Day 49: Back to the Quaker

The Quaker dude looks friendly enough, but his smug, steely-eyed stare makes me automatically drop 5 pounds.

I'm back over 160 pounds (160.8, to be exact). Technically, that's within the healthy weight range for my height (I'm 5'9"), and people are often surprised I weigh that much, because the poundage is distributed pretty evenly. However, I like to keep it between 155–159. Ideally, I'd like to be between 145–149, so another 10 pounds down the drain would be awesome. That means whenever I hit 160 again, I have to up the exercising and control my eating habits better.

Eating oatmeal every morning for breakfast helps me drop few pounds. A good virus does the trick, too, but I'm enjoying the summer and don't really feel like sacrificing my current state of sun-kissed vibrancy for a slimmer figure. I could inhale oatmeal every day for long stretches -- I once consumed it every morning for a month, with absolutely no variation in how it was prepared or what was included with it. Some people might get sick of that routine, but I'm what you call a systematic eater for breakfast and lunch (I need some culinary spontaneity with dinner, though).

I used to eat flavored oatmeal, but I didn't like consuming all the added sugar, so now I prepare two packs of plain oatmeal with skim milk (water makes it too watery for my taste, and I like the added calcium) and add a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, blueberries, bananas, and whatever other edible items I have lying around. I'm usually sated with this meal, plus coffee, and I immediately feel leaner and meaner.

After a few weeks of hitting the Quaker (or any private-label brand -- plain oatmeal is plain oatmeal), I don't crave higher-fat breakfast repasts. That said, on September 20, the day after the Dash, you can bet your booty I'll infiltrate the nearest Long Island diner to scarf down a cheese-laden omelette with home fries and a gigantic buttered English muffin. Warriors deserve rewards in the form of over-the-top repasts.

Day 50: Week in Review

Man up, hausewife!

Thursday: 30 minutes, 2.5 miles (soooo close to 2.6 I could feel it!)
Did what I said previously: 5.0 for the first 0.5 of each mile, then 5.5 for the second halves.

Next up: Adding a 5.5 to 1.0–1.5. If I can't do it, I can try alternating the next night on the 5.0's (a minute at 5.5, then back to 5.0); then the next night, try to make the middle one entirely 5.5, and then try again. I bet this doesn't make sense to anyone else but myself, but screw it, it's my blog and workout journal, I can write in hieroglyphics if I want.

The rest of the week was pretty horrid. Horrid in that I pretty much walked like a 90-year-old, because I figured it was better than nothing, and I just didn't have the energy to do more than that. My friend Donna thinks I might be anemic. It's either that or I have chronic fatigue syndrome or general malaise (I was actually diagnosed with this once) or some other crazy illness, because shit just ain't right. Gots to get me to a doctor ASAP.

Friday: 30 minutes, 1.5 miles
Walked at 3.5 the entire pathetic way.

And you thought that was bad:

Saturday: 30 minutes, 1.0 mile
Walked (if you can call it that) at 2.0 the whole way. For some of the time, I even had my head resting on the treadmill console. If Jillian Michaels had seen me, I would have had my ass kicked.

Sunday: 30 minutes, 1.0 mile
At least tonight I kept my head up!

So the record remains at 2.5 miles in 30 minutes (though I'm oh-so-close to breaking that 2.6-mile marker), or 43:03 minutes for the entire 3.3 miles. Good to know I have seven weeks left to get my act together.

Day 51: Warrior Observation

Yeah, sure, take a load off, Heineken bottle -- you did your job and made me gorge on everything in the pantry.

Alcohol by itself doesn't add too many empty calories for me: I don't drink that much (well, relative to Jenn 2.0); I usually drink lite beer only during drop-weight/get-in-shape periods; and if I attempt a mixed-drink montage, I stay away from sugary calorie-busters, sticking with coconut water, diet soda, or seltzer.

It's my insatiable desire to devour everything in the house, plus make a bonus Taco Bell run, after imbibing that's not good for my waistline or my well-being.

Day 52: Warrior Question of the Day

Michael Phelps may be able to eat 12,000 calories a day, but something tells me I'm not at that athletic level yet to justify such gluttony.

So I'm trying to work out like a madwoman and transform into a lean, mean fighting machine come September 19. Yet the more I work out, the more ravenous I become. I know you need extra calories when you're exercising more, but by "extra calories," I don't think they mean multiple pints of ice cream, bags of potato chips, and insane amounts of cheese and crackers, all of which I've been craving. I never used to eat this crap in such quantities, but I feel like my engine is in overdrive and needs salt, fat, and sugar just to maintain.

Michael Phelps can get away with this, but I fear the same game plan isn't working for me.

Day 53: GTL

Someday I will have abs like this again (though hopefully I won't look as manly).

I succumbed to watching the season premiere of Jersey Shore the other night, and once again I'm intrigued with how they keep their bodies in tip-top shape while consuming "gabbagole" and girlie drinks in such mass quantities. Everyone's privy to the cast's "GTL" (gym-tan-laundry) strategy, but you never really see the "G" part of the equation on the show (or the "L" part, for that matter).

I ponder such things as I shove sour-cream-and-onion potato chips (the baked variety -- that's something, yes?) into my gaping maw while Ronnie, Paulie, Mike, and Vinnie do their best creeping.

Day 54: Taking on the Amusement Park

Despite its rinky-dink appearance, the Tornado rollercoaster at Adventureland is quite scary.

Nothing screams "warrior" like braving an amusement park. This was how I spent this evening: navigating the layout of Adventureland, a Long Island recreational staple that was the subject of a kitschy indie flick last year. The movie was set in 1987, and many of the rides at the actual park look like they haven't been updated since.

I joined four other moms and our manic children for an evening of chaos at the carnival. My warrior activities started with a mad dash from one side of the park to the other to buy a pass for my son before his friends got on the first ride of the night (the booth that sold the passes was on the other end, and everyone else already had theirs). This was followed by more feverish sprinting after my overexcited son as he continually disappeared into the crowd; climbing up stairs and under handrails to board rides that the kids were too short to go on without an accompanying adult (we usually found this out at the last minute); and elbowing through the crowds just to get our water fix from the vending machines.

In other words, not too much different from the running/wall climbing/barbed wire crawls/vying for beer I'll be doing for Warrior Dash.

Day 55: Mr. Sandman, Where Art Thou?

I both hate you and want to be you, you serenely sleeping lass.

I realize that, to be an effective warrior, I probably need a good night's sleep. Yet sleep regularly eludes me.

