RACING FOR OUR LIVES: PART I

By Dimity

I have half a mile left in this morning’s run. For an experienced runner like me—I’ve been loping around for 20 years—a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy half of a mile is nothing, right?

Wrong.

Because this half a mile is actually 800 meters, or two times around a track I crash at a local middle school. I’m in the middle of a workout we runners like to call speedwork: a run, usually broken up into short intervals and recovery periods, that emphasizes pushing the pace. For me, the emphasis is on the latter half of the word. I grunt out 95 percent work to squeeze out a roughly 5 percent temporary improvement in speed.

I don’t do speed well, either mentally or physically. I’m almost 6 feet 4 inches tall, and it would seem like my long legs, which sport a 36-inch inseam, should be an attribute: fewer steps and less effort to cover the same distance. Wrong. In reality, big, overreaching strides (or at least my style of lopsided, not very efficient, overreaching strides) promote injury, which I’ve learned the hard way too many times. Plus, my legs are heavy: I think each one of them weighs at least as much as my 5-year-old son, who clocks in at a neat and hefty 65 pounds. To add insult to potential injury, my head is as good at convincing my body to hang in that leg- and lung-incinerating red zone as my two kids are about eating hamburger–spinach casserole without gagging. Not good at all.

Still, I’ve already completed four 800-meter repeats—or 2 whole miles of speedwork—with a lap of an “easy” jog in between. Within 30 steps of the first 800, my arms tingled and my throat went dry. I resigned myself into accepting the workout on the third curve of the track, or about .375 miles through, before trying to channel a gazelle on the last straightaway. (Yes, I’m a bit of a math nerd when I run: Converting distances myriad ways gets me through the workout.) As soon as I hit the exact spot where I started, I stop immediately and collapse my hands onto my knees, a move I repeat after every 800. When I feel like I no longer need CPR, I begin my interpretation of an easy jog: walk at a mall-like pace for at least half a lap, then do a geriatric shuffle for the rest before pulling up, checking the time, maybe blowing my nose, finding a new song on my iPod, grabbing a swig of water, and otherwise procrastinating as long as I can.

On the second interval, in the hopes of turning an 800 into a 795, I hug the inside of the track so closely my left foot grazes the infield grass a few times.

The middle interval(s) of speedwork, or the third one today, are always the hardest for me to get through. By this point, I’m intimately familiar with how long and how hard each 800 feels (too long and too hard, if you’re wondering). Plus, my legs are no longer fresh, and I haven’t crossed over the imaginary hump where I can tell myself this is next-to-last or the last one. In other words, the workout is not coasting along a virtual downhill yet. “Just go,” I tell myself when even I’m sick of my lollygagging. So I do, and count my way—10 steps on my right foot, 10 steps on my left—through the second lap. When I assume the stooped-over position after the third, which may or may not be a few steps short of my exact starting point, my legs start doing the Elvis shake. The vibrations are slowly convincing the rest of my body this speedwork stuff is bunk.

You might be asking yourself, as I do with almost every pseudo-speedyish step I take, “Why am I doing this? Why in the name of all that is good in the world am I, a mediocre, unnatural runner, out here at 6:13 on a Thursday morning forcing myself to lap a middle-school track—a place, it should be noted, that as a teenager I hated more than parties with those awkward Spin the Bottle kissy games?”

Good question.

Despite being a mediocre, unnatural runner, I am definitely a runner. I’ve clomped through two marathons (and have, despite pushing myself around the track, promised my so-not-interested-in-26.2-miles body that it will never have to endure another one), plenty of half-marathons, a variety pack of triathlons, and the occasional 5K, 10K, mud run, and relay. So I’ve lived a good running life. For most races, I’m content with following a basic training plan, which means workouts are two words long, like “6 miles” or “4 miles.” There are no adjectives (fast, easy, tempo); no extraneous terms (strides, repeats, recovery); no terrain requirements (track, hills). I train with just one goal in mind: to stop running whenever the finish line happens to appear under my feet.

