Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Adventures in lawn care & life north of Hwy 136

Just so you know, I kind of love mowing lawn. It harkens back to those pre-teen years when cousin Laura (Olson) Wallace and I would spend hours and HOURS grooming Gramma Olson’s expansive front lawn, orchard and sprawling east yard that doubled as a baseball field.

More than a job or task to sweat through, mowing Gramma’s grass offered a sense of pride. The clean lines. The level grass. The smooth results. Could there be a more visual example of the term: perfect?

Like a spotless kitchen, a clothesline filled with laundry or a re-organized desk, the feeling of order—albeit brief—is one of the best feelings I know!

And it’s in the grass, a perfectly coiffed lawn, where I find my greater peace . . . or at least I did.

For the first chunk of Marty and my marriage, we were “townies” living in DeWitt, Iowa, and the mowing of our corner lot was his domain. I was used to caring for big spaces with big lawns, not small, fenced-in plots of grass.

A phrase like “clipping the lawn” sounds cute and suggests a job that requires minutes, which is how long it took Marty when we lived in town. A cool 45-minutes of sauntering behind a push mower and that was that.

So when we left town and took over the old Joe Brown place, I was stoked at the idea of having a big lawn. What I wasn’t prepared for was how unruly that lawn would be!

Initially I envisioned using our push mower on the three mow’able acres that made up our four acre parcel. I saw my legs getting buff, my arms, toned, but then reality hit me. We needed a riding lawnmower and went with what we could afford, a hand-me-down freebee from Dad Reed.

That old John Deere lasted a few passes before chugging to its death, mid-job. It didn’t even make it to the end of the season. And because we lacked the necessary moving equipment, the poor thing sat in our front yard for a couple of weeks while grass grew up around it.

If Joe Brown’s spirit still hangs about our farmette, I’d like to think he and his late wife Marge find our efforts to tame their wild land humorous. I’d hate to think he’s put a curse on us.

But when you consider our history with lawnmowers, it’s hard to think otherwise. Joe Brown’s has shown to have the exemplary talent for weed growth and lawnmower extermination.

To date, Joe Brown’s has killed not one, but TWO old John Deere mowers, our once-new push mower as well as a new Poulan. And our current used Sears Craftsman looks as if it won a lawnmower demolition derby (and mows like it, too).

The serenity I used to find in mowing my parents’ and grandmother’s yards has yet to be found at Casa Reed Murrell. Who knew you could actually take smooth ground for granted, but you can. I did. Having grown up along Hwy. 30, between Calamus and Grand Mound, the ground is flat and the lawns have a near fairway-like quality.

After nine years of working to make Joe Brown’s ground behave, fighting with it to smooth itself out, Joe Brown’s ghost has been laughing his tail off.

The early years were fraught with spring thaws that would have the lawn heaving various forms of detritus: glass and bricks, car door handles and lug nuts, batteries and hub caps. The first mows of the season were very much like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates.

You’d think I’d get used to the loud bang that results from running the mower over these objects, but when the blades find an old wrench and send it banging around the undercarriage and out the side, that’s a sound (and feeling) from which you don’t quickly recover.

And then there were the imaginations of our children when at ages three and six, Maclane and Moira, would take large rocks and make “dinosaur nests.” The kids, especially Maclane, were huge into dinosaurs and one day they hatched the brilliant idea of pretending the decorative river rock around the house were dinosaur eggs. They’d take these rock “eggs” and build nests throughout the yard. Sometimes at the base of trees, other times, out in the middle, blanketed by grass “so they’d stay warm.”

Imagine, bouncing along (there’s no smooth rolling), focusing on how grateful you are that the machine was actually working, only to have one’s reverie harshly interrupted by the horrific sound of large river rock being chewed up by your already-ailing lawnmower?

Nope. Not fun.

Along with this, let’s not forget the oodles of trees Marty’s planted every year. Adding to the handful of young firs already established, he’s added countless variety of trees and bushes. Between the trees already here, the stumps of trees lost and the ones Marty and the kids planted, we have exactly 95 trees (and two stumps) around which we now mow.

It’s a job requiring much patience, many hours and lots of “Marty” since he’s the only one who can get the Craftsman mower to start.

Just as I’d begun to think I would never again experience the Zen-like satisfaction of a day’s worth of lawn work, I went and got myself an early birthday present!

For the last year I’ve been sniffing around for a new (or newer) mower. But it couldn’t be just some ordinary rider, Joe Brown’s was proving to be a wily foe. It was time we got serious and until recently, it was an expense I simply couldn’t justify.

The Pat Howell quote: “Grass is the cheapest plant to install and the most expensive to maintain,” couldn’t be more true.

Tune in next week for adventures in zero-turn mowing . . .

Originally published 6 September 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Lady Justice descends on serial-killer lawn

So I love mowing lawn, right? Well, I did . . . back in the day, when still a minor living at home.

The smooth, evenly cut grass of my Gramma Olson’s big yard was a thing to behold. Sure my lines could get a little crooked, especially when ground squirrels whizzed by, diving for their burrow right in front of my mower. But her lawn was flat, the grass was smooth and all felt right with the world.

I thought every lawn was like this. How naïve.

Tnew mowerhe nearly three acres that make up the mow’able portion of our Joe Brown farmette are anything but flat. And smooth? Hardly. Though fitting, given Joe Brown’s used to be a horse ranch, I didn’t think it possible to get saddle sores from mowing. You can.

Our “lawn” is made up of several areas: the front yard, the back yard, the yard in front of the corn crib and the yard behind the corn crib. I’d estimate the only flat, smooth portion is a 10-foot by 40-foot plot northwest of the house. The rest is a mine field.

Hindsight being what it is, I shouldn’t be surprised the four ordinary lawn mowers we’ve operated over the last nine summers would simply falter when faced with the monumental task of taming the beast that is the Joe Brown yard.

