THE 10K:
THE ATTAINABLE CHALLENGE

By Dimity

So those hellish 800s, back in chapter 1, are behind me. I’ve hit the track a few more times since then, doing about twenty more 800s, twenty 400s, and a few mile repeats spread out over various workouts. To get ready for this race, I have followed the Run Less, Run Faster1 program, whose eponymous strategy recommends running less (three times a week, plus 2 crosstraining days) and faster (every run has a prescribed pace, based on your previous performance). Each week, there’s a speed workout (like 800s), a tempo run (a continuous run at a demanding pace), and a longer run, which sounds kind of cruisey on paper until I realize the designated pace for the long run is actually quite a bit faster than what I naturally self-select.

While the program is definitely effective—my legs are leaner than ever, and my splits, lower than ever—it has also robbed me of my love of running. When I have to hit a certain pace for nearly every single step of every workout, a run turns into the equivalent of emptying the dishwasher, corralling my kids into bed, or picking up the dog poop in the backyard: a chore. Running is no longer an exercise in joy and me time. Still, I reluctantly finished most of the work, and I’m ready to shine my light at a 10K, a local race in early December around a small reservoir.

Mile 1 is, predictably, too fast for me. I clock in at a 7:58,2 and know I have to settle in or I’ll be doing the runner’s equivalent of the collegiate walk of shame: walking at a time and place I shouldn’t be. I slow down a little but still have enough pep in my legs to pass people. I’m usually music-less in races, and, as a result, often tune into the breathing around me and use that to gauge my effort. Am I a bigger huffer and puffer than the guy next to me? Then I’ll just chill. Am I hardly exhaling, compared with Mrs. Gasp over there? Then turn it up, sister.

Today, I am astonished at the heavy breathing going on around me. My lungs feel as full as a freshly inflated helium balloon. I pump it up another notch. I pass a woman in a Timex jersey (read: she’s on a sponsored team) and I think, I’ll feel stupid when she gets me again, but at least I’ll have one short-lived moment of glory from running less and running faster.

Despite my Breathalyzer tests and somewhat speedy legs, I do my best to stay controlled until the halfway point. A 10K is the perfect distance to really learn how to pace yourself and run a smart race. A middle child parked between the guns-blazing 5K and the don’t-go-gonzo half-marathon, the 10K requires you to practice both self-confidence and self-restraint. At a little more than 6 miles, it’s a great trial size of racing. Did you get a little too broad chested and shoot your wad? The finish line is only 2—not 6—miles away. Or are you a little too unsure of yourself around mile 3? You still have another few miles to prove to your legs that you’re in charge. What’s more, the race neatly divides up into two 5Ks, so there’s no room for confusion in pace strategy. For the first half, you go slower than you think you should; for the second, faster.

Taking my own advice, I find myself at the 4-mile mark, with splits still averaging under 8:20. I also find myself in quite a bit of pain. My legs aren’t really interested in running faster anymore, but I have simply trained too little and too fast, figuratively speaking, to let myself flake.

So I revert to my best mental strategy for passing time on the road: breaking up the race into bites as small as I’d slice up hot dogs for a preschooler. I subdivide the remaining distance into twenty-two tenths of a mile. (SBS sometimes calls me Rain Man for good reason.) During the first ten mental segments, I probably look at my Garmin thirty times. At mile 5—twelve more pieces to go—two women running side by side pass me on the concrete path, and I decide I will stay as close to them as I can. In my mind, I am drafting off them, but at a head taller than both of them, I am really just sponging up their momentum. I crack out another (barely) sub-8 minute. Me? Click off a sub-8 for the last mile of a 10K?

“Excuse me,” I gasp to the two of them when I spy the finish line, passing them on the left as I pick it up to a sprint. Nope, not a typo: a sprint after already running 6 miles. I clear the two gal pals and cross in 50:20ish, good enough for fifth place in my age group.

As I hope you know, I’m usually not somebody who waxes on about my times and race results. But that 10K was the most surreal race I’ve ever had. Honestly, it was like an out-of-body experience, like I was running a perfect race I had visualized, if I ever actually took the time to sit down, focus, and mentally rehearse my race. (I only shave my legs every 4 weeks, so it goes without saying, I’ve never practiced visualization.) I felt so strong and so confident; I knew when I passed people, I was putting distance between me and them, not just eking by them and beginning my typical game of pass/be passed/pass/be passed. (Minus Ms. Timex, of course. As far as I’m concerned, anybody in a sponsored jersey can come back to bite me at any time.)

