To run or not to run?

I recently received the email that tells me I am in the NY marathon this year.

I should be delighted.

It takes 9 races and a volunteer event to qualify -- that's a lot of ghastly Sunday mornings.

But I am conflicted. Am I really going to manage it this year?

I decided to bow out last year -- not exactly gracefully -- in the middle of a 19-mile training run. I was trotting down the boardwalk at Coney Island, and had an unexpected epiphany, in the shape of a taco.

I was passing the stand that does lovely soft corn tortillas with homemade hot sauce, fresh lime, and cotija cheese.

"Screw this." I thought. "Gel packs are the work of Satan. I want a taco."

I sat and munched the taco. I watched the waves. I thought for a bit. I had twisted my ankle and missed the first 4 weeks of training. I had a lot going on at work. I just wasn't ready. Sometimes, quitting is the smart thing to do.

"I'm knackered, I want a bath, and I want to see my boys." 

So I got the bus home. And that was that.

What with one thing and another (work, boys, sleep, life, breathing), it has become harder to keep running marathons of late. I know I need to. Without that big, scary goal, there is no way I will get out of bed at 5:30 am to get 8 miles in. Who the hell would?

So...2011.

To run, or not to run?

That is the question.

The comeback

It's been a rough month.

Two rounds of antibiotics, Mr B in San Francisco, early meetings, Mr B in England, long workdays, Mr B working weekends, cold weather...all fine excuses for not getting my ass out of the house for any form of exercise whatsoever.

I was inspired back into action by an impossibly kind and wildly optimistic doctor. As she checked me over, she smiled. "You have a great heart rate. Nice and slow. Are you an athlete?"

I almost kissed her.

There is no way I can pass as an athlete. I am a tired and harried 40-something who runs when she can. But if my heart has dreams of athletic glory, I'm not going to let it down.

So I gave myself a pep talk. Do you want to be someone who does things, or someone who talks about doing things? What kind of 50 do you want to be? And my balls-to-the-wall favorite, Just Do It.

Then I dug out my running tights and laid out my sneakers, so that I could spring straight into them Monday morning.

While I didn't exactly spring, I did manage to crawl in the general direction of my gear. It took me five minutes to get my running tights on -- I was literally rolling around on the floor. Good god, I've only had a month off. Loser tights just can't handle it.

Eventually I staggered to my feet, sweating and swearing, encased in lycra like an overstuffed bratwurst.

And I went out the door.

That's all you have to do. Get out the door.

Because once you're out, you're glad you run. Even when it's freezing. Even when you cut it short. Even when you suck.

Sure enough, yesterday was freezing. I cut it short. And I most certainly sucked. But 2 miles is better than no miles, for a wannabee athletic heart.

Military precision

I am facing a weekend that quite frankly, terrifies me.

On Saturday, I have about half-a-day's work to catch up on. At 8:00 am, I am running a 4-mile race with Will and a group of colleagues (in a tornado, the weather advisory tells me). At 11:00 am, Ted has karate. At 3:15 pm, both boys have swimming. At 7:00 pm, I will be in bed.

On Sunday, Mr. Berman has to go to work. At 7:30 am, I am racing up 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center with a group of colleagues to raise money for MS. At 12:00 pm, both boys have to complete PhD-level science projects that are complex and draining (at least for me). At 7:00 pm, we are meeting out-of-town friends for dinner.

Somewhere along the way, I have to fit in groceries and laundry. God forbid I find time to breathe.

To get through it, I need to pause, and rewind 8 years.

To a time when I had a 6-month old. A 2-year old starting preschool. A new job. And serious sleep-deprivation.

Of course, the preschool was not in our neighborhood. That would have been too easy. It was a subway ride and a half-mile walk away. I had also sworn off strollers. (Hate them, particularly double ones, they make kids lazy, no kid should be in them once they turn 2.)

So the walk took a while. Then back to the subway, and onto work.

This is when we developed military precision as a family. We had to. I taped a list of tasks to the refrigerator, which had to be accomplished before we left the house in the morning. It ran to about 30 lines. Here is a sampling:

5:32 Feed baby
5:58 Find somewhat clean clothes in bottom of laundry hamper
6:07 Shower
6:21 Get dressed
6:32 Get kids dressed
6:43 Make sure husband is dressed
6:52 Brush teeth (all)
7:01 Make beds
7:15 Feed baby again
7:29 Change diaper
7:34 Feed toddler
7:39 Feed cat
7:40 Feed self
7:40:30 Clear table
7:43 Brush hair (all)
7:47 Argue toddler into coat
7:51 Get toddler out of coat for potty
8:03 Argue toddler back into coat
8:11 Pack cheerios for preschool voyage...

The list went on.

But it saved my life. Without it, there was a real danger I would turn up at work wearing nothing but my knickers on my head.

So now, I fast-forward back to the present. And I realize I've come a long way.

I do not need a list on the refrigerator. I am no longer sleep-deprived. I am not in danger of wearing my knickers as headgear.

So this weekend starts to look manageable. As long as I break it down into minute-by-minute parcels of time, we'll be OK.