Ouch.

For all my flowery language about running, there are days when it sucks. Like today.

My cats decided to have a tussle on my bed this morning, 30 minutes before my alarm was due to go off. So, there's no going back to sleep at this point. I'd taken cold medicine last night to try and ward off the plague, so I was all cotton-headed and cross. But I fed the fighting cats, put on my running gear and set off.

The first mile is always a good indication of what you're dealing with, and it was not pleasant. My calves were whiny and my feet were tender. I must have looked like a little old lady out there today, plodding along listening to "This American Life" on my iPod. Thankfully, Dan Savage was on the tail end of this one. He advocates yelling at your kids. I like Dan Savage.

I don't like this predicament I'm in with my training, though. I have plantar fasciitis, which sounds really sketchy but is actually just sore arches in my feet. Not just -- it sidelines NBA stars and stuff -- but I've been dealing with this stupid injury for 10 years. The only solution is to stop running, which I'm not going to do. So I have orthotics in my shoes, I dutifully do my stretches and when my feet start feeling tender, I roll 'em on a frozen orange juice can.

The problem is that I've got 13 more miles to run this week. That's the training plan. I like plans. I feel rudderless without some sort of overarching agenda in my life, even if it is just a computer-generated 18-week half-marathon training plan. But I'm feeling a little tired and achy today. Am I on the cusp of a bigger injury? Or just feeling off today?

This is the hedging game that every athlete plays with herself. "Can I push this one more day? Two more days?" And every time I push it, I get hurt. To wit: Last year, after my personal record-setting half marathon, I kept going with my marathon training and tore my hip labrum. In retrospect, this was really stupid. But running, for all the good it does for my brain, body and soul, is also a form of addiction.

Will I take tomorrow off? Probably not. I'll just run very, very slowly -- and hope my body cooperates.

Fitting it all in

As a response to my buddy Bridget's comment, I'm going to write a bit about fitting everything in. Basically, it's not always possible.

For instance, I didn't work out today, because our nanny has the flu, and my husband, Steve, stayed home with our son. That means I'm on duty in the morning and in the evening. We have an elliptical machine in front of a little television, which is awesome. I use it all the time. In fact, I watched the entire library of "The Shield," "The Wire" and a season of "Breaking Bad" while pedaling in place. I have weights, a Bosu and a yoga ball. But tonight, after getting my son down for bed, instead of hopping on for a level 12 hill workout with the third episode of "Glee," I had to edit a story and drink a glass of wine. Well, probably not that last part. Did I mention I'm also eating ice cream?

It's not always possible to fit it all in. My life is scheduled to the hilt, and when you have a kid, you have to be willing to chuck your plans if he or she gets sick, or was up half the night with nightmares, or you've got a bout of insomnia that came out of nowhere. It sucks. I get grouchy about it. But luckily, I have an awesome spouse who knows that if I don't get to work out at least five days a week, I'm as ill-tempered as Dick Cheney.

But other than having a piece of exercise equipment in my home and a fantastic husband, I also have to be willing to go for a run whenever I can. That means rousing before the sun rises and strapping on a headlamp and a blinking vest so distracted drivers don't mow me down on the parkway. That means keeping a packed gym bag in my car, just in case I only have an hour for a workout. That means being inflexible when people try to encroach upon my workout time.

That's a hard one, I know. I'm a mom, and a pleaser by nature. I can totally see how moms fall into the trap of putting themselves last. I spend all day pining for my son. Choosing to do a run after work instead of spending that time with him feels selfish.

But is it? Your child needs to see that you take care of yourself -- that you shower, you exercise, you eat a balanced diet. Modeling is the most powerful way to parent. And I'm taking that to heart.

I remember reading something totally asinine that our former president said (and no, I'm not just saying this because I'm a Democrat). He was profiled in "Runner's World" back when he was still in the White House. When asked about making time to exercise, he said: "If the President of the United States can make the time, anyone can."

Please. When was the last time the president had to stand in line at the post office? Or call and set up a babysitter for Saturday night? Or stay on hold for 15 minutes with his insurance company? Making time for exercise is HARD. I know it is. So I get up early, I make deals with my husband and I just make it happen.

I'm a slow runner ...

... but a determined one. I've been running for almost 20 years, and I started, basically, because it was the cheapest way I could think of to shed the 50 pounds I'd gained in the dorms at UC Davis. I remember chugging along Sycamore Lane toward campus, past all the college-named streets: Wake Forest, Cornell, Villanova, Radcliffe. I didn't know whether to breathe through my nose or my mouth, and my lungs were on fire most of the time. I'd have to stop every few minutes and catch my breath. But I'd do 2 miles, three or four times a week.

I did take off the weight -- though it took me almost two years and cutting back on Taco Bell. But weight control isn't the only reason I run. I run now because I'm a runner. Running is like prayer for me. My mind is calm, my body's working and I feel completely, totally free.

I should mention, since my high school friends will never let me forget, that I was the girl in P.E. class who always had a reason why I shouldn't run laps around the soccer field or the pond at the park near campus. I had cramps, or I had a bum knee. I don't really know why I hated running all that much. Actually, I think I do. It's because I was slow.

When I was living in San Francisco, I consulted with a running coach. I'd been running for a dozen years at that point, and raced in a few 5Ks. I never seemed to get any faster, and it was frustrating. In my world, if you worked hard at something, you got better -- simple as that. But I was running and running and running, and not getting any faster.

This running coach met me at the fabled Kezar Stadium, where the Haight-Ashbury melts into the Inner Sunset. She had me run 2 miles as fast as I could, and she videotaped me. I remember running as fast as I could that day, but when I looked at the tape later, it looked like I was sort of shuffling around the track.

"You have a short, choppy stride," she wrote in my assessment, but that I should try to build up my speed first and then work on lengthening my stride. She also diagnosed my hips as "hypermobile," and suggested Pilates to strengthen my core. The coach also recommended that I join her early-morning track workouts, with an all-female running group called the Iguanas.

The Iguanas bill themselves as a fun, non-competitive group of women who like to run and train together. But the Iguanas workouts kicked my ass. I was always the last woman running, or second to last. And that kind of sucked, so I stopped going. But I never stopped running.

I've run in Spain, Italy, South Africa, Costa Rica and Ethiopia. I've run in Denver, in Boston, in St. Petersberg, Fla., and along the shores of Lake Michigan. I've run four half-marathons, a dozen 10Ks and countless 5Ks. I'd like to run a marathon. Maybe someday.

I call myself a writer -- and, indeed, I write and edit for a living -- but I haven't written much in my off hours. I can come up with all kinds of reasons why: I'm busy. I have a son now. There's dog hair to be Dustbusted. I write for a living -- why do it when I don't have to? But the bottom line is that writing is as much a part of me as running is. And if writing about my other passion can stoke some sort of fire, so much the better.

I call this blog "Short Stride" after the assessment given to me by that running coach in San Francisco. I'm not a great runner -- I'm probably not even a good one. But I love doing it, and I love spreading the gospel of feet-on-pavement.

Enjoy.