After a week of daydreamy thoughts of running the trails in San Diego,and grumpily grumping through each day, resentfully running on a treadmill, Mark suggested I head out for a trail run at some point, any point, for the love of God, please, go for a run on a trail, somewhere, anywhere this weekend.
The deliberation was short and I agreed, and even managed to turn the deal into a family affair. If we went out to Colonel Francis Beatty Park, I could run the 5.75 loop, while Mark and the kids batted around some tennis balls on the court. (Tennis has become a growing obsession of Heath's. He's got himself a pretty decent left-handed swing that frequently makes contact with the ball. And when it doesn't, he flings the racket to the ground, then collapses in a heap of unbridled frustration.) And I could get a feel for the trail without having a preoccupation of pregnant running vulnerability.
The last time I ran the Beatty trails just so happened to be the day before I found out about baby #3. That particular day I ran the 5.75 miles loop times 4. I concluded the run feeling good, time restraints preventing me from taking off to make it 5 times, and ultimately taking Mark's words uttered the previous day to heart. "You're totally ready for a marathon." I was ready. Vaguely tired, but isn't everyone who has been running that much. The next day, moments before registering for the Charleston Marathon (maybe next year), we discovered the exact cause of my fatigue.
So, today, I hopped on the trail, sporting my new (and now favorite!) Running Skirts maternity tank, ready to be thrilled with making it one time around the loop. The day already promising to be warm and sunny, I was not alone out there. Other runners. Folks on bikes. Dogs, of the leashed and unleashed variety, all trampled across the perfectly dry and not too terribly rooty course. Beatty was a good move on my part--not too hilly. No surprising dips that would take incredible leaps. I found an easy pace and cruised right along, jumping out of the way when a whizzing bike, or unruly pup, approached.
Once again, I missed the one hour cut off, by only a few minutes though. I saw my OB on Tuesday and confessed my lingering a bit over that mark. You're fine, she reassured. She repeats this phrase to me a lot. You're fine.
I expected to find the kids and Mark on the courts after I wrapped up my run. The courts were full, but no one under 5 feet tall was playing. Then I heard familiar hooting and hollering off in the nearby woods. It seems they got on the trails, too, and were thrilled to show me their treasures: a tennis ball with a red number and a dirtied, yellow golf ball.
We worked on Heath's frustration today, Mark announced.
Heath smiled, pleased with the day's lesson, I supposed. He then showed me the edge of the tennis racket, void of red paint, revealing the silver innards of the racket, complete with zillions of scratch marks. You smack it like this, he demonstrated a major whacking in the air.
I won the game, he added, then took off running for the playground.
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