The English Geek

on Physical Abilities

Yesterday I spoke briefly with a neighbor, who asked me if I had any races I am training for. (Ragnar, right now, but I am seriously also thinking of doing the Epic Relay, which runs from Logan, Utah to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.) We talked about running for a bit and he said something like "I'm jealous of your ability to get out there and run" and I said something back about how he could do it, too.

I have this opinion that everyone could be a runner. That if you want to do it, you just have to start: buy a pair of shoes, figure out some routes, read a book or two about running. Start slow, with mostly walking. Pick a 5k to train for to give yourself motivation (nothing motivates like "I don't want to waste my race fee," especially now that they're getting more and more expensive!) and purpose. You'll have setbacks and frustrations and days you eat bagels and hashbrowns instead of going running, but that's OK because all runners have those, too. A large part of being a runner is believing that you are a runner. Once you have the mental ability, you run because it's part of your identity.

But what I forget to factor in is the physical ability.

I don't mean skill and talent. Trust me: I look silly when I'm running. I'm not super fast. I have to build my running wardrobe around the fact that my thighs rub together. I am not the typical ultra-skinny long distance runner and I don't run with grace or athletic ability.

Instead, what I mean is physical limitations. The neighbor I spoke with has a bad knee. Kendell can't run because of his two metal hips. Haley wants to run more than she does but keeps getting sidelined by shin splints. My friend Heidi has reoccuring skeletal problems from a car accident.

All of those physical things make it harder to be a runner. And none of them came because of choice but by happenstance.

And while I've had my physical abilities strained—ITB and plantar fasciitis and a constantly-irritated sacroiliac joint and burgeoning bunions—they've never broken. I've been able to recover with time and physical therapy and patience. But for the past decade or so, I've been physically able to run.

And despite my funny gait and my thunder thighs, I am grateful. I'm grateful for a body that keeps on going, mile after mile. I'm grateful I can touch my toes and practice cartwheels and handstands outside with my kids. I'm grateful my body takes me up and down mountains. I don't know what I'd do if I came across a physical limitation that would make it so I could never run again, because in my mind? In my mind I would still be a runner.

I think that sometimes you have to toss it out there: your gratitudes to the Universe. When I read Heidi's post this morning, I knew I needed to do just this. Acknowledge that part of being a runner is simply being lucky to not have physical limitations. I know one could appear at any time. But until one does, I am going to honor and respect my body just a little bit more. I'm going to be grateful that my mind says "I need to run" and my body says "how far?" and my thigh-covering shorts are clean.

I'm going to try to remember, every time I tie my shoes, that running is a privilege my body affords me, and not take it for granted. Not, in fact, care that I am slow and ungainly. Instead, I am (for reasons I don't understand) blessed to be able to run.

Just Call Me Elaine

I've been scrapbooking some older photos and I decided to work on some pics of our trip to San Diego in 2007. I came across this photo and had to just groan out loud (and not because of the hat):

I'd forgotten how big I was. I always think that I don't gain (or lose) weight in my face, but this photo is proof that I do. I look like Lady Elaine Fairchilde.

I look at that picture and I wonder: what would I look like now if I hadn't (eventually) taken control of my weight? It was taken when Kaleb was almost two, so I didn't have the "I just had a baby" excuse anymore. And honestly: I didn't even try to start losing weight until the next January, and wasn't successful at all in my attempts until the following summer. I wasn't running or exercising consistently, I was drinking lots of soda (like, at least one and sometimes two 44-ounce Pepsis every day), and I hadn't straightened out my hypothyroid disease yet. (If one can ever straighten that out.)

Losing weight is hard. It requires an absense of placation; you must give up the thing you use to make yourself feel better. To find some healthy thing to take its place, and to deal with stuff instead of eating it. For me, I had to give up soda completely for a long time. I had to teach myself that I didn't always have to have candy (at that phase, it was Hershey's kisses) within reach at all times and in all places. More than anything I had to make myself deal with the issues underneath my soda-and-candy habits. I have a penchance for self-harm; it is rooted in my adolescent experiences and still flowers easily. I know this, and I know where it comes from, but I don't always recognize the form it takes. During the three years after I had Kaleb, I was immersed in self-hatred via the soda fountain.

I'd been a runner before all of this. I started running, in fact, when Nathan was just a baby. But I had to rededicate myself to it. I had to fall in love with it again. When I did that, and when I dealt with the food issues, I finally managed to lose the extra 25 pounds. Then I discovered something: if losing weight is hard, keeping it off is equally as difficult. It's not a switch but a continual process, and sometimes I do well at it. Sometimes, not so much.

