Although it wasn’t my best time ever, it wasn’t my worst either. In fact, I ran 4 minutes faster than last year. (Ok, 6 minutes slower than my best half marathon time ever, but I’m trying to be positive.)

Jeremy ran with me until the 12 mile marker. It was his first half marathon and that day he ran farther than he’d ever run in his entire life. What an amazing thing to be able to experience that with him.

Even though he was with me until the 12th mile, he beat me by more than 2 minutes! While it was all I could do to cross the finish line, he sprinted at the end!

As I was between the 1/2 and 1/4 mile mark at the very end, I heard the announcer at the finish line say, “And finishing with a strong kick, from Indianapolis, Indiana, Jeremy Algate who’s just 14 years old.” One of my proudest moments. I said to a guy who was running near me, “Hey! That’s my son!” He politely pretended like he cared and said, “Really? That’s cool!”

Matt finished without dying, passing out or getting injured in spite of the complete lack of training. He has this annoying genetic endurance thing that allows him to just pick up and run long distances without even trying. Very frustrating for someone who trained for 16 weeks to run the same distance.

The weather was unbelievably perfect. Sunny, but not oppressively hot. Comfortably cool when we were standing at the start line; warm enough to be comfortable at the end when we were waiting for Matt to finish.

Mollie picked up Kate and Nic and brought them to cheer us on somewhere around the 9 mile marker. It was such a huge encouragement knowing they were waiting for us when we came off the track. Amazing how much better you feel when you see the faces of people who love you, and hear them hollering, “You can do it! Keep going! You look great!”. Thanks, Mol! It meant more than you know.

So now that it’s over, I can go back to being undisciplined about my training and just running when I feel like it. At least for about 6 weeks until we start training for the half marathon in October.

There are times when I run just because it’s good exercise; in fact, it’s probably the most efficient exercise because you can burn more calories running than almost any other form of exercise.

There are times when I run because it’s good therapy. I’m convinced that I didn’t start running by coincidence. This will sound dramatic, but I believe running has saved my life. When things are at their blackest, I go for a run and somehow I’m able to deal with the situation better by the time the run is over. It gives me time to think, it clears my head, it makes me focus all of my physical resources. As much as I believe Mike Spencer has helped me, I’ve got to say that running ranks right up there with being a positive contributor to my emotional well-being.

There are times I run because I like it. Ok, so they are few and far between, but it does happen on occasion. And those times are so amazing that it keeps me coming back day after day to lace up my running shoes.

All of those things I have learned training for races. But here’s what makes me love racing.

There is nothing like the sound of thousands of running shoes hitting the pavement all at the same time. It’s a cacophony of sound that rivals any symphony. It’s exhilarating.

I love just running along in a big group of people, listening to little bits of conversation as we go. Believe me, I have heard people talking about literally everything while running. You name it, I’ve heard a conversation about it during a race.

I’m intrigued (and ticked off sometimes) that people who are twice as big as me, or many years older than me, will pass me during a race. On the flip side, I’m often surprised by being able to pass someone much more athletic looking or significantly younger than I am. Running is a sport that equalizes people. Almost anybody can be good at it.

I think what I love most about running races is that, even though I never expect to win any event that I participate in, I can still be constantly improving on my own time or even just how I feel at the end of the race. I’m only competing against myself.

I guess what I’ve discovered is that training is not just a means to an end; what I’ve experienced along the way to my races has been valuable and has been a worthwhle journey in and of itself. And racing is like getting to eat dessert first. I’ve also realized that sometimes that crunchy little place with the rock on your left and the hard place on your right isn’t quite as bad as it sounds.

Speaking of which, my brain seems to have gotten just a little off kilter lately. I don’t know if it’s a hormone imbalance, being blonde or having adult ADD. I keep meaning to go to that adult ADD website and doing their little test, but I always get distracted.