I wasn't always an insomniac. I still harbor sweet, sweet memories of drifting effortlessly into a heroin-esque hibernation in less than 15 minutes (the often-recommended time for successful sleep induction). Then, around 2000, I suddenly couldn't fall asleep at all. At first I thought I simply wasn't tired or that I was making one too many Starbucks runs during the day -- until the night I never fell asleep at all. My brain just raced and raced all night, accompanied by a disturbing number of dizzy spells the next day.

That incident motivated me to pay a visit to my general practitioner, who sent me for MRIs, EKGs, and other acronym-heavy diagnostics. The conclusion: a diagnosis of vertigo, which apparently set off some kind of chemical imbalance in my fragile brain. No reason was supplied by the medical community, which was more than a little disconcerting. The doc just shrugged and said, "These things happen." Medication pummeled any and all imbalances back into the deep recesses of my gray matter, and the vertigo disappeared.

The insomnia, unfortunately, stuck around. Pregnancy and all-nighters with two colicky infants made things worse, and these days, even when I'm exhausted beyond the level any human should endure, it still takes me at least an hour or two to fall asleep, even if I turn in at 2 a.m. I know it takes me at least this long, not because I keep looking at the clock (the one thing sleep therapists tell you not to do, under any circumstances), but because I have this nifty white-noise machine from Brookstone that I can set to such serene sounds as ocean waves, thunderstorms, and authentic NASA recordings. My special Night Noises, as I call them, are totally creepy (think really bad sci-fi movie), but the Center of Neuroacoustic Research has supposedly invested more than 23 years of research into this stuff, so who am I to doubt? The emanations from my sound-therapy device are quite nice and relaxing, but when the 90-minute timer shuts the machine off, and I'm still analyzing the shadows of the tree branches on my moonlit bedroom wall, something's obviously not working.

Because I still have to rise at ungodly hours to cater to my children, I'm now at the point where I'm regularly subsisting on four or five hours of decent sleep. Maybe six, if I actually turn in before 11 p.m., which is rare. Even on the mornings where my understanding husband (well, somewhat understanding — he's tired all the time, too) lets me try to get a little more shut-eye, I can't tune out the sunlight and the cacophony of crazy children and just end up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, desperately wishing I could just. finally. sleep.

Before I got pregnant with my son, I went back to the doctor in one last-ditch effort to solve my sleep deprivation. I had already tried out a variety of sleep meds (none of which worked), discussed getting a CPAP mask in case I had sleep apnea, and was on the cusp of booking an intriguing-sounding visit to the sleep clinic when I got pregnant and everything went out the window.

That pregnancy was more than six years ago now, yet some of my "sleep hygiene" habits still leave much to be desired. I work on the computer and watch TV way past 8 p.m. (the glowing light from electronic devices overstimulates your brain into not wanting to go to sleep, so doctors recommend turning off all electronics after dinner if you have insomnia); I drink too much coffee, though I've been trying to cut it out after noon or so; and I haven't done so hot in alleviating the major stressors in my life, some of which are beyond my control, others of which are within my control and are just being neglected.

Sometimes I dream (well, really, daydream, because I don't dream at night anymore, which is an unexplained bonus) about going on a weeklong vacation by myself and just sleeping for the entire seven days.

I'm hoping that the day after Warrior Dash, I'll be so drained from completing the obstacle course that I'll finally sleep -- like a noncolicky baby.

Day 56: A Day of Nothing

I believe that you can summon up more energy to take on your daily tasks by completing clearing your mind. I don't know how to meditate, but in that spirit, I keep today's post simple.

Ohmmmmmmmmm....

Day 57: Week in Review

Gonna fly now (just not tonight -- it's been a long week).

Wednesday: 30 minutes, 2.5 miles
Broke last week's 30-minute record today! Slowly inching up on 3.3 miles in 30 minutes. Ran at 5.0 the whole way, save for the last minute, when I went to 5.5. I also didn't count my five-minute warmup walk in this. My goal, I suppose, if I'm to improve in the 30-minute category, is to up each half mile by 0.5 incrementally. I could also do this for the whole 3.3 miles if I'm going by total distance.

So that means next time I run, I'll run the second half-mile of Mile 1 at 0.5 more than I had been previously. The time after that, I'll add 0.5 to the second half of Mile 2. Then after that, 0.5 more speed to the second half of Mile 3 (and maintain that for the last 0.3 miles, cranking it up even more for the last minute). I can front-end it one day at a time onto the first half of each mile, so it would basically take me, hopefully, six training days to up my speed by 0.5 for the whole distance.

This means tomorrow when I run, I have to go at 5.5 for the second half of Mile 1. I can do that!

Does any of this make any sense to anyone other than myself?

Friday: 30 minutes, 2.5 miles
Did what I said above: Ran 5.0 the whole way, save for 5.5 for the 0.5 to 1.0 miles. Next time, I'll do the same, plus go to 5.5 for 1.5-2.0. Plus ran the last minute at 5.5. Nice!

Saturday: 30 minutes, 2.0 miles

Was feeling insanely tired from cleaning out my son's room. If you have children, you know what physical and mental energy this entails, especially if said child is wandering in and out of the room giving annoyingly specific input about what you're allowed to discard and what you're not. It's usually not in sync with your own thoughts on the matter. This led to me walking for the first five minutes, then alternating walking (3.5)/running (6.0) in one-minute increments for 20 minutes, before finally walking the last five. I know, crapout, but I'm trying.

Sunday: 30 minutes, 1.2 miles

Sigh. There's a reason for this performance. Here we go: I spent most of today writing my final paper for class, and Mad Men is on in 51 minutes. I needed an easy day. Sue me.

For now, the record stands at 2.5 miles for 30 minutes, and 43:03 for the whole 3.3 miles. Getting there!

Day 58: Warrior Question of the Day

Based on the scale, all that "muscle" I've gained should have me looking like this guy.

So why is it that I've been running like a maniac, or at least more than usual, and yet I've lost no weight? In fact, earlier this week, I actually GAINED a couple of pounds (pounds since lost -- maybe it was water retention?).

Please do not say "it's muscle" or I will have to kill you.

Day 59: Better Than Mescaline

Dave Gahan walking around Switzerland in a king's get-up is bizarre enough. Now try watching "The Powerpuff Girls" at the same time you're watching a Depeche Mode video.