I know this race will stand for all eternity as my 10K PR. I was proud to have run it and amazed I had a real kick, yet I was even more glad to return to my regularly scheduled running. Running (a wee bit) more, and definitely running slower.

TAKE IT From A MOTHER

DO TOU KEEP TRACK OF RACE TIMES?

“I write my time on the back of my bibs, which I display on my chalkboard in my classroom. I like to see the progress I’ve made, and it sets an example for my students.”

—CHRISTY (Her 2011 goal: 1,100 kilometers [or about 684 miles], which she runs either solo at 4:30 A.M. or occasionally with her junior high students.)

“I keep track of my marathon times because I’m always thinking about beating them.”

—HEATHER (One of her mantras, cribbed from “Intergalactic” by the Beastie Boys: “I run the marathon till the very last mile.”)

“I’ve only done one race, but I keep track of every run. Maybe it’s because I need to see progress, or maybe it’s just because I love spreadsheets.”

—YEIKO (Proudest running moment: when her son said he thought she could run 37 miles home from a campsite.)

“I didn’t originally, because I was much younger, thinner, and faster—and thought I’d always be. Now I know that’s not the case, so I write them on my race bibs, which I save.”

—ALANA (Doesn’t know how anybody runs without doing yoga.)

“I mentally keep track of both my most recent race time in a distance and my PR time in that distance.”

—KOURTNEY (Drinks brine from the dill pickle jar if she sweats profusely during a run.)

“Only the PRs unless it was a memorable race. I can’t remember what my kids’ first words were, and I didn’t write down when they lost their first teeth, so I would feel bad if I tracked and recorded all my race times during their childhood.”

—TRICIA (First ran barefoot laps around her backyard while her three girls played, then graduated to running the cul-de-sac when they graduated to playing in the driveway.)

“Yes. I’m always trying to better my times to push myself that extra bit.”

—STEPHANIE (Dedicates mile 20 of her marathons to the tribe of all the mother runners out there.)

PRACTICAL Motherly ADVICE

DOWN AND DIRTY

For moms who spend most of their days cleaning up their children, it can be therapeutic to dive into the mud themselves. These days, there are a whole category of races that involve obstacles, running, and some kind of crawl/shimmy/belly slide through a mud pit. If that’s appealing to you—and it’s totally understandable if it’s not—here are some ways to make sure your race is as dirty as possible.

10K: Finish IT

“A 10K is great because I don’t feel like I have to gun it, but it’s still over fairly quickly.”

—Kirsten

Best for: Somebody tackling the distance for the first time—or coming back from injury.

Physical Prereq: Chicas ready for this challenge should be able to run 3 or 4 miles comfortably. It’s a good idea to have completed a 5K race and have a few months of consistent running logged on your legs, but if you’re a newbie to speedwork, no worries: We’ll ease you into it.

Plan Overview: This 10-weeker stretches out your long runs to 7 miles to build the requisite stamina and confidence to cover 6.2 miles, while also introducing some speedier workouts. We’re not asking you to bust a move too often, but we know you’re up for the occasional challenge, right?

1 What it says: E: 3 miles + 4 strides

What you do: Three miles at a chatable pace, then shift gears to do four strides. How to stride: On flat ground, incrementally increase your speed until you’re going 90 to 95 percent max, and go about 100 meters or 30 seconds. Recover as needed between each souped-up effort.

More details: Finishing an easy run with strides reminds your body how to move quickly and efficiently.

2 What it says: Fun workout

What you do: Anything your heart desires—as long as it gets it pumping faster. Could be playing touch football with your neighbors or bodysurfing. (Click here for ideas.)

More details: Use this workout to press your reset button.

3 What it says: XT

What you do: Thirty to 60 minutes of weight training, yoga, cycling, swimming, Pilates: any crosstraining activity that strengthens your muscles and/or cardio system while giving your body a break from running’s repetitive pounding.

4 What it says:

What you do: Whether it’s after a night of constant interruptions (is anyone in your house not hacking?) or the day before a big run, you can skip this workout, guilt free.

More details: These workouts will be either a shorter easy run or a crosstraining day. Missing one or the other occasionally will have the least amount of impact on your overall fitness and race preparedness.