Yesterday I went to have my eye exam, and I was wearing the shirt I wore for the half marathon I ran on Saturday:

My shirt sparked a conversation between my eye doctor and me about running, and running distances, and being healthy. He is of the conventional wisdom that those of us who run more than four or five miles are insane, and not just because it's sort of crazy, running for 9 or 11 or 13 miles. "You know there is a price to pay with your body?" he councilled me. The usual warnings about joint and tendon damage that people who aren't runners believe. (Having not read obsessively about the sport, including the scientific studies that show that running actually strengthens your joints.)

Possible joint damage aside, though, I'm not going to stop running until my body makes me. In fact, I like to joke that I am running away from getting old. Running keeps me young because it makes me happy. It helps me keep that self-harm thing at bay. Being a runner—a title I have only lately really felt like I could apply to myself without being embarrassed—keeps me from being the person in that first photo, uncomfortable in her body. It helps me to feel, despite the facts that I will never be a waif and I will never fit into a pair of Gap jeans because my legs will never be shaped like pencils and I will always have the saggy belly that's the result of having babies and I will always fight against the batwings my triceps are constantly trying to morph into, my body is OK.

I think I need that knowledge as I turn this new corner into my 40's. In some ways it really is all downhill from here. But there is also this: I am in much better shape than I was ten years ago. And I am a faster runner now than I was two years ago. Probably that speed won't last forever. I know that there is illness and accident and entropy that could each swiftly derail my progress. But while I can, for as long as I can, I'll stick with this process of running and trying to eat well.

Despite the fact that I continue to look more and more like Lady Elaine!

Impossible Feats

"One person's 'just do it' is another person's Everest." I read that in a novel this weekend (The Dive from Clausen's Pier, if you were curious) and the idea has been sitting with me ever since. Partly this is because of a writer's conference I went to last week (more on that in another post) and how it made me think not so much about my writing as it did about my writing habits. My processes, and how I need to radically change them if I am ever to find any success, and it does sort of feel like an Everest. Except, look at all those successful writers who presented at the conference. How did they do it? They just did it. 

I think we all probably have our "just do it" things that look enormous to other people. I get that a lot with running. "I wish I were a runner, too" or "I don't know how you run for so long" or "how do you fit it in?" sort of comments come up quite often. I don't really know how to respond with a short answer. The only way you become a runner is by running, by starting slow and short and building up. I've been running consistently (aside from the dismally chubby days during my teaching career, when I could only find running energy during the summer) since 2000, but I still remember vividly my first race, a 5k I ran with Becky, back when my running clothes were biking shorts because running shorts were too short and made me chafe. (I still can't wear real running shorts. Because they make me chafe.) I had never run three miles, and I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to finish, or that I would come in last, or that I would make some spectacularly obvious newbie mistake and embarrass myself. That first 5k was an Everest of sorts.

But if you keep pushing, different things become new Everests. I tried the summit (a marathon) once in 2001, which is like...well, it's exactly like a new runner trying to run a marathon. Maybe other new runners would be successful, but I wasn't. I didn't run a marathon until 2011. But I did run a whole bunch of half marathons, and challenge myself in other ways, and even now that the marathon is behind me I still have running Everests. How do I do it? (Or any other runner, for that matter, as I'm hardly an extreme or noteworthy example.) Just by running. By doing it one day at a time, by preparing for and reading about and experimenting upon running. Just like a person who is (literally) hiking Mt. Everest. She gets to the top by taking each step.

Sometimes my own "just do it"s are simultaneously my own Everests. Like this morning, when I decidedly did not want to go running. Not at all. I was completely uninspired at the thought. I wanted to stay home, eat a big bowl of oatmeal in my pajamas, and then maybe take a bath. Getting dressed, putting on my shoes & headband & sunscreen, propelling myself down the street: had I ever even done those things before? But if I didn't run this morning, I wouldn't be able to run again until Wednesday, and as I didn't run last Friday that would be an entire week without any running. And that's another way Everest turns into "just do it." You sometimes slip back a little bit, but you don't want to slide all the way back down to base camp. Even when you're uninspired you put in the miles.

And you know: I'm not even writing about running there. I'm writing about writing. I'm trying to teach myself that the only way to fulfill this dream is by writing. By getting my butt out of base camp. By figuring out a way to make it work. To change my entrenched habits so that writing, too, becomes the thing I just do. Even though right now it feels like 29,029 feet of impossibility.

Wasatch Back Ragnar 2012: Leg 3 Race Report

Leg 3: Not a Dude in a Sparkly TuTu!

(leg no1 HERE)
(leg no2 HERE)

Basic Stats:
Leg #: 35
Distance: 7 miles
Elevation gain: 336 feet
Elevation loss:  2066 feet
Time: 1 hour 3 minutes 12 seconds

The Long Story, With Photos:

It's taken me a long time and a lot of running to be able to feel this way: I love running downhill. As my third Ragnar leg (which I have been trying to write about for more than two months!) looked like this

, that's a good thing. I especially love it when you've been going uphill for awhile, and you finally reach your turn-around spot. Once they realize that the uphill is over, all of the muscles in your body (it's surprising just how many of them it takes to get you up a hill; it's definitely not just your hamstrings and glutes) quiver with relief. Your heart slows down a bit, your breathing moves away from a gasp, and your quads are happy to take over.