I never knew Joe Brown, but am often regaled with wild tales of goats in the bath tub, horse kibble in the kitchen, engines in the dining room and assorted saddles and bits in the living room. I never tire of hearing how nutty and open-hearted he was, but shaping up the Joe Brown place is no small feat.

It was clear, as Marty endlessly toiled to sustain the life of our fourth mower, a used, beat-up Sears Craftsman, we could no longer get by with a common, ordinary machine.

And given Marty’s work schedule coupled with his involvement at the Rock Creek Eco Center, not to mention managing the Charlotte Little League and coaching both baseball and soccer, he was eager to rid himself of the chronic pain that is the maintenance of the Joe Brown yard.

Which leaves me . . . and my lack of education in the industrial arts.

For a year I’ve been nosing around at local dealers, perusing the Internet, eye-balling sale ads and basically looking for something to smack me alongside the head.

Not only did I have my brother, Matt Reed, on the hunt, but Mom and Dad Olson, as well. The hunt was fruitless or maybe I was just gutless, how could I not be?! Our Joe Brown yard had killed three mowers and the fourth was dying a slow, hard-to-watch death. This yard was a serial killer!

Depending on whether it was Marty or I doing the mowing, the job could take anywhere from four to six hours. After, of course, the battery sat on a charger for a couple of hours. And the result of all that labor? A crappy looking lawn.

By Labor Day weekend, after wasting Friday fighting to get the dang thing started and burdening Marty with the task after he got home from work, I snapped. We were either going to fork over the cash for an appropriate mower or buy a herd of goats.

With Dad Olson available to “window shop,” he and I went to G & H Mowers in Grand Mound, Iowa, where he showed me what he’d wanted to buy last spring before Mom went and bought a new house.

I can’t help but feel like Tim ‘The Tool Man’ Taylor when I speak of this beast: a 48” Simplicity Champion XT commercial zero-turn riding lawnmower. Arw arw arw!!!

G & H co-owner Dennis Galloway reviewed the specs, told me about the four-year warranty and what they offered for maintenance. I figured if it was good enough for Dad, it was good enough for us and by Tuesday afternoon they’d delivered it and schooled me on the wily ways of zero-turn mowing.

First, I’ve never felt like a bigger idiot than when making the first passes around the front lawn. It was an all hands, no feet operation. To move ahead, you pushed the hand levers forward. To slow down, you pulled them back. There was no cruise control and no foot break. When I went forward it was either like a snail or a rocket. Clearly this took more finesse than I expected. And straight line? How ‘bout squiggles?

The turning was pretty awesome, but the looking out for low-lying tree limbs was another thing. The Champion XT came with a roll bar that Dennis warned we would likely remove if we had a lot of trees. (Remember, we have 95. NINETY FIVE!)

After snapping a couple of limbs and almost getting thrown off by one particularly strong branch, I parked it and let Marty remove the bar.

I’ve since mowed one other time and I’m quite smitten with the machine. Our grass looks level, the mounds of hay-like clippings are decreasing and the time? The first mowing took 3.3 hours and the second, 2.9!

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Originally published 13 September 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Character building remains strong part of 4H

It’s been my experience, both as a participant and parent of a participant, that little builds character like 4H.

Back in the ‘80s when I was a member of Calamus, Iowa-based 4H group, the Marvelous Maids, my mother was usually at the helm of my projects, projects usually confined to sewing, zucchini bread and carrots.

My zucchini bread is a Mueller family recipe and was a definite blue-ribbon winner. Since then, I’ve altered it with walnuts and made it a muffin mix which is popular with running friends for the combined carbs and protein.

The original recipe, however, was used by my daughter Moira for her first club show a couple years ago. She easily carried on our family tradition of blue-ribbon baking.

I can’t remember baking anything else for club show, but do recall a last-minute garden entry in which I pulled a few pathetic carrots from the garden, slapped them on a plate and headed off. I’m pretty sure they may have won a “white.”

My projects generally went along with whatever type of crafting my mom was doing at the time. There was her latch-hook phase during which I completed a wall-hanging of Lucy from Peanuts. This phase abruptly ended after one of my younger sisters grabbed Mom’s hook off the table and shoved it in her eye, snagging the small, pink nodule at the inner corner. (Fortunately, my sister was fine, but Mom? Probably scarred for life.)

Her real forte was sewing and while Mom could wield a mighty needle and thread, whenever she set in to prepare me for the next sewing project, she never failed to remind me of the time she sewed over (and through) her finger in Home Ec.

This story cemented in me a healthy fear of sewing machines and thusly, my years in 4H were not many.

Of the two sewing projects I completed, I remember a matching short outfit in which the shorts were solid red and the red-trimmed short-sleeved shirt sported a complimentary watermelon pattern. It was pretty rad.

What wasn’t “rad” was the AWFUL fashion show in which I, Tami (Diercks) Nielsen and Carie (Sexton) Nelson had to model our creations in front of a judge, our mothers and whoever else enjoyed the sick pleasure of watching young girls suffer.

I’m guessing I was roughly 12-years-old and had there been a table nearby to flip, I surely would’ve done so. “Modeling?! Nobody said anything about MODELING?! This is so unfair!”

(Whenever Jimmy Fallon does his “Ewww!” skit on The Late Show, I’m 100 percent certain he’s channeling my 12-year-old self.)

Truth be told, I was likely informed of the fashion show aspect of my sewing project weeks in advance, but given my young self’s tendency to space out and forget uncomfortable or boring details, I stood gawking at the adults around me, ready to burst into hot, steaming tears.

We were told to “relax” and “have fun!” But even now, I challenge anyone to prove to an awkward, pre-teen girl how sashaying before family, friends and strangers can be anything other than terrifying.

