Broads Running In The Street

Guys, I'm in trouble. And it is ALL my dad's fault.

Here's the thing. My dad loves me. Loves me. And in his mind, I can do anything.

For example, my dad once approached me with an issue of the magazine Discover. An ad in the back of this particular issue announced that grant money was available from the National Institute of Health for qualified applicants studying the effects of the element mercury on the human neurological system.

Knowing that I work in neurosurgery, but that I had left my role to stay home with newly born Daughter, my dad felt I should apply for the grant. Now, I had no experience with mercury. I had no lab. I had no research staff. I had limited experience with research. And I had a newborn with raging colic and a husband who worked 60 hours a week. Probably because I had a newborn with raging colic.

None of that mattered. My dad urged me to apply for the grant. Surely I would be able to run a $100,000 study on a topic I had no expertise in whatsoever.

And when I - once - expressed my deep curiosity into the nature of my uncle's tracheotomy, my dad spent several days ticking off what I needed to do to get my answer. I needed to narrow down the time frame of the trach placement - probably the late 1930's. I needed to make a list of all hospitals within a reasonable radius of my grandparents house - that was sold after their deaths in the 1970's. I needed to gain access to those hospitals' records - even if the hospital had long closed - and search for my uncle's records.

Now, I'd like to point out that during this time my mom was still seriously ill. I was at the hospital all day, everyday. Sometimes all night, too. I was trying to keep things normal for my kids. I was managing my mom's care and my parent's finances. I was sending updates to our family and friends. I was trying to make sure my dad stayed hydrated because when he doesn't his heartbeat becomes irregular and he face plants in his Labor Day barbecue.

But each day, as we sat over my mom, he asked - did you look anything up last night? Any luck on Uncle Lee's trach? Do you have any thoughts on where you'll start?

So you see, my dad thinks I am capable of anything. I can be a SAHM, run a government-funded mercury study, delve into the mysteries of Uncle Lee's airway, and still find time for Game of Thrones. You know. Bring home the bacon. Fry it up in a pan. And I'm pretty sure my dad wants me to let Husband forget he's a man. So one less thing to do.

It's awesome to have a parent who believes in you no matter what the circumstances. My dad's support means I always perform with a net. But I have no interest in defrauding the NIH of funds, leading to what I'm sure would be a significant prison term. I would like to look up Uncle Lee's trach story, but I'm still trying to get around to renewing the driver's license that expired in 2013.

I did, however, capitulate to one of my dad's suggestions. And it is coming at me fast. It's this Sunday. And here's where my trouble begins.

My dad has been after me for a few years to run the Marine Corps Half Marathon. This year, for several reasons, I agreed. Reason 1 - my dad just turned 78. Although I'm pretty sure he could run the half with me and I'd only see his back, I want to run this while he can go to Fredericksburg with me. Reason 2 - my mom almost died in October. If your parent's mortality doesn't put some giddyup in your bucket list, nothing will. Reason 3 - my BABF roped me into the Broad Street Run. Just two weeks before the Marine Corps run, I figured if I was training for 10 miles, I may as well train for 13.

I am not a runner. I run. There's a huge difference. I don't have those super short running shorts. I don't have those sneakers that look like gloves for your feet. I don't gulp power gels.

Yeah. That's not me.
Husband and FB1, this pic is for you.
yandy.com

I hate running. Every step of it. But when you have kids, running is an easy, portable way to squeeze in exercise.

I hate you.

So when BABF and Friend3 started running, I was thrilled to have someone with which to share my pain. And when they ask me to participate in an organized run with them, I always try to say yes because I want to give them my support.

And, well, tell them what to do.

Yes. I apply my German work ethic to our running. So I have made them run in below zero weather. I have made them run in six inches of snow.

BABF wanted to do Broad Street. Friend3 and I agreed. Jason Statham joined our team. And when the forecast called for 50 degree weather and pouring rain with thunder, I was very supportive of my friends' ability to run, despite the dreary outlook.

I'm very inspiring.

So we did Broad Street. We stood, waiting to run, for two hours in the pouring rain. We ran for two hours in the pouring rain. We spent two hours trying to get home in the pouring rain. And when Friend2 picked us up, BABF told me that if she got sick, it was all my fault.

Outside, I'm masquerading. Inside, my
hope is fading.

You don't get sick from being in the rain, I grumbled through chattering teeth. You get sick from germs. 

Fortunately, when we called my mom to tell her we were done our race, my mom set us all straight. Yes, she said. You do get sick from being in the rain. And when BABF gets sick, she went on, I - me, Pope-pourri - would go take care of her.

Wrong. On all points.

And you know what? I was right. Right. BABF didn't get sick.

I did.

So now I'm sick, I'm running 13 miles with the military in three days, I'm spending a weekend rooming with my parents, I have to make a three hour drive twice in two days, and I'm desperately trying to hide my cold from my mom because she'll A) say I told you so and B) tell me I can't run. You're SICK, she'll say. You shouldn't exercise when you're SICK. In fact, exercise probably made you SICK. If you stop exercising, you'll probably never get SICK again. (Confidential to my mom - I'm not sick. My nose ALWAYS looks like that).

The hill at mile 11. Because it's
the Marine Corps. Of course there's a hill that
doubles in elevation at mile 11.

And I need to run. I need to run because my dad served 25 years in the Marine Corps and never backed down, not even when he had appendicitis in Malaysia. I need to run because if my mom can survive a 50% mortality rate, I can run with a head cold. I need to run because this whole endeavor has cost me $300. (Confidential to Husband - it didn't cost $300).

And I need to run because a weekend bunking with my parents will surely lead to some good blog material.

I mean, it better.

If I live.