Mission Accomplished

I snagged myself a brand new marathon PR yesterday morning. Could've been by seven or eight more minutes than it was but bonkers can't be choosers.

Details and pictures to come soon.

Ready to Rumble

This will be a short post since I'm incredibly busy resting and carbo-loading right now. My marathon is Saturday morning and the last thing I want to do is come down with a last-minute finger injury from typing up a long blog post... not to mention the brain power it requires to come up with the stuff I do. Right now, I'm trying to use as few of my bodily functions as possible.

Turns out the last few weeks of marathon training had one more little trick up its sleeve to play on me. Somehow, I fell victim to a strained hip flexor two weeks ago. It was one of those muscles I didn't realize I even had until it started hurting. I think it happened during a long tempo run on the treadmill but not realizing the severity of it, I went and exacerbated it a few days later by running 22 miles. I exacerbate quite a lot... but that's a post for another day.

Long story short (saving the fingers, you know), I've been having to constantly baby my hip flexor for a couple of weeks. That's a tricky spot to stretch, let me tell ya, and icing it... well... let's just say my walking around with an ice pack stuffed down the front of my pants doesn't raise a single eyebrow in my house.

I think-- I hope-- I have it under control. No doubt I'll be doped up on ibuprofen come race morning but I'm still confident there's a PR waiting for me at the finish line, assuming everything else goes in my favor.

If not, I might have to exacerbate something and it ain't gonna be pretty.

Dose of Humility

It never fails.

The last few weeks of marathon training always fool with me. They're like that prankster in grade school who thinks it's hilarious to pull out a chair from underneath you then laugh maniacally while you lie on the ground clutching your tailbone. Simply put, the last few weeks of marathon training are pure evil. If something goes wrong, you can bet your kids' college funds the last few weeks of marathon training have something to do with it.

Usually it's not until the taper when they really start messing with you. You've survived the worst of the training and the end is in sight. All you've got to do is run a few miles here and there to keep your legs fresh, the kind of workouts you can do in your sleep. You can guiltlessly eat and sleep in copious amounts and just put your feet up until the day comes when a measly 26.2 miles are on the schedule. But that's the cue for the last few weeks of marathon training to move in and stir up some trouble. You start feeling anxious about not running as much or as long. Little niggling worries and doubts take hold in your head like a thistle in a patch of weeds. And of course, the most cunning trick of the last few weeks of marathon training: the phantom injuries. The ache in your calf you wake up with one morning that you've never felt before. The sore ankle you notice when all you've been doing is keeping the couch warm. It takes very little pain to throw you into a wild state of panic.

Oh, the clever and wily ways of the last few weeks of marathon training.

I've fallen prey to them time and again and this training round is no different. Except this time it was with a twist. The last few weeks of marathon training must have realized I was onto them and their insidious ruse because they went out of their way to throw me a curve ball-- even employing the help of an outside and equally shrewd force.

The other night, on a day when I hadn't even run, I felt a tingle in the middle toe on my right foot. My toes have certainly been a source of trouble the last few months, what with shedding their nails and all, but this was a different sensation. Instinctively, I looked down to see my toe was noticeably red and swollen.

"Last few weeks of marathon training!", I instantly hissed.

Sure enough, upon further inspection, my toe hurt. I poked and prodded to survey the extent of the damage and sure enough, it hurt a lot. I began mentally backtracking what'd I'd done in the last 24 hours that could have possibly caused my toe to behave this way and I couldn't think of a single thing. I hadn't stubbed it on anything; I hadn't stepped on anything. And it'd been days since I kicked any stray cats. I was truly perplexed.

The next morning when I swung my feet around to get out of bed to run, I stood up and nearly crumpled. I let out a moan as the pain traveled six feet from the nerves in my foot up to the nerves in my brain.

"That the best you got?", I taunted the last few weeks of marathon training as I defiantly laced up my running shoes. Without hesitation, I headed out the door and ran six miles of speedwork drills while ignoring the occasional needle stabs that were going on within my sock.

Apparently, that pissed the last few weeks of marathon training off big time. I barely made it to work that day. When my boss (a chiropractor) took a look at my toe and pulled on it, I came within just millimeters of knocking his teeth out of his head with my knee.

I went to bed that night pretty sure I had a broken toe. With a new respect for the last few weeks of marathon training, I begged for forgiveness and promised to acknowledge and subject myself to its majesty for the remainder of my days if only I was spared to be capable of running my marathon.

The next morning, the pain was gone. Completely gone. I would have suspected it was all a bad dream if my toe wasn't still a little red and swollen. It ocurred to me not long aftewards that it was never a broken toe at all but most likely a bad spider bite that nearly brought me to my knees begging the last few weeks of marathon training for mercy.

Humility is a humbling thing.

I have no mind to tempt the last few weeks of marathon training again, especially now that after one more long training run this weekend I'm officially starting my taper. I possess no such reverence for its shady wingmen, however. The next spider I see in my house will not get the customary swirl job in the toilet. Oh no. I'll be pinning the repugnant arachnid on a piece of cardboard and pulling its eight legs off its body one at a time while I watch it squirm. Nobody messes with me during the last few weeks of marathon training.

Except, of course, the last few weeks of marathon training.

De-Monkeyed

It's a few weeks after the fact but I suppose it would be appropriate to report here on my so-called "running blog" the new half-marathon PR I pulled off at my last race. This was the PR that has haunted me for over two years. The one that followed me around like hungry stray dog, taunting me as I attempted over and over again--and failed over and over again-- to claim it.