So I'm happy that this route, while primarily a steep and consistent downhill, includes some up, too. It starts right out as an uphill run, in fact, taking me to the very top of Guardsman Pass before plunging down into Deer Valley. Then there are three other uphill sections to conquer. I was so much better prepared for this leg this year, mostly because I knew what to expect; last year, the uphills caught me by surprise and were more than a little bit discouraging. In fact, last year I was so tired I didn't even try to run the uphills (except for the first one); I allowed myself to walk and tried to talk myself out of feeling lame.

This year, my goal was to run all of the uphills, even if I was tired. And I was tired, I realized, once I made it to the 8950-foot summit and started down.
(This is right at the start of the leg. I didn't know that the exchange was as close as it was so I was totally not ready to go. I forgot my Bloks and my headband!)

My legs were tired, and my lungs, but I still tried to push. I listened to the song "Get Down, Make Love," which Becky had reminded me of, four times in a row. (I have a theory about how naughty songs make for good running but it is a post of its own.)
(This is the first time the van stopped to talk to me; I'm shouting to Becky, asking her to get my pink headband and my Bloks for the next stop. Thanks Becky for being a slave to my Ragnar sloth!)

I went through my own little running-downhill mantra (shoulders down, relax, lean forward, your feet know what they are doing, you're not going to fall, don't be afraid, let go); I got encouragement and a Blok and a headband from my teammates. And when I hit the next two uphills, I ran them.

(a tiny little uphill which probably felt like a mountain at this point!)

Not as fast as I would like, but I still ran.

The fourth and last uphill section is pretty steep. It happens right after the van leaves the runner for an alternate route. So you're there, on your own, facing this enormous hill made steeper by the perception of exhaustion. I was determined: I'm going to keep running. I'm tired but I can conquer this hill. Someone passed me and we encouraged each other, and I put my attention on the pink shirt of the runner ahead of me, who was walking. If I can pass her I can add her to my count I kept thinking, a motivation to keep my tired legs running. I didn't want to walk.

But as I pulled up next to her, she tapped me on my shoulder, so I yanked out my headphone to hear what she had to say. "I have a favor to ask you," she said. "And it's a big one. Would you mind walking with me? Just to the top of the hill? I'm just so discouraged and tired right now, and my van is gone, and I'm totally mad because they said this was all downhill and after that Old Snow Basin Road I just can't handle another hill."

What was I going to say? Of course I walked with her.

This was her first Ragnar but my second, so I knew this was the last uphill, a piece of news she received happily. As we walked up the hill, we talked about the race and the Ragnar experience and finishing strong. She told me how she hadn't slept one wink and I told her that next time she'll be able to, and she said "there's not going to be a next time because right now I hate this race" and I joked with her that it's like having a baby and once she was running downhill again she'd forget the pain.

I didn't ask her name, but I wish I had.

We got to the top of the hill, where there was a water station and encouraging volunteers. I followed my new routine with the two waters. "Good luck," I told her. "You have so totally got this. I promise there's not one more step of uphill." I slipped my cold, wet headband back on, tossed my water cup, and started running again. My quads happily went to work, and I smiled, I smiled hard, as I ran. I let my refrain from my first run—this won't last forever—fill up my head again so I could savor instead of rushing.

On Ragnar legs, none of the mileage is marked except for the "one mile to go." Just as I got to that sign, another runner caught up to me. "Hey!" he yelled. "I finally caught up to you! You can see that sparkly skirt for miles!" I said something encouraging about it being the last mile, but he kept on with his story. "I saw you about three miles ago and I totally thought you were a guy!" (At this point my enthusiasm for the conversation started waning.) "And there was no way I was going to let a dude in a sparkly tutu beat me!"

I think my response might have sounded cold. Actually, I hope it did. "Well, I'm glad you're comfortable with beating a girl in a sparkly tutu" I said while he was still in earshot. Then I started to get all conflicted because hello: I thought I run like a girl who's trying to keep her enormous boobs from bouncing while she really needs to pee. I had no idea that translated to "dude in a sparkly tutu" to other runners. I almost got a lump in my throat.

But somehow that last uphill and the stopping to walk to help another runner also helped me. It reminded me that we all have our own races to run, and if my sparkly man stride was the thing that pulled that slightly chauvinistic runner down the hill, so be it. The race gave me what I needed, too, to get off the mountain.

