Career Choices: Triathlete or Evil Scientist?

The thermometer hanging outside my kitchen window registers 18 degrees.  I have a 20 degree cut-off rule for running outside, but I decide that I’m not going to split hairs over 2 degrees this morning.  So, I continue my pre-run ritual; coffee and toast, while reading the newspaper online and quietly praying that the red line in the thermometer moves up a little by the time I’m ready to go outside for my 8 mile run.  I’m currently training for the NYC Half Marathon in March, the MORE/Fitness Half Marathon in April, the Wyckoff-Franklin Lakes Triathlon in June and the Aquaphor New York City Triathlon in July (along with other, smaller races sprinkled in between those); this is not the time to start skipping runs because of a small fear of frostbite or hypothermia.

After a short while I run out of coffee, which also means that I run out of excuses to start my workout.  Fortunately, I can delay going outside for a bit, as I first go to my basement and workout with my resistance bands and do some other exercises I learned in my cardio sculpt class at the gym.  Unfortunately, my basement isn’t heated, so it’s not much warmer down there than it is outside.

In the basement we have a tiny space heater that would likely warm up something the size of my daughter’s lunch box.  The thermostat on it registers 44 degrees.  Brr.  But, I ignore it, knowing that after a few minutes of squats, pushups and resistance band work that I’ll be warmed up if not a little hot.  Finally, I run out of every exercise I can think of and head back upstairs to get ready to go outside.  I look at the thermometer again.  It hasn’t budged.  So, it’s either still 18 degrees, or the damned thing is frozen.

Usually in the winter I wear my warmest running tights on the bottom, and three layers on top.  The first one’s purpose is to the wick sweat off me before it turns to ice, the second is to keep me warm, and the third one is to block the wind.  For good measure, I add an extra shirt, having no idea what purpose it serves other than to make me think that I’m not completely insane for running outside when it’s this cold.  Finally, I put some hand warmers in my mittens, grab my running hat and head out into the frozen tundra that is Pelham, NY.

I’d love to say that I stepped outside and was happily surprised by how warm it was and how well dressed I was to deal with the temperature.  But, I can’t.  It’s freezing.  I’m cold even before I get down the steps that lead from my house to the sidewalk.  My sneakers are close to retirement, so I have worn huge holes in the tops (and by the way, how do I always manage to wear out the TOPS of my running shoes??), and the wind seems to channel right through them. 

I start moving quickly, telling myself that I’ll warm up in a minute or two.  And honestly – I don’t.  Even after the first mile, I’m still cold.  The hand warmers in my mittens aren’t warming up like they usually do, and my feet feel like frozen bricks.  At one point I stop short just so I can slam my toes of my left foot against the ground to try to get some circulation going.

I want to turn around, go back home, and crawl back into bed where I was ensconced in warm flannel sheets and fleece blankets, wedged between my furnace of a husband and heating pad of a cat.  But, I know I can’t.  I can’t do those races without training for them, and I don’t like giving up on what I started.  So, I think of a few things to keep me going.  No, it’s not me crossing the finish line of the New York City Triathlon or running through Times Square during the Half Marathon.  It’s my two children, Olivia and Benjamin.  When Olivia was 3 and Ben was an infant, she asked me to sit on the floor and play a game with her.  And, I couldn’t.  I was too fat.  If I got down on the floor, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get up.  So, I told her that I was busy, and I lost the opportunity to enter the vivid fantasy world found only in a 3 year old’s imagination.  Then I think ahead to now, when I’m 70 pounds lighter (OK, fine, 67 pounds lighter.  Hey, it was a tough holiday season, but I’m working on it).  I think about a recent conversation that I had with Olivia, now 8, and Ben, almost 5.  One night over dinner we started talking about what they want to be when they grow up.  Ben said he wanted to be “an evil scientist who turns bad guys into cats so they won’t do bad things anymore, and if they do then they won’t care.”  Don’t worry, we’ve had a talk with him.  But when it was Olivia’s turn to answer, she didn’t even have to think about it before she said, “I want to be a triathlete like you, Mom.”

In my kids’ world, mommies wake up at 5 on a Saturday to run 8 miles in 18 degree weather.  They think all mommies own wetsuits and compete in triathlons for a living.  And now they can think that mommies can sit on the floor and play with them.

These are the thoughts I keep in my head as my run continues, as the water bottle I’m carrying forms little ice crystals in it and my left foot regains circulation, but now my right foot goes numb.  And it works.  I run all 8 miles and go back in my house, where it feels downright tropical compared to outside.  As I step in I hope that my kids are playing some game on the floor, because I’d love to join them.