I’m not sure how, but I made it through. Tami, ever the seamstress star, trumped Carie and I with some fabulously complicated creation. Both Carie and I knew Tami would be chosen to represent the Marvelous Maids at the county club show. The real question was, “Who would be second?”

Turns out, my pouty emotional “duck-face” was not what the judges were looking for. Carie, in her baby blue matching shirt and shorts, smiled and bounced happily before the audience. Using a tennis racket prop, she charmed one and all and was crowned “runner up.”

Was I bummed? Probably, but let’s be honest. Who wants a moody adolescent grumping about the county clubshow cat walk? The point of these fashion shows were (and probably remain) not to simply show-off one’s sewing ability and/or fashion sense, but to look fear in the face and suck it up! To persevere with shoulders back, chin up, eyes bright! To exhibit the maturity, the “moxy” that 4H instills in its members!

So to all the members of Clinton County’s 4H clubs, I encourage you to trust in the process of character building and go to it! The coming week will be filled with experiences both nerve-wracking and exhilarating so embrace it! Let the fun, the hesitation and even the fear that comes with having your efforts scrutinized by knowledgeable judges mold you into stronger, braver individuals. Have a great Fair Week!

Originally published 12 July 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Grateful to put county, state fairs behind us

What was the best thing about the 2014 Iowa State Fair? Leaving.

I’M SORRY!!! Between the crowds, the sun and the motorized scooters, I just couldn’t take it! I keep thinking if I’d had an umbrella with me, to provide perpetual shade, then maybe I could’ve sucked it up. But the little I saw showed me little has changed since I last visited the fair in 1995.

Dad Olson poked fun, “You mean to tell me, you run all these races, out in the heat, and you couldn’t take the fair?!” Yes.

In my defense, my miles and racing drop significantly in the summer. And when I do run, I’m mentally prepared for the gross dirtiness (and it’s usually at some ungodly pre-dawn hour).

mo 4h dresser ribbon winnerThe weather, as many of you know, has been quite mild, but bright, blinding sun does a number on me. No, I’m not some delicate flower. I think I’m more vampire.

Even so, I just couldn’t get excited for the state fair. This lack of interest wasn’t helped when the night before, my father-in-law, who’d just come from the fair and seen Moira’s blue-ribbon Joe Brown dresser and Maclane’s red-ribbon Lake Loretta sign, told Maclane he thought his sign would’ve earned a blue ribbon if his project book had made it to the fair.

WHAT?!!! The next 18 hours was a mix of high-pitched emotions ranging from my husband emailing ISU Extension and ringing up different county fair board members to my son crying himself to sleep.

Marty, I and the kids all agree it was a painful lesson in not leaping to conclusions. Just because someone says it’s so, if we’d waited and seen for ourselves, Marty’s lunch would’ve had fewer feathers and Maclane’s pillow, less sodden.

WP_20140709_003Turns out, after making our way from the north entrance of the fairgrounds all the way to the southern edge and the Poultry building where the 4H exhibits were displayed, it was written right on Maclane’s tag that his project book was, in fact, there. There was no way of attaching the book to his project, so his along with other books detailing other projects, was kept in a separate area of the building where visitors could ask to see it.

I was simultaneously relieved and livid. Maclane and Marty had been put through hours of wasted emotion, yet it was wonderful watching Maclane’s attitude transform. From slow-footed and frowny to skipping and gleeful, proud of his red ribbon, the boy was back to his wise-cracking, comic self.

After snapping pictures of Moira with her gorgeous dresser and Maclane with his colorful sign, we headed to the cattle barn to meet up with my sister’s family, the Reemtsmas. While Moira and Marty were excited to see more sights, Maclane and I, along with nephew Nicolas were ready to leave.

The grit behind the livestock fanfare

Walking through the cattle barn was probably my favorite part of the whole fair. I’d much rather walk up and down the rows of cattle pens vs. stand in line to see the Butter Cow. To see how different families camped out, with food spreads, lawn chairs and hammocks was fascinating, likely because I grew up on what I used to call a “nice” farm i.e. just crops, no manure.

As a kid, I loved not living with the aroma of hogs and cattle, but as an adult? There’s a certain ‘grit’ one develops when working with livestock. Watching Phil and Jacob fluff up the steer’s coat, Phil working a brush on the legs while Jacob wielded a blower, I couldn’t understand how the beast was so still, how Phil wasn’t getting kicked in the head.

I may have thought such detail work was reserved for a couple weeks during fair season, I was quickly informed this is the daily grind for many “real” farm kids. The feeding, the cleaning, the walking, the brushing, the washing—all in a day’s work. I can’t help, but giggle thinking this is my sister’s brood.

In June, having stopped by Angie’s place for a visit, a nearby oinking alerted us to a hog on the lam. Looking north into their pasture, we saw cows curiously walking along the fence-line, following the jaybird-hog.

With the Reemtsma men away, we took it upon ourselves to right the situation. Despite her best efforts to scold the pig into submission, clearly Angie (and I) were ill-equipped to deal with loose livestock.

While it’s one thing for a mother to threaten and coerce her daughters into modeling their sewing projects, clearly it was Angie’s lost battle trying to reason with a pig.

Had we been real farm girls, maybe we would’ve know that a boot to the side would’ve nudged the pig along. That a rightly swung shovel provided more motivation than a stern look and a hand on the hip as Angie yelled, “Bad pig! Go to your pen!”

Such is life on a real farm.

In spite of my lack of enthusiasm, I think our area kids, not to mention my family, did pretty dang awesome in the world of fairs this year.

And though Maclane and Nic were happiest while swimming at the hotel, and Angie and I, resting pool-side, Marty and Moira “fair’ed” their hearts out, returning to the hotel that evening, bellies full of cotton candy and funnel cake.