This, it should be noted, is an absolutely fine way to train. The likelihood of getting injured is fairly low, and motivation to get out the door is conversely high. Heading out and knowing I can run 4 miles at the pace that feels right today feels quite lovely and simple. If I know, however, I have 4 miles of hill repeats—or worse, 4 miles of speedwork, during which I stare at my Garmin more closely than I watched my kids around a pool when they were toddlers—then I obsess about the workout. I dwell on it as I brush my teeth the night before. When I get up to soothe my son after a monster dream in the middle of the night, the number of repeats echoes in my head. In the morning, I try to talk myself out of it. As I approach the track, I get a little throw-up in my mouth. On most days, speedwork feels worse to me than getting a cavity filled and my brows waxed at the same time (something I have never done, by the way).

That said, I have randomly cranked up the training intensity for a handful of specific races during my running career. There wasn’t any definite, common trend as to why I decided to go all hardcore on those specific events, with one exception: All of my tee-it-up races came after I had both of my children.

As you probably know, you have a kid, and everything that was once easy and a given, like a last-minute movie on a Friday night, a stretch of five whole quiet minutes between the hours of 3 P.M. and 8 P.M., or a shower after a run, is far from it. Although the challenges of motherhood provide plenty of opportunities to fulfill my daily need for feelings of accomplishment and pride—Look! I got one kid to soccer practice, one kid to karate, stopped at Walgreens to pick up a prescription, made it back to see one kid bow to his sensei and the other score a goal, and, well, it’s quesadillas for dinner, but at least they’re on whole-wheat tortillas!—the minute-by-minute maternal victories are simply not enough. Even when we do have a dinner during which the this-is-so-gross gags are limited to fewer than two per child, it’s not like I walk away from the table feeling all victorious. More like, I’m just grateful I didn’t have to deal with full-on drama.

On the other hand, running makes me feel like a rock star; when I return home after a few miles with a soaked sports bra and weary legs, I have the confidence, energy, rush, and ego I imagine comes with fans screaming your name. Dimity! Dimity! You are so awesome! More than 90 percent of the time, I am fine setting my run, mind, and body on cruise control and relishing the fact that 4 moderate miles provides me-time, an endorphin rush, and a chance to recalibrate my the-world-sucks meter back to neutral.

Sometimes, though, those basic miles land me in a rut, not onstage with Bruce Springsteen. When that happens, my motivation to get out the door is slim to none; if I manage to drag myself out, the endless miles seem to get incrementally slower. When I start feeling bitter about “seasonal” flags like hearts on Valentine’s Day or tulips for springtime on the homes in our suburban neighborhood, I know I need a change. Last week, as I ran by a Snoopy flag, I had one of those David Byrne–ian moments—you know, as in “This is not my beautiful life.” I drive a minivan. I clip coupons for Costco. I think new white tees from the Gap are a splurge. Ten P.M. is a late night for me. I obsess over my son’s behavior in kindergarten. The last time I wore makeup was three weeks ago. What happened to the hip, make-it-happen girl I used to be? And why is she wearing Danskos now? Two days ago, I was near the end of my run, when my endorphins should’ve been soaring up, not down. I should’ve been, “Rock on! This is my life! I love it!” when I saw Snoopy’s ears flapping as he danced for Halloween. Instead, I wanted to rip the flag in half.

So today I am at the track in the hopes of nailing a 10K in 8 weeks.

I need a challenge to mix things up—to remind myself I am powerful and can create my own victories. Not only am I feeling blah about life in general, I’m also knocking on the door of Ms. 4-freakin’-0, and my metaphorical running life feels uphill now. As a sports and fitness writer for magazines, I’ve done enough stories on aging and exercise to know the latter slows the former at a near miraculous pace, but exercise isn’t a miracle. Despite knowing how much work it’ll take to get me to squeeze out a few drops of speed from these injury-prone legs, I’m resigned to my fate. I want—and need—a 10K hurrah.