I'm pleased to report not only did I best my previous half-marathon PR by three minutes, but for the first time in my illustrious running career, I brought in 13.1 miles under two hours. 1:58:35, to be exact... and you'd better believe I'm counting that extra minute and 25 seconds as further reason to gloat. Not only did I shake that monkey off my back once and for all but I spit in his monkey face and kicked it in its monkey nuts. Never before in my life has beating up a monkey been so fun.

As it turns out, I run pretty darn fast after getting a root canal. Whoulda thunk? Maybe it's not the most conventional of strategies, but hey, to each their own. Of course, I might have a hard time ponying up the $800 it requires each time I race, but then again, those race fees are getting a little hefty themselves. Pretty soon, I'll have to offer my children to enter a marathon and since I only have so many of them, I guess I'd better choose my races wisely.

As for this race, it really just boiled down to gutting it out. It was a late start-- 7:30a.m.-- and for someone used to training while the sun is barely peeking above the eastern horizon, it felt warm and muggy before I even took my first steps. The course was tricky with lots of rolling hills, starting two miles into the run and ending at the finish line. And then there was the issue at mile 9 of inadvertently nudging my contact lens up into my eyelid when I reached to wipe some sweat off my brow. It was insult to injury as the lens in my other eye had already clouded over with sweat a couple miles prior. At mile 9, I was exactly on my target PR pace and knew I couldn't stop for even a minute if I wanted to get it. Despite being nearly blind in one eye and might-as-well-be blind in the other, I forged ahead, able to see only enough to stay on course and not get hit by a car (although I had a close call with a six-year old on his bicycle).

For the first time in a race, I nearly spewed my innards while approaching the finish line. I wasn't more than a tenth of a mile away when I felt a wave of dizziness pass over me. My body swayed a little to the left and I imagine I looked a lot like a drunkard trying to walk a straight line. I teetered and tottered for a few seconds until I regained some balance then somehow managed to continue moving forward until I saw someone with a watch who told me I could stop. Once I did, I stepped aside enough to avoid getting run over by anyone coming up from behind me to put my hands on my knees and dry heave a couple times. Thankfully, I managed to hold it in and felt better after getting some water and sitting down. Actual vomiting before, during or after a race is something I will have to look forward to another day.

Once I'd recovered and caught my breath, my predominant feeling (other than exhaustion) was sheer satisfaction. I'd spent the last seven months training like a fool. I followed a program that made me faster and kept me injury-free and I put my pedal to the metal and floored it week after week. To see the hard work pay off in the form of attaining such a coveted PR was extremely satisfying to me. I drove home that day with the smuggest of smiles on my face.

Not even the pathetic whimpering moans of the monkey tied up and gagged in the back seat of my car could erase it.
_________________________________________________________

For anyone keeping track of me, my next race is a full marathon the third Saturday in September. I've already knocked out a strong 20-mile training run with a 22-miler still to come. I don't want to jinx myself by being too cocky, but I'm feeling quite confident about this race. I think another PR just might be biting the dust soon.

T-Pain

My face has been a source of severe frustration lately... and not just because of the reflection in the mirror.

A couple of months ago, I started feeling some pain in the left side of my face. It would migrate from my lower teeth into my upper jaw, toward my ear and inevitably into my temple. Some days it would just be a minor nuisance but others would find me wincing in pain throughout the day.

Since I'm a woman, nobody really knew about it. I kept it quiet and went about my daily business as if nothing was wrong. Incidentally, during that time, my husband strained his back moving a piece of furniture and I was reminded about it for days while he was convinced he was bound for his deathbed any moment.

Since I'm generally a pretty healthy horse (not so much as a cold in the last three years!), I figured whatever it was would ride its course and then leave me alone. I was too busy to get sick and since things like this obviously happen only when it's convenient, I was certain I was going to be just fine. Imagine my sheer annoyance when several weeks after it began, the pain not only didn't go away and leave me alone, it got exponentially worse.

What the what?!

Suddenly I was popping ibuprofen like it was pez candy and curling up in the fetal position for hours at a time. The pain was still resonating all over the left side of my face, making me feel like Arnold in The Terminator. Any minute, it seemed my skin was going to peel back off my skull to reveal something hideous (like The Terminator half, not the Arnold half).

With a potential PR opportunity in a half-marathon coming up quickly, I decided to do something crazy: I went to see a doctor. I pointed out all my boo-boos; he looked up my nose. Together, we determined it was a bad sinus infection. He sent me off with a prescription for a super-potency, high-octane augmented antiobiotic guaranteed to clear up the sinus infection, fix my face and grow back my toenails in no time. Immediately after returning home from the pharmacy, I threw back the first pill and went about my normal business.

A week later, after spending the night visiting the bathroom over and over again because the meds were making me so sick while my face still pounded in agony, I resigned myself to calling the dentist. I knew it was one of my options in the first place but figured I'd start inexpensively and work my way up as needed.

Thankfully, my dentist was able to squeeze me in that same day. I plopped down in the chair and pointed to the tooth that seemed to be hurting the most. That's when I got a root canal.

Turns out the root system underneath my molar was so badly infected it was causing pain throughout my whole face. As opposed to learning I had just days to live, that was nice to hear.

I can't say the root canal was horrible; in fact, it really wasn't a whole lot worse than getting a cavity filled. I think that's because I was on the laughing gas, which I happen to believe is almost as good as dying in my sleep and going to heaven. (I grew up in a very conservative community so I was never really exposed to alcohol or drugs. My first time on laughing gas I was riding rollercoasters in the sky and recounting all the classic knock-knock jokes in my head. I may have even told the doctor a few of them while he was drilling.)