As the finish line came into my view, I heard feet closing in. Someone was trying to kill me! And, you know, I didn't want them to. I didn't want to finish my last leg by being someone else's last kill. So I sprinted. I pushed as hard as I could while shouting over my shoulder "no! nononononono! You're not passing me!" and then I made it to the end, slapped the bracelet on Becky's wrist, and started laughing. Because I sounded like a moron and I'm not even sure there even was anyone behind me. Because of a guy thinking I was a dude. Because my sparkly skirt and my flying yin-and-yang tattoo and my orange shirt all made me happy. Because I had made it and finished strong and helped someone else and had enough left in my tank to sprint and yell at imaginary runners.

It was a good end to a happy race.

Wasatch Back Ragnar 2012 Race Report: Leg 2

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

(read about leg 1 here)

Basic Stats:

• Leg #: 23
• Route: SR-32 (the road next to Rockport Lake)
• Distance: 5.5
• Time: 51:44
• Starting time: about 3:15 a.m.

Last year I was terrified about my night run, having never run in the dark. This year, knowing what to expect, I wasn’t afraid. I knew what to wear (my favorite long sleeve, capris, and my cute rainbow chevron socks) because previous experience told me that once I started running I wouldn’t really feel the cold; I knew to adjust my reflective vest the right way and how to angle my headlamp. I wasn’t nervous.

But I was sort of hopeful. I knew I’d be starting my night run at about 3:45, which is pretty close to 4:00 a.m., which is fairly close to 5:15ish when the sun starts to rise. I so wanted to run at least part of my second leg in some sort of light, so I could see and experience the landscape. I kept hoping that all the other runners on my team would clock slightly slower times. They didn’t, though (it was remarkable, in fact, how closely we stuck to our time estimates), so I started knowing I wouldn’t run into any light.

(I never knew, until I saw this photo, that my headlamp looks like a butterfly!)

Some runners love the night run. I enjoyed it more this year, but I can’t say I loved it. I think I got passed 2,187 times but only passed six runners. Since there wasn’t any moon yet, I could only see the little space in front of me that my headlamp lit up, so it almost felt like running on a treadmill...running, but not getting anywhere.

(checking my music while I wait for Dave to get to the exchange; you can barely see it, but the sign for the town of Wanship is behind me.)

Still, though. I’m sounding negative when really, there was something. Even though it was dark and my legs were tired and the very gentle uphill seemed relentless, still: about halfway through I felt it. That feeling that comes only when you’re tired but you keep moving anyway. Only on the edge of exhaustion. I stopped counting songs and wanting to be done; I started noticing the texture of the darkness and the still coolness of the air as it wafted from the lake.

(getting the slap bracelet from Dave just before I start my run)

Then I came around a curving hill and I could see the exchange, about two miles away, and something even more extraordinary: the moon! It was just the sliver of a waning crescent but it still reflected in the water. It didn’t feel like just seeing the moon, but like finding it. Like it was something I had to work for in order to deserve. I thought about seeing the same moon earlier in the month, but so full and bright and close it looked like a painting of the moon instead of the real thing, and then a few days later the same moon rising, its side shaved away, from the ocean. And now here it was, giving me a little light. Just enough that I fell in love, finally, with my night run.

For the next two miles, I looked at the moon and thought about darkness and light. Even though I am years past what my mom still calls my "black phase," I still feel lost in the darkness quite often. When light comes, it isn’t usually the form I had hoped for, but it hardly matters. Sometimes you don’t need the full light of the sun; sometimes just a sliver of moonlight is enough.

This leg finishes along a crowded road, where vans are going both ways and the runners have just a tiny stretch of dirt to run on. I was a little bit terrified of getting hit, especially after an enormous Suburban swerved towards me and I was inches away from bashing my face into its mirror. (Dear Ragnar Organizers: perhaps you could work on that spot somehow? Love, Amy.) But I made it to the exchange, where I could see Becky waiting for me. I’d been carrying the slap bracelet in hopes of getting some of the sweat to dry for her; I slapped it on her wrist and watched her run into the darkness that was a shade or two lighter. I knew she’d finish in the sunlight, but I wasn’t envious. The light I had was the light I needed.

(handing the bracelet off to Becky at the end of my second leg. Doesn't she look cute?)

PS: One of the things that made my night run much more fun was my playlist. I made it just for the night run:

• "My Body" by Young the Giant (I started all of my runs with this song)
• "Midnight" by Yaz
• "Somebody that I Used to Know" by Goyte
• "All Night Long" by Peter Murphy
• "We are Young" by Fun
• "Only if For a Night" by Florence + The Machine
• "Changing" by Airborne Toxic Event
• "Nightswimming" by REM (I confess: way too slow to run to, but I love that song)
• "She Bangs the Drum" by Stone Roses
• "Because the Night" by Natalie Merchant
• "So Cruel" by Depeche Mode
• "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC (I'm embarrassed to admit to that one)
• "Reunion" by Erasure
• Lightning Man by Nitzer Ebb (get it?)