I can’t be the only one who’s glad it’s over, can I?

Originally published 16 August 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Triathlon: From sprint to 70.3 in 12 months

At this time one year ago I was in the final days of training for my first triathlon, DeWitt’s own Crossroads. Last weekend I completed my first Ironman 70.3 in Racine, Wisconsin.

I’m sharing this not to brag or boast, but to encourage any of you who ever had a whisper of a thought like, “Could I?” to prove to you, “Yes, you can!”

When I completed last year’s Crossroads, my goals were pretty simple: don’t drown, don’t crash, don’t crawl. Time? Reaching that finish line was Numero Uno.

After I finished, I was quite certain I’d do more triathlons and within just a couple of months, with one sprint tri under my belt, I registered for a half Ironman. A couple of my training buddies found it humorous that I’d take such a leap, but given my propensity for action before thought, it made perfect sense to me.

Racine 70.3I am lucky to have a host of local friends who regularly do this type of sport. They are completely to blame, not only for infecting my goals, but also in seeing I achieve them. While some people may have the moxy to train and prepare without the support of others, I am not that island.

So how does a half Ironman compare to a sprint tri? At the Crossroads, the swim is 500 yards in Lake Kildeer compared to Racine’s IM being 1.2 miles in Lake Michigan. The bike is 15 miles of rolling hills as opposed to 56 miles of mostly flat, though bumpy roads with the run being a single 3.1-mile out-and-back route compared with a 2-loop, moderately flat course totaling 13.1 miles.

Because I’d already done plenty of running this year, I cut back my normal running schedule and focused more on swimming and biking. Factor in that I’m an old RAGBRAI’er at heart, even the biking wasn’t too strenuous as muscle memory, even from years ago, allowed me to ramp up my mileage fairly quickly. That, and finally, after enjoying my road bike since 2000, having a “fitting” done.

With several people referring me to Dan Adams at Healthy Habits in Bettendorf, he put my bike on a trainer, watched me ride and then began tinkering. He replaced my stem, handle bars and bike seat, added aero bars and with mere millimeters of adjustment, had me feeling so fabulous I’d swear it was a different bike!

The only thing left was to address my swimming. Throughout the winter, my friend and trainer Ray Porter had dissected and rebuilt my crawl stroke to improve efficiency and power. That’s well and good, but last month’s QC Sprint Tri proved the second I hit open water, anxiety completely renders me incapable of anything other than laying on my back and kicking my feet.

I’m not afraid of the unknown beneath me and while I initially thought it had to do with the feeling of my wetsuit around my neck, is something weirdly mental that seems to only happen in open water. Does it go back to my days as a lifeguard at Wacky Waters when we’d do early-morning lake searches for possible drowning victims? Who knows, but it certainly could.

Fortunately my open water freak outs began decreasing thanks to specific breathing exercises that address the limbic system in my brain where my emotions are controlled. (Like I said, WEIRD.) These, coupled with doing more open water swims at Scott County’s Lost Grove Lake and Lake G, helped get me comfortable in my wetsuit.

But no matter what kind of preparation a person does, once you stand on the shores of Racine’s North Beach and stare at that massive body of water that you’re required to swim in? The prayers come quick and fast.

Fortunately I was not alone in this endeavor as DeWitt resident and local trainer Matt Dingbam of No Limit Fitness and his student (my cousin-in-law) John Melvin, also of DeWitt, committed to the Racine IM, too!

Each of us had our own reasons for doing so and our own goals to reach. And reach them we did! For now, however, I’m saving the experience for next week to encourage you to participate in next week’s Crossroads Triathlon, Saturday Aug. 2!

Whether as a member of a 3-person team or solo, it’s a wonderful event for a first-time tri. It’s not too late to get in on the fun so visit www.crossroadstriathlon.com for event information and registration.

You never know what you can do if you don’t try, or what dreams and goals a tri can unleash!

Originally published 26 July 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Traithlon: Three athletes—one goal—all Ironmen

I’ve seldom met a hair-brained idea I didn’t like, and apparently I’m not alone! Enter No Limit Fitness owner Matt Dingbam and his client-friend (and my cousin-in-law), John Melvin.

Both DeWitt residents and I were among the 2,606 athletes who competed in last month’s July 20th half Ironman in Racine, Wisconsin.

I remember speaking briefly with Matt at last year’s Paul Skeffington Memorial Race during which we both mentioned the I-word. Forget the fact neither of us had an ounce of experience with triathlon, the idea of taking on an Ironman was brewing in each of us.

flat jenny Racine 70.3 2014While I’d run countless races including several marathons, that Skeff Race was quite special for Matt and John. It was their first. EVER.

Their experience in DeWitt, from the cheering crowds to seeing family members on the course, prompted the two of them to sign up for more races throughout 2013, culminating with the IMT Des Moines Marathon in October. From 5 miles to 26.2 miles in four months! Even I’d call that cray-cray!

This seemingly over-zealous approach to running offers us a peak into the psyches of Matt and John. Meeting each obstacle with fortitude, each goal with tenacity, it’s no surprise neither man shied away from the challenge of the 70.3, which represents the cumulative mileage of a half Ironman—1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run.

While I’ve logged thousands of miles on foot and bike, and probably as many laps as far back as college, I had a smidgeon of what would be required of me. Matt and John? Gut instinct, alone.

“I had always thought about triathlons,” Matt told me, “but I had never even road biked or really swam for distance. I decided to ‘Go Big or Go Home’ and signed up for Ironman Racine, knowing I would figure it out along the way.

“Of course, John Melvin followed my lead as he did not want me to do this alone!”

John and Matt knew each other, but it wasn’t until John began attending boot camp at No Limit Fitness when Matt unlocked John’s potential and the two developed a friendship that would transform their goals into a partnership.