I've got to go back next week to have the root canal finished. Apparently, the doctor only had time to do half of it, which seems a little odd. Would an OB/GYN only have time to deliver half a baby? In any case, I'm stuck in a little bit of limbo until that happens. Doc predicted I'd have some soreness the next couple of days but then promised I'd start feeling better. Hopefully the feeling better part will come just in time for my race on Saturday morning. My training has been going really well and I think I've got a good shot at snagging that half-marathon PR I've been coveting for so long. I don't want to have to blame missing it on a bum tooth, although I most definitely will if I fall short.

Then again, maybe I'll just sneak some of the happy gas and ride a rollercoaster in the sky on my way to a guaranteed PR while I distract everyone I pass in my wake with knock-knock jokes.

I think I just found myself a race strategy.

Dropping Like Flies

As much as I expect it to happen, it's always a bit traumatic to lose a toenail. That moment when the clippers nick the skin just under the nail to release a geyser of trapped blood never fails to make me gasp out loud. Or even better, that moment when the nail finally pops loose and I can actually peer underneath it if I bend my neck and contort my head just right.

This is becoming way too regular a ritual for me.

It wouldn't be so bad if it were the smaller nails, the ones that are easy to disguise with a little nail polish. No, I have to lose my big toenails-- the ones that require a gallon of polish to cover up. I'm not sure why I even bother. It almost seems like an amputee sporting a patent leather dress shoe on his stump, as blatantly obvious as it is. I guess I'm just not quite at the point of embracing my toenailess feet for all the world to see and appreciate.

It does make me wonder, though. How much money could Paula Radcliffe score on her lost toenails if she listed them on eBay? Forget winning marathons. Could Deena Kastor become independently wealthy on CraigsList? And then there's Kara Goucher. That girl is what you call hawt. I shudder to think what a dude with a foot fetish would do if he got his hands on a few of her disposed toenails.

Unfortunately, until I start winning major city marathons, my lost toenails are more or less useless. It's too bad, really. They look so pretty all decked out in shades of rosy hues as I pry them off my feet... again.

Selective Memory

The last time I gave birth to a human baby (as opposed to a non-human one, which is documented on my other blog) was a little more than nine years ago. I'd spent months preparing for the event. I read entire books on pregnancy and childbirth and obsessively researched the subject on the internet, googling terms I'd be embarrassed to say out loud in the presence of mixed company (let's face it: episiotomies and hemorrhoids aren't things you bring up over potato salad at the neighborhood barbecue). I ate, whether I was hungry or not and savored every single morsel I put in my mouth. I slept, sometimes for eleven or twelve hours at night and then lied down for a nap three hours later. My body became a constant source of frustration. Will my ankles ever stop swelling? Could my belly get any bigger? I stressed over numbers. How many weeks? How many diameters? And finally, when the big day arrived, I set aside all my pride for several hours while I went about the slow and grueling process of turning myself inside out. It wasn't pretty. I wailed in pain, gnashed my teeth, barked at strangers and cursed the day I ever thought birthing a baby was a grand idea. But when the carnage was over, I held in my arms something extraordinary. And just like that, in an instant of time, I forgot all the pain, misery and agony it took to get to that point. Life was good. I was a mother again.

The last time I ran a marathon was a little more than one year ago. I spent months preparing for the event. I read entire books on running marathons and obsessively researched the subject on the internet, googling terms I'd be embarrassed to say out loud in the presence of mixed company (let's face it: fartleks and crotch chafing aren't things you bring up over the cash register at WalMart). I ate, whether I was hungry or not and savored every single morsel I put in my mouth. I slept, sometimes for eleven or twelve hours at night and then lied down for a nap three hours later. My body became a constant source of frustration. Will I ever stop losing my toenails? Could my thighs get any bigger? I stressed over numbers. How many miles? How many repeats? And finally, when the big day finally arrived, I set aside all my pride for several hours while I went about the slow and grueling process of turning myself inside out. It wasn't pretty. I wailed in pain, gnashed my teeth, barked at strangers and cursed the day I ever thought running a marathon was a grand idea. But when the carnage was over, I wore around my neck something extraordinary. And just like that, in an instant of time, I forgot all the pain, misery and agony it took to get to that point. Life was good. I was a marathoner again.

Marathon #4 is on September's calendar. Let the carnage and bundle of joy begin.

Race Report: 2009 Wasatch Back Relay

Alternate Titles:

Who Needs Toenails Anyway?

or

Is This Your Sweaty Sports Bra or Mine?
___________________________________________

Every now and again in life, if you're lucky, you find yourself part of something special. Maybe it's something you've planned for and anticipated for a long time or maybe it's something that's sprung upon you unexpectedly. Regardless, when it happens, you know it. And if you're wise, you pause long enough to acknowledge and embrace the impact it has made.

Last weekend, I found myself part of something special. Don't worry... I'm not about to go all Mary Poppins on you. I still enjoy turning a garden hose on a stray cat just as much as the next person. But because I like to consider myself somewhat wise, I'm taking this moment to pause long enough to acknowledge and embrace. Then, when I'm done, I'll make it a point to honk numerous times at slow, geriatric drivers just to make sure no permanent damage was done.

I find it very intriguing how running can be such a personal, individualized sport but also a celebration of a community effort. 95% of my running is done alone-- just me and the floating matter between my ears-- and it's easy to feel like I'm the only one out there slogging through the miles day after day. It never fails to fascinate me at races to realize not only am I not the only one out there, but there are thousands upon thousands of people who do what I do for the same reasons I do it. Running can be the most lonely sport in the world one day and the most crowded one the next.