(I was stretching for songs to fit my theme but it all ended up working.)

Ragnar Race Report: First Leg

Leg 1: This Won’t Last Forever

basic stats:

• Leg #: 11
• Route: Old Snow Basin Road
• Distance: 7.3 miles
• Time: 1:24
• Elevation gain: 1830 feet
• Elevation loss: 384 feet
• Starting elevation: 4965 feet
• Finishing elevation: 6411 feet
• Starting time: about 3:15 p.m.
• Kills: 10, plus one deer

The long story, with photos:

The day before Ragnar, I read a blog entry someone had written about running Ragnar. "I tried not to think about the process of running," he wrote, "but to enjoy the experience of it, no matter how tough it got." That is exactly how I wanted to experience this year’s Ragnar, because I knew it would be tough. Especially my first leg, which looked like this:


(That is a lot of uphill running.)

I wasn’t entirely confident that my training had been enough, so when our van finally arrived at my exchange (meaning I was the next runner to run) after lots of fun with my teammates, I was nervous. I felt, in fact, like I had never run a single step in my life. I think most runners have that moment when we think what the hell was I thinking? and the last ten minutes or so before I started running were that moment.

(Melanie, Sheila, I, and Becky show off our rub-on tattoos, strong biceps, and silver sparkly skirts; you can't tell by my face but my belly was full of butterflies)

I expected my nerves to calm down once I got the slap bracelet from Dave and headed up the hill. They did, but my lungs were an entirely different matter: all that time hanging out on the beach at sea level, even the running at sea level, zapped all of my altitude conditioning. 4965' felt painful, so what would it feel like as I pushed upward? I started to panic a little bit.

(I passed the girl in the pink shirt but I never could catch up with the other one.)

But then I thought about my goal: not to think about the running but just to experience it. "This won’t last forever" came into my head, and for the beginning twenty minutes or so it was my encouraging thought. The heat, the esophagus that felt skinny as a pencil, the tired legs: the scenery, which for the first while seemed discouraged by the heat as well, wasn’t inspiring enough to balance out my discomfort. But reminding myself that it was only seven miles, and seven miles aren’t eternity, and this run wouldn’t last forever: those things kept me running.

Then I passed a few people. I came to the first water station, where my teammate Sheila’s brilliant idea popped into my head. Before her first run, she’d soaked her headband in ice-cold water, so I decided to do the same. I grabbed two cups of water from the table; I drank one and I doused my headband in the other. Oh! The coolness of that fabric on the top of my forehead, and the droplets of water it send running down the nape of my neck—my discomfort started to fade.

Next, I re-passed a runner I’d passed before the water station (he hadn’t stopped to dunk his headband so he got back in front of me). "You can totally count me as two kills," he joked, and then he told me that his wife had passed a dead rabbit and counted that in her kill tally. ("Kill tally" = Ragnarese for "amount of runners you’ve passed.") I told him I’d only count him once, and we talked for a bit about the hill we were climbing. We were in the Enormous Castle-esque Houses section of Old Squaw Peak Road (which was blessedly short, as castle-esque houses leave me thinking of my own little hovel with discouragement) and we made a few ginormous-house jokes and then the caffeine from the Cliff Shot I had at the water table kicked in and I was off.

Just past the houses, I turned a little switchback and a deer darted across the road. Any vestiges of nerves or discomfort I had vanished as the deer made me think my dad was with me, or perhaps sprinting off down the mountain behind it. My "this won’t last forever" refrain turned from encouragement into a reminder: this magnificent and gorgeous and amazing and perfectly-Amy run could not last forever, so I’d better enjoy it. And I did.

I made it to the top of the first uphill stretch, and as I came around the final curve of it I could see down into the valley, with the road I would run on weaving its way around hills and ridges. It was so beautiful—the road changed directions, so the light changed, and it cooled off just a bit with a little breeze, and the downhill felt like flying with all those trees fluttering their leaves like applause.

The downhill lasted for a little less than a mile, but it was just enough to revive everything for the last 3.5 uphill miles. I refreshed my wet headband at the next water station and hit the uphill with joy in my stride. I know this sounds corny. But I was blissful. People always say that runners frown while they run, but I wasn’t. I was smiling. I was tired and pushing myself but nothing hurt because the world seemed ravishing. This won’t last forever, this won’t last forever and I promise: I was there. I wasn’t running through the run, I was running it, breathing and aching and striding and looking, and it really was the perfect route for me. The road was closed to cars and the runners had spread out enough that sometimes I’d go for eight or ten minutes without seeing anyone else. It felt like pure solitude and all the training miles I’d run were worth the sweat and the quivering muscles because they got me there.

I smiled all the way up Old Basin Road.

