For my best friend Amber who understands me more than anyone else- this is us:

First of all I want to be a writer and a runner and anything that were to tie those two things together is my dream job...Oh how I envy you Kristina Pinto. But, I thank you for this article which came to us at the perfect time. We needed this. By we I mean (Amber and I). I read it through tears and laughter and when I was finished I bawled my eyes out as I began to think of how far I have come since last summer. I never have a chance to run anymore. I miss it so badly that all things in my life pay a price for it. So, thank you for a reminder of the importance of finding my way again.


Runners' Stories
HELL WEEK
What happens when a runner-mother doesn't get to exercise her demons?
By Kristina Pinto

From the March 2010 issue of Runner's World

A cold rain is pelting the road, but I'm desperate to head out for a run. I gingerly test my ankle with a jog down to the base of the driveway, and everything's a go. At a cautious pace that doesn't quite match my zeal, I run away from home for an hour, hoping my injury is behind me. When a running mom gets injured, the whole family pays. After falling a week ago in such a spectacular fashion that I later found gravel in my hair, I sat on my son's playroom floor with my foot elevated. Instead of wondering how I'd manage to fulfill my mom-duties on one foot, I fretted over how I'd find the will to fulfill them because I couldn't run with a sprained ankle. With a look of fear on his face, my husband quipped to our 4-year-old, "What will happen to us now that Mommy can't run?" He knows running keeps me sane, and his expression suggested he was sizing me up for a straight jacket. I just hoped it was made of wicking fabric so I'd at least feel like a runner.

If you're a runner and a mother—or if you live with one—maybe you get what I mean. We were taught that we could have a career and a family and a life outside both. But to make it all work, sometimes we need to run away. Out on the road, there are neither babies nor bosses tugging at our pant legs. The playlist on my iPod may blend Shrek incongruously with Eminem, but otherwise, my runs amount to sweaty, exhausting interludes of peace and quiet.

As a runner-mother, I train and race to be distinctly different from the woman struggling to maneuver the grocery cart shaped like a race car. "Sorry, sorry," I repeat like a mantra in the produce section, as I bump my way around the vegetables. Give me four safety pins and a piece of paper with a number on it, and there are no apologies. I have somewhere I need to go, as fast as possible, and no one gets in my way. The woman on the playground who uses phrases like "Oopsy daisy" spits and swears while running with friends. Pink running skirts are deceiving; there is nothing pretty about the conversations held by running moms on long runs.

As if anticipating the frazzled, potentially unhinged woman I might become, my son asked me one day how my foot felt. He suggested a Band-Aid to help. "Thank you," I said. "A Spider-Man Band-Aid is exactly what I need." As if superhero powers really were at work, my recovery time was quick. No X-rays or psychiatric care required.

Seven long days after my wipeout, I hold my breath as I slip into my Asics. Although my joints creak and my form lacks grace, I find the tough, ruthless athlete I fancy myself to be. I feel particularly hard-core slogging it out in the rain. I come home drenched, with strands of hair plastered to my cheeks. But I must have a look of satisfaction, because my husband and son cheer as if I have just crossed a finish line. Their runner-mother is back.

Kristina Pinto is an RRCA-certified running coach and writer in Westford, Massachusetts.