Eva Runs Through It

             “Base, you got a minute?”  I hear it constantly and I know within the next few moments, one or more of the following will happen, I’ll:  get a change in schedule, get a new student, have to write an IEP, be asked to provide progress monitoring for the intense state audit, go to a meeting, get a duty change (hehehe—‘duty’ still makes me laugh), do something for the new teacher evaluation system or drop everything and deal with a kid in crisis.  Add to this the endless stream of phone calls and emails (which I am fastidious about returning), eluding that kid who has become my shadow, yelling at my desk mate as his stuff creeps onto my side again, and leaving the building for the relentless fire drills.  Top this all off with all the regular start of the year stuff, actual teaching, planning and reflection, and you’ve got a very busy teacher.           ...

This weekend was a blur.  Friday night, I had the rare luxury of the house to myself.  Unfortunately, I also had a boatload of work to trudge through.  Saturday started early, as I was on the road to Philadelphia by 4 am.  Why Philly?  Because the greatest shoe company in the world comped my race and gave me a chance to represent them.  I love being a moving billboard for Brooks, and proudly wear their clothes and shoes.  I'm pretty tough on my gear, and Brooks has always been up to the challenge.  I love you guys. Back to Philly.  At the expo, I got a chance to meet John Bingham, the author of The Accidental Athlete  and former Runner's World columnist.  Mr. Bingham is a gentleman who promotes the back of the pack.  His philosophy is that runners should run as slow as possible, in order to get their money's worth from the race.  He believes  that anyone who puts on a pair of running shoes and registers for a race i...

            I can work my iPod blindfolded.  It is always on my left hip, cord threaded under my shirt, ear buds tucked in my sports bra.  I always hit random shuffle as I don't like playlists.  I have a general rule that I don’t listen to music until the last three miles of my run.  But, tonight was different.  Tonight, I wasn’t training for anything, I was running because it was fun, and I was listening to my tunes for all fifteen miles.             Just as during races, I dedicate miles to loved ones, I have songs that will forever belong to someone or some special moment in time.  The song could be dedicated because it reminds me of the person, the person selected it or it was playing when I was with or thinking of that person.  Whatever the reason, when I hear that song on a run, I’ll think about the person who owns it.      ...

            100 miles.  The first time I attempted the distance, I left the course with kidney stones after 55 miles.  The first time I wanted to quit running all together was on the Dirty Girl course last year.  I completed an ultra there, but got lost and defeated.  “This is stupid.” I told my friends.  I was going to put away my running shoes and move on to other things. Three wonderful people gently coaxed me back.  (Thank you Roger, Kris and Denise)  I decided to take my two biggest running defeats and make the Dirty Girl my first 100-mile race.          The race got in my head.  I trained rigorously.  I was consumed by it during the weeks leading up to it.  I’d gone 75 on a nice flat course, but this would be different.  Roger describes it perfectly “ I hate the Dirty Girl course. It just goes up, down, left, right constant switchbacks and single tr...

             A friend once asked me if my husband Mark really exists, or if I made him up.  The question caught me off guard, but it made sense, because it is rare for him to make an appearance at one of my races.  However, as I taper for my race next week, I have to reflect on how I know I couldn’t do what I do without him.             His support usually starts at night.  He’ll tap me on the shoulder, “Tiggs, you’re doing it again”.  I’m running in my sleep.  That’s when I know the race has totally taken me over.  Mark will usually grab his pillow and head to the guest room, knowing that neither of us will sleep as long as I log nocturnal miles.             He’ll understand as mid-sentence, I’ll stare off into space and go to check and re-check the tackle box to assure for the 100 th time that yes, in fact...

Maybe it has to do with waking up in my childhood bedroom; it’s the same, but different.  Gone are the 1970’s flower power wallpaper and my bright yellow canopy bed.  Added is my husband, who’s had the pillow next to mine for much of my adult life.  I’ve returned home different, but the same. I had some time on my hands and new running shoes on my feet.  That combination only means one thing, and I was going to make the most of it.  The first thing I see when I leave my mom’s place is the “big hill”.  I remember being about ten years old, my Dorothy Hamill haircut was blowing in the breeze as I cruised down this monster on my purple banana-seat bike.  I vividly remember thinking, ‘I never want to leave here’.  I ran up and down that hill, and after all these years and all these races, I can attest, it is still big. I leave the old neighborhood via the “big block”, though it is hardly a block at all.  I smile at the mailb...

Noah and I set off on an unknown adventure last week--the Spartan Race.  It's a boot camp style obstacle course held somewhere in the woods, about an hour north of Toronto. The organizers do not release a course map, so you really have no idea what you are up against.  Our only clue was watching the Spartans who had already finished their race.  They looked dirty and banged up.  Game on! As Noah and I awaited our wave to begin, we were approached by a very tall man in a Spartan costume.  He was the m.c. for the event, but turned the microphone off as he was talking to us.  He also would not let go of my hand.  When  he left, Noah asked "Mom, how come all the guys who hit on you are jacked?".  Whoa, I was hit on?!?!  Cue awkward moment. We jumped into the starting corral and were immendiately pummelled with high pressure hoses.  Then we ran through a series of stink bombs, our wet bodies holding on to the stench.  A m...