I spent the weekend of August 18th in Breckenridge, CO alongside a handful of my TT1 teammates and a couple of ESPN videographers, assigned to tell the stories of the three other athletes present, and two members of the Running Team stationed several miles away in Leadville.

The guys, Jon Obst and Ryan Jones, were preparing to run the Leadville 100 - a legendary "race across the sky." 100 miles of grueling terrain in the thinnest of air, capping at an elevation of 12,000ft. While I was busy relaxing in a hot tub and looking at the mountain scenery, Jon and Ryan were prepping their drop bags and readying themselves to tackle an unimaginable feat. They talked about simply wanting "to survive," about the "endless forward motion," about the challenges of enduring the sleeplessness and the delirium.

The next morning, after the two men had finished the race, I was sitting with the Team Marketing Officer, Alex Kaminsky, back in Breckenridge. "How'd it go?" I asked. Alex told me that, around mile 80, Ryan had talked about how much he simply wanted to quit, and the extent to which he relied on his pacers to pull him through that final stretch.

"Yeah, I mean, you're 80% finished, right? Why would you quit then?"

Alex looked at me, and smiled. "At mile 80, you still have a marathon left to run. Think about that: For most distance runners, a marathon is the goal. It's the ultimate achievement. He still had that before him after finishing 80 miles."

That was the moment in which I really understood the undertaking, in which I truly conceptualized the amazingness of that effort. I've run marathons, and I know about the moment when you feel like quitting...when you look off the side of the course, and realize that the only thing stopping you from simply walking off is your own determination. Your feet hurt, your body feels as if it might break in half, and you just keep moving. To do that four times over in 24 hours? That is fortitude.

If you run - or if you don't - this is worth a look:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc9w9jAUKV8&feature=youtu.be

I have to start this post by apologizing to my friend, Jessica. I spent three days in San Antonio, and was supposed to hook up with her one of those days…but never found the time amid a dizzying schedule of events. Yes, Jessica, chasing after this pig took priority. I can only hope you understand.

And then I have to apologize to my neighbor, Helen. She and I were supposed to meet up around wine-thirty and take the tots to the park while boozing it up in the gazebo. I got side-tracked by a phone call from Henry’s school after he got a black eye trying to shoot his assistant with a rubber band, had it back-fire, and nail him square in the sclera. (When asked about his wrongdoing, he promised to “have better aim next time.” Great.)

The truth is that, though I wish to play and cavort and gallivant, alas, there are times when I cannot. Work, travel, kids…all get in the way. Kids especially. (And before some nit-picky, angry, lunatic skips to the comment section to ask me why I had kids if I was just going to complain about them, let me take a moment to say to that person, “Fuck you,” and “Go Away.”)

 

Of course, we all have competing priorities and, generally, I think mine are well-balanced. At least, relative to most people. With that in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to list the top three persons or groups who need to re-evaluate their priorities:

#1 : Anyone who watched TLC’s “Honey-Boo-Boo” instead of watching the Republican National Convention. I realize it's a lot to ask, but just once every 4 years couldn't we stop watching the shit on TLC and watch the shit at the national conventions?  I realize it would be more fun if Mitt Romney said, "A dollar ain't worth a holler - make it two and I'll think about it" or if Barack Obama said, "I want to protect women's biscuit rights,” but you can’t strike hillbilly gold everywhere. I just hope Mama and Sugar Bear are in on the joke and are laughing all the way to the bank.

 

 

#2 : Peaches Geldof. “Who the hell is Peaches?” you ask. Peaches Geldof is semi-famous because she is Bob Geldof's daughter. I’d like to give more insight than that, but I can’t. It doesn’t matter, anyway. The reason people are talking about Peaches is because, tragically, she was pushing her baby in a pram in London when she hit a pothole or tripped or some such thing and the baby toppled out, hitting the cement. Poor Peaches, right? Here’s the difference between you and me and Peaches: When the stroller tipped, Peaches was on her cell phone and she was photographed making every effort to avoid dropping her phone and/or ending her phone call WHILE she tried to get her baby off the sidewalk. Who does that? I’m glad the PHONE was okay. And before the throngs of judgment come my way, No! She was NOT on the phone with her transplant doctor or engaged in hostage negotiations or trying talk some guy off a ledge.