5 What it says:

What you do: Don’t let anything—not work deadlines, whiny kids, or the sniffles—get in the way of this workout.

More details: Do what you can to avoid missing your interval workouts and long runs. Both endurance and speed are important elements of a successful 10K finish.

6 What it says: LR: 4 miles

What you do: Trot through 4 miles at a comfortable pace that you could sustain for much longer than 4 miles.

7 What it says: Rest

What you do: Give your body a well-deserved break.

8 What it says: 3 miles as 10 min. WU; I: 6 x 1 min. in Z4 w/2–3 min. recovery; 10 min. CD

What you do: Cover 3 miles by warming up for 10 minutes, then ratcheting up your speed for 1 minute—aim to get in Zone 4—then recover for 2 to 3 minutes. Finish with 10 minutes of easier running.

More details: Yes, a lot of looking at your watch, but this workout will fly by.

9 What it says: 10K!

What you do: Remind yourself of all the work that got you to this point, then let your effort shine on the racecourse.

More details: No sugarcoating: You’ll feel taxed about 4 miles in, but the finish line will come sooner than you and your legs think.

TAKE IT From A MOTHER

DO YOU BUY PICTURES OF YOURSELF IN A RACE?

“Nope, but I always check them out and am frustrated that it looks like I have both feet on the ground.”

—JULIE (Best running memory: crossing the line of the 100th Boston Marathon: “Tears still come to my eyes when retelling my race experience.”)

“I bought a picture of me crossing the finish line in a half-marathon at 1:59. My husband ran in with me, so he’s in the picture smiling at me while I have my arms up and a huge smile.”

—KELLY (Entertains herself on runs by turning mailbox numbers into math equations, e.g., for 246, she thinks 2 + 4 = 6.)

“Yes, I always buy at least one, because I need proof I was there and did it.”

—KERI (First race, a 5K, was with her daughter; second race, a half-marathon, was with her mom.)

“No, but my local running store does a lot of races, and they provide free pictures.”

—CAROL (Her dream running date: her hubby, not wearing a shirt. “He’s sexy as all get out but hates going shirtless. Shorts that show off his nice butt would be cool, too.”)

“I bought pictures from my half-marathon. It felt like a virgin experience that I needed to own, even if the pictures sucked. The other races, I resisted.”

—KRISTI (Spends more money on running clothes than regular clothes: “I splurge on the bottoms and spend a little less on the tops.”)

“I bought one from the first marathon. I look at other race pictures to check out my form and make corrections later. I don’t buy them, though. Maybe I would if I looked happy instead of like I am going to kill somebody.”

—KELLY (Forcing her whole family to come to her next marathon, where she’ll assign them positions and give them cowbells.)

“No. My husband has a great camera with action mode, so we take our own shots, and they turn out awesome.”

—ALICE (Fave crosstraining: housework. “There is always lots to do.”)

“Not until I look decent in one of them.”

—MARY-GLEN (Date night is a run with her husband: “We get to talk to each other, and are not spending money on an average dinner or movie.”)

10K: OWN IT

“I’m a 10K girl. When you put effort into the training, you feel like a million bucks at the end of a race.”

—MEGAN

 

Best for: A runner who has prior 10K and 5K race experience and wants to bang out a solid 10K effort—or PR.

Physical Prereq: You should be able to complete a 6-mile run and have experience turning up the pace. If you haven’t, you might want to own a 5K race before taking on this one.

Plan Overview: Ten weeks will take you to a rip-roarin’ fast 10K; along the way, you’ll build your cardiovascular base with long runs, hit some hills to up your strength, sprint to get your speed up, and hone in on your race pace. Don’t worry: It’s not as tough as it sounds.

1 What it says: E: 3 miles; or XT

What you do: Run 3 relaxed miles or crosstrain for 30 to 60 minutes, depending how much bounce is in your step.

More details: Most weeks have 3 days with choices. I—Dimity—would probably choose to run one day (Mondays), crosstrain one day (Wednesdays), and rest the third day (Fridays). SBS would run two of the three, and XT the other.

2 What it says:

What you do: Get it done, sister.

More details: Each week, there’s one workout critical to you owning the 10K. This is the one.