My Wasatch Back experience was the perfect example of this dichotomy. The event boasted more than 650 teams and 9,000 runners, which by any definition would be considered a crowd. But as a 24-hour relay race, there were often times we were running completely alone-- sometimes in the middle of the night in the dark-- only to round the corner or climb the hill and be greeted again by a crowd of enthusiastic, cheering runners. Never before have I felt more strongly the distinct spirit of camaraderie that exists between runners than during this race.

I was one runner of an all-women team of 12. We came from different locations and backgrounds but we all had at least one thing in common: a love of running. Going into the race, I didn't know a single one of them and to say that was a little bit daunting would be an understatement. I soon learned my apprehension was totally unfounded, however, as one by one, I met the women whom would comprise my team and one by one, I connected with them. Over the course of the next 30 hours and two minutes, we shared our living quarters on wheels and took turns running, eating, sleeping, driving... and bleeding, sweating, crying and puking. We each had some of the most physically and mentally challenging runs we've ever accomplished due to stifling heat, driving rain, rough terrain, towering inclines and plunging downhills. And we did it all on two hours of "sleep" on the floor of a muggy high school auditorium, surrounded by hundreds of other equally exhausted, foul-smelling runners.

An adventure? You better believe it.

Of course, there was plenty of light banter and laughter along the way (Shorty McHotPants, anyone?). We once made stopping to use the bathroom a religious event. We dined on fine cuisine such as turkey sandwiches, string cheese, gogurts and homemade cookies and declared Diet Coke to be the cure-all to everything evil. We learned the Spanish words for road kill we encountered along the way and unanimously decided communal showers in the girls locker rooms are as bad now as they were back in high school.

Fortunately, we never suffered from injury or illness as did some other teams, but it was truly one of the most challenging things I've ever done in my life. My specific legs were difficult and severely tested at times my professed love for the sport of running. But there was something inspiring about watching my teammates-- normal, everday runners like myself-- conquer their own challenges in their own ways. I saw will and determination in each of their faces that motivated me to keep going, especially when I would have loved nothing more than to quit. The teamwork, the camaraderie, the combined dedication to something we loved-- it was thirty hours and two minutes of character defining moments I'll not soon forget.

I went into the Wasatch Back feeling like a lonely runner. Along with the company of 11 of the most amazing women I'll ever meet, I came out of it feeling part of something remarkably special.

Now quick... I gotta turn on the hose and find a stray cat.

A few photos from our weekend adventure:

Team Energizer Runnies (hence, the bunny ears) at the start line before the all the fun (and misery) kicked in.

My first leg at 5:15 p.m.: a hot and dusty steep descent for 6.9 miles on treacherous rocky terrain. I hurdled ruts and ravines, boulders, tree limbs and one severed animal leg. Thanks to this run, I'll be the proud owner of two less toenails in the coming months.

My second leg at 1:30 a.m.: A continuous uphill climb for 8.1 miles in the dark. The adrenaline I was riding on abruptly ran out around mile 5 and what was a rather enjoyable, pleasant run under the stars turned into a grueling uphill death march. The road kept climbing, offering very little reprieve and although it felt sickeningly similar to the last 10K of a marathon, I never allowed myself to stop to walk. When I finally reached the top of the last hill and handed my baton off to my teammate, I leaned over to put my hands on my knees to sob for a few seconds. Probably the single toughest run I've ever done in my life.

Flexing the guns after my midnight run. At that point, I felt like I could conquer the world.

Sprinting to the finish of my third and final leg: a flat 3.1 miles at 12:30 p.m. through a quiet residental area in the wind and rain. I was running on dead legs, no doubt the slowest 5K I've ever done, but when I heard the crowd cheer and saw my team in their bunny ears, the adrenaline kicked in one last time.

Team Energizer Runners at the finish line behaving a little strangely... but can you blame us after what we'd done? We ended up placing 27th out of 81 women's teams. Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all.

Yakking It Up

Living in rural farmland country, I don't need a running buddy because I already have dozens of them. Of course, they're not the human kind and I guess technically, they're not the running kind either. But on any given run, I get to cross paths with all kinds of company: cows, horses, goats, chickens and even the occasional llama. But a couple of weeks ago, I encountered something new--a yak.

I had to look twice. Seriously... a yak? Don't yaks live in arctic cold climates like Tibet? Oh wait... this is Idaho. Nevermind.

As yaks go, he was a friendly fellow. Admittedly, I can't say I've ever met another yak with which to compare, but he seemed a fairly typical yak. He watched me approach; we made eye contact. I nodded to acknowledge him and out of courtesy struck up a little conversation.

"Haven't seen you around these parts before".

He didn't reply, which I might have taken for being a bit rude, but in his defense, he did stop chewing whatever was in his mouth. Our encounter was over in a matter of seconds, but I like to think the yak and I formed a little insta-bond in that moment of time when our existences intersected.

I finished my run and didn't think about the yak again until later that night. It was my daughter's ninth birthday and we gave her the choice of where she wanted to go out to dinner. She chose a hole-in-the-wall burger joint a few miles past Grandpa's old farm that serves one-pound hamburgers on gigantic buns with all the fixings. You didn't read that wrong... one pound burgers, as in one patty that weighs one pound. Despite how it sounds, they're delicious and the place is always hopping. They even have a wall with photos of people who have managed to eat the entire one-pound burger by themselves. No, I'm not pictured on that wall. 3/4 is as far as I've ever gotten.

