Week Thirty-Five: May 16th to 22nd

The most important thing is a strong finish. As the kids and I wrap up our school year together (this week was our second-to-last) we talk a lot about how to finish well. Or, at least I do. I don't know that they are quite as interested in how well they finish but much more in the fact that they are almost finished. My students have been watching our 5th Graders trumpet their year's conclusion for weeks now, and they want their turn. Of course, for my students, they will return in the Fall and have three more years at our school. The 5th Graders rub in all of our faces that they have but days left to grace us with their presence.

As we near the end of the school year, I get questions from the other teachers about if I am going to shave the beard off during the Summer, telling me, "Do you realize how hot it gets here during the Summer?" Having worked outside at the zoo every day of every Summer for the past eleven years I know full well just how hot it gets, so I need not be reminded. As for shaving plans, I am sure I will gradually thin it out as the Summer progresses (each week at the Zoo Camp where I work there are bets about doing crazy things for the kids prior to our Thursday night pre-overnight performance) so I know the beard will not survive the onslaught of bets to come, and that is probably for the best. Until then, grow on!

Week Thirty-Four: May 9th to 15th

Among our numerous responsibilities as Tough Mudders was the obligation to wear our orange headbands to work on the Monday following the race. If you have visited the Tough Mudder site you must surely have seen evidence of such proud behavior...doctors performing surgery in orange headbands (however sterile they might be) and various office cubers donning the splash of color to offset the drab white and gray walls that must crush them daily.

Of course, I forgot to wear my headband on Monday and every other day this week. I rediscovered it on Friday and wore it on the next several runs to show my support and proud finisher status. Personally, I found it matched the beard rather well. When I showed my students the photos from the race they could not figure out why my hair was dark brown and my beard red while my brother's hair was dark blonde and his beard nearly black, in the style of Brian Wilson (the closer for the San Francisco Giants, not the extra-large surf-singer.) Neither can we, but both beards looked extra-solid beneath the bright orange straps of tight-fitting melon elastic. Perhaps it is also why I have once again heard the rekindling of the "Run, Forrest, Run" calls on my daily runs.

Week Thirty-Three: May 2nd to 8th

Words may not be able to capture the unbridled joy of the Tough Mudder. These images are all from the race this past weekend in Vermont: ten miles of running up and down Mount Snow (ski area) with terrain as steep as 25% pitch and a large amount of snow covering the ground, not to mention the other 28 obstacles we faced along the way. Billed as the toughest race around, this course did its best to fulfill that expectation...12-foot plank walls, two 35-degree pond swims, greased monkey bars above a freezing pool and, yes, that photo above IS of the two of us exiting dumpsters full of dyed, slushy water! Nuff said.

Check out toughmudder.com and get involved!

Week Thirty-Two: April 25th to May 1st

And so the racing season begins again. Each year for the past seven years I have been the odd-looking "gentleman" running behind a double stroller in and around town. The odyssey began in 2004 with a single-stroller race and a great deal of pain, but has continued each year after that, even as we added a second daughter and graduated to a double stroller. We gave away that old single stroller and so many times I look back and wish I was only pushing that sleek rig rather than what feels like pushing a parachute full of cinder block.

The past few years I have slacked off a bit on our race schedule. What used to be a two-season affair (Spring and Fall) winnowed to one and a half before finally dwindling to a grand total of two races last year. Mostly I resisted registering for races based on shaky financial footing during both seasons, and that is still the case. However, through the magic of credit cards and a desire to experience the kind of self-cleansing pain that only comes from pushing two girls through heavily-trafficked roadways, trying not to nip runners' heels or implode my own cardiac muscle in the process.

This weekend I was feeling ambitious and I registered for two races. The first was an evening 5K on Saturday, forgetting about the tight streets and gradual hills in South City. A few of those hills slowed us enough that both of the girls--at separate point during the race--said, "Ugh, I could go faster than this!" Though they were far from being correct in that assessment of the speed at that time, it sure felt like it could be true soon. Even still, we grunted and gutted our way to the finish in less-than-record time.

On Sunday we ran another 5K at high noon. This one started and finished on a high school track in my school district, traversing a concrete-slabbed subdivision nearby for a mile or so. There were some quirky hills in this one that caused our younger daughter to say, "Oh, we're not going very fast anymore...we cannot even see that man in the orange anymore." They were not satisfied that we were in second place at that point, apparently.

My payback came during the kids' fun run after our race, when they both had the opportunity to run laps of the track and prove their mettle against time and distance. Our older daughter, who runs like a springing impala, with stride lengths rivaling mine, chased a running juggler for two laps and then finished because no one else appeared to be running anymore. Moments after finishing she told me, "Hold on, Daddy, I'm going to run at least one more lap." I did not let her, but maybe only to waylay the inevitable time when she turns out to be faster than me.

Our younger daughter ran hard from the get-go, and petered out at 200 meters. Yes, the one who assured me she could run faster than the 6:15 pace I was pushing their stroller hit the wall halfway around the track. She clenched her belly with that unmistakable look of "I'm-gonna-hurl" and all I could think of was Will Ferrell's immortal Anchorman line, "Milk was a bad choice!" Right before they both ran, they guzzled a small carton of chocolate milk, despite my warnings about how this would affect them on the run. Oh well, live and learn.