3 What it says: 4 miles as 10 min. WU; I: 12 x 1 min. in Z4 w/1 min. recovery; 10 min. CD

What you do: Warm up for 10 minutes, then start in on some intervals: Run 1 minute in Zone 4 (this is hard work), run easy/walk for 1 minute. Repeat nine more times. Cool down for 10 minutes. Your total mileage will end up around 4 miles.

More details: Four miles is an estimate. Come in at 3 or 5? No problem. Don’t go all high maintenance on the numbers.

4 What it says:

What you do: Give yourself a choice: Do you want to stay or go?

More details: Once a week, there’s a workout that is optional. It won’t blow your finish time to skip it, as long as you’re diligent with the other ones.

5 What it says: 1–2 mile WU; T: 1 mile; 1–2 mile CD

What you do: Enjoy a nice 1- to 2-mile warm-up, crank it up a notch for a mile at tempo pace, then cool that body down for another 1 to 2 miles.

6 What it says: Rest; or XT

What you do: Had a relatively tranquil week? Crosstrain. Ready to jump off a cliff? Rest.

7 What it says: LR: 6 miles

What you do: Run for 6 consecutive miles at a pace that leaves you energized for the rest of
the day.

8 What it says: Rest.

What you do: Don’t work up a sweat today. Or at least not until you hook up with your SO.

9 What it says: 1–2 mile WU; H: 8 x 1 min. in Z4; 1–2 mile CD

What you do: Warm up your little booty for 1 to 2 miles, and end at the base of a moderate hill that is at least a minute long. (As the intervals grow, the length of the hill needs to, as well.) Run up the hill at a steady pace, keeping your effort as even as possible so you don’t peter out at the top. Run slowly or walk to the bottom and begin again; do eight climbs total. Finish with a 1- to 2-mile cooldown on flattish ground.

More details: If you live in the Sunshine State or another hill-deprived area, find a bridge, empty parking garage, or hit the treadmill at a 4 to 6 percent incline. You don’t want it so steep you’re crawling on all fours, but make sure it’s a challenging grade. Live among the hillbillies? Mix up the hills you use from one workout to the next.

10 What it says: Fun workout

What you do: Put a smile on your face, click here, pick a workout, and don’t stop smiling until the workout is done. (And, yes, we’re watching.)

11 What it says: 1–2 mile WU; 4 x 800 w/400 recovery; 1–2 mile CD

What you do: Run 1 to 2 miles as a warm-up, either at the track or to a track. Run an 800 (two times around) at race pace, then jog or walk a 400 (once around). Repeat three more times. Cool down with 1 to 2 miles.

More details: If you don’t have a specific number in mind, race-pace effort is a notch up from tempo (roughly 20 seconds faster), or about 85 percent of all you’ve got to give. These runs teach you to run through fatigue. (And you thought the only learning you did these days was helping your fourth-grader with long division.)

12 What it says: LR: 6 miles, 10 min. strong finish

What you do: Head out for 6 miles, and for the last 10 minutes, bump up your effort a notch so that you’re hitting a tempoish pace.

More details: Do your best to speed it up, but if you’re having a crappy run, hanging in there—and just not letting yourself slow down—is an acceptable definition of “strong finish.”

13 What it says: 1–2 mile WU; 3 x 1000 at RP w/400 recovery; 1–2 mile CD

What you do: Ease into your workout by running 1 to 2 miles, ending at a track. Run 1,000 meters (2.5 times around a track or .62 miles) at your projected 10K race pace, then recover by running once around the track slowly. Run two more 1,000-meter repeats with 400-meter recovery, then run 1 or 2 miles to cool down.

14 What it says: 1–2 mile WU; T: 2 x 1 mile + RP: 1 x 1 mile, all w/400 recovery; 1–2 mile CD

What you do: Usual warm-up, then run 1 mile at tempo pace, recover for 400 meters (or .25 mile), run another mile at tempo pace, recover for 400 meters, then finish with 1 mile at race pace. Thank your legs for their awesome effort, then finish with a 1- to 2-mile cooldown.

More details: I—Dimity—would skip the final 400-meter recovery and head straight into the cooldown. Because that’s how I roll.

15 What it says: 10K!

What you do: Race for 6.2 miles of pure ecstasy! Or something like that.