We stepped into the diner and were waiting to be seated when I looked up and noticed a chalkboard sign above the cash register:

"Now serving yak burgers!"

All the sudden I felt a little sick to my stomach. Not at the thought of eating a yak burger, but at the revelation of the fate of my new BFF. Out of respect, I offered a moment of silence. But then I promptly proceeded to down my share of the one-pound hamburger when it was put in front of me. (Don't judge me. I don't personally know any of the local cows.)

Again, I didn't think about the yak until this morning's run when my route took me through his pasture. There he was again-- or one that looked eerily just like him. I can't be sure, but I don't think it was the same yak. This one didn't stop to look at me, much less stop chewing... and to be honest, I couldn't look it in the eyes anyway. Instead, I nervously averted mine and focused straight ahead towards mile six without looking back. But as I did, my stomach rumbled a little from hunger and I couldn't help but wonder...

Do yaks go better with french fries or tater tots?

Tall Girl's Excellent Adventure

Typically, by this time of year, I've already run the first one or two races of the season. This year, however, I've purposefully taken a different approach. Instead of throttling out of the starting gate at the first of the year to run every race within reaching distance, I've been patiently and diligently training while biding my time. Watching... waiting... like a sleek and graceful cheetah in an African savanna desert, crouching beneath the brush, intently studying the antelope as they graze, waiting for just the right moment to POUNCE.

My meticulous patience is soon to be rewarded; my moment to POUNCE is soon to arrive. In a little over a month, I'll be running my first race of the 2009 season. This race, however, will be unlike any other I've done before because this is the year I'll be running the Wasatch Back Relay.

The Wasatch Back is one of those monster 24-hour relays that divides 178 miles between 12 runners. It runs along the back of the Wasatch mountain range in northern Utah, covering terrain from serene flat farmlands to rolling gravel hills to treacherous mountain trails. As a 24-hour race, runners are competing at all hours, whether during the scorching heat of the day or chilly blackness of the night. Physically, it's not for the weak or faint of heart.

This is going to be an adventure for me in more ways than one. To begin with, I'm running this relay with 11 virtual strangers, all women and mothers like myself. We formed our team online about a year ago and while I've gotten to know them a little via a blog created specifically for this race, I've never met a single one of them in person. For someone as socially-challenged as I tend to be, this is somewhat intimidating. What if they don't like me? What if they think I look funny or talk funny... or worse... run funny? In a way, I feel like I'm about to go back 20 years ago in time to high school when every day of my life was spent in self-conscious agony amongst my peers. I'm going to be spending at least 24 hours with these women in very close confines at times... eating, sleeping, changing clothes, smelling bad. The only other person I've done that with is my husband and.... well... the fun of that honeymoon ended a long time ago.

This will also be the first time I've ever run late at night. My second leg (there's three of them for each runner) is predicted to start around 1:50 in the morning. There just ain't been too many times in the last 20 years that I've seen that hour of the morning. And if I have, it's been to feed a newborn baby or sit with a sick child while she retchingly hovers over the toilet. 95% of my life at 1:50 a.m. has been spent meticulously studying the insides of my eyelids and dreaming of happy places. But next month, I'm going to be expected to not only be wide awake at 1:50 in the morning, but also run 8.1 miles up a mountain. That is so not a happy place.

Along with the late hour comes the dark. A whole lot of dark. In general, I'm not a big fan of dark. In high school, I would always make my best friend walk me home around the block so I didn't have to do it alone in the dark (of course, that meant she had to walk back home by herself in the dark, but at that point it wasn't my problem anymore). We runners will be wearing reflective vests, flashing LED lights and headlamps and will have other runners and support vehicles nearby, but that doesn't negate the fact we're RUNNING. IN. THE. DARK. And I'm just a little more than concerned that because my middle-of-the-night leg happens to be across mountain terrain, I'm going to encounter some kind of furry animal. Along with dark, I'm also not a fan of furry animals. I don't do cats or dogs and I definitely don't do skunks, coyotes or mountain lions.

So, this is what awaits me a little more than a month from now. I'm anxious, I'm nervous, I'm scared and I'm excited. And I have the feeling I'm in for the adventure of a lifetime.

I just hope I don't trip up on a woodchuck in the middle of the night. And if I do, I hope my teammates don't see it.

Hitting the Mathematical Wall

What is it about long-distance running that affects one's (okay... MY) ability to calculate simple math problems?

This has happened more times than I care to admit, but most recently during my long run yesterday morning. Though I was aiming to hit a total of 14 miles for the day, I wanted to make it a point to note my time at the half-marathon mark (13.1 miles) because I was pretty sure I was on a personal best pace for that distance. When I hit mile 9, I knew I was exactly six miles away from home.

That's where things started getting fuzzy.

Now, I have a copious amount of training when it comes to calculating math problems, including but not limited to: balancing my checkbook enough to know I probably shouldn't have written that last check, figuring the discount on a sale item at the store in anticipation of learning I can't afford to NOT buy it, deducting the amount of tip my waitress will receive every time she forgets to refill my drink, multiplying how many servings of miniature candy bars are in a bag to make sure there's enough to supply the appropriate sugar high for my daughter's school class for her birthday, adding up how much money we don't have for retirement, giving the cashier the right amount of money to ensure I get back the least amount of pocket change, computing my next paycheck to make sure I'm not getting shorted (again), multiplying how many cups of flour would go in a cookie recipe if I'm doubling it, etc. and so on. The list is endless, really. It should be obvious by now I'm a veritable mathematic genius.