3#: The parent who sent their kid to school with head lice so they didn’t have to miss work. I found the letter in Henry’s backpack yesterday….the one designed to “educate about head lice so that parents can take steps at home to help prevent other children from contracting” the little bastards. Really, it’s a formal way to beg those who aren't doing their due diligence to stop sending infested kids to school and to get their shit together. Those stubborn little fuckers are tricky, opportunistic and crawl faster than an unsupervised baby towards an exposed live wire. I’m trying hard not to sound like a pussy here, but IF your kid has lice – keep him/her home. JESUS CHRIST, DON’T SEND THEM TO SCHOOL! I don’t care what you use to kill those nasty little bloodsuckers, just fucking kill them. But you are NOT done there. Not by a long shot.  Nuking the creepy crawlers on your kid’s melon is just the start. You have to literally boil the shit out of your linens, vacuum the beds, furniture and whatever the fuck else your kid has been near, scour your house from floor to ceiling, and put whatever you can’t boil or bleach in plastic bags for days in order to suffocate the tricky little motherfuckers. If all else fails, FUMIGATE. But please, please, please, for the love of all the is holy, DO NOT SEND YOUR KIDS TO SCHOOL UNTIL THE BUGS – OR YOUR CHILDREN – ARE DEAD. Whichever comes first.

Of course, we all work. Mothering is work. The daily demands of tending to children, managing a home, balancing a life of one’s own, nursing our intimate relationships…it’s a whole lot of labor.

But, when you have diabetes, or when you are raising a child with autism, the work is unending. The ebb and flow of task-to-rest is replaced by an invisible effort that eclipses each moment of each day. 

There was a time when I would simply head out the front door, hop on my bike, and ride. Now, I first check my blood sugar, eat enough to elevate it for the work I intend to perform, and carry a bunch of supplies that serve as ever-present reminders of my condition. When I tire, I wonder if I am simply weary or if my blood sugar is too high? Too low? I must check, and then again.

At the office, sitting behind my desk, head hurting and nauseous, I give myself my sixth shot of the day and then continue with the stack of papers and charts in front of me. My colleague only sees the work in my hands, and not the work of controlling my constitution. I’m always adjusting the thermostat of my body, always working to find a place of equilibrium amid a myriad of variables.

Likewise, my son is perched in the doorway of his own mind. It’s my job to help fling open those doors to the world, so that we may see his thoughts and ideas and he might find a way to interpret the space around him. Not only do I at times feel the pressure to interact with Henry every waking moment, but I’m trying to interact with a child who often does not want to be interacted with.

Henry is seated on the floor across from me, waving a wooden ladle in circles. He has taken voraciously to this particular utensil, toting it to the store and to school and the park.  Staring at the wall before him, he chews rhythmically on its handle.  He’s been doing this for five minutes, with no indication of stopping.  I could try to redirect him, engage him in something else, offer to play a game or read a story.  Instead, I sit down next to him, and playfully gnaw on the other end. Henry laughs, and then waits for me to persist. We laugh some more.  I find, for the moment, a pathway to an invitation, and the opportunity to really be present with my son.

Raising a child who has obsessive thoughts and who verbalizes them constantly can be truly exhausting. Standing at the ice cream counter in Whole Foods, I watch as Henry dissolves into a screaming, wailing mess. In the display case, there is one solitary, empty ice cream bin. I try to obscure his view, but it is too late. The vacancy is unsettling to Henry, and so, gently, as I try to calm his tears and hold the fists striking my legs and back, we leave.  And then, having breakfast with my friend LeAnn, Henry spots a bin of children’s toys. He goes over to investigate, and finds a tiny child’s computer. His fingers push the buttons anxiously, waiting for the electronic voice or the lights or sounds he expects to elicit from the device…but he gets nothing. The batteries are spent. Again, he cannot cope with the unmet expectation and I find myself holding my son as he sobs uncontrollably, his head buried beneath his shirt like a tiny turtle.