Matt came at the 70.3 with calculated training and focus while John brought the grit, fine-tuned by his years in the military.

“I’ve always reminded myself to ‘Embrace the Suck,’” noted John, using a mantra made common by Iraq war veteran and writer Col. Austin Bay.

“The truth is that my preparation plan was changed constantly due to weather, work, family, money and any other reason.”

In fact, John’s work took him out of country to India for three weeks during the final month before Racine. As if the surroundings weren’t taxing enough, the 16+ hour work days prevented any training and it was then that John decided the Ironman was lost.

Perfectly understandable, life getting in the way and all, skipping the Ironman gnawed at John. Yes, the training wasn’t there, “but why not try?” he wondered.

At the last minute, John opted to ‘Embrace the Suck’ at a level few of us will experience. “Using this logic,” he explained. “I’ve been able to adapt to obstacles on and off the course that are always working to keep you down.”

He, Matt and I met up at the Ironman Expo the day before the race and then John and I drove the bike course.

It was during that drive when he verbalized the essence of strength: facing the fear regardless of outcome. Fear of the unknown robs so many from achieving greater heights. Sure John wanted to finish, but it was facing the possibility of trying and not finishing that was his foe.

But is it such a novel foe? Matt, John and I all brought our own fears to the 70.3 table. Turns out all three of us were less than enthused about the swim in Lake Michigan.

“When I arrived at Lake Michigan I got a sick feeling,” Matt admitted. “I could not quit looking at the lake and wondering how in the world I was going to be able to swim 1.2 miles in this huge body of water.”

Though water temperature was a chilly 61 degrees that Sunday morning, we were lucky to have calm conditions and a glass-like lake. Starting in waves divided by gender and age, we each navigated the breath-stealing cold and fell into steady swims that, once finished, buoyed our spirits for the remaining bike and run.

While Matt and I were confident of our abilities on the bike, John faced the real “meat” of this challenge during the ride. Prior to the Ironman, the longest John had ridden was 25 miles. Aside from the common aches and pains every cyclists copes with, John rode a borrowed bike in which the seat sloped downward. This would be his proverbial shining hour, shining four hours, to be exact.

He knew he could probably reach the 30-mile point, and the 13.1-mile run? If all else failed, he could walk it, but those final 26 miles on the bike? It was a giant, looming cloud of wonder that he answered with a ROAR by cruising through those 26 miles and on through the run.

All three of us reached our goals.

For Matt, this was his first triathlon and he finished in 6 hours and 28 minutes. “The sense of accomplishment and ‘runner’s high’ lasted for two days straight!” In the Finisher’s Tent, Matt met Lionel Sander, the overall winner who snagged victory with a time of 3:45.

“Even though I was totally satisfied,” Matt said, “I knew I would need to do a full IM (Ironman) to reach my full goal! At the same time I was thinking this, I got a text from John that said the exact same thing!”

For John, this was his second triathlon and despite the training woes and borrowed bike, he conquered the fear and crossed the finish line at 8:04!

“There was a time when the Crossroads (Triathlon) was the most difficult obstacle in front of me, then a marathon, then a 70.3,” John said. “My point to anyone thinking about doing something outside the box is this: keep moving forward and focusing on your goals. Everything else always seems to fall into place.”

Myself? I came in at 7:03, 27 minutes ahead of my goal! And yes, as with Matt and John, I too have set my sights on the bigger, badder full Ironman: 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run.

Matt put it best, “To be continued . . . when (we) sign up for the 140.6.”

Originally published 2 August 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

With the men away, in Madison we’ll play

I’ve seldom met a hair-brained idea I didn’t like. Most of them I let slide, but every now and again you just need to yell a hearty, “Why not?!” This was how my daughter and I ended up in Madison, Wisconsin, earlier this week.

It was totally impromptu and I blame it partly on the people I train with, and partly on lack of sleep due to Sunday night’s storm. The day was supposed to be fairly normal beginning with an early-morning training run. While storms usually lull me to sleep, the massive thunder and light show allowed me to see every hour until 3 when I messaged my running buddy and cancelled.

20140701_151442_AndroidAfter a couple more hours of tossing and turning, I watched my husband ready and leave for a day trip to Ames. With our son departing later in the morning to join buddies for a few days at the Dells, I began weighing a thought that flickered to life a couple weeks ago: Madison.

Why? Because the area offers a great selection of triathlon shops and I’m actually beginning to enjoy this tri business. Though I refuse to purchase a tri bike and am certain I’ll NEVER want an aero helmet, I’m pretty excited about the regular swimming and biking that’s been added to my training.

I’ve been squeezing more open water swims into my schedule and though I’m comfortable in a one-piece swimsuit and Lava pants (capri pants made of buoyant Neoprene) I was recently reminded the water conditions of my next triathlon will be significantly different than the lakes and ponds of Clinton and Scott counties.

Later this month I’m doing the Racine half Ironman and the 1.2 mile swim will be in Lake Michigan. With a current water temperature hovering in the 60s, I need a full wetsuit.

Add to that, my bike could use a new seat.

Rousing Moira from her late-morning summer slumber, she was game for our 3-goal plan: wetsuit, saddle, bike ride.

A mere two hours later via highways 61 and 151, Moira patiently waited while the experienced folks at Madison’s Endurance House walked me through the specifics of owning & using a wetsuit. I settled on a sleeveless number to help alleviate my claustrophobia, not to mention the significant price difference between that of a full-sleeved number.

20140701_134653_AndroidWith the first of three goals accomplished, we searched out our hotel just as dark clouds were gathering. I’d hoped we might check out the Capitol area including Monona Terrace, but with thunder rumbling Moira talked me into a late-afternoon showing of the new Transformers movie “Age of Extinction.”