In a bizarre turn of events, I ended up running tonight listening to Depeche Mode (I needed to be in an electronica frame of mind) while staring at an episode of "The Powerpuff Girls" on the big screen. That was Jackson's cartoon of choice, and he happened to be watching it in the family room, where my treadmill resides. It's totally hallucinogenic keeping rhythm to "Enjoy the Silence" (one of my all-time favorite songs) while Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup, three kindergarten-aged superheroes, kick butt in Townsville, USA.

This surreal experience brought me back to my adolescent years, when my dad was too cheap to spring for basic cable and the MTV I desperately craved, back when MTV actually played music videos. So, instead, I'd either hold out till 11:30 on Friday nights (when NBC would play "Friday Night Videos," the poor-man's version of music-video programming) or hook myself up to my Sony Walkman and channel-surf, pretending the music piping through my headphones was accompanying whatever images were flashing across the screen. Yes, I actually did this.

Day 60: Warrior Tip of the Day

This is a warrior pose on the beach. My warrior pose on the beach today was more of the prone variety.

This isn't as much of a tip as it is a dispensation:

Warriors aren't required to do a run after a full day of lazing in the sun at the beach, especially when said warrior needed to descend 72 steps to get to the bottom of the bluff. Throw in at least one bathroom break, and a grand total of 288 steps were ascended/descended.

Just like doing the StairMaster, yes?

Day 61: And We Will All...Go Down...Together!

Maybe "Laura" and "Scandinavian Skies" aren't the best sprinting songs, but "Pressure" usually does the trick.

I'm not part of the Long Island love fest that exists for hometown idol Billy Joel, but I always did have a soft spot for The Nylon Curtain. This album has a real raw feel, with melancholy, Beatles-esque songs that almost make me forget about his more gimmicky schlock.

"Goodnight, Saigon" came to mind when my husband informed me last night that he signed up for Warrior Dash. When we met, we were 18, youthful, in our prime -- and we've aged not gracefully together since. So it makes sense that we would run full steam ahead to our demise in pathetic tandem.

I'm psyched that he's doing the Dash with me, mainly because I know he won't let me quit if I start resorting to my typical lameness midway through. He'll appeal to my usually destructive sense of pride and insane ego. He may even throw some money my way. I'm hoping there's a secret savings account I don't know about that he's been waiting to tell me about at just the right moment.

I had a feeling he'd been considering doing this with me for some time now. The definitive indicator was when he suddenly started venturing out at night to do "road work." When he first announced this plan one evening last week, I thought he was going to weed-whack and edge the front curb.

My husband is often averse to change and anything outside of his comfort zone. This is a guy who wanted to spend our honeymoon in New York City. We both worked in Manhattan at the time (we honeymooned in Greece and Turkey -- +1, The Wife). When, at age 30, I had enough disposable income and vacation time to take a mini-backpacking adventure across Europe, I asked him and my best friend to accompany me. My best friend jumped at the chance, while he hemmed and hawed, until I got fed up and simply bought my ticket to Heathrow without him.

But I know he regretted not going. When I called him from a hostel in Paris one evening, he was drowning his sorrows in a pound of Ronzoni by his lonesome. For years afterward, the selective-memory story slowly evolved. First it was "Maybe I should've gone." Then it was "Did you tell me about this trip?" Finally: "You never asked me, I would have gone!" I sensed this same restlessness about Warrior Dash. His initial ambivalence changed to curiosity, then to intrigue, and finally to a crushing, burning desire to postpone his impending shoulder surgery and go for the gold, or at least a very cool Viking helmet, which I'm sure he'll give to our son. Screw that, I'm keeping mine.

Honestly, this race won't take him down. Despite all his histrionics every night when he limps back in the door, he regularly runs at least three or four miles in pretty good time. He spent the duration of 2009 running EVERY DAY on the treadmill (an inexplicable physical challenge he set for himself and completed). Did I mention he used to run cross-country in high school? I'm not sure how he'll fare on the climbing obstacles, considering the massive calcium deposits that are clogging up his joints (hence the postponed surgery), but I have a feeling he'll do pretty well overall.

As long as he leaves just enough energy to drag my sorry ass across that finish line after the final fire jump.

Day 62: It's All in the Timing

I know how you feel, kid -- especially if it's before 8 a.m.

Trying to find the ideal time to run is pretty much a crapshoot for me. I usually find myself on the treadmill after 10 p.m., mainly because the day has disappeared before I know what's hit me. I've tried exercising at all different times of day, hoping to hit upon that sweet spot where I'm fully energized, raring to go for miles and miles, crossing that finish line in my head to imaginary applauding fans. Indulge me my delusions of grandeur, I'm a desperate stay-at-home mom.

One of my coworkers once informed me she got up to go to the gym at 6 a.m. every day before work. She enthusiastically babbled on about how by the time she got to the office, she was refreshed and worry-free, knowing that she didn't have a workout hanging over her head. I tried the early-bird method for about a week, setting my alarm for the crack of dawn. I'd meticulously set out my workout clothes the night before, since I'm pretty much in a catatonic fog before that morning caffeine starts coursing through my veins. I'd pull on my sneakers as soon as the alarm went off, the same way I used to do when the whistle blew at Ukrainian boot camp (more on that in a future post). After six or seven days of barely functional, pathetic workouts, where I was basically running with my eyes closed, I started pounding on the snooze button again. That was the end of that.

You'd think the midmorning would be a good time to get my juices flowing. By then, I've eaten, had my coffee, shipped the kids off to school/camp (if they're going to school/camp; if they're home with me, the whole day is shot until bedtime), and am as up-and-adam as I can possibly get. But since I'm so focused, I start doing all the things I have to do in my "real," non-warrior life. I make my post office/store/dry-cleaner/school runs, check e-mail, do whatever freelance work I have on my plate, apply for more freelance jobs (a hustler's work is never done), do any schoolwork I may have for the week, and before you know it, it's lunchtime. Can't do a workout then, since I'm ravenous from all my morning activity. OK, no biggie, I'll chow down a salad or something and then work out in an hour after I've digested my meal.

An hour after I've digested my cheddar-smothered cheeseburger, I hit a debilitating midafternoon Wall of Fatigue that makes it impossible to even get up off of the couch, let alone hit the pavement. I'm convinced I have some kind of cortisol imbalance that wreaks havoc on my internal clock, leaving me weak and weary during the day and hyperactive at night, so this is not. a. good. workout. time. for. me. For the rest of the afternoon, I cram in whatever work/schoolwork I can before the kids get home.