When the road ended, I still had about a half-mile left before I got to the exchange. This was run on a tiny sliver of road next to an endless line of Ragnar vans. My this won’t last forever turned back to encouragement because that was the worst stretch of all the 7.3 miles. It felt like it lasted forever and I was sucking in car exhaust and nervous that someone would open their car door and hit me, and I knew the end was close but I couldn’t see it. Once I could, though, I picked up the speed and started smiling again because there was Becky waiting for me. I slapped the bracelet on her wrist and started walking to cool off.

But I didn’t stop smiling. I was so happy, the happy that comes when your muscles are tired and your lungs are throbbing and your pelvis has that deep ache of exhaustion but all of it is joyful because it was hard and you did it anyway. This was one of my favorite non-running Ragnar moments: sitting on the grass at Snow Basin, stretching with Melanie and Sheila while we waited for Becky to run her leg, talking about our runs. Lying on the grass and looking at the circle of blue sky with its peripheral crescent of mountain and pine trees, breathing and talking and smiling.

(read about leg 2 HERE and leg 3 HERE)

Pre-Ragnar Jitters

Tomorrow is Ragnar.

And there was so much I wanted to write before I ran it. About how I needed to have a bad run in my training and I did, but it was also a good run for different reasons. About the amazing morning of running the road to Cascade Springs with my sister and how I felt myself running straight away from my anxieties even when I was running uphill. I'm afraid I will forget how those two last hard runs felt and I don't want to.

It's 11:58 on the night before a long and exhausting race.  I wish I could run, right now, away from these anxieties. Last night I slept for perhaps four hours and the night before I got about six.  I'm worried that I'm already running on empty. I'm worried that the running I did on my trip won't have been enough to keep me fit enough. I'm worried about that long uphill distance in the heat of the day. Have I prepared enough? Did I choose the right clothes to run in? Should I bring back ups? Am I forgetting something?

I hate that I'm anxious. I don't want to be. I love running. I love running in races. Some part of me knows the argument against each of my anxieties. Some part knows I will be OK and it is that part that will, strangely enough, make me be OK. OK tomorrow, that is. When I'm really facing that long hill I've been both dreading and anticipating.

Tonight, though, there's not much to do for the pre-race jitters except try to sleep through them. That and say a quiet prayer of thanks for my friend, who just sent me a text wishing me a good race. And oddly enough, those were just the words I needed to raise my confidence.

Hush up, anxiety. Nerves go to sleep. Tomorrow is a day for running!

Squaw Peak Road Miles

When I first started actively training for this year's Ragnar, I began on the treadmill. I'd set it to the steepest angle and then run as fast as I could, which wasn't very fast. Combine my general overall deep hatred of running on the treadmill with my discouragement over not being able to run very fast (or very long) and it was sort of a recipe for disaster.

Then I talked to a friend at work who is also a runner, and he was like "why don't you just train on Squaw Peak Road?" (which I've blogged about before) and then he gave me an eye roll when I said I was afraid of bad guys in the mountains and then he said "you'll be fine, just do it," and so I did. My first Saturday run on SPR was painful and short: 18 minutes up, 13 minutes down and I hoped I'd done three miles.

It did get easier. But only sort of. The reason I'm running SPR every weekend is to prepare myself for another steep uphill run at Ragnar, and I want to be ready. I want to face those 7 uphill race miles with grace and strength and consistency (meaning: I want to run the whole way). And running 1700+ uphill feet in 7 miles is a lot of uphill. And running uphill for long distances? Well, this is a different running experience than I've ever had. It is hard. And slow (my regular pace is 9:30; my uphill pace is 12:00). I sweat harder than I ever do with any other kind of running.

But each weekend I've conquered another half mile of Squaw Peak Road. I've been encouraged by mountain bikers who are also going uphill but with much more speed than I can manage. I've startled birds from their nests and once heard a rattlesnake in the weeds. I came across an injured deer one day. I've nearly been hit several times and I've wondered at the two cars I've seen parked in the same spot every single time I've run.

I've marveled at the beauty I get to live near.

But what I wasn't ever sure of was how far I was really going, since SPR doesn't have mile markers. It's just a small, switchback-full mountain road that leads to two places: a campground and an even-narrower dirt road or an overview at the top of the ridge. The overview has been my goal these past five or six weeks of uphill training; next week I should make it.

But last weekend I couldn't stand not knowing exactly how far I've run, so I took my camera along and drove the road first, stopping at each half mile point. I discovered that I haven't gone as far as I thought but that my turn-around points were pretty close to the mile points.

I thought I'd share the photos here, even though they aren't very good pictures. (It was alternately hard-sunshine or gloomy-cloudy that morning, and with all those blind curves I didn't want to stop very long on the road.) Just in case anyone else is also running Squaw Peak Road and wants to know how far they've gone. I started at mile 1.5 because a 3-mile out-and-back run seems like a good start. The trail starts at 4950 feet of elevation.