Why then, at mile 9, could I not wrap my head around the fact 9+3=12 and not 13?

I don't seem to have trouble with any other intellectual endeavors during long runs. I never end my sentences with prepositions; I wouldn't dare mix acid with cyanide salt; I don't embarrass myself in the company of French-speaking dignitaries by asking to ride a poulet instead of a cheval; I wouldn't be caught dead confusing the Spanish-American War with the Mexican-American War and I sure as hell don't use "there", "their" or "they're" incorrectly.

But add 9+3? Apparently, that stumps me.

I did eventually figure out that 9+3 does not equal 13 and never will, but only when I actually looked at the numbers on my GPS screen and realized I still had more than a mile to run.

I've learned my lesson, however. In the future, I've pledged to consciously prohibit myself from doing any kind of math whatsoever while on the run.

No more calculating how many spoonfuls of Moose-Tracks ice cream I can eat after my run without feeling guilty. No more contemplating how many children we should have before we can't feed them anymore. No more adding up how many miles are between God-forsaken Idaho and the white sandy beaches of Montego Bay. No more dividing my late-grandmother's inheritance to determine if my share will cover the cost of a new big screen LCD TV with a surround-sound stereo system in the finished basement.

And definitely no more adding up how many miles I have left to run.

Better just to be left in painful mathematical ignorance.

Change of Scenery

Things have been a little hectic in my corner of the world the last few weeks. A full ten years after buying our house, I finally convinced (read: threatened) my husband to finish our basement. He's a contractor by trade, so you'd think that'd be a project that would have been completed years ago, wouldn't you? Apparently, however, he and the proverbial plumber with the leaky faucets are good pals. Nevertheless, even as I type, I can hear the sounds of hammering, drilling, nailing, spraying, pounding, scraping, and all-around general banging down below me. I've pretty much had a headache for three weeks.

Somehow, I've managed to retain my sanity, thanks mostly to keeping up a regimented schedule of running to help blow off the stress. There doesn't exist a jackhammer that can rattle me, not when I had a fantastic tempo run the night before! The only downside is that I've been relegated to doing my treadmill runs in the garage where all the furnishings of the previously unfinished basement have been temporarily moved. One day, I ran eight miles while facing the artificial Christmas tree; another day, I ran alongside the lawnmower and weed whacker. And yet another day, when the temperature outside had topped 70 degrees, I ran with the garage doors open while neighbors drove by every few minutes.

You'd think my own neighbors would be above honks and catcalls, wouldn't you?

Fortunately, the end is increasingly within sight and before long, I'll have my very own room in the basement to run on the treadmill, complete with walls, carpet and maybe even a sound system.

Not to mention a little privacy from the creepy old guy with binoculars across the street.

Verily, Verily, the Birds Shall Tweet Again

I'm no scriptorian, but if I were ever to write a running Bible, that would be the title of one of the chapters. The chapter that covers why a runner who lives in a miserably arctic climate such as-- oh, I dunno, let's say Idaho-- should do all he or she can to endure through it because there is indeed a light at the end of the tunnel.

Today, I saw that light. And like a sleepwalking child who smells sugar, I went toward it.

The temperature this morning as I set out for my mid-week tempo run was 35 degrees. That's at the beginning of the run! It could well have skyrocketed to 40 degrees by the time I was done. All I know is the sun was shining, the air was balmy and the birds were tweeting. It made me want to stop and tweet with them but I wasn't sure that was entirely appropriate. So, I repressed the urge to tweet and just ran and inhaled the scent of the imminent spring after another long, arduous winter. Other than the aroma of sautéing mushrooms and onions on Thanksgiving morning, nothing has ever smelled sweeter.

For the last 3 1/2 months, I've been cutting back my mileage. It was a forced decision in some ways as I had a shin injury that simply refused to heal. But I also did it in an effort to make time for more cross-training in my routine. After seven years, my body just didn't recognize running as real exercise anymore. As much good as running was doing, I might as well have been lying on the couch watching reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel Air, eyes glazed over and a stream of drool connecting my face to the leather. Okay... maybe that's not a fair statement. As opposed to running, at least I was burning a few calories on the couch by blinking once in awhile. And chortling. That Will Smith is a trip.

The elusive point to all this is my body had officially informed me the gig was up. I could run across the country and back and while I might burn a few calories doing it, I wasn't going to lose any holiday poundage, much less gain a sleeker physique. To do that, I had to bring some new game. And so I did-- and a new approach to my training was born. Five days a week of running turned to a mere three days, but mixed in with three other days of cross-training via one method or another. Inadvertently, I had become a master of the F.I.R.S.T program, endorsed by Runner's World, which promises eventual gains in speed on only three days a week of running.

It's working, folks. I'm feeling lean and mean these days, not to mention fast... just in time for the spring and summer racing season. I've got some PR's that are so buttered toast this year.

Just in time to feed all those tweeting birds.

Help Out a Mother

If you're a regular reader of Runner's World, the names Dimity McDowell Davis and Sarah Bowen Shea might ring a bell. They collaborated recently on a terrific article about running the Nike Women's San Francisico marathon together and they wrote a blog on the Runner's World website catered towards mothers who run. Now, they're working together again on a book tentatively titled Run Like a Mother, which will focus on the "intersection of mothering and running". For their research, they've put out a survey for running mothers and have asked all who would be willing to fill it out and send it in. They'll be using the feedback they receive in their book, scheduled to be released in the spring of 2010.