Early evening rolls around, and I feel better physically. A great time to do a workout. But now it's time for the household crunch: Make dinner, clean up the kitchen, do homework, get the kids bathed and dressed for bed, pack all their backpacks and lunch bags for school/camp for the next day, do the long-ass bedtime routine (and those of you with kids know what that's all about), camp out with one or both of them after storytime to talk about their day, and end up unable to remove my body from whatever bed I'm stuck in until about 9 p.m.

From 9 till 10, I'm usually paralyzed on my bed or the couch, trying to summon up whatever energy I have left, until I'm finally able to drag myself downstairs or outside. I do the best I can, all the while thinking about the work I have to do afterward until way past midnight. And the routine I have to start all over again bright and early the next day.

I know I'm missing my 30 to 60 minutes of peak time somewhere in there, and maybe I'll hit upon it one day soon. But for now, if you're looking to psychically train with me, turn on the 10 p.m. Fox News broadcast and we'll have a good run together.

Day 63: Gimme a Break

I pretty much live in these things all summer.
Think I could jump over fire in them?

If you're training for such events as Warrior Dash AND you have heel spurs and/or plantar fasciitis AND you absolutely HATE wearing your leg brace at night (and so you usually don't) AND you don't ice your foot when you're supposed to AND you never take ibuprofen because you don't want to become pill-dependent AND you walk around barefoot when your podiatrist has advised you not to ...

... well, you're an idiot.

I did buy three pairs of FitFlops for the summer, though. Those seem to be helping.

Day 64: Week in Review

My kids yammering away at me while I'm trying to run can be as distracting as Ric Ocasek as a fly.

I think I need a better plan. I tend to procrastinate because I'm always busy, then I do all my runs at the end of the week. I need to space them out better so I'm not going nuts on Saturday.

I'm also debating if I should continue to try to up my running speed by 0.1 every week till I can do the 3.3 in 30 minutes, or if I should consistently just run the 3.3 and slowly bring my time down. I think it should probably be the latter. I just have to run the damn thing -- any improvement week-on-week is a good thing.

Here we go!

Wednesday: 30 minutes, 2.3 (almost 2.4 miles)
First mile was a 5.0, then did 0.2 miles at 5.5, then walked at 4.0. Got effin' hot again and nauseated. I have to learn to modulate and control my body temp, or at least remember to turn the AC on beforehand. Then I cranked it up to 6.0 for the last seven minutes or so to equal last week's record.

Friday: 30 minutes, 2.2 miles
Ran after happy hour. Probably not a good idea. Oh well.

Saturday: 30 minutes. 1.8 miles
I walked most of the way tonight. I think I pulled a muscle in my lower back in Huntington tonight. Plus Sasha was yammering at me and I couldn't play any music because Jackson was playing the Wii. Then I stepped off the treadmill when it was starting up because I needed to adjust the fan; I thought I had pressed "Pause," apparently didn't, stepped back on what I thought was a stopped treadmill, and flew right off of it, just like you see in the movies. My kids thought it was funny. I'm glad they think I'm funny.

Sunday: 43:02 minutes, 3.3 miles
That's what I'm talking about. I know that seems like an awful time to pretty much Everyone Else on Earth, but I shaved about two minutes off of my time, which did include five minutes of warmup walking. Then the first mile was at 4.5, second and third miles at 5.0, and last 0.3 miles at 5.5. I'm just excited that I'm slowly improving. Tonight's inspirational running music: "You Might Think," by The Cars.

So as of now, my records to beat (depending on whether I'm running for only 30 minutes or doing the whole 3.3 miles) are:
--30 minutes, 2.3 miles
--3.3 miles, 43:02 minutes

Day 65: Warrior Tip of the Day

What I did last night was almost as ill-advised as what these guys are doing.

Here's my helpful advice for this sunny Saturday as you're deciding whether to go on an amped-up long run, kick back with a nice cold one, or (like me last night) merge the two:

Do not attempt to run after happy hour. Especially when gin-and-tonics and monster potato chips are consumed in ample quantities.

Though I still did manage to eke out 2 miles and change.

That is all.

Day 66: My Word, This Dude Is Awesome

This former slobbering drunk is like God -- or something.
Dean Karnazes, you humble me.

"Holy crap" is all I can say after reading this article in Wired about a guy who used to spend his evenings downing tequila shots and getting hit on by strange women. Until he ran 30 miles after one drunken night of debauchery. Today, Dean Karnazes is known as Ultraman, and his running feats are nothing short of stunning.

In no particular order, he has (and this is all covered in the article, which is a fascinating read): run 350 miles without sleeping (it took him three days); completed the Badwater Marathon, a 135-mile trek through Death Valley and the mountains in the middle of the summer; run the first and only marathon to the South Pole (he came in second); completed 50 marathons in all 50 states on 50 consecutive days; and finished a 199-mile relay by himself, coming in eighth out of eight other teams of 12 -- dude wasn't even last.

Karnazes is also kind enough to offer some of his tips to become, well, more like him. You must read the article for elaboration on all of these tips and how he accomplishes them, but I've taken the liberty to apply his advice to how I'm currently training for Warrior Dash.

1. Be audacious (find the right challenge).In my case, I think Warrior Dash is the ideal event. It presents enough of a physical challenge that I'm going to have to work my ass off to complete it, but I don't believe it's out of the realm of possibility for me. Plus, with the beer, music, and Viking helmet, it adds just the right hint of creativity that Karnazes suggests you seek out.

2. Go laceless.
I didn't know this was a possibility, because I'm not up on these kinds of fashionable things. According to the article, North Face makes a pretty cool M Endurus XCR Boa shoe that fits the bill.

3. Flirt with disaster.
Not sure I'm quite ready to go that route yet. Karnazes explains his affinity for pain with quotes such as "Somewhere along the line we've confused comfort for happiness" and "There's magic in misery." I have two young children, so as much as I'm dying to push myself until I'm vomiting and experiencing hallucinations on the side of the road in some God-forsaken desert, I think for now I'll continue to run as responsibly as I can. Though Karnazes has two kids, too, so go figure.

4. Eat junk -- lots of it.
Looks like I get to amend my no-eating-crap-after-9pm-rule -- hurray!

5. Cut back on sleep.
Check. With two young kids (see post #3), I've learned that sleep is for the weak. Nope, not jealous one bit, you narcoleptic lightweights. Not. one. little. bit.

6. Show your body who's boss.
My body is so far having none of this, but I'm hoping my warrior-steeled mind will eventually prevail.

7. Get a cool watch.
Like with GPS and a phone and shit. So they can track me down if I collapse in the middle of nowhere.