Lest you get all freaked out and think this training thing is not for you, a beginning/not-serious/superslow/not-talented/fill in self-deprecating adjective here (______________________) runner, I, a not-serious/not-talented runner, am here to tell you it can be. Training can come in a variety of flavors—and I guarantee you never have to step foot on a track if you swore off them around the time you got your braces removed. Chances are, if you’ve run a 5K, you’ve already trained. At its root, training is about setting a concrete goal: namely, seeing the finish line and then pushing, persuading, and sometimes forcing yourself to get there. (Certainly you can train without racing, but IMHO it’s kind of like cake without frosting: Where’s the fun in that?)

Training means you head out the door with a specific workout in mind, whether it’s 3 easy miles, five 800s, or a 20-miler to get ready for your upcoming marathon. Training means every run has a purpose: slower miles to build a cardiovascular base; hill repeats to increase leg and lung strength; tempo runs to enable you to run faster for longer; speedwork to fire up those fast-twitch muscles. Training hones your mind to handle discomfort, pride, dejection, boredom, and elation, sometimes all within nanoseconds of one another. Training means you might suffer more than you’re used to. Training delivers all the benefits a regular run can—a slice of your sanity back; muscular legs that mean business; time with yourself, with girlfriends, or with Ira Glass; a sense of confidence and glee unmatched by other activities—but it ups the commitment level just a tad.

If training sounds onerous, I’ll be honest: It can be, especially when I’m in the middle weeks of a training plan and the race seems light-years away. I wonder what’s wrong with a few meandering miles here and there, missing a day or three of a weekly schedule, not being so freakishly driven. Then I remind myself the rewards of being on a plan more than make up for it. Training makes the splits on a Garmin drop faster than an almost-4-year-old drops her afternoon naps. Training transforms a pace that used to feel unbelievably hard into your new I-can-chat pace. Training gives you quantitative measurements of your improvement, when the rest of your life is blurry and difficult to pinpoint with any kind of progress. Training lets you feel a mini victory every day. But more than anything, training is a reminder that hard work gets rewarded. And you are worth the investment of time and energy. And the reward.

Running is a little like parenthood: The individual days and runs can be so long I wonder how I’ll ever make it to 5 P.M., which is when I typically twist the spout of my currently hip boxed wine. But the years are a blur, going by so quickly I’m not even certain I can connect Point A with Point B. How can Ben, who it seems only yesterday took his first wobbly steps, be Velcroing his own shoes for his first day of kindergarten? Or how can Amelia, who I’m certain just learned to ride a two-wheeler, be suddenly doing flip turns in swim meets? Where did those days in between go?

Similarly, when I rewind through my running career, I’d be hard-pressed to remember a single workout more than a week old. I can’t remember the training days or even many races. The highlights—the ones I visualize when I think of my running—are the races I really focused on and trained for. In a 5K in Denver, I remember the last leg-torching mile, with every cell of mine yelling at me to walk, but me telling the cells to, metaphorically, shut the front door. I was beaming when I called Grant, my husband, to tell him my time. I remember an Olympic triathlon: While the 10K run portion wasn’t super impressive, I remember Grant, stationed near the 6-mile mark, telling me everybody around me looked like serious triathletes—and that I did, too. I remember, on my way to knocking almost 9 minutes off a 10-miler I had done the previous year, running down a hill as The Black Eyed Peas were telling me they “gotta feeling.” I had a feeling, too: I felt like I was flying. My feet couldn’t keep up with my body. I have goose bumps as I’m typing, and that race was 3 years ago. I remember a half-marathon 6 months after that where I blitzed my time goal and landed (for the first time ever) in the top third in my age group. In the 2 weeks following the race, I must have checked those results at least 20 times, just to, you know, make sure they hadn’t changed.