Some days, I find myself relentlessly trying to navigate the world while walking on ice no thicker than a sheet of nori. Other parents see us simply go to the park, but I have to make certain we walk the right path, in the proper direction, passing the oak tree and stopping for acorns. If I disrupt the routine, I risk the torrents of emotions that I cannot beckon back from the shore. I have to sing the same songs in the same order each night, no matter how weary I am from my day, so as to induce sleep and avoid the anxiety that robs Henry of his calm. While my friends simply see a lullaby, I am doing the work of making peace. If the forecast calls for rain, I must email Henry’s teacher in advance, warning her to put on his galoshes. What looks on the surface to be an act of overbearing and well-intended maternal love is actually a pre-emptive strike. Should the cuffs of his pants become wet, Henry will simply strip off the offending pants, and walk naked.

There is never a moment of my day when I am not on alert.

The experience of always working for your body and your child is exhausting. Most days, I don’t do it so much out of necessity as I do out of love, and the belief that my son is – like all children – a miracle. I’m grateful to be a part of raising the marvel. I remind myself, too, that  while it can be exhausting and is not without struggle, my son and I are healthy and happy, and have it in many ways better than so many we know. Still, I confess that there are days when I remember what it was like to live without the work of each second, and I miss it.

So, I did what any thinking person would do: I scheduled a vacation. I decided to send Henry and Midori to a ski camp in January designed specifically for children with autism and their siblings. Of course, I will be taking diabetes wherever I go…but it will be a welcome source or renewal nonetheless. A little less work for a few days.

Golden, CO - Lookout Mountain sits south of Boulder, at the northern outskirts of Golden, and is a short 30min drive from my door. The 4.5-mile climb is notorious among locals as a lunch hour ride when you are short on time, and want to get the most bang for your buck. In takes most cyclists less than 30 minutes to complete, with a 1,228 feet of elevation gain. The route begins with a gradual ascent, so those unfamiliar with the climb often start out much too fast and get smashed in the first five minutes of the race, with no juice left to finish the route.

The last time I did this race – back in 2009 – I had a respectable time of 30:06. I was hoping to better that this year. I have trained on Lookout a lot this season, so I felt good about it headed in to Friday morning. Also, I expect this to be my last race of the season, so I was anxious to finish it with a good result.

I arrived at the start line with a blood glucose of 175, which is perfect for a road race or criterium, but a bit higher than I like to be for a hill climb, and especially one so short. I chose, however, not to correct because I didn’t want to risk going too low during the race, and I still felt pretty good. I got in a 20 minute warm up, and was reay to go.

The race was somewhat predictable for a hill climb. We set a high, but not screaming tempo. One cyclist pulled about ten seconds ahead, obviously assuming that the grade would remain more or less the same. This situation persisted until the grade eased after the first set of switchbacks when a few riders, including one I was marking, attacked. I miscalculated, and didn’t really put in a lot of effort, wanting to save my energy for the seperntines up toward the top. After the second set of switchbacks, there were more riders coming off the back, but a small group was powering their way to the crest of the climb.

There are 200 meters of flat at 500 meters to go, with the final 200 kicking upward again. I tried to use that flat section to catch the group approaching the finish, but I was pretty boxed in. I tried to sprint in the last few meters, but just lacked the reserves to make anything great happen.

My finish time was 31:02, which was a bit disappointing. It was still a good time overall, but certainly slower than my last attempt at this race. My BG was 196 at the finish and trending up, so I corrected with a couple of units of insulin.

Before Henry and Midori, I never thought I could harbor such tenderness and such fierce passion for my children. I had no idea of the power of the emotions that would sweep through me once I became a parent. To say that I love my children, that they are my absolute center in this world, is to say nothing at all of the depth of devotion I feel when looking at their tiny faces.