8. Learn to love Krazy Glue.
For the blisters that are going to eventually crop up. I'm game.

9. Get used to it.
My husband went out for a 2-mile run last night, even though his legs were extremely sore from his run the night before. He picked a course with a ton of hills and then came home to tell me he was dying. When I asked him why in the world he picked the hardest run he could have when he already felt so crappy, he said, "Because you have to get your body used to this feeling." Or something like that, I'm paraphrasing his moaning delirium. I reflected on his mantra, and then forced myself to sprint the last four minutes of last night's workout, even though I felt like I was going to puke all over myself, the treadmill, and the Basement Proper.

10. Promote the hell out of yourself.
I like blogging. I like Facebook. Twitter I see as a necessary evil, but I'm beginning to appreciate it more. I think I can be a pretty effective self-promoter if I have to be, once I decide what exactly it is I'm trying to be.

11. Break it down.
I do this all the time. This technique is most effective when I'm home all day with both kids alone. Which I do enjoy, incidentally -- I know I don't have to qualify this statement for anyone else who has kids and understands the bitching that's about to take place, but I know such complaints can seem harsh to the uninitiated.

If it's 9 a.m., for example, and you're already exhausted from being up for 2.5 hours dealing with the refusals to get dressed, the juice spills, the fighting, the potty clogging, and the TV wars, and you say to yourself, "OK, I just have to make it to 6 p.m. tonight, when my spouse comes home. That's only NINE HOURS," well ... shoot yourself now.

If, however, you break the day down into manageable pieces ("OK, we will paint from 9 a.m. till 10 a.m."), you just have to make it one hour. One stinkin' hour. Even I can do that. Then, come 10 a.m., you set a new goal: "From 10 a.m. till 11 a.m., we will go to the library." Even if occasionally the 2-6 p.m. time slot is populated with a hastily scrawled "WATCH TV OR MOVIES" (or my personal favorite, "FREE TIME!!"), this plan is still is more attainable than a vague, nonscheduled nine hours of hell.

If you don't use this technique, it can turn into that scene from The Sopranos when Vito is on the construction site toiling away for what seems like forever, until he looks at his watch and it's only 10 a.m. This has happened more times than I care to remember, and it's pretty fucking mind-bending.

12. Avoid kryptonite.
In other words, lay off the liquor. Nope, not going to happen. Ten out of 12 ain't bad!

Day 67: Warrior, I Define Thee

Orlando Bloom, I would gladly bear arms with your albino self.

What is a warrior? I looked up the meaning to see if I even come close to fitting the standard definition:

One who is engaged in or experienced in battle.
Hmmm.

In terms of physical scuffles, I've always been the peace-loving, bookwormish type, though I held my own with my brothers growing up, and I once pushed the bully on my JV soccer team into the showers in the gym after she gave me shit.

I have, however, been known to open a can of whoop-ass when the occasion warrants. I have a bit of a temper that I'm usually able to keep in check, but when it comes unleashed, beware all who enter my crazy-sphere. Most people who know me wouldn't think I have the capability of housing a mind-boggling fury that puts the wrath of Khan to shame (my husband would set these nonbelievers straight in about 10 seconds). But it's there, and it's not pretty. It's not really my fault, though: I come from a family of erratic-behavior enablers with short fuses who consider it some warped badge of honor whenever one of the clan flouts authority or sticks it to The Man.

In general, though, I can't really see myself in hand-to-hand combat in the field. I'm averse to pain, I tire easily, and I prefer the comfort of my bed to the rigors of battle. Windham Mountain is simply my temporary battlefield, and the other kooky competitors dressed in costume are my worthy fleeting adversaries.

You're going down -- all of you. But I'll gladly quaff a cold one with you after I administer my beat-down.

Day 68: '80s MUSIC TRIVIA FAIL!

Perhaps I'll dress up as Patty Smyth on the day of the Dash, just to get into the spirit of things.

I decided to create a special "Warrior Dash" playlist on my iPod with songs specifically designed to get me pumped up and all warrior-like. Naturally, it was imperative to include that '80s standard "The Warrior." I knew I had it on my iPod (it's come on in my car during "Shuffle" mode), yet I couldn't find it among all of my Pat Benatar tracks.

I finally took to the Internet to see if I could download a new version from iTunes, and after a few minutes of trolling, I discovered that "The Warrior" wasn't the raspy vocal magic of Mrs. Love Is a Battlefield, but instead that of Patty Smyth and Scandal. I think at some point I knew this, but the slow, tortured death of many brain cells had wiped it from memory, so I got a rousing reintroduction via the YouTube video of the Pauly D–coiffed Smyth belting out heartwrenching lyrics while a dude who resembles Rick Springfield dressed as Edward Scissorhands is attacked by a bunch of ninjas adorned in cargo nets.

The crimson-red lipstick, the Madonna-inspired dark eyebrows, the cheesy choreography ... man, I miss the '80s.

Day 69: My Downfall: The Cheeseburger

I would eat this every day for dinner if I could.

I may not run like a Viking (yet), but I can certainly eat like one.

I blame my Ukrainian genes for this insatiable appetite. There's a reason we Slavs are able to work those potato fields from dawn to dusk. Growing up, gargantuan meals with multiple sides were de rigeur, though, to my mom's credit, many of these meals were vegetable-centric, since we grew and tended to multiple gardens on the monastery property.

My grandparents, who lived in the same town, were also constantly trying to shove food down my gullet, because I was way too skinny. My grandfather would tell me, in his thick Jackie Mason–sounding rasp, that I was going to blow away in the wind if I didn't eat more; my grandmother would hover over my dinner plate, scowl, and issue forth the "Mangia, mangia!" command. I'm not sure why she would revert to Italian in these bordering-on-forced-bulimia situations, but I guess the Ukrainian version of "Eat, eat!" didn't sound nearly as compelling.

Sunday dinner, either at my grandmother's or our house, was always an all-day event. My mom toiled away in the kitchen preparing a massive repast all day long, while my dad watched football or played soccer with us or tinkered with some broken object, pretending to fix it while watching football. To this day, the plates we use on Thanksgiving to fill up on turkey, stuffing, and all the fixins are so immense that we refer to them as the "Viking plates." These plates do not fit in the dishwasher.

So, with my family's unhealthy preoccupation with food, it's no surprise that I now have portion-control and willpower problems. When I was younger, my gloriously fast metabolism kept me in lithe fighting form despite my gluttony. I was a painfully skinny, gangly tall girl who downed two school lunches every day and who once ate an entire pizza by herself at a party. Devouring a pint of ice cream after eating a whole hoagie at Mike's Subs in Buffalo was par for the course during my freshman year of college, and I still didn't weigh enough to donate blood (the threshold was 110 pounds at the time).

