I am flying solo with the kiddies until Sunday. Mark is in Louisiana for the Baton Rouge Beach Marathon, checking off yet another state in his quest for running at least one marathon in all 50 states. He's really outdone himself in prepping for this one. Let's see, he ran Grandfather Mountain...in July, and then...he pushed the kids 8 miles every Saturday since then, and...he pushed them a whopping 15 the day after Thanksgiving...
...yep. He's ready. After all, this marathon is merely training up for Thunder Road. One week after Baton Rouge. Marathon Maniac, indeed.
I, too, have been feeling a little wacky with my running desires as of late. I won't go so far as to say exactly what I am deliberating, but it's more than I ever imagined considering. So, with a new pair of trainers, the need to push through the idea of not running today, and really wanting to avoid the 5-7pm frenzied meltdown fest that has been occurring these days, at 5pm I loaded the kids in the jogger--cajoled by fruit bars, a stop at HT for milk, and the promise of a neighboring house with a glowing Penguin/igloo Christmas countdown on their front lawn--and set out for a chilly, nearing-dark run.
It seems my running these days has consisted of solo runs on the weekend, or pushing teeny tiny Stella while Heath is in preschool, so I was surprisingly stunned by the unbelievable load I was struggling to push. Finding my rhythm was nearly impossible. With Heath on the left, the stroller constantly veers to the lighter right, so I spend most of my time adjusting, desperately trying to keep the contraption rolling straight.
The sun was down before we made it to the HT. The kids opted to stay in the jogger while we awkwardly wheeled our way to the dairy section. Heath sighted that it was too chilly. And midnight. So they stayed under layers of fleece blankets, while I opted for a half gallon of milk. We'll need more by noon tomorrow, but the idea of adding a giant plastic jug to my jog seemed terribly unappealing.
When we exited we were met by the ringing Salvation Army bells. I let Heath put a dollar in the red donation bucket.
What do I get? he quietly inquired.
The warm feeling in your heart for giving to others, I answered.
He was bummed and sank back into his seat, covering his face with Puppy.
We took the longer way home. The Christmas decorations, bright traffic headlights, and a brisk chill in the air were plenty of entertainment. Home by 6:30. And barely a peeping whine for the rest of the evening.
5 miles. Pushing 100 pounds and a half gallon of milk. In the dark. Am I in training? Not really. But it certainly smoothed the witching hour ruffles.
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