That half-marathon? That was the last race I truly pushed myself in. It’s time. After willing myself through the fourth 800, I uncork the last one. Within steps, my virtual gas warning light goes on: My legs are hollering, my lower back is gradually tightening like a vise, my head is firing up a headache that will only gain intensity once the workout is over. I try not to think of any of it. I round one curve, which seems to have lengthened since the last interval. I battle the wind, which conveniently just blew in, on the first straightaway, and when I hit the second one with the wind at my back, I remind myself to hold something back: I still have one more lap to go. (This is a hypothetical statement. I’ve got nothing to hold back.) I hit the second lap, and I have only one 400—a single, measly lap!—of this heinous workout left. I fight the gusts and tell myself to just get to the second curve, where I’ll take it home. The last stretch, I tell myself to “Go! Go! Go!”—which doesn’t prompt an increase in speed but generally protects against too much of a decrease. I finish, toss out an f-bomb just to put an exclamation point on my effort, and, as usual, skip jogging a recovery lap. I have worked hard enough, thank you very much.

Instead, I take plenty of time gathering my goods. I walk (very) slowly to the parking lot, climb into my minivan, toss my water bottle onto the floor, which is littered with granola bar wrappers, pennies, crayons, and overdue library books, and head home to my little slice of suburbia, flags and all.

Satisfied with myself and my life, I am ready to start another day.

TAKE IT From A MOTHER

WHEN DID YOU FEEL LIKE YOU WERE A REAL RUNNER?

“When new ladies ask me a running question.”

—KAREN (Not afraid to admit she likes passing people.)

“When I reached the 5-mile distance, after a year of never running past 3 miles. After that, I just knew I could push myself beyond my comfort zone.”

—Beth (Loves her own treadmill: “I can run in a sports bra and shorts and belt out Lady Gaga.”)

“Good question. . . . I’m still trying to figure that out.”

—Brandy (Began a walk-to-run program 10 months ago, and now logs 15 to 30 miles per week preparing for her first half-marathon. FYI, Brandy: In our minds, that’s as real as a runner gets.)

“I thought I did when I lost my first toenail, but I really felt like a real runner when I ran an 11-mile training run solo with no music.”

—Caryn (Proudest running moment: blowing her first snot rocket.)

“While running my first 5-mile race, a woman pulled up beside me and said, ‘I’ve been trying to keep up with you for the past mile.’”

—Chandra (Trains on two-track farm roads that cut across wheat fields.)

“I think of other women as ‘real runners’ as soon as they start to run, but I didn’t feel like a ‘real runner’ until I had been running consistently for a year.”

—Christy (Started running so she could order a bacon cheeseburger from Friendly’s. “I was sick of staying within my calorie limit to maintain my weight, so I bought a treadmill for Christmas. My $5 cheeseburger ended up costing $705, but I am now a runner, and that is priceless.”)

“I still don’t think of myself as one. I’m just a mom who is trying to keep my sanity.”

—Julie (Has run 15 to 20 miles per week for the past 11 years, always on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.)

“I always have.”

—Katie (Started running alongside her dad when she was 8 years old.)

RACING FOR OUR LIVES: PART II

By Sarah

Despite my propensity to define myself by my race times, I don’t always love to train. In fact, when I start a training plan, I resist like a horse that doesn’t want to be saddled. The reins of the dictated workouts seem too tight; the burden of nailing certain speeds and times is too heavy. But within a few uncomfortable days, I’m tamed, and I love the certainty each workout brings. I know if I do what is laid out before me—run 5 miles; run 8 miles with the middle four faster; rest—I’ll arrive at the starting line prepped and ready to deliver my best effort, which is what racing is all about for me.

I like a training run with a challenge, with extra speed built in or hills that need to be conquered. When I mentally flip through my toughest race-prep workouts, I get all nostalgic about them, like I do when I look through the velvet-lined box in which I keep my three children’s lost baby teeth. There’s the fog-enshrouded tempo run I did to get ready for the 2010 Big Sur International Marathon. The closer I ran to Portland’s Willamette River on the 20-minute warm-up, the foggier it got. The river was invisible from the road overlooking it as I headed north to crank out 4 miles at a tempo pace around 8-minute miles. Damp, pine-scented air filled my heaving lungs as I recovered for 5 minutes before undertaking four more of the same speedy miles. In my mind, conquering 8 miles at 8:00 (or better) pace felt like an Olympic-caliber workout, something Deena Kastor or Kara Goucher would do. (Obviously the fog was clouding my perception of reality.)