As a running mother myself of two daughters, I think this is a very intriguing project they're understaking and have sent in my own feedback. If you haven't come across their survey already and are interested in letting your own voice be heard, leave a comment and I'll send you the document via e-mail.

Now, go wash your hands and eat your vegetables.

Edited to add: If you'd like to take the survey, either leave your email address in the comments or send me a note at tallgirlrunning@gmail.com and I'll get it to you!

You thought YOUR race pictures were bad??

I'll never understand why Star Wars fans are considered geeks.

SOLUTION: Slam face first into steel posts at 6mph like I do and all you'll need is a band-aid and a little Neosporin.


I
If this guy runs a faster 5K than I do, I'm going to amputate my own legs at the hip... with a rusty hatchet.

Jerry O'Connell running: hot. Jerry O'Connell fondling his nipples while running: kuh-reepy.



I'm pretty sure I know what this guy is dressed as and I'm ashamed at myself for still posting it.

Feelin' Hot, Hot, Hot

This evening, after I finished a seven mile tempo run on the treadmill in my basement, I sat on the floor to do some stretching and saw steam rising off from my body, from my neck down my stomach to my legs.

Now, I know my basement isn't finished and the temperature is quite a bit cooler down there than it is upstairs. And I know by the time I was done I could easily have wrung a gallon of sweat out of my shorts and top.

But steam??

Either that's a really cool lesson in physics or my tempo pace on the treadmill is so blazing hot it's setting off steam.

Let's go with the second one.

Image copyright: www.livingwilderness.com

Warm Arms, Warm Heart

Irony is a funny thing... which I guess makes sense as that's essentially the definition of it. Let me tell you a little story.

Leading up to Christmas, as I was throwing my money around left and right buying the obligatory holiday gifts, I made a mental list of the things I'd like for myself for Christmas. (You know, just in case a certain adult male with whom I co-habitate asked what I want for Christmas instead of taking wild stabs in the dark at what I might like. But that's purely hypothetical... I loved my gifts, honey, and really enjoyed exchanging them. Thanks again!)

Every time my aforementioned mental list was made, one thing kept popping up to spot #2, second only to peace on earth and good will to men: a pair of arm warmers. For some reason, I had decided I must have a pair of arm warmers. Never mind they'd already invented such a thing, namely long-sleeved shirts. I wanted the arm warmers, dammit! I thought it would be super neat if I could wear them during winter when I first stepped out to run, then peel them down (or even off!) when I warmed up, offering some much-needed ventilation and coolness. Plus, I thought they just looked sweet and I'm all about looking sweet when I run.

Unfortunately, neither the adult male with whom I co-habitate nor Santa Claus himself picked up on my subtle hints about the arm warmers. On Christmas Day, when all the packages were opened, there was nary an arm warmer in sight. Figuring if I wanted something done right, I'd have to do it myself, I set about to buy a pair of arm warmers with the cold hard cash I got from my folks for Christmas. I looked in stores; I looked online. Nobody had what I was looking for. I was getting a little discouraged, thinking I was going to have to just resort to wearing a pair of long men's tube socks, which wouldn't be nearly as sweet as real arm warmers.

And then one day, while I was busy minding my own business, arrived my February 2009 issue of Runner's World and there amongst Lolo Jones' abs was the answer to my Christmas prayers: a short blurb hailing the new appeal of the arm warmer and the website at which I could go to make them my very own. They were exactly what I had envisioned and as a choir of angels heralded the tiding of great joy into my ears, I made a lords-a-leaping vault to my computer and ordered them.

Yesterday, I broke them out for my first run. I checked the current temperature before getting dressed and it read a whopping six degrees. I was hoping for an additional 20 or 50 degrees (give or take), but then remembered in Idaho I'd be waiting until July for that to happen. Instead of a so-yesterday long-sleeved shirt, I donned a light short-sleeved number over my sports-bra and topped it with my sleeveless fleece vest. I have to admit, I was a little wary. I was about to step outside in a short-sleeved shirt in a temperature that was prime for instantly freezing the snot inside my nose. But I had faith in the arm warmers and their ability to live up to my high expectations.

During the first mile, when I was still getting used to the sting of the cold air against my skin, I thought for sure I'd be turning back any minute for another coveted layer of warmth. Although the warmers were long enough to cover my hands if needed, I was wearing two pairs of gloves, but had a strip of exposed skin on my upper arms that was turning more and more red against the chill with every step I took. By the time I reached the end of the first mile, I'd decided it was too late to turn back and just went for broke by forging ahead. Soon enough, I was warmed up and feeling perfectly comfortable. The arm warmers were doing their thing and then some.

Unfortunately, even over the course of 12 miles, it never got warm enough to peel the arm warmers off, which disappointed me a little. I was looking forward to that part in an inexplicably weird sort of way. But I'm sure a month (or five) down the road I'll be able to enjoy the warmers at their fullest functionality.

I'm one satisfied customer and I think my experience proves that not only does Runner's World have the answers to every problem that could possibly exist, but that you should always buy your own Christmas gifts if you ever want to get anything good.

I'll be ordering Lolo's abs next year.

(Editors note: Despite RW's suggestion, I ended up ordering my warmers here, mostly because I'm a cheapskate and they offered free shipping.)

Reflection

The last couple of months have been rather sobering for me. A couple of days before Christmas, as I was mourning the loss of a friend's teen aged son, killed in a car accident, I got the news that my last surviving grandparent, my sweet 90-year old grandmother had fallen ill and was hospitalized. She peacefully passed away two days later on a snowy Christmas Day surrounded by her family. I wasn't able to see her myself before she died, but attended the funeral and burial services and was greatly comforted by them.