Of course, that is one part of the story. With all that tenderness and adoration comes the late night exhaustion of caring for sick children, the rivalries that send two tots spinning into tantrums, the phases we’d rather forget – Henry’s prolific biting and Midori’s astute use of curse words. All the moments when I was too rushed, too stressed, too caught in the demands of being a working mother and a wife and a business partner to feel those moments of love, or to offer them in return. The frenzied mornings when Henry would spend an hour trying to tug on his coat and find the right shoes that didn’t scrunch his toes and ask me what kind of ears a person would need to have in order to hear God talking, while his sister perched in the doorway to show me her latest yoga posture and I, all the while, was frantically trying to get them in the car before the start of the school day.

The good news is that children are forgiving. They don’t demand perfection. In fact, they expect it less than we, as women and mothers, presuppose. Our children want our undivided attention in bits and pieces, and then to assert their own independence and autonomy the rest of the day. It is in the apex of that doorway – the one where children trust in the steadfast love of mothering enough to be their own persons – that we can find the balance of living.

Recently, The Atlantic published a piece entitled Why Women Still Can’t Have It All.  Author Anne-Marie Slaughter, the director of policy planning at the State Department under Hillary Rodham Clinton from 2009 to 2011, writes from personal experience about the reasons women can’t juggle both the demands of a high-powered job and being fully present as parents — at least not with the way America’s economy and society are structured today.

Without delving too much in to the socio-economic argument or the cultural stereotypes that drive Slaughter’s piece, I can tell you that I have found a way to create a work-life balance that benefits me and, vicariously, my children. I’ve structured my time in a way that supports their needs and allows me to be a fully engaged parent while still caring for my own emotional and physical health, and providing me the avenues to pursue my passions and pay the bills. And yes, the dishes get done, and the children are bathed and the house is tidy and the lunches neatly packed and the bellies are full of good foods.

For me, the answer is simple: Structure. Not in a rigid sense, filled with charts and chore lists but, rather, in a fluid way that serves as testament to the fulcrums steadying our love for one another.  In our home, we believe that the most basic community is familial, and thus everyone has a role. I make the supper with the help of my children. Midori sets our table, and Henry clears the plates when we have finished eating. My husband does the dishes as I draw the tub and soap the children. The kids ready themselves each morning, and tidy their rooms while my husband prepares their breakfast and I head out on my morning run. When I return, I clean the kitchen and set out the bentos and backpacks, violins and coats. It’s an unspoken contract between us all – that we will help one another in a way that inspires peace and calm each of our days. It’s something of a dance, with everyone knowing their part, assuming their role without question or debate.

This conformity to habit has given my children a sense of predictability in a spontaneous world. At the same time, it has provided my husband and me the freedom to do the things we most love. We make time to exercise, to eat well, to come together at day’s end. Before we became parents, each of us had a life. Though we worked hard, we found ways to relax, to express ourselves, to relieve tension. So many women lament to me the guilt they experience when leaving their children to go to the gym, or to take a long walk. They forget that being a mother does not mean practicing parenthood every moment of every day. We do our children no favors when our lives revolve around only their needs.

My own mother worked in the home, which is to say that she was a “stay at home mother.” She spent every moment tending to her children, through bitterness and exhaustion and resentment. In the process, she became unhealthy, obese, sedentary. By the end of her life, which came much too soon, she was bedridden and unable to be fully present for her children and grandchildren. She missed recitals and graduations, births and deaths, celebrations and accolades because she had forfeited herself to the role of being a parent. I told my husband that I would gladly have traded 20 hours a week with my mother in exchange for 20 years of her living. She never knew she was making that trade. She knew only that she was a wholly devoted parent, and that she never felt the guilt of leaving us with a sitter.

I make time to exercise every single day. My husband also fits a daily workout in to his schedule.  In the process, we model to our kids the value of physical activity, and the need to take time to tend to the personal. When I return to my home after a weekend away, racing my bike, I come back to my children renewed and ready to tackle the exhausting work of parenting.