Weather rules my memories, as another one that randomly pops into my head is a set of six 1-minute hill repeats I ran in the pouring rain for the 2010 Portland Marathon. As I pumped my knees and arms, trying to stay on my toes as I powered up a long hill near our house, I took note of where fat worms squirmed on the slick pavement. Retracing my steps on the decline, I briefly stopped to save the stranded buggers. I felt victorious on the way up, and noble on the way down.

Then there are countless track sessions for a variety of races that blend into one because I almost always ran them in the dark, long before the high school students started cutting across the track lanes en route to homeroom. My iPod was my sole companion as I looped the track once (400 meters), twice (800 meters), thrice (1,200 meters), and even four (1 mile) times, trying to maintain the pace of my fastest 5K race. I often told myself I could bail after four or five 800s instead of six, but my determination—plus Pitbull, David Guetta, and Cee Lo Green—usually kept me going. And I always felt badass when I dragged my weary butt home, steam rising off my lululemon capris.

My sports ego thrives on the paces nailed, the hills conquered, the laps completed. Thankfully, my (aging) body responds equally well. But I wasn’t sure it was going to snap back after having kids: During the first run after the cesarean delivery of my boy–girl twins six years ago, I couldn’t decide which hurt more: my still-healing C-section incision or my jiggling, milk-filled breasts. I was sure running would never feel natural again, and I’d never return to my pre-twins pace.

Instead, I’ve gotten faster. (Woot!) I’ve set all my racing personal records (PRs) since then because I focused on building speed as surely as I worked on getting tan as a teenager. (Hello, Peter Gabriel double-album cover lined with tinfoil to reflect every burning ray; hello, Johnson’s Baby Oil.) Two years after fully recovering from the twin pregnancy, not to mention mothering two babies plus an older daughter, I got serious about training. I built up speed, and I honed it at the track, on the road, on hills, and in my head. My previous fastest mile time became, through about a year of focused work, the per-mile pace I could sustain over the course of a 10K race. No matter what was going on in the rest of my life—article deadlines for the New York Times, board meetings for the local twins club, or toddler temper tantrums times two—I knew I was in charge and, more important, I was improving.

Then comes race day, as unknown and unpredictable as a 4-year-old’s birthday party. Will there be smiles or tears? Elation or disappointment? A sugar high or a meltdown?

A typical race morning usually starts out looking like a scene from a zombie movie: individuals or pairs of people walking down a deserted street, all headed in the same direction. I walk among them. I follow the crowd’s lead, not exchanging many words but casting plenty of glances. As we draw closer to the starting area, I can hear an announcer telling people where the Porta-Potties are and how many minutes are left until the start time, then thanking the local sponsors. Inevitably, regardless of the weather, U2’s “Beautiful Day” streams out of loudspeakers.

The race becomes real for me as soon as I see the starting line and its accompanying overhang, usually an inflatable arch or a draped banner. My nerves strum as I stake my place in the starting corral, sizing up my competition. That woman in the flowered black skirt looks like she did way more hill repeats than I did, and that guy over there reminds me of an older, balding Ryan Hall. I calm the butterflies by fiddling with my iPod, making sure I have the shuffle feature turned off. (I. Like. My. Songs. Played. In. The. Order. I. Set. Them.) Getting my Garmin GPS to lock in a satellite signal makes the final few minutes pass. A few quick pump-me-up jumps, the gun goes off, and the mass of racers starts moving forward.

I harness my enthusiasm, because I know I’ll flame out if I let it carry me away. The song “The Lucky Ones” often leads my playlist, and Brendan James reassures me with his refrain, “We’re taking a chance / We’re the lucky ones / This moment is yours / This moment is mine / And we’re gonna be fine.” Of course I’ll be fine, thanks to my training, but it’s nice to be reminded. I wait for the more peppy songs on my playlist, which I position to start about halfway through the race, when I shift into fifth gear. Until then, a strong fourth gear is my aim. But like a five-page birth plan, an overly contemplated race plan can get dashed in an instant. Hotter-than-predicted temperatures can deplete my energy; a pre-race restaurant dinner can wreak havoc with intestines; the reality of elevation gains kicks in. (“So this is what 300 feet of climbing over a half-mile feels like, eh?”) The pace that felt so comfortable at the beginning now feels as sustainable as cutting out all sugar from my family’s diet.

