Why | love to run with and for my daughters.

always considered my running a little indulgent. This self-imposed guilt trip began long before I had children. In medical school I ran around Fort McHenry in Baltimore. Each minute away from my Gray’s Anatomy could be justified only because I was working on my own anatomy.

Quadriceps tendon attaches to the patella, hamstring to the pelvis, my iliotibial band hurt on the left; must be inflammation. My own lab experiment, I taught myself firsthand the physiological effects of hypoglycemia and hyponatremia.

After my first marathon in 1990 in New York, I hurried to the train, Guyton’s Physiology in my overnight bag. Test the next morning, I needed to cram on the way home from the race. Within about 15 minutes of departure, tachycardia and diaphoresis—bounding heartbeat, sweats, and clamminess—overcame me. I grabbed the can of Coke from the passenger next to me. Gross, right? Guzzling the can of sugary soda replaced the IV bag I had seen hung in the emergency room. I came back to life immediately. A slice of pepperoni pizza immediately reversed my hyponatremia as well. Although I could barely make it down the stairs the next morning, I aced the test.

As an ob-gyn intern, I discovered that I could run up and down the 20-some flights of stairs in the tower at the UCSD Medical Center while technically fulfilling my duties of remaining “in house.” Postcall and delirious, I irritated my boyfriend to no end when I insisted on “getting in a run.” The soft path along the La Jolla and Del Mar coast erased my memory of 36 hours awake on Labor and Delivery. My boyfriend, however, held a grudge. He soon hit the road as well and never really understood my biological need to run.

Isoon moved East fora new residency (both medically and geographically) and found running in Boston to be as heavenly as I had anticipated. Even in subzero temperatures, I would trudge along the Charles River wearing so many layers it was impossible to tell if I was actually moving. Single and unencumbered, I ran whenever and wherever I wanted. Unfortunately, I never could manage to swing

the day off on marathon Monday. But living on Commonwealth Avenue, I came home from work in the early afternoon to witness the runners streaming by my doorstep on the way to the finish line. I have never been so jealous!

The start of something big

One Monday morning, while sitting at my desk in the basement of the Deaconess Hospital, I checked my voicemail. On the tape, my future husband had left a brief message: “How about a second date?” I chuckled, as our first date had been more than three years earlier. A bridal shower for a medical school classmate gave me an easy excuse to visit New York City—and Dave. We met at the “Moo Bar” late Saturday night, and after a few mudslides, we decided to meet up Sunday morning for a run in Central Park. My kind of guy! At 6 feet, 6 inches and 240 pounds, this running stuff was no easy task for Dave, but as he recalls, it was more a “labor of love.” He knew running was the key to my heart. The only snag in the plan came when I tried to find his apartment. I had written the address on my hand the night before and somehow it had rubbed off. Vaguely, I remembered “57 West,” but I could not recall the street—was it 59th or 69th? I sprinted around the Upper West Side of Manhattan only to be told by several doormen, “There is no 69 West 57th or 59th.” Terribly late and worried that Dave would set out without me, I turned the corner on 69th Street and saw him standing on the stoop waiting for me. Throughout our courtship, I ran all over the United States and Europe. Dave’s work took us on trips to Paris, London, the Grand Canyon, Chicago, and California.

Six months after we started dating this second time, Dave proposed to me. He had planned the proposal to be the night before the New York City Marathon. I had trained diligently for the marathon and wanted to break four hours. The Saturday night before the race, Dave dropped to one knee outside 69 West 69th Street and asked me to marry him. I immediately replied, “What took you so long?” And then he laid out the conditions. I could keep the gorgeous, sparkling diamond on my ring finger, “If and only if you can break four hours.” Otherwise, I would be sporting a four-fingered “LOVE” ring that rappers would covet years later.

Iset off on Sunday morning wearing both rings and resolved that I would cross the line in less than four hours, on my hands and knees if necessary. The clock made it to 3:24 by the time I crossed it, and Dave was ecstatic. (He obviously did not want to return the diamond. He sold the knuckle ring for its weight in gold. I wish I still had the ring as a memento.)

Bring on the family, after my shift is over

We were married a little less than a year later. I ran on my wedding day with my brand-spanking-new husband and his best friend. It wasn’t long afterward that I

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was running with a “bun in the oven.” I ran throughout my pregnancy and on the warm, humid morning of May 29, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. not feeling quite right. Living in Boston while finishing up my residency, I stayed with my parents for the last few months of my pregnancy. I took our faithful dogs, Eli and Lily, for a slow jog in the early morning and upon my return changed into my scrubs for an OR case that morning.

At 9:45 the surgeon sharing the case asked me if I felt OK. “Your respiratory rate is about 40, and there is sweat pouring down your face. That would be OK if you were doing more than holding a retractor. By the way, it’s 59 degrees in here. Maybe you’d better get yourself up to Labor and Delivery for a quick check.”

My OB examined me and smiled, telling me it was only a matter of hours before the baby would come. I called Dave, who was in New York at work, then my parents, who arrived within the hour. Dave took the first Delta shuttle he could get and arrived at the hospital, breathless and hungry. He sneaked off to the cafeteria, where he devoured an entire pizza. My mother attributed his hunger to nerves. I would soon know better. Dave would get unusually hungry immediately before I delivered each of our four kids.

Our first daughter was born eight months and two weeks after our wedding. A robust 7 pounds and 21 inches long, she was four weeks early. She was obviously conceived two weeks after the wedding, but our friends couldn’t help but give us the business by doing the simple math that said otherwise.

Bebe was a natural-born Baby Jogger baby. We logged many a mile around Central Park—until Sol was born. Sol was a crier—or should I say a wailer? I graduated to a double Baby A Sol and Bebe, ready for a Nantucket run Jogger, as Sol found solace only in a with Mom. moving vehicle.

Graduating from the Baby Jogger to a wheelchair

From all the Baby Jogger pushing, my arms were getting as strong as my legs. But I hadn’t made the cut for the upcoming New York City Marathon, although I probably could have helped by bench-pressing the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge to compensate for all the running bodies crossing it. So I instead called the Achilles Track Club and volunteered to assist a regular wheelchair competitor. This

involved running behind the wheelchair participant, pushing only when asked, and stabilizing the chair on the downhills. They assigned me to “Bill,” who I soon realized did not want my help, except on the uphills and at the bottom of the steep downhill at mile 16, where we would be required to take a hairpin turn off the Queensborough Bridge. I don’t think I have ever had a workout like that marathon. After pushing a 180-pound man in a regular, hospital-issue wheelchair up the inclines, I would then sprint downhill to try to catch up to him.

On First Avenue, he told me to “get lost up ahead.” So I charged up the street only to be caught by the elite women, who all whizzed past me with a look of “Where did she come from?” After the race I swore off volunteering for a while, feeling that my own body was heavy enough to lug around. Then, of course, I got pregnant yet again.

Gus arrived six weeks ahead of schedule and made his home in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) for a few weeks. At 6 pounds, 7 ounces, he looked like another life form compared with the NICU preemies, but Gus needed help. His lungs required Surfactant to open up. I worried about him nonstop.

I ran very little after Gus came home because I had no time and I was too tired. But guilt crept up behind me and accosted me for letting myself go to pot. One Sunday night Dave and I watched 60 Minutes, which profiled Pam Reed. She is an ultrarunner who had once run 200 miles without stopping or sleeping; she