MILE 1.5. (Elevation 5700 ft.) This is two long switchbacks past the turn off for the shooting range.

MILE 2.  (Elevation 5950.) This is the curve just past the "burn no pallets" sign.

MILE 2.5. (Elevation 6000 ft.) You've been pushing up through some steep road and you come around the curve to this remarkable view of Timp's southern flank. Try not to swoon!

MILE 3. (Elevation 6100 ft.) Just to your right there is a gravel turn-out spot for cars to turn around in. Don't be fooled, it is the second turn-out, not the first!

MILE 3.5. (Elevation 6450.) This marker comes at the second of two small switchbacks. You'll run past a sheepskin seat cover mouldering on the side of the road and those two suspicious cars (a grey truck and a red jeep). When you get to the tall pine tree on the right, you can turn around if 3.5 miles is your goal.

MILE 4. (Elevation 6500 ft.) As soon as you curve up and around enough to see that white sign, you've reached mile 4. That fork in the road up ahead is almost your destination; turn left to go to the campground and dirt road, or right to go to the overlook.

MILE 4.4.(Elevation 6750.) The top of the road! There is a parking lot here for the trailheads. This is looking south west.

looking almost directly south, with a few explanations.

Look behind you to see this view.

And don't be surprised when you run back down if you find yourself smiling. It's an awesome run!

Anatomy of an 11:30 a.m. Run

Because of leaking water heater and slightly-soggy basement, put on favorite purple running tank, shorts, sunscreen, (new!) running shoes, watch, headband, and MP3 player 2 1/2 hours later than you intended.

Walk to the stop sign. Stretch quads, hamstrings, ITB, calves, and shins. Reset watch, get audio book to the spot you left off last time, press START on watch, and then start running.

Fifty yards into run, wonder at the twinge in your left knee. Ask yourself, as you always do at the start of a run, why your heart is beating so hard and if your lungs will ever stop hurting. Resist the urge to look at your watch because of course, you've only been running for, what, a minute or so by now. Shake your arms a little, concentrate on pushing back at the end of your stride to keep your ITB happy. Appreciate the intermittent puddles of shade.

Four minutes into your run, realize you've gotten past that initial painful push. Settle into run. Notice that while it's hot, it's a beautiful day, the shade deep and cool. Send gratitude out into the universe for whatever wise people planted trees along the entire length of this street.

Run past the junior high and think about Jake's track season. Write, in your head, the journaling for a scrapbook layout about what it means to "win" in running/track & field events. Get lucky and hit the 800 North intersection just as the light turns green. Sprint across.

Continue writing in your head, about running and scrapbooking and adoption and the force of anger and whatever other topic comes into your head, while listening to audio book (The Postmistress). Stop to walk for a second, at almost two miles, because said audio book has come to the end of the chapter but MP3 player hasn't, for some unknown reason, gone to the next chapter. Fiddle with it for a second, then just scroll up to music. Smile when the random first song is "Desire" by Gene Loves Jezebel. Run through a hazy fug of memory until you reach State Street just as the light turns red. Regret not waiting until intersection to fix audio issues. Jog in place and try not to feel silly.

Forty seconds later, cross State on green light. Mentally count up blocks you've run so far and on what side of the road, because running all blocks on the same side means a tormented ITB.

Run past road that would take you to a park with a drinking fountain. Regret not mapping your run in that direction as yes: it's hot and water would be nice. Remember that there's a drinking fountain by the cemetery and continue running with a little spring in your stride just thinking about that water.

Count blocks left and realize you're halfway done. Ignore the "Detour: road closed" signs because it doesn't say the sidewalk is closed, does it? And you really want to run down the other side of the hill you've just climbed up and besides, the cemetery (with its fountain) is just around the corner.

Turn the corner and start racing down the hill toward both the cemetery and the construction. Get closer and realize the construction is blocking the entire road and the access to the water. Sigh as deeply as you can when your lungs are huffing and puffing.

Cut through the old WordPerfect complex to get around the construction. Run past a dozen or so of your old selves, the ones that used to work there: 17 and dating that boy who was bad for you, 18 and terrified about what life had around the corner, 19 and dating the boy you'd marry, 20 and married. And all those other memories of friends you've lost touch with.

Leave the office buildings behind you and ponder, for the next mile, the life choices you've made that've brought you to the person you are right now.

Run past another cemetery and wish it, too, had a drinking fountain. Realize it's 12-something and hot and you're getting tired and thirsty but the only cure for that is finishing the last 2 1/2 miles you've got left.