My mind sees the holes in my training, not the whole program. Instead of envisioning the mile repeats I ran on my neighborhood streets, I regret the strides I often skipped at the end of easy runs. I chastise myself for not being diligent enough about hitting race pace for the final miles of long weekend runs. Maybe I should have rested instead of crosstraining every Friday. I definitely should have committed to that 7:30 P.M. Yoga for Runners class instead of hanging with the family after dinner.

With a small portion of the race left, in a semi-desperate move, I try repeating, mantra-like, “Just 10 times around the track; just 10 times around the track.” But instead of motivating me, it makes me wince. Ten, or any other double-digit number, is too big for my sugar-starved brain to swallow. Instead, I down an energy gel to get my body back in the game because, even in my depleted state, I know weeks and weeks of training has prepared me for this, the hardest part of the race: convincing my brain I’ve got this.

I’d never finished a race wearing a smile as massive as the one I wore in the 2010 Big Sur International Marathon. Dazzling California sun surrounded me, and I was shining with delight—and a dollop of relief. Around mile 15, I had hit a rough patch. The start seemed so far behind me, yet I still had many miles to cover. Even the views of foam-topped waves crashing into steep cliffs couldn’t buoy my flagging spirit.

Yet being a veteran of five previous marathons, including a 3:52 personal best just a year before, and about a dozen half-marathons, I was savvy enough to know I could keep mentally limping along or I could turn the race around for myself. I’d prepared so well and followed my 14-week training plan so closely, the decision was clear. Only my mind was struggling, not my body.

So I kicked out the mental monkeys, telling them the pity party was over. Despite weak math skills, I knew I was cutting it close to making my goal time of under 4 hours. (As you may already know, I’m forever striving for sub-4:00.) After that psychological turnaround, though, I never stopped believing I could do it. Over the rolling miles that followed, I let go on the downhills, pushed on the flats, and strove on the uphills. I merely glanced at the strawberry stop near mile 21. A riot of orange California poppies blooming on a beach at mile 25 barely registered on my radar. As other racers decreased their speed to a walk on the quarter-mile-long, kick-in-the-teeth hill near mile 25.5, I kept pouring it on. The race was my greatest physical challenge since having to push for 6.5 hours during the birth of my first baby—yes, that period is correct: 6.5 hours, not 65 minutes—and almost as emotionally rewarding.

I missed my time goal by a mere 93 seconds, but I was ecstatic at my effort. This may be hard to believe coming from the competitive half of this writing duo, but I swear, I was over the moon. On a natural high for days, I hadn’t wallowed in my usual post-race letdown. The “Oh, nuts, it’s over” blues and the “I could have done better” regrets—those unwanted guests who usually arrive moments after I cross a finish line, then linger for days or weeks—didn’t surface.

I didn’t let them. Before I even boarded the plane to go home to Portland, Oregon, I was debating which marathon to do next. And I wasn’t sure what I was looking forward to more: the race or the training.

.1 SHOULD YOU RACE? A QUIZ?

By Dimity

Not sure if you’re ready to lay out a slice of your children’s potential college fund just so you can pin on a race number? Here’s a quiz to know if an entry fee is money well spent.

1 Your child(ren) is/are:

A More than 3 years old.

B Between 6 months and 3 years.

C Under 6 months old.

D More than one of the above.

2 Your motivation level these days calls to mind:

A A rocket: always high, and I love to blast off! (And I’m so driven, I don’t even notice how much my perkiness annoys other people!)

B A minivan: steady and reliable, with a few visits to the shop for maintenance and unexpected breakdowns.

C A loose tooth: wobbly, and I can’t find the courage to pull the trigger because I know it’s going to hurt.