More details: A solid PR strategy: Divide the race into thirds. For the first 2 miles, aim to hit your goal pace. The second 2 miles, you will most likely pass all the runners who went out too fast. Use that as a mental boost and pick people off, as you maintain your pace and avoid the thoughts of slowing down that are screaming for attention right about now. Know the last 2.2 miles are going to be uncomfy. Staying mentally strong is key in this final stretch. Hang on to people in front of you and imagine being pulled or slung past them. Do all you can to maintain or even surpass your pace in that final mile. Last .2, pretend you have balls, and slam them into the wall.

.1 FROM ELATION TO EXHAUSTION: A TEAM RELAY

By Dimity

Relay races started in 1982 with a few ragtag runners on the bucolic back roads of Oregon, doing the Hood to Coast (now dubbed, aptly enough, “the mother of all relays”). They’ve since blossomed into a too-legit-to-quit race category. Typically, teams of a dozen runners, single sex or coed, progress from scenic Point A to lovely Point B with each runner doing three legs that total roughly 14 to 20 miles. Sounds amazing, but running double digits and staying up for nearly a day straight can be a little taxing. To wit:

 

5 P.M. Wednesday [44 hours before start]

Scramble to find new 12th member of team to replace the mother runner whose kid just broke her arm at the playground. She still wants to go, but her husband isn’t sure he can take care of a kid with a broken wing and her two siblings. “What does he think you have to do while he’s at work all week?” asks the captain, silently assuring herself the husband must have some redeeming qualities.

 

1 P.M. Thursday

Two members hit up Costco for everything they ogle but never buy when shopping for their families. Huge bags of sea-salt chips (considered healthy food: salt, lost through sweat, is actually a necessity, right?); 50 small bags of Mrs. Field’s Cookies; a tub of chocolate-covered pretzels; enough licorice for a YMCA camp for a week; a gallon of Advil. For good measure, they throw in some bananas, bagels, and sports drinks.

 

11 P.M. Thursday

You attempt to clean out your Sienna, which will soon be one of the official team vans. Spelling tests from 6 months ago, old milk boxes (so that’s what that smell was), and random Legos all go in the trash. If nothing else, you rationalize, at least you’ll have a clean car in exchange for running (gulp) 18 miles.

 

9 A.M. Friday

Twelve moms, all used to being micromanagers, put on their supervisor hats and attempt to cram in twelve bags of gear, a couple sleeping bags and pillows, two tarps, the Costco-run sustenance, and a water jug resembling an orange Michelin Man into what now feels like two terribly small vans.

 

1 P.M. Friday

Start! Thanks to a visiting sister-in-law, who is training for the NYC Marathon and jumped in to be Leg 8 runner, all twelve runners head to the start to cheer on the runner of the first leg. Lots of pictures, lots of laughs from everybody in their matching “Tough Mothers” tanks and black skirts. Excitement—and nervous energy—course through your veins. As the vans pass by your runner, you hang out the window and scream like you’re a teenager seeing Justin Bieber.

 

1:45 P.M. Friday

First handoff. Again, everybody enthusiastically gets out of the van. Go team! High fives all around.

 

5 P.M. Friday

Contemplate an apple but break out the Red Vines instead, rationalizing the high sugar content qualifies as carbo-loading.

 

5:25 P.M. Friday

Your first leg: 5.4 miles. A few uphills, but it feels so good to run after sitting in a van for 5 hours. Cakewalk.

 

7:20 P.M. Friday

You climb out to cheer on the final handoff of this series of six legs, and those hills, which had seemed so mild mannered, are reverberating through your legs with every step you take.

 

8:40 P.M. Friday

You poll your van mates about what to do during the first big break while Van 2 runners are blazing through the course. Despite your hard but tactful lobbying, your suggestion to grab drive-through then some shut-eye gets voted down in favor of a sit-down meal at Olive Garden.

 

12:25 A.M. Saturday

Hustle teammates to the van—you’re worried you’ll miss the handoff with Van 2 in the dark.

 

12:40 A.M. Saturday

Spy your first nighttime runners. Get chills from envisioning yourself out there running—and from the 48-degree night air.

 

1:15 A.M. Saturday

The skuzzy camping feeling has set in. You deeply regret the endless-breadsticks choice, which meant no time to shower at the team captain’s house. Judging from the stench wafting off your teammate who is copiloting as you drive, you must be smelling rank, too. Vow to brush your teeth and wipe your pits at the next transition.