Bless whatever poorly-thinking city employee decided to run the sprinklers at noon along this particular stretch of sidewalk. Apparently that person thought that the sidewalks needed to be watered, too. Ignore your usual mental diatribe about idiots wasting water in the middle of the desert and just appreciate the fact that you're running through sprinklers for four lovely, cool blocks.

Reach the 800 North/State Street intersection. Jog in place awkwardly near the other person on the corner, who is homeless and holding up a sign asking for help in finding work. Wait for 22 seconds for the light to turn green. Cross.

Now wait again for the other light to change, this time for 51 seconds. Cross street feeling confident, but keep your eye on that black BMW speeding up the road in the right turning lane. Run, but watch him carefully. Think his stopping actions means he's actually going to stop. Realize, nearly too late, that he is NOT going to stop. Hit the corner of his stupid BMW with your hand and glare at him while he skids, brakes locked, past you. Glare a little bit but manage not to flip him off; read the startled terror in his face that translates into "holy shiz I just almost hit that lady because I wasn't being careful enough." Then usher him past you and start running again, heart pounding a little bit harder.

Now, push yourself. You've got ten blocks left, just ten. Try to push it the whole way home. Ignore the blisters that insist on forming and the little voice insisting that the blisters are proof that it's time to get the bunions fixed because you know that even though you really should pay a visit to the podiatrist you're not going to until November when the running season ends. Have an imaginary conversation with your podiatrist. Try to not get annoyed at the groupings of mothers walking slowly with strollers (in wide groups that take up the entire width of the sidewalk and make you swerve out into the street) towards the elementary school, no doubt to pick up their kindergartners.

Remember how it felt to have a kindergartener you could pick up.

Listen to your breath.

Talk to your legs: come on, you can do this, I know you're tired but you're almost finished.

Turn the last corner: just two more blocks. Dodge another group of mothers.

Run. Run as hard and as fast as you can. Ignore the whining tiredness that asks you, over and over, to stop. Just run because it's only two blocks, then one. Keep going till you reach the corner, the rock which is always your stopping spot.

Stop running. Stop the timer on your watch and subtract the 1 minute 53 seconds you spent waiting for lights from your time. Try to figure out your pace but know your mental math skills aren't strong enough. Pant, breath hard, make those wheezy sounds at the back of your throat.

Look up into the blue, hot sky and send up gratitudes for strong legs and durable lungs and a reliable heart.

Then walk home and take a shower because seriously: you're sweaty.

self reflection

A few weeks ago, I found myself running down University Avenue. I've done this lots of times, but never on the east side of the street; never along the almost entire block-long length of tall, glimmering store windows. But there I was, and I looked over and saw my reflection. The reflection of myself running.

And I immediately wanted to stop running.

Because, while I know I'm not one of those stick-thin runner girls and I don't see myself that way, I did envision myself with a different gait. I thought that my slower-than-most pace would at least afford me a graceful stride. In my head, while I am running, I look lithe and strong.

In reality I run like I'm afraid of peeing my pants.

And I couldn't decide: should I immediately turn away from my reflection in horror? Or should I run up and down that small-city block in Provo, watching my reflection until my gait changed to match the one in my head? Or should I just stop running altogether and take up knitting for exercise?

This morning I had another unusual perspective of myself. I was doing the plank in the sculpting class I go to at the city rec center. Usually when I do the plank, my head is pointing toward the mirror, so that when I look down I see the long expanse of the mat, and then my shoes, and then the quivering arms of the woman behind me.

But today (we had an intervals class so my regular approach was thrown out the window as I tried to just survive the entire hour without weeping) I found myself doing the plank with my toes pointing toward the mirror. When I started doing the plank thing where you tap one foot to the side, bring it back to the middle, and then repeat with the other foot, I looked down. I saw the long expanse of the mat, my shoes, and then a lovely reflection of my underbum (not sure how else to describe it...the curve where bum meets thigh) and my quivering hamstrings.

Holy shiz.

I found myself mentally apologizing to Kendell. "Sorry, honey," I thought, struggling through that minute-long toe-tapping plank. "Sorry for saddling you with those fat thighs for the rest of your life. An eternity of chubbiness is yours."

Gah. I had no idea. Here I am, having lived 40 entire years of my life. Roughly 14,600 days (not counting leap years) and for none of them did I know how atrocious the back of my thighs is. It's chubby. And jiggly.

Once again, the image in my head matches up not even in the least with reality. And I confess: it's fairly discouraging. I'm trying to make myself feel better by reminding myself about the positive mental impact that exercise has, and how I'd be a mental case without running. Even if I do run like a girl who's trying to keep her D-cups from bouncing. (I don't have D-cups.)

But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that I wish all of that (awkwardly-strode) running had done just a little bit more for my back side.

And that's not even starting on the back fat I glimpsed today.

It's enough to make a woman wish for an unlimited plastic surgery budget.

Or a stronger self-esteem.

Or just some skinnier thighs.