What kind of mother arranges the schedule of their 7 year old so that they have activities every night of the week? Sadistic? Insane? I don’t know, but I’ll let you know how it went when May is over.

When last tested, Nicole (above-mentioned 7 year old) was reading at the upper fifth grade level. The other day she was sitting on a swing in our back yard reading a book. It was the cutest thing ever.

I hope my children realize that even on their worst days I’m more proud of being their mom than anything else I’ve ever done.

Last Sunday, Jeremy and I ran 12 miles in preparation for the mini. When we got done, he said, “I just ran 12 miles. I feel really alive.” I had to agree with him about 10 minutes later when I caught my breath.

Last week I was sitting at my desk and I had my hand in a fist, with my thumb tucked inside, resting on my desk. My boss walked by and said, “An indwelling thumb is a sign of a neurological disorder.” I love having an Occupational Therapist for a boss. Plus now he thinks I’m retarded.

I love it that Katie is old enough to go to stuff with me now. Like baby showers. She’s great company.

It’s baseball season and I have yet to see a game. Pitiful. I’ll be correcting that situation soon.

I’ve been consumed this week with trying to understand why I live in a state where it’s 80 degrees one week and snowing the next. Indiana weather is like a very bad and annoying practical joke. I don’t really like the unpredictability of it. I want to move all my friends and family to some place warm. We’d have to move Eagle Creek Park, too.

The older you get, the more complicated the words “annual checkup” become.

School will be out 4 weeks from today.

The crabapple tree in our front yard is covered with beautiful white, fragrant blossoms. I wish I could just enjoy the tree now instead of thinking that each flower represents another crabapple I’ll have to rake up this fall.

Going to Florida for Spring Break is just as cool as an adult as it was when I was a college student, plus I remember more of it when I get home.

Growing up, I always thought everyone’s mom was like my mom, and I certainly didn’t appreciate the gift that I had in her raising me. It was only when I became an adult and found out that other people had a much different experience with their mothers growing up that I began to appreciate her. And then when my kids were born, my admiration for how she raised me and my sisters (4 of us within 5 years of each other) grew immeasurably.

From my mother and her mother, I inherited my over-the-top optimism, my gift for and love of writing, and my inherent need to apologize for things that are completely out of my control. (Like when someone tells me they had a bad day, out of my mouth pops, “I’m sorry.” As if I’m responsible for their bad karma or something.) My mom is one of the most compassionate and generous people I know. And she has a knack for making me feel guilty.

For years I’ve had this kind of long-running joke with my parents that I am their favorite. I’ll leave them voice mail messages and just say, “Hi, it’s your favorite daughter. Please call me back.” And they always do, proving that I am indeed their favorite. (Some could argue that they just recognized my voice, although my sisters and I all sound alike and others could say that they called all of the other sisters before finally getting to me, but this is where the over-the-top optimism comes in.)

Any way, recently I have been admittedly neglectful of either e-mailing or calling my parents. So this week, I receive the following poem from my mom. In spite of the fact that it made me feel guilty, it was so clever and charming that I couldn’t help but respond. I’m sure you’ll agree.

Dear Lorrie, Daughter o’ mine,
Are you sick or are you fine?
Do you still go to work or just stay home?
Do you smile and sing or groan and moan?

Marjorie Turner Kirkpatrick (who used to be your mom)

Now, let me just say that I’m not really afraid of snakes. I actually find them interesting and even charming at times. However when you think something is a pile of poo and it turns out to be a snake, it can be a bit startling. Once I calmed down, we all moved in on the snake to get a better look. It was still coiled up, but apparently we encroached a little too much on it’s personal space because it hissed and struck at us like it was a much bigger, much fiercer snake. Because we wanted it to feel good about itself, we pretended to be intimated by it and went along on our morning jog.

I’ve not seen another snake like it in my many visits to the park since that morning. It probably has a scientific name, but to us it will always be The Rare and Seldom Seen Poo Snake.