D I have to use a metaphor? What’s that again? Anyway, I can’t even remember how to spell the word—motivayshun?—let alone remember what it means.

3 The last time you fell asleep was:

A 10 minutes after putting the kid(s) to bed last night. Would’ve been sooner, but I needed to lay out my morning clothes and charge my Garmin.

B An hour after the kid(s) did last night, using those 60 minutes to check Facebook and scan newspaper headlines.

C Once waiting in the Starbucks drive-through and once with a baby attached to my teat. (I can’t remember if those were two separate occasions.)

D After staying up to watch the Beijing Olympics closing ceremony.

4 You typically wake up:

A Naturally. My body craves its morning run.

B Begrudgingly after hitting snooze a few times.

C When someone screams.

D I’m pretty sure I’ve been half-awake for the past 6 years.

5 On an average day, how many familiar folks orbit into your personal sphere?

A Too many. With my job, school drop-off, and church group, I’m all talked out by the end of the day. Oh, and I teach a spin class and know everybody’s name there, too.

B Fifteenish: I wake up next to my significant other; talk to at least two friends on the phone; go to lunch with three co-workers; chat up other parents at the playground.

C A handful: my neighbors, my mother-in-law, the cute, shaggy-haired Trader Joe’s cashier. (Okay, I only pretend I know him.)?

D One or two: my husband and/or my kid. Oh, make that three, because dogs are really just furry, four-legged people, right?

6 What did you eat yesterday?

A Two pieces of toast with peanut butter; two packages of GU energy gel; protein flaxseed shake made with frozen cherries and bananas; an apple; two hard-boiled eggs; a Honey Stinger bar; chicken breast with brown rice and vegetables; steak and veggie fajitas, with guacamole, beans, and rice; and a large slice of peanut butter pie.

B Two unadorned frozen waffles, post-run; the same leftovers for lunch and dinner: a great pasta dish with lots of veggie, all-organic goodness from Whole Foods; a peach; a handful of baby carrots; a 3 Musketeers bar. (Hey: I was at the grocery store solo . . . gotta take advantage, you know?)

C A breakfast I can’t remember; lunch was PB&J on slightly moldy bread (I just ripped off the green spots: It’s all good.), a banana, a few fries from my kids’ Happy Meals (we didn’t have enough bread for them); and Raisin Bran and another banana for dinner.

D Something between feeding my children, I’m pretty sure. And purse snacks of unknown origin.

7 Your last run was:

A Two hours ago.

B A couple of days ago. I went with a friend, and we did some fartleks just for fun. (Yep, that’s my life now: fartlek = fun.)

C I got in about half my 6-miler 5 days ago, but there was a meltdown in the stroller/daycare/nap situation, and, well, I got in 3 miles, right?

D Wait, what day is today again?

8 When is the last time you crossed a finish line?

A Last week. And I’ll cross one again in about two more.

B Within the past 12 months.

C After I had a child extracted from my loins.

D Never. Or at least not in this century.

9 How intimidated are you to sign up for a race?

A Seriously? Next question.

B Not scared by the idea of a race, but a bit daunted by the self-inflicted pain that goes along with racing.

C I feel nauseated from the time I pin on my bib until I cross the starting line, but then I’m good.

D I’m petrified of coming in last. And not looking or feeling like a real runner.

10 The last goal you set for yourself was:

A Are you talking professional, financial, personal, family, or emotional?

B To read at least one book and to try four new recipes every month. So far I have a 3-month streak going.

C To get my linen closet organized before the end of the month.

D To make it to 5 P.M. before I crack open a beer. And I really don’t like the taste of beer.

Tally your answers.

Mostly A’s: Time for you to a) aim for a PR; b) take on a longer distance; or c) preferably both.

Mostly B’s: Unsolicited advice: Give yourself the goal of doing a race longer than you think you can do. (We believe in you, and you should, too.)

Mostly C’s: Get thee to a racecourse within the next 3 months, or risk experiencing the equivalent of an adult temper tantrum.

Mostly D’s: Grab a friend, find a 5K, and do not pass go until you’re standing at the starting line.