The movie was enjoyable enough, but the real entertainment was watching my skinny 14-year-old pack away chicken strips, mozzarella sticks and cotton candy. I’m quite sure this aided her buoyancy during our short pre-bedtime wade in the hotel pool.

Tuesday morning’s clear skies set the scene for our next goals and after clearing out of the hotel (and Moira feasting on THREE donuts from Lane’s Bakery in Madison’s Villager Mall) we began my search for a new saddle. Unfortunately, spur-of-the-moment road trips do not bode well for impromptu saddle fittings. We quickly learned reknowned tri shop Cronometro had a calendar requiring 10 days advance notice for scheduling a saddle fitting. The Trek Bicycle Store was about as helpful.

With the second goal a bust, admittedly both Moira and my sails were sagging. As we pondered our third and final goal: 20 miles of bicycle cruising, Moira argued for heading home. Then we spotted a vintage-looking ice cream shop and cut a deal, “Fifteen miles and then ice cream.”

Given Madison’s impressive labyrinth of bike trails, renting a bike was an easy alternative to lugging Moira’s heavy mountain bike from home. We chose to use the lake-side Machinery Row Bicycles where I secured Moira a Trek commuter bike for a base fee of $20 a day.

Within minutes (yes, it was that easy) we were off, pedaling along the shores of Lake Monona, past Olin Park which served as the starting point for last year’s Ragnar Relay Chicago and onto Waunona Way, through Paunack Park to the Yahara River at Squaw Bay.

As we cruised, we chatted. We noted the beautiful homes along the lake, the various smells of herbs, flowers and garbage cans wafting on the breeze, how she might want to try RAGBRAI “once I’m in college” and how her legs were indeed strong enough to make it over the next rise.

She reminisced about last summer’s vacation to Yellowstone and the anguish she felt during our bike ride along the George S. Mickelson Trail in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Moira admitted this ride was much easier and more fun, but added she was tiring. Not wanting to tarnish this positive experience we turned back and logged exactly 12 miles, enough to stretch the legs, re-ignite her enjoyment for cycling and work up an appetite.

After a quick return of the rental bike, we headed to the promised ice cream of Ella’s Deli. When we initially drove past, it was the large carousel in front that caught our attention, but upon entering, neither Moira nor I could process the visual Laughy Taffy that stretched around us.

It was as if Walt Disney and Willy Wonka built a clubhouse! Equal parts “It’s A Small World” and Chocolate Factory with dashes of Tiki Room and Galena’s Kandy Kitchen, everywhere you looked there was something bright and fantastic whirling and moving.

Cable runways strung along walls and across the ceiling for all sorts of characters: Harry Potter swooping along on his Nimbus 2000; a mini Elvis Presley rocking his guitar; Bart Simpson skateboarding overhead. There were dancing peanuts, old timey propeller planes, candy striping and more!

As if the décor wasn’t trippy enough, the menu was a thick, multi-paged binder offering breakfast, lunch and dinner as well as the sweetest confections. We opted for a late lunch, Moira going with a blue slushy drink and fish and chips. I chose a pink, smoothie-like drink dressed with a pillow of cotton candy along with a cheddar and broccoli-smothered baked potato that came with tomato and rice soup.

Despite the long counter of various ice creams, we were too stuffed to indulge ourselves further. As we left Madison, I couldn’t help but question why we don’t visit more often? A mere two hours away, closer than Ames, Des Moines and Chicago, we’ll hopefully have another report, soon.

Originally published 5 July 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Break in heat lends to running reflections

For reasons purely selfish, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this week’s weather. From the cooler temperatures and clouds to the light rains and breezes, this week has been a welcome respite.

I am someone who will never complain about winter and even though our past cold season was rather long, I tolerate cold much better than heat, which is why my race calendar has dropped off significantly.

Following the Cornbelt 24-Hour-Run the first weekend in May, I skipped a few events and went back at it Memorial Day weekend with the MedCity Marathon in Rochester, Minn., where my most recent fear was confirmed: being jipped out of a spring and tossed right into the lion’s den of SUMMER. Grrr.

It was a quick trip, just 21 hours from arrival to departure, and unfortunately the cloudless morning allowed temps to climb into the 80s. Both half and full marathon runners were bussed from Rochester to the race start in Byron. With the first half spent on county roads, the course rolled past gorgeous farm land that even included a few buffalo corralled in a small pasture.

2014-05-31 23.53.57I rarely spend much time studying a race course and while I knew Rochester had an impressive trail system, I didn’t think the course would join it. But it did, and I found myself struggling to focus on the “here and now” of 2014 vs. the summer of 2011 when my dad, Tom Reed, was at the Mayo Clinic for nearly a month following surgery for lung cancer.

In 2011, the thoracic nurses at St. Mary’s Hospital printed off maps of the trail system which offered me regular sojourns into nature and the chance to worry and fret and cry safely away from Dad’s bedside.

To say the least, it felt a little sad to be back on those trails.

While the lovely volunteers were wonderfully peppy, the heat continued to climb which did little for my spirits. What really helped were the three different times people offered coolers full of ice cubes which I’d drop into the back of my shirt, stuff under my ball cap and hold in my hands.

I was frustrated. Not only did I not have the proper equipment with me i.e. a sweat rag, but I had yet to mentally acclimate to the challenge of heat. Heck, I was still running in jackets and gloves just a few weeks before!

Then there was the little issue of course markings as a few areas during the last several miles lacked both volunteers, traffic cones and paint. I followed those in front of me and was lucky they knew the way. Later on at the finish line, I saw fellow Cornbelt member, Chet Doyle of Rock Island approach the finish from the opposite direction. After he came back around through the chute, he said a few ill-marked turns cost him dearly in more time and mileage. Ugh!