I still don't know why I was (and still am) always so ravenous, but I do know that my metabolism screeched to a halt when I hit 30. Throw a couple of pregnancies onto the pile, and you've got Jenny 3.0, a slightly chubbier incarnation of my former skeletal self.

So I'm at a nutritional crossroads. I'm actually a pretty clean eater for most of the day. A typical breakfast for me is cereal (usually bran flakes) or oatmeal with a ton of blueberries, bananas, and/or strawberries thrown in, maybe with some yogurt on the side; sometimes I make myself eggs. This does not count going out to brunch on the weekends, natch, when I indulge in cheese-smothered omelettes with bacon and waffles, but that's maybe a once-a-week thing.

Lunch is usually a salad of some sort, or a small soup-and-sandwich combo, supplemented by a piece of fruit and milk. I snack on crackers, some cheese, fruit, or yogurt. Beverages, which can be one of the biggest calorie-suckers, are also not my downfall. I don't like overly sugary drinks, so I mostly drink water, unsweetened iced tea, and coffee with no sugar. I rarely drink soda, and I never order one of those 800-calorie venti mochaccino concoctions at Starbucks, not because I'm resisting them, but because I simply don't like them.

Up to this point in the day, I'm also able to eat human-sized portions. So what's the problem? 6 p.m., that's the problem. That's when my metabolism seems to kick into overdrive. Dinner is usually some chicken, pasta, or beef variation (I wish we ate more fish, but three other people in my house have outnumbered me on that front), with some veggies and a carb. While I can eat sensibly during the day, for some reason the evening hours compel me to stockpile the French fries, rice, roasted red potatoes, and macaroni salad.

After dinner is even worse. Around 9 p.m. the cravings really kick in. I think the Hobbits (and Taco Bell) call it "Fourth Meal." I'm not a big sweets person, but I do start hunkering for cheeseburgers, bread, homemade mac and cheese made with four cheeses (Gruyere, cheddar, mozzarella, and parmesan, in case you're wondering), grilled cheese. Yep, I'm a bread, cheese, and meat girl. Plop me down at a Long Island diner and serve me up a pizza burger and cheese fries with gravy, and I'm in heaven.

At least I know what my triggers are, and this awareness has been helping to eliminate my bad habits as I get myself into shape to do the Dash. The no-eating-crap after 9 p.m. rule should have been implemented long ago, but it took this race to bring this noxious habit to the forefront. Though just writing about cheeseburgers has made me recall the pack of Bubba sweet-onion burgers in the freezer that are just screaming for release from their temporary frozen home.

No matter how well I remedy my troublesome eating habits over the next few months, I will definitely be chawing down on those turkey legs at the finish line. Maybe with a side of cheese fries and a cheeseburger for good measure.

Day 70: Boo-yah, Boudica!

One of my running friends who has been following my recent endeavors sent me a link to one of his favorite women warriors.

Allow me to introduce you to Boudica, the Celtic warrior queen. I was a little intimidated while reading Boudica's bio. What in the world could I, a chick from the suburbs, have in common with this valiant, voluptuous vanquisher?

According to the article, "She was tall, a redhead with hair that reached her hips, she had a powerful voice and a glow that seemed enchanting."

OK, so far so good: I'm tall (5'9" upon last measurement, though my brother continues to dispute me on this), a redhead (thank you, L'Oreal Feria, for the titian hues, and to my colorist for my stunning complementary blonde highlights), and a powerful voice (especially when I'm yelling at my children and/or husband). I can't speak to the enchanting glow, but I'm sure that will emerge sooner or later.

The supplementary Wikipedia article contends that Boudica was "possessed of greater intelligence than often belongs to women" (thanks -- I think) and that she had a "piercing glare" (reference once again situations where I am chastising members of my household).

"In the year 61 A.D. she started to collect soldiers who desired to follow her and slay the Romans. After a while she had an army of about 100,000 soldiers."

Men who desire to follow me in droves? That's what I'm talkin' about.

"Boudica had her men fight in the Celtic way: naked and painted."

Nice.

"It is not known how Boudica died, but it is for sure that she didn’t make the end of the battle."

Uh-oh.

Tapping into my gallant Google skillz, I also found a few images of the legendary heroine. In some ways, we're sista soulmates; in others, not so much:

I don't have curls (or tats), but I have been known to drink out of a cornucopia. Or, at the very least, a funnel.

I do own a Lia Sophia brooch necklace like the one this gal is sporting. I do not, however, typically bear my cleavage in such revealing fashion.

I also owned an Olivia Newton-John–inspired headband like this one during the "Physical" era.

Um -- yeah. The little girl on the right does resemble my 4-year-old daughter. So that's something.

Yep -- this is how I get when someone eats all my rice pudding.

Day 71: Week in Review

"Major Tom" got me through this week's rough patches.

Week 1 is complete. I've kind of been all over the place, which has led me to believe I need more of a plan.

First, the stats:

Wednesday: 3.3 miles, 44:55 minutes

On Wednesday, as I went on my first full-fledged run since I embarked on this warrior quest, I started to wonder: Can I actually even run 3.23 miles, let alone 3.23 miles filled with death-defying obstacles? I've been running casually for a while, but I never really log how many miles I run, and I don't run terribly fast (OK, I'm a slug). I'm often pressed for time by familial obligations, so I usually just crank up my DVR'd Real Housewives of New Jersey or put my iPod on and start running without ever really looking at the numbers. When the show's over or my playlist is done, my run's over.

So: My goal was simply to jog for 3.23 miles on the treadmill (sorry, still way too hot to head outside). I didn't want to discourage myself by failing at my simulated 5K by sprinting and running out of gas, so I did the first mile at a painfully slow 4.5, which I then cranked up to a still-leisurely 5.0 for the next mile, then back down to 4.5 for the remainder of the run. It was somewhat encouraging to me that I could at least finish that distance, even though it took me an excruciatingly long time.

Friday: 2.3 miles, 30 minutes

I was feeling nauseated and hot because I forgot to turn on the AC, and Jackson was screwing around with the fan blowing on me while I was running. I started at 5.0, then was all over the place, sprinting, walking, jogging. Then the Wii broke, Jackson had a meltdown, game over.