When we back away from our attempts to be paragons, we give our children an incredible gift.

The idea of “parental perfection” is predicated on the notion that children require constant attention, and that it is the job of the parent – and primarily the mother – to be always available. Children inhale our worry about doing everything the “right” way and, in the process, we deprive children a sense of much needed security. We inadvertently instruct them that they are helpless, incapable, and incompetent. By contrast, when we enlist them as allies, we teach them that they are valued members of a community, and they derive a real sense of esteem from contributing to the running of the home. Chores give kids a meaningful way to demonstrate competency and autonomy while simultaneously easing the burden on overworked parents. In modeling for them how we, their parents, can take time for ourselves to be healthy and distribute the work of running a home, we help our children understand that everyone has value.

I probably have the kind of personality that a diabetic needs: Type A. I'm good with systems, and I create organizational structure in every area of my life. I have a system for making dinner, getting the kids to bed, training on the bike. I have compartmentalized everything in my home, including the refrigerator which clearly bears a label on every shelf so my husband knows where to put the tofu, the bread, the nutritional yeast and the wheat germ. Likewise, I'm pretty good at compartmentalizing my emotions. I keep work at the office, challenges in the home confined to the domain of my relationships therein, schedule my son's autism therapies so they don't intrude on the sanctuary of our living room. In the context of D management, I count carbs with respectable acumen, I check my blood sugar ten, twelve times a day, and the last time I missed a workout was the day of my mother's funeral. So, naturally, I expect that brand of order from everything else in my life...only, it doesn't always work like that. Diabetes, in particular.

Most days, I keep my blood sugar in a nice, even, predictable range. Some days, my body rebels. That was Saturday.

I set out at 6:00 in the morning for an easy roll since I was slated to race Sunday morning. The thing is, I felt GREAT. I got about four miles in, and decided to make it a long ride to Boulder, then circle up the National Forest toward Estes Park. I had a few lows on the way - which is not typical - but plenty of carbs in the pocket of my jersey. Some 60 miles later, I pulled in to the driveway with my last Stinger Waffle in hand. Perfect.

My son ran up to me, bike helmet affixed to his head, yelling "Dad said no media! Let's go to the Farmer's Market." Banned from the computer, Henry had decided to go seek out a veg tamale and the last peaches of the season. My daughter agreed, slapped her helmet to her head, and grabbed her bike. My husband appeared in short order, and the four of us left.

In the back of my mind, I knew I should have eaten before heading out again...but then, I figured I could grab an apple at the market were it necessary. It was a short ride, the kids pedal slow... I didn't even have my meter.

You see where this is going. We decided to ride a bit longer, the kids were having fun, weather was nice...

And then I got caught in the net of a low. The kind of low that keeps you barely docked in the consciousness of the space you occupy at that moment. By the time I felt it, I was creeping too close to chaos for my own comfort.

A few glucose tablets and an emergency apple juice later, I made it home. I sat down, trying to get my bearings again, grabbed my meter...and then? 50. Still low. My four year old looked at the number and, without saying a word, trotted to the pantry and brought me a honey stick...an act both awesome and sad all at once.

An hour later, I checked my blood sugar to find myself sitting just under 200. The rest of the day was spent on the roller coaster. I was either high or low, and never managed to find an equilibrium. The whole afternoon was filled with the dust and dryness of fast acting glucose tablets, coating my teeth in a nasty sugary film, or the injecting of insulin to try and bring myself back down to something approaching normal.

It's days like Saturday when, control issues aside, I would gladly cede the responsibility of managing my disease to anyone willing to do it on my behalf. If only I could post an ad on Craigslist, seeking a D Manager or Substitute Pancreas. But it doesn't work like that. Every day, hour upon hour, it's my job. When I eat, sleep, cycle, go to a meeting or take the kids to the pool. There are no sick days or vacation days. So, I do my imperfect best - the best I have in each moment. Most of the time, it's good enough. Some days? It's not.