A couple days later I was driving to work when all of a sudden I remembered that when I was 2, I fell out a window at my grandma’s house and landed on my head. We were going to see my parents a few days after that so I decided to ask them about the details of that incident. Well, I started explaining to them what the eye doctor had said and they both thought of different head injuries I had sustained as a child.

The first one was when I was sitting in a window with my older sister at my grandma’s house and I leaned too hard on the screen and fell out backward hitting an old wooden bucket with my head. Hospital visit, no concussion. The second one happened when I was reading a book while I was riding my bike (I know, what a geek!). I hit the curb, the bike stopped, the girl didn’t. Did I mention I was going down a hill at the time? I can’t even remember what the third one was.

All I can say is, this explains a lot more than just the wavy lines behind my eyes.

OK, I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn’t think it would be this soon. When Jeremy started cross country just a few short weeks ago, he ran with me a couple times and had difficulty keeping up with my pace and endurance. This past week at one of his meets, J ran a 3K (which is 1.8 something miles) in 12:59! When I put that into the pace calculator, it worked out to just under 7 minute miles. Unbelievable. My best speed ever was just under 8 minute miles. He broke his previous personal record by over a minute! I am so proud of him!

Depression, like Carl Sandburg’s fog, is creeping in on my life on little cat feet. It’s taken me awhile to figure out what it was that I was feeling. I’ve been walking around with this feeling of impending doom, like something wasn’t quite right, like I was forgetting something really important. Have you ever had a bad dream that was so real you couldn’t shake the bad feeling of it even after you were awake? That’s the feeling I’ve had.

I abhor feeling depressed and so I use every emotional tool in my arsenal to fight against it. But sometimes I have to acknowledge it. You know how when you feel like you’re going to faint and you can see the blackness closing in on you from the periphery of your vision? That’s how this feeling has been for me — not enough to make me pass out, but always right there on the periphery.

Here’s why I’m depressed — I’m feeling fat. Now some of you, when you read that, laughed, rolled your eyes and said, “Oh, brother!” But I’m not being funny. Perspective is a strange thing. See, the FEELING of not fitting into my clothes, not liking how I look, etc is the same for “thin” people as it is for everybody else. The emotion is the same for anyone having to move up a size, whether it’s from a 6 to an 8, or a 16 to an 18. It feels bad. It feels like failure. I feel like a tub of goo.

I feel sort of guilty being depressed about my weight. I have so many things in my life that I can be thankful for. And I have control over this — it’s something that is within my power to change. Here is the problem. I like to eat. I’m good at it. And I have been able, for the last 4 or so years, to be pretty undisciplined in this area of my life because I’ve been very disciplined about exercising. The problem lies in the fact that I haven’t been so disciplined about exercising since the marathon last year, but I haven’t changed my eating habits.

What would be really unhelpful right now is for someone to say, “Oh, Lorrie, you look fine!” If you said that to me, I’d smack you. At the same time, it would be unhelpful for someone to say, “You know, I’ve noticed you’ve put on a little weight.” Then I’d smack you and I’d cry. What I think I want is for my friends to kind of wallow in this with me (boy, is that an appropriate word for this situation). And maybe bring me ice cream. Oh wait, that wouldn’t be helpful either.

I’m trying to be thankful for little victories. On Saturday, I ran a 10 mile race. I was pretty happy that I could actually run the whole thing based on my lack of training. However, the delight in being able to do that was dampened by it being 8 minutes slower than the time I wanted.

Being depressed wears me out. Some people wear depression like a well-tailored suit, but it’s an awkward fit for me. It makes me feel far too vulnerable and exposed. It makes me feel like I’m whiny. It makes me emotional. I hate being emotional.

I’m sure that like Carl Sandburg’s fog cat, the depression will move on. And I’m sure there is some spiritual lesson that could be learned from this experience, but all my little fat cells are too depressed to figure it out.