Saturday: 2.2 miles, 30 minutes

The oil can icon on my treadmill flashed today. I take that as a good sign that the treadmill is seeing lots of activity. Today my goal was to see if I could simply improve on my individual-mile speed, as I was not at all pleased with Wednesday's 13.6-minute mile. So for the first mile I ran at 5.5 (baby steps), which took me 10 minutes (better), then I did a power walk at 4.0 for the second mile and change.

On a somewhat related note, I discovered that "Major Tom" (the 1983 Peter Schilling version, not the 2009 Shiny Toy Guns version) was the perfect cadence for the 5.5 run, while Metallica's "Enter Sandman" (the regular version, not the philharmonic mashup the group did with the San Francisco Symphony) worked quite nicely for the power walk.

Sunday: 1.8 miles, 30 minutes

I don't know what the hell happened. Maybe it was lying on the beach for three hours this morning, combined with the fact that I didn't even get on the treadmill till close to 10 tonight, but I was all over the place again. I ran at 6.0 for a couple of minutes, then thought I was having a heart attack (shouldn't have eaten so many hamburgers this weekend, including one an hour before my workout), so I just alternated between walking and running for 30 minutes.

So back to this strategic plan I need to set up. The way I figure it, if I can set some mini goals and see some improvement in my numbers over the weeks, I won't get discouraged and quit like I'm prone to do with such physical challenges.

THE PLAN, MAN

Weeks 10-7
Continue indoor training, which means continue to run 3.3 miles at a clip and cut time down little by little. My ultimate goal is somewhere between 30 and 35 minutes. Or, if I can only squeeze in 30 minutes, try to up my distance for that time period week-on-week. Plus, every week I want to try to improve upon my fastest individual-mile speed.

Weeks 6-5
Alternate indoor running with track running/around neighborhood. This is going to be my biggest mental hurdle (more on that for another post).

Weeks 4-1
Alternative indoor running/track running/trail running, including this Sunken Meadow route I keep hearing so much about.

I also realized that while I'm taking this somewhat seriously, I need to remember I signed up for this for a fun, kick-ass day. Remember: turkey legs!

Day 72: I'm Waiting for the Mailman: Excuses, Excuses

Do you think this guy sat around and watched The Bachelorette, or do you think he captured bears on icebergs, rescued Icelandic castaways, and conquered new lands? Thought so.

I'm the master of coming up with reasons for not exercising. While I always feel rejuvenated after a couple of miles, it's difficult for me to conjure up the motivation to get started. Justifying my lethargy becomes quite easy when I'm able to concoct enough valid reasons for why it would be better for me to skip my workout in lieu of A, B, or C.

Except that there's always going to be an A, B, and C causing interference, and I know that people who successfully reach their fitness goals learn to work around A, B, and C. My excuse list extrapolates past A, B, and C and extends all the way to the end of the alphabet and then some.

Let's identify the prime offenders and present some valid, self-driven rebuttals (kind of like that angel/devil thought bubble Tom Hulce experiences in Animal House) so I can expose these lame excuses in the harsh light of the Warrior Dash day. Because I don't think Leif Ericson made excuses, did he?!

I'm too tired. You're always tired. You're an insomniac who drinks too much caffeine, goes to bed too late, and then plays mind games with Mr. Sandman for at least another hour, sometimes more. You will probably always dwell among the living dead, so in the interim, drink a Red Bull and embrace that exercise will probably help you feel better and sleep better, which means more energy for more exercising.

I'm too hungry and am afraid my low blood sugar will cause me to pass out while I'm running. OK, you had gestational diabetes and had to prick your finger five times a day and can talk circles around Bret Michaels about ketones and glucose and wah wah wah. That was four years ago. The diabetes is gone. Eat a frickin' banana and some yogurt and get your butt on that treadmill.

I'm too full. Work out later. When you're not full. Do not eat anything else in the interim so you can drag out the excuse.

My head (or some other body part) hurts. Advil is pretty awesome, especially when you take four of them. Everything will stop hurting, and you will be able to run like a gazelle.

I've got work to do. Who doesn't? Work will still be there when you're done. And you'll feel better and more energized to do even more work, you crazy workaholic you.

I should be doing something domestic around the house. Why start now? Nice try, though.

I have to start dinner. No, you don't. You have a husband who loves to cook and does a better job than you. So relinquish the colander and cutting board and get going.

I should be playing with my kids. While probably the best excuse you've offered so far, your children will be able to entertain themselves for the whopping 30 minutes you'll be boosting your heart rate.

It's 9 p.m. and there's a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a good movie/The Bachelorette/a COPS marathon about to start. Really?? Really??

I should be taking the time to think about my goals and what I want to do with my life. If you can't even carve out a half hour to do some basic cardio, you will never achieve any of your other goals, loser!!

Day 73: Warrior Housewife: Powered by iPod

This is not me. But it could be me. So just pretend it's me.

To get going on my runs, music is a necessity. On the few occasions when I've forgotten to charge my iPod on my outdoor runs, or when my kids are playing the Wii on my indoor runs (meaning I can't turn on my cable-TV music station of choice), I'm forced to listen to the melodious sounds of my own labored breathing, which isn't exactly conducive to a productive workout.

I need a song that's going to get me motivated. Profanity-laced rap works well, I think because I'm already silently cursing like a sailor inside my head at the energy I'm forcing my body to expend. Dance and techno music is also quite effective. If I'm running at sunset/dusk, a time when I tend to get all touchy-feely and emotional in a Jimmy Buffett-isn't-life-beautiful-screw-everything-I-should-just-quit-my-job-and-open-up-a-snack-shack-in-Cozumel type of way, moody songs stimulate me to go the distance just a little longer.

If I'm on the treadmill and allowed to flip on the TV music stations, I usually gravitate toward either the retro rock station (because there's nothing like Guns n' Roses calling me a b**ch to make me crank that incline up), the dance station, or the classic alternative station. Though I don't know when U2, Til' Tuesday, and Elvis Costello officially became classified as "classic" alternative. These are your oldies now, folks.

On my iPod, I have an eclectic mix of tunes, so I have to set up workout playlists or the "Shuffle" option will fire up Vivaldi, the "English Patient" soundtrack (great stuff, but not for running), and "Row, Row, Row Your Boat."

Here was the playlist that jump-started me yesterday:

"Forget About Dre" (Eminem/Dr. Dre)
"Run to You" (Bryan Adams)
"Root Down" (Beastie Boys)
"Violet" (Hole)
"Meet Me at the Equinox" (Death Cab for Cutie)
"Devil Inside (INXS)
"Crazy Train" (Ozzy Osbourne)
"Elevation" (U2)
"Obsession" (Animotion)
"Get Busy" (Sean Paul)
"Freedom Rock" (Frank Black)
"Bring Me to Life" (Evanescence)

Unfortunately, I won't be able to sport my iPod for Warrior Dash. There'll be too much mud, muck, and other debris. I'll just have to listen to the voices in my head singing "She F***in' Hates Me" on race day.