That's hard for me. It's difficult when my body fails to comply with the plan I have made for it, with the system I have so carefully constructed. It's frustrating and lonely and yes, it pisses me off. And then, at times, my husband will state the obvious: Why didn't you check before we left? Why didn't you stop and eat something before getting back on your bike?

The answer, of course, is that I didn't want to.

Mistakes, miscalculations, missteps happen. To be tasked with doing the body's job every moment of every day - sleeping and waking and working and living - is a heavy burden. Most days, I don't even think about it. I follow the plan, and my body agrees. Some days, the weight of the chore can be measured in glucose tablets and needles and units of Insulin glulisine.

I finally gave up, and spent the rest of Saturday doing this.

Here's the thing about living in Boulder : Everyone looks like they just finished running a marathon, and most of the people here probably did. Road bikes are everywhere, and I'm not talking your average, commuter-friendly recreational cyclist kind of roadie. I'm talking a bike worth more than the BMW to which it is affixed. Of course, you'll find plenty of bikes under people, too. There's even a bike share program, where the Boulder smugness is mandatory but the spandex? Totally optional.

It's kind of surreal, actually.

The point here is that there exists great pressure to be fit when living in Boulder, and greater pressure still when competing on the bike. You have to get up every morning, shove some vitamin A down your gullet, followed by  vitamin D, and maybe some vitamin E, until you've spelled the mnemonic sentence, "A MAN IS BAKED IN YOUR BAD CAB." You have to eat nothing but microgreens and swear off consuming anything white because it will certainly cause death in mere hours. You have to find the discipline and the drive and the inner strength and the sheer GUTS to go procure your human growth hormone, your EPO...

Wait, what???

Yeah.  

The aforementioned publication had a nice story about David Anthony, a 41 year old CAT3 cyclist who got popped for doping. He's not from Boulder, by the way. The idea, however, is that his story is probably more common than anyone realizes, and the fact of the matter is that the list of cyclists banned from the sport is filled with names no one would ever know. More Anthonys than Schlecks. Still, it begs the obvious question: Why is a 41 year old CAT3 cyclist such a douche?

 (http://velonews.competitor.com/2012/08/news/in-search-of-relevance-a-cat-3-turns-to-epo-and-hgh_232611)

Anyway, as a diabetic I have to shoot up enough as it is, and I'm way too poor to shell out the kind of cash required to dope...so I'm stuck with the "exercise regimen." If that sounds stuffy and lame - like "meeting agenda" - well, that's because stuffy and lame is what I do best. Ask my trainer. His job is to listen to me complain about exercise, give me a little pep talk, and shoot me with tranquilizer darts if I try to crawl away on my hunger-weak limbs when I hear him say the word, "intervals." I loathe intervals. I know they are supposed to make me stronger and faster...but if I had a gold brick for every time I pleaded with my trainer to skip them, I could build a mighty fortress that would most certainly get ransacked by bandits since gold bricks are bound to attract that kind of criminal element, unless I had ninjas guarding it...ninjas with a fierce loyalty to me who also were willing to accept gold bricks as payment...

I digress.

I'm usually pretty good about avoiding excuses, making time to workout, whatever. But right now, it's a little tougher. Dennis just had major back surgery, and has been laid up for the last week, loopy on all kinds of fun drugs that make him say things he might later regret. The kids are home for two more weeks. Running a business takes up a shit-ton of time. It’s a little like being in school: there’s always something you ought to be doing and, at any given moment, I’m usually not doing most of those things because I’m wasting time or thinking about something else or procrastinating or training. And when I’m not training, I’m sucking up to my kids so they will still speak to me when they are teenagers and will make sure to find a nice, clean nursing facility for me in my old age.

It's making me a bit crazy, honestly, and I've been stress-eating my way through about 8000lbs of Cheezy Kale Chips (made without cheese, by the way) to get through it. Because that's how we roll here in Boulder.