Marathon Training with Kids
There is joy in accomplishing a goal. Especially when the goal seems unbelievable, even unachievable.
We began training for the Chicago Marathon when I was three months post-partum. At the time, I couldn’t do a mile without walking. I remember gasping for air and checking my watch to see that the pace barely hit a 15-minute mile. How in the world we were going to run 26 was beyond me. Consistency is Key – they say. Isn’t that the truth for almost anything? Practice makes perfect. It’s the small moments…all those cliches – they are cliches for a reason.
Seven years ago, Michael and I ran the Chicago marathon two weeks before our wedding except we didn’t finish. He fainted at mile 25. MILE 25!!!! ONE MILE BEFORE THE FINISH LINE. It was every bit dramatic as it sounds. I watched as medics dumped him into an ice bath and got to ride in the front of an ambulance to take him to the hospital. Turns out he suffered from heat stroke and didn’t drink enough water. We vowed 1 – to still marry each other and 2 – to one day run the marathon again. Seven years later, we felt like it was now or never. We aren’t getting much younger.
We wanted to involve our girls (ages 4 months, 2 and 4) in the training but didn’t want to hurt ourselves by pushing them in strollers for every run. So, we found a happy medium of running with strollers when we had to do four miles or less. Longer runs were set aside for Friday – like a date, kid free.
Training during mango season!
Phoebe would ask philosophical questions on death, heaven and old people while I huffed along, and Emma would scream for her water bottle. Gabie (our delightful baby) was a gem and made barely a fuss at all. The girls wanted to run with us so we promised them they could sprint with us at the end of each run. They started picking out their running clothes and slipped on their cute little gym shoes to join. While pushing them was a major challenge, I wouldn’t trade the joy they took in being a part of something big like training for a marathon.
Eventually our running length increased so that we could no longer push the girls. They’d see us lace our shoes and welcome us back with a “mommy, daddy sweaty” comment without fail. By this point we were training like real runners – with a hydration pack, gels, and a proper Garmin watch to keep pace. Our feelings of whether or not we felt like running never mattered, if we didn’t get out the door quickly, we’d miss our chance altogether. We had to be creative to avoid hilly terrain, and a mile uphill was our unspoken limit before turning around.
Our training continued while on a road trip from Chicago to Boston and back through Canada. We quickly realized that there are much nicer places to run than the hilly roads of Costa Rica. We ran along the Mississippi river, to Lake Erie, the Atlantic Ocean, crossed the St. Lawrance River and touched Lake Michigan. Ignorance is bliss.
When we signed up for the marathon we were asked to provide our estimated finish time. This helps with grouping runners into a corral with others hoping for the same pace. We were allowed to change our estimated time up to two months before the marathon. Our problem was that we forgot what we estimated altogether and never went to change it.
Gabie at packed pick up (9 months)
Remember how I signed up for the marathon when I was pregnant? By the time race day approached we were running at a pace that matched 4 hours. However, when I signed up for the marathon I estimated a time of 4 hours 40 minutes. A forty-minute difference in a marathon is the difference between thousands of runners.
On race day we watched all the runners in our estimated time began the race while our group wasn’t set to start for another 40 minutes. The entrances to each grouping are closely monitored and the letters on the front of your bib let everyone know who you should start with. We saw a small crack in the fencing and Michael wanted to sneak in and start earlier. “no! We aren’t allowed to!” I said. I wish I said yes.
Phoebe and Emma cheering us on with their cousins
We spent the next four hours zigzagging, weaving, slowing down and speeding up. It may sound nice to be passing people in a race but doing that over a few hours in a large crowd is grueling. It was the first time in my life I felt claustrophobic, we couldn’t break free! We didn’t hit a consistent stride until the last six miles as the running crowd thinned out. With three miles to go Michael picked our pace up a notch and we zoomed past people! I followed, pushing hard as we hit our fastest splits yet. And finally, we crossed one second under four hours. It felt like bliss.
I have a photo of us crossing the finish line on my wall. To me, it symbolizes reaching for the unthinkable. For beginning with the end in mind. Knowing what we want as family, for our kids, with work, in relationships and community. That we can do hard things. Still. Even in this season of early motherhood, when my day is filled with many moments of small, physical demands. When I am sick of asking my four-year-old for the 100th time to change her tone of voice because the way we talk to people matters. It’s consistency, and it’s hard work. A goal, after all, isn’t meant to be something that comes with ease.