Day 74: Fear Factor

I know that somewhere, somehow, a dormant Lady Gaga lurks deep within me.

A real warrior wouldn't think twice about taking on a karaoke challenge. Pffft, piece of cake. Which is why I found myself crooning Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" last night at Buffalo Wild Wings. After a hearty repast of mango-habanero wings (noshing BEFORE 9 p.m.—still within the Warrior Housewife guidelines), my husband and cousin belted out "Bust a Move" and "Don't Stop Believing," respectively. Both were real crowd-pleasers, so I knew the bar was high as I downed the rest of my Hurricane and took the mike.

The truth is, while I can (somewhat) sing, I hate actually performing in front of people. I'm a deer in the headlights on the stage, counting down the seconds until I can dash off into the darkness and take refuge behind my stein. This is in contrast to my gregarious, charismatic husband, who bounds around the stage like a jackrabbit, freestyling his way through his four minutes in the limelight by masterfully interacting with the crowd and inserting his own lyrics into Paris Hilton and Eminem covers.

Part of my problem with channeling my inner Lady Gaga is that I don't like being the center of attention. My wedding shower, while a very lovely event, was pure torture for me. I can think of nothing more nerve-wracking than an adoring crowd analyzing my spontaneous reactions to every Wamsutta towel, All-Clad saucepan, melon baller, and shrimp deveiner. While I'm very comfortable talking one-on-one with someone (or even in small groups), if I'm in a crowd of people, I prefer to listen, not blather on and have all those many creepy eyeballs on me.

But I know there's something deeper going on. I used to never understand when, during an interview with some celebrity or other hotshot, he/she would blab on about all of his/her failures before he/she hit the big time and how it was all due to his/her inner fears: fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of success. Fear of success? I didn't get it: How can anyone be afraid of succeeding?

I realize now, however, that a good portion of my life has, indeed, been dictated by fear. I've made lists and set goals for myself, and even started the baby steps necessary to accomplish said goals. Yet more often than not, thanks to FEAR (I type the word in all caps because it's SO FUCKING SCARY), and supplemented by perfectionist tendencies that require I perform at a usually unattainably high level, I end up crapping out before I finish what I set out to do. I get to a bump in the road and just ... stop. Even when I'm insanely close to the finish line.

I don't know yet how or why this fear has become so deeply ingrained in me (a therapist would probably have a field day with me), but I've acquired enough self-awareness over the years to realize that this dislike of feeling vulnerable has been holding me back. So, I occasionally take risks and push myself out of my comfort zone to break the cycle, to boost my self-confidence, to prove to myself that there really is nothing to hold me back except for myself. It's all mental, and I know that. I wish I had embraced this plucky philosophy when I was, say, 19, but better late than never.

Which is why, the next time you're at your local karaoke bar, you might witness me nervously taking on a Fiona Apple song. And why you'll see me on September 19 waiting anxiously for the starting gun, hiding under my Viking helmet to mask my vulnerability as I attempt to vanquish yet another of my deep-seated doubts about my abilities.

Day 75: You Snooze, You Lose

Addendum to the Warrior Housewife ground rules:

It is perfectly acceptable to hit the snooze button if you were up all night in 100-degree-plus heat because the Long Island Power Authority didn't have enough juice to power all of the neighborhood's AC units during this record-breaking warm front.

Heat wave notwithstanding, let's be frank: I don't function well first thing in the morning, and this is just another in my litany of excuses for having a hard time dragging my ass out of bed when that buzzer goes off. Not very warrior-like behavior. I assume warriors leap out of bed before sunrise, don their battle armor, and head out into the mortar fire with nary a Starbucks in sight.

I should qualify my waking-up weakness by saying that once I'm actually up, showered, and breathing in the fumes from my Keurig, I'm OK. And on the occasions I've had to arise before the sun for work or to catch a flight or because PC Richard is making a $%^*@# appliance delivery during some crazy window on a Saturday morning, I actually enjoy being the first one up, sipping my coffee and taking in the early-morning sights and sounds.

It's those first steps out of bed that are the dealbreaker. The alarm goes off and I feel like someone is waterboarding me. My husband and I don't get combative about a lot of things, but when we both worked in the city, divorce papers were imminent. He'd bounce around the house getting ready to catch the 7:17 a.m. train out of Deer Park, trying desperately to jostle me out of my slumber so I could accompany him on our hellish Long Island-to-Penn commute. My typical reaction would be to whimper from underneath the pillow: "8:12" (the next train out of Deer Park). I would always ride that 8:12 by myself, because he had no patience for that nonsense. What I really need is that forklift-like contraption from The Jetsons that pushed George out of bed and into the shower in the opening segment. From there I'd be OK on my own, I swear.

I don't get what happened. When I was a kid, I would get up at the crack of dawn with my brothers and wreak havoc until our cranky parents finally emerged to redirect our energies into quality "family-time" activities, such as restocking the coal bin and raking leaves. Then the teen years arrived, and a switch was flipped. The lark turned into a beautiful, glorious owl. Even the allure of Christmas-morning gifts couldn't lure me from under the covers.

Some people mistake my a.m. lethargy for laziness, which isn't the case. I'm a Type A who has a continuous to-do list that just won't quit. Too many things I want to do, too little time. I just happen to hit my stride in the p.m. hours. I do most of my creative work in the evenings, I rarely go to bed before midnight, and when I finally hit the treadmill or the pavement, it's often many hours after the sun has gone down.

Some of this nocturnal industry is born of necessity. I'm shuttling my children around during the days they're not at camp or school, and I've accepted I can get absolutely nothing done during these child-focused hours. But in reality, I know it's my DNA that energizes me at dusk. I was like this before my kids came along, and I know once they're away at college, you'll still find me plugging away during The Daily Show instead of during The Early Show.

That's why I was disappointed to see that Warrior Dash only offered 9-to-5 time slots (which works for about 90 percent of the human population) on competition day. I'm afraid I may falter with this restrictive running regimen during daylight hours, since running while the sun's up goes against my grain. But I guess that's part of being a Warrior-in-Training: learning to push your physical and mental capabilities past their limits.

Even if that means not pressing that snooze button.