I’d hoped to finish in under 5 hours, nothing too crazy, but still respectable. However, given the memories that were haunting me, the heat that was grilling me and the tentative progress along a few confusing areas, 5 hours began to slip away.

Despite this there was still fun to be had. With a couple of different places on the course in which you’d meet runners headed back at you, I got to enjoy one of my absolute favorite things: Hi-5’ing!

Running buddy Bennie Rheeder of Cedar Rapids taught me to never pass up an opportunity to Hi-5 a kid, but I’d argue it’s even more fun when you’re just a few miles from the finish and you’re tired and hurting and the tank is on empty, to have fellow runners scream and cheer at each other while swapping palm sweat!

Eventually I made it to the finish line in 5:13:08. Given all the circumstances, I was just happy to be done and sitting in my air conditioned car!

I really haven’t pushed myself since then. My son Maclane and I walked the Color the Quads 5k May 31st which, having run the event last year, is a much dirtier experience as a walker.

If you’ve never heard of a “color run” it’s when several color stations are positioned along the course where hoards of volunteers spray you with blue- or red- or green- or yellow-dyed corn starch. It gives you rainbow nose candy and blue ear wax, perfect for an 11-year-old boy whose nickname is “Fluffy.”

Even though we walked it, the heat was high and left me exhausted, which brings me back to the blessed weather break that I thoroughly enjoyed this week!

With breeze enough to keep the bugs away and cooler temps to keep my sweat at bay, I armed myself with a power drill and, with the help of Moira and Maclane, modified their swingset!

Gone is the rocking horse attachment on which neither child could fit. By moving Moira’s single, painfully narrow swing to one end and drilling fresh holes through the top at the other, the three of us found ourselves gathered ‘round the swingset, enjoying the gentle sway of our new porch swing!

And isn’t that what summer break is about? Not so much grueling races, but having fun and knocking out little projects . . . and then taking a little break in the swing.

Originally published 14 June 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

The long road of repairing birth ‘marks’

Two weeks ago my 14-year-old daughter, Moira, had surgery. Not relating to anything life-threatening, no surgical response to a scary diagnosis, but surgery nonetheless. It was the third attempt to graft bone into her hard palate.

Having been born with a unilateral cleft lip and palate, Moira’s baby smile was extra wide and the inside of her mouth, a veritable canyon of openness. Aside from the expected eating issues, the cleft was merely cosmetic.

I prefer the term birth “mark” to birth “defect.” Well-meaning people would see her baby self and remark how lovely she’d look after surgery. I’d gently remind them, “she’s lovely now.”

2014-05-16 07.12.21Her recent trip to the OR was one of many surgeries she’s undergone. At six months of age, University of Iowa doctors closed Moira’s lip. At 1-year, her palate. Then there were the holes (fistulas) that popped open in her palate, requiring skin grafts from her hip to close them. Like many other children, Moira also had a couple of sets of ear tubes put in, as well.

Then in 2nd grade, doctors made the first attempt at grafting bone from her left hip into her hard palate. The reasoning behind the graft was to allow Moira as natural a smile as possible. Often times, children born with cleft palates are missing teeth in the area where the face and skull didn’t fully come together. By grafting bone into the open palate, it allows doctors to either move teeth into the area or install implants.

Unfortunately, within the first couple of weeks after this first graft, tiny shards of bone began escaping and by the one-month post-op appointment, doctors confirmed our fear: the graft failed.

In 3rd grade, a second attempt was made. Once again, by the second week of post-op, she began handing us tiny shards of white bone. I felt sick.

Despite the emissions, the otolaryngology team believed some of the graft did take, which put Moira in a holding pattern, of sorts. No more surgeries until after braces.

Last spring the braces went on and after several months of moving teeth, we were informed x-rays showed there remained insufficient bone in the hard palate to continue moving teeth, that enough bone did not survive the 2nd graft five years earlier and she’d need a third.

I felt that old flutter of panic rise in my chest. I wanted to scream and holler that my daughter had to go through this, again and AGAIN! It wasn’t fair. And then the panic passed . . . even Moira would admit she’s got a pretty great life. Her “problems” are cosmetic. She’s a healthy, happy, normal kid!

Not only did Moira’s attitude help fend off the demons of dread, but the doctors working on her were a new team. Rather than go through the otolaryngology department at the University of Iowa, her orthodontist referred her to UI’s dental department where he teaches weekly and is “hands-on” with her team there.

After meeting with this team, I felt a little less scared. Their approach was more aggressive noting Moira would be placed on an antibiotic immediately after surgery, the bone would be harvested from the opposite hip, or as they put it, “a fresh site,” and then warned, “you’ll be coming out here a lot” because of Moira’s history with rejection.

An aggressive approach was music to our ears. I didn’t care if we had to drive daily or stay in a hotel, I loved the idea of these doctors keeping a close eye on her.

There were a host of other issues, minor in comparison, but pressing nonetheless. For instance, Moira plays trumpet, would she be able to continue? How limited would her other activities be?

Her team assured us that after 4-6 weeks of recovery, Moira could likely resume her normal activities. Timing proved key. To minimize any chance of being jostled, bumped or hit, we scheduled surgery as close as possible to the last day of school. May 15 was the best they could. We opted to keep her home for the remaining 10 days of the school calendar, working with her teachers to help her focus on homework and such.

By being at the end of the school year, she would have the summer to recover and be ready to resume her trumpet in August.

Many people have asked how Moira was handling the idea of surgery, “was she nervous?” Undoubtedly, yes, but Moira has two things going for her A) it had been several years since her last surgery so her recall wasn’t as fresh, and B) she’s a little Buddhist! If ever there was a child who lives in the moment, it’s Moira.