 

2:35 A.M. Saturday

Consider drinking a bottled Frappuccino to revive, but the mere thought makes you throw up a little in your mouth. The flat of them at Costco had looked so appetizing.

 

3:55 A.M. Saturday

Your second leg: 7 miles. Wearing a headlamp and a sweaty reflective vest and carrying a glow stick in each hand, you look like a Christmas tree. Despite the cool night air, your legs start to cooperate after a mile. Birds start to twitter; it’s beginning to feel like morning instead of nighttime. Rejoice as you contemplate how amazingly different this run is from the basement-treadmill ones you are often forced to do during your toddler’s naps. There’s nothing I’d rather do in the predawn darkness than run 7 miles, you think to yourself. Until you hit more hills, which you don’t see until you’re at the bottom of them, looking up. Why do my legs have all the hills?

 

4:55 A.M. Saturday

You know it’s antisocial, but you doze off instead of getting out of the van to cheer on and hand water to a teammate halfway through her (way-less-hilly-than-your) leg.

 

8 A.M. Saturday

The smell coming off the two Porta-Potties at the transition is so revolting, you decide to squat by the side of the road and realize you’ve forgotten the TP, which isn’t as pristine as it was a day ago. Drip dry, or so you think, until you stand up and dribble all over your inner thigh. Contemplate sharing anecdote with a teammate but realize it may only be funny to you—or at the end of the race. Anybody know where the Purell is?

 

8:35 A.M. Saturday

Spy the van of the Fairfield Fairies, a team of tutu-clad 20-something women runners your team has been jockeying with since the early stages of the race. The urge to overtake them is less compelling than it was, oh, 19 hours ago. (Is that really all it’s been?)

 

9 A.M. Saturday

Tally off what you’ve eaten so far: flavorless, too-salty spaghetti puttanesca at the O. Garden; half an
Egg McMuffin (you would’ve eaten the whole thing, but it fell into a puddle at a transition area . . . the 5-second rule couldn’t apply); four bags of mini Mrs. Fields; three bottles of Powerade; a PB&J; at least fifteen Red Vines; two bananas; five handfuls of Fritos, and, to make sure you had enough fuel to finish your legs, two gels while running. Decide you’ve consumed far more calories than you’ve burned running.

 

9:10 A.M. Saturday

After the handoff with Van 2, you navigate the now-dust-caked Sienna into a massive field that resembles a Civil War battlefield, if fleece hoodies and running shoes had been standard issue for Union troops. Scope out a secluded spot—a relative term when you’re talking 213 decorated vans and 1,200-plus runners—to spread out your tarp and sleeping bag. Pull on an eye pillow to block out the sun and hook your hand over your ear to block the noise of other racers having the Hershey squirts in the nearby wooded area.

 

1:15 P.M. Saturday

Last leg: 3.6 miles. Relive the McMuffin as it reappears as you hit yet another hill on your final leg, which is, thankfully, mostly flat and downhill. All good, except it starts to rain.

 

2:00 P.M. Saturday

Go through all your clothes—you thought you brought enough for a week—and realize you don’t have anything that is both clean and dry. Settle for your sweat-stained team tank and a random black fleece you found stashed in the backseat along with McDonald’s wrappers, used Kleenex, a stash of celebrity gossip mags (score!), and a smooshed bran muffin. Your kids are less messy than your friends.

 

2:15 P.M. Saturday

Forget dancing by the side of the road or flirting with the Midnight Cowboys team of young’uns from the University of Texas. Try to sleep in the van. Get so annoyed by a teammate’s high-pitched voice you put on your iPod, but Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory,” which got you so fired up yesterday afternoon, doesn’t really have the lullaby vibe you need. More like “Edge of Insanity.”

 

5:42 P.M. Saturday

Finish! Big group hug, lots of pics (that will never make it past Facebook), and a few tears. We did this! Vow you’ll definitely do another relay next year.

 

1 It’s actually a book, but writing the full title would use up most of the word allotment for this chapter. It’s called Runner’s World Run Less, Run Faster: Become a Faster, Stronger Runner with the Revolutionary FIRST Training Program, by Bill Pierce, Scott Murr, and Ray Moss. Phew.

2 I’d rather print my weight, which is what I did in Run Like a Mother, than print my usual splits. But I worked hard for this one, and I want my kids to know it, so I’m recording it for posterity.