; I was content to go slow. Toby could have run for miles and miles; I was pleased with just a few. It seemed our runs didn’t even tire him out a little, while they left me exhausted for a couple of days.

We ran several times around that neighborhood and we ran even more once we moved into town. The mileage increased as did my pace. We graduated to a hands free, orange running leash. We ran more often. We trained for me to run more races. We even did a couple two-a-days. And for a while, Toby was almost always in the lead. But somewhere along the way, a shift happened. 

Toby and I went for a run again today. We took our normal morning route. 1.6 miles from the house, turn around at the park trashcan having deposited anything collected along the way, and then the 1.6 miles back. This is the shortest distance we go now, always being sure to hit the 5K distance on my running watch before arriving back home. After having an issue with him pulling a little too hard on our last run with the hands-free leash, I chose to use the familiar blue leash. 

We set out and the first quarter of mile was met with Toby pulling hard, choking himself just a little. But then we had to stop for the bathroom. And we had to stop several times along the way. Our final mile was the fastest, but it wasn’t our quickest to date. As we took off again from the final intersection we had to stop for, Toby was at my side. We kept running and there came a time when he fell back and I took the lead. That’s how we stayed until the run ended. 

As I turned off my watch and we walked to cool down, I smiled as I remembered. 

One day you’ll be pulling him,” he called out.

Today was one of those days!