But as surgery grew closer, as she attended the pre-op appointment and talked with teachers and friends about the upcoming knife, she admitted her fears. Those fears? Not being able to eat Mike & Ike candy or popcorn. (Oh, the teen mind…)

The day of surgery came with several delays, but eventually she was taken into the OR. When she came out, it was with fabulous news!

Tune in next week to learn what happened and of the amazing things people did to honor Moira (and her fellow human beings)!!!

Originally published 31 May 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Local 24-Hour-Run: crazy & worth repeating

For the past 33 years, the Cornbelt Running Club has hosted its 24-Hour-Run at the North Scott Track in Eldridge. That’s right, 24 hours of running or walking, around and around and around a high school track. Through rain, wind, sunrise, sunset, bugs, rabbits and birds; through night, through day; through burgeoning blisters, bad backs and sore hips; through chilly temps and blazing heat.

When I initially joined Cornbelt in late 2009, such an event didn’t even register with me. I’m sure I read about it in the newsletter, but because I was so far from considering anything beyond a marathon, I failed to see the event as anything other than LOONEY TUNES! The notion of doing something for 24 hours, paying to do so . . . and not even for a charity? I was completely unable to grasp such nonsense.

20140505_104216_AndroidWithin a couple years of joining the running club, I began to volunteer at a few events and eventually I found myself at a table near the North Scott Track counting laps in the wee hours of a Sunday morning.

As runners and walkers completed the last three hours of the challenge, I began to see the 24-Hour-Run as something I needed to try. Back in January, when I made a list of specific goals for 2014, the 24-Hour-Run was part of my four-goal list.

Because I’ve done a few long events since March, I didn’t consider any specific type of training, rather I focused on staying healthy, listening to my body and in the week prior to the May 3-4 event, squeeze in a daily nap and carb load responsibly.

At 7 a.m. when I toed the line with 24 other individuals from as nearby as DeWitt and as far away as California, I had one main hope: to last all 24 hours.

In talking with others who had done it, I was interested in how pain would affect my psyche. I’m not a masochist and do NOT enjoy pain and/or suffering, especially the self-inflicted kind. But I’m curious about my limits. Back in 2009 when I set my sights on the 2010 Chicago Marathon, I assumed I’d find my limits there. Sure it was tough, running 26.2 miles is hard, but it wasn’t the mythical, life-changing “Everest” I’ve heard others claim it to be.

What if I were faster? Nope. I still don’t think it’d be any of that reverential stuff, it’d just be less fun.

And I’ve pretty much come to grips with the fact that if I’m not having fun, I’m not going to bother. But I must admit, I didn’t expect to have fun at the 24-Hour-Run. I expected myself to morph into some senseless, muttering, sleep-deprived ball of pain.

20140505_104829_AndroidI was most concerned with my feet, given they’d suffer the most. I knew I needed to have a variety of shoes and unfortunately I chose the wrong one to start in: a thin pair of Brooks Ravennas that, while fine for a 10k, have no business staying on my feet beyond that. Though no blisters appeared, the Brooks laces cut into the top of one of my feet, setting it on fire.

Not sure how long each of my three pairs of shoes would last, I kept the Brooks on for seven hours, 112 laps totaling 28 miles before changing into a newish pair of Asics Kayanos.

While the Asics have always been a good long-run shoe for me, and my feet did feel better getting out of the Brooks, the damage was done. I kept them on for another nine hours, another 108 laps totaling 27 miles before breaking out my ace-in-the-hole, a pair of Hoka Conquests.

These moon-like shoes have a sole that’s crazy thick. Its massive cushion helped me run much of that final eight hours. Except for a brief time in which I pulled off my socks and popped blisters on my toes (and then slathered a layer of A&D ointment on my soles) running the straights and walking the turns made for a comfortable way to pass the hours.

But if it was all physical, where’s the fun in that? Eventually everyone walks and it’s when falling in with another participant that the glory of the event comes to the surface. Visiting with DeWitt resident and pastor Curt Girod who was doing his fourth 24-Hour-Run, he told me about his prior experience and what got him to achieving the 100 kilometer/61 mile mark. He finished with nearly 77.5 miles logged.

Then there’s the character who convinced Curt to do the event in the first place, DeWitt resident Scott Hoag. I remember counting Scott’s laps last year, but getting to talk with him and soak up his experience of having completed well over 20 of 24-Hour-Run events, was much more fun. Curt, Scott and the vast majority of everyone else exhibited for me, how much stronger the mind is than the body.

The event defies logic, reason, and has most people thinking we all needed to be locked in a padded room.

Scott’s hips and back were aching and more than once I watched friends work on his lower back as he laid face-down on the in-field. And yet he never quit, logging a final tally a couple tenths shy of 78 miles.

I think Curt and Scott would agree that we powered on, not because our mental fortitude was so immense or our bodies, temples of greatness. We kept circling the track because of the people who joined us . . . the ones who love us, in spite of our quirky hobbies.

Curt’s wife kept him company and walked with him, Scott’s kids were there. Marty brought the kids down, holding signs that read, “Mom is 24 hours of awesome!” My parents came out and walked me over the 50 mile threshold, Charlotte resident and racing buddy Nancy McClimon came twice, first to walk with me, the second time to drive my car home afterwards.

Seeing so many friends and families come out to share in the experience brought real meaning to the term “team effort.” Even while I sat popping blisters, I was loving it.

I think it was Curt who said, “You’re hooked, aren’t you.”

Yep! My 81.65 miles were 323 laps of fun! A fun that was parsed into bits of endurance, slices of sharing, a chunk of eating, a heap of pain, a dollop of suffering, and a huge helping of joy!

Whether you’re a walker or runner, want to do 10 miles or 100, I think the 24-Hour-Run is our best-kept, most neurotically-loved secret . . . and I would love to see more of us out there in 2015!

Originally published 17 May 2014 in The Observer.