Of Races and Babies

A few months ago I came up with this wacky idea to run 3 races in 3 months-Aptos Womens 5 Miler, Wharf to Wharf, and Falmouth Road Race. Each race increased distance by a mile, and with the help of somewhat consistent training and some bizarre new found skill called 'realistic goal setting', I was able to accomplish what felt like sucess in each.

What then happened is what I see happening in runners all around me (most notably my husband, who I've often derided for his lack of being able to be 'in the moment'). I started thinking about what my next race would be. I think it must be like a disease that lies dormant in your body, so you think it's gone and then WHAMMO it comes back with a vengeance. I mean, I was so grateful that last week before that last race that I WAS NEVER GOING TO HAVE TO TRAIN EVER AGAIN. What happened? Is it like childbirth, where you just forget how horrible and awful it was once you get put back together by the nice people at the finish line (the nurses), rehydrate (have night sweats so bad while you're breastfeeding you get in the shower every night at 2 am and drink all the water that's coming down because you're too tired to keep your mouth closed), eat a good meal (like one that consists of a piece of toast that has been sitting on the counter for 2 hours because you forgot to go back down to kitchen when the toaster popped after the baby needed to be nursed for the FOURTH time in an hour), and then thankfully, fall into a blissful sleep sore legs and all (aka sleep fitfully in your son's future toddler bed, breasts leaking, nipples burning, hoohoo aching, afraid to roll over as to not wake up that FINALLY sleeping baby)?

Yeah, it must be just like that.