Last week, I got a call from my sister that my own father-- a true hero to me-- had been taken by ambulance to the hospital because of severe faintness and shortness of breath. What had been recently diagnosed as a bronchial infection turned out to be something much more serious: two large blood clots in his lungs. Doctors had no reservations about telling us he was lucky to still be here. Thankfully, his condition was treated in time and after a six-day stay in the ICU, he was released to begin a lengthy recovery at home.

I've had a lot to ponder the last couple of months, to say the least.

About three weeks ago, I stepped out to do a long weekend run. I knew I wanted to run between 10-12 miles--depending on how things felt-- but didn't really have a specific route in mind. I just started running and turned where I felt like turning. My legs were cooperating nicely that day and before I knew it, I was approaching six miles. Interestingly, my subconscious route lead me to a local cemetery. I'd been there several times before, so it wasn't foreign territory. I'd biked past it often last fall on my long bike rides, but very rarely have I run past it. I wasn't quite sure why my legs had carried me there that day.

Instead of turning around to head back home at the gate of the cemetery, I ventured in. I've always found cemeteries to be rather fascinating; I think I could spend hours in any given cemetery just studying the gravestones, reading the names and dates and wondering what kind of lives the people lead who were laid to rest there. Who were they? What was their story? What was their passion?

On the morning of my run, the ground of the cemetery was covered in several feet of snow. I had my ice cleats on and while they didn't keep me from sinking into the powder, I at least had a little bit of traction underneath me. I slowed to a jog and circled the entire cemetery, taking deep plunging steps into the snowbanks and inhaling the peaceful quiet of the air. I passed the gravestone of a 17-year old girl I had worked with closely a few years ago who was also tragically killed in a car accident the night of her Homecoming date. I vividly remember visiting her grave by myself shortly after she was buried, kneeling on the grass and just blankly staring at the headstone for several minutes in a numb funk, questioning how something so tragic could happen to such a vibrant young woman with so much life to live ahead of her. Running past her grave brought pangs of sadness as I realized I still missed her.

After my detour through the cemetery, I stepped back outside the gates and stopped to drink and have a snack. My breathing was pretty labored after the strenuous work of forging through the snow. Slowly but surely it calmed and as my gaze turned back to the cemetery behind me, I suddenly felt a distinct wave of peace and gratitude. Gratitude for my life and the blessings I've been given. Gratitude for the people who have crossed my path over the years and have touched my life for good. Gratitude for the opportunities I have to a postive influence to those around me. Just plain gratitude.

It took a 12 mile run in the snow and around a cemetery to remind me that life really is good, even when it's really rough.

And it always marches on.

Winter Hydration Tip

Post ten-miler in single-digit temperature. Believe it or not, this was followed up with a 15-minute ice bath.

By the way, don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

Shake Up

It's more than a week into the new year and I, for one, couldn't be happier. I've never been a real fan of Christmas. I wouldn't classify myself as a Scrooge by any means; I can tolerate the buying of gifts, the singing of carols and the sipping of egg nog. It's all those parties and all that extra food I feel compelled to consume that brings fear and dread every holiday season. If it's not chips slathered in cheesy artichoke dip at the neighbor's one night, it's brownie bites smothered in chocolate fondue at a work party the next. It's an endless stream of fat-ladened calories somehow finding their way into my system day after day. While I managed to keep things somewhat in check this year by maintaining a diligent workout schedule, I didn't come away from Christmas '08 totally unscathed. Below my belly button and around my hips lies that slight tell-tale sign of a couple dozen too many caramel-covered pretzels. But glory be, the holidays are over, and so is the incessant temptation to eat until I'm ill. Finally, I'm back to grazing all day on practically nothing until I get so hungry I have to satiate my appetite at dinner with enough food to keep a linebacker happy. Ahhh, how I love routine.

I've come to the conclusion, however, that despite still being in the best physical shape of my life, I have some real improvements I can make. There are certain (ahem) "body parts" that really don't need to be as (ahem) "prominent" as they are. And I've come to the conclusion I've fallen into the mistaken mindset that because I'm a runner, I can eat whatever I want. The cold, hard truth is, everything I eat ends up showing somewhere on my body just like everyone else, but because I'm a runner I get to pack it around for an extra 20-30 miles a week. Somethin's gotta change.

2008 was an extremely productive year for me as far as running goes. I covered nearly 1,200 miles on foot, which, if my calculations are correct would get me somewhere close to Duluth, Ohio. I ran one full marathon in 2008, four half-marathons and one 5K (which produced my only PR for the year). I ran and I ran and I ran, then I ran some more. And by the end of the year, I was all ranned out. After my last half-marathon in November (which I didn't blog about because the Suck Factor was so high), I was left with an injured shin and a body and mind that were plumb exhausted.

2008 was the Year of Quantity. For 2009, I've decided it's time to make my running count.

I don't know how many races I'm going to run this year. For now, I've committed to doing only one, a relay race in June splitting 178 miles between twelve people. I don't know if I'll run another marathon in 2009; I don't know if I'll run another 5K. What I do know is that I'll keep running. A lot. I'll be getting up before the roosters to hit the gym for cross-training... a lot. My goal for 2009 is to work on making those improvements I need without wearing myself down to the nub doing it. It's to end the year with the satisfaction of prioritizing and performing my best at the races I deemed most important to run. Quite simply, it's to fall in love with running again.

2009 is the Year of Quality and it's off to a roaring start.