The English Geek

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.

Why I Run in Running Clothes

We Mormons have been accused of being a peculiar people. As I quite often feel more like a convert to my religion, as opposed to a person born into it, these oddities seem glaringly odd to me sometimes, too. (Like, honestly. Last week I found myself standing in front of the new Starbucks at our in-the-middle-of-a-remodel Target, sniffing deeply and snuffling longingly and thinking...really? Coffee? We can't drink coffee? And trust me: that's not the first time I've had that thought.) One of my LDS oddities that I've been thinking about lately is modesty.

We are encouraged to dress modestly. In general my take on me dressing modestly involves the length of my skirts and shorts, the cut of my shirts (including both the bust and the sleeve width), and the general, over all feel of my outfit. My interpretation of "modest" revolves mostly around the concept of elegance. I don't want to dress too young, or too skimpy or too...what's the opposite of elegant? I do, however, believe that I can dress modestly without wearing a sack. Maybe it is shallow of me—and honestly, I'm not afraid to leave my house in sweats and a t-shirt and a slumpy long sweater—but I do take pleasure from what I wear. My inner rebellious self somethings thinks really? sleeveless? No one can see our shoulders? but in general I stay firmly on The Plan. I like pretty, I like black, I like the style I've developed. Sweats included.

Except, I still wear running clothes when I go running. I don't wear those tiny running shorts that other girls can get away with. (Partly this is because my thighs rub together too fiercly to wear them, but it's mostly because I wouldn't feel comfortable with my butt nearly hanging out.) I don't hit the road without covering up my sports bra. But, I do wear singlets. I wear shorts that are shorter than my knees. I wear tank tops and running skirts.

And this bothers some people.

(I know it bothers some people because they have told me it bothers them. "You shouldn't run in that shirt" or "I think your running shorts are immodest" are actual real live words people have said to me.)

This topic has been on my mind since last week, when I was leaving my house for a run. It was a glorious afternoon—just warm enough for a running tank and one of my favorite running skirts. I left the house, ready to sweat and maybe get a little dusty and certainly come back red-faced as I am not one of those graceful runners who finish their workouts looking like they've just finished getting a facial, feeling pretty. Just as I turned the corner to leave my neighborhood, a neighbor turned his vehicle onto my street—and he gave me that look. The one I am completely familiar with. The one that means you are dressed immodestly.

And let me tell you: I argued with that neighbor (someone I consider to be a friend) in my head for all of my five (very hilly!) miles. I told him about my right to choose. I told him that my running outfit was just that, running clothes purchased from the workout-clothes section. I argued that running in pants and a T when it's scorching outside is absolutely miserable. I pointed out that swimmers exercise in swim suits (even the Mormon ones!) so it stands that runners can wear running clothes. He argued back (in my head) that there are running clothes and then there are running clothes. 

So then I got personal. I pointed out (in my head) that there are some things in my life that make me completely unhappy and stressed out in ways he has no concept of. And that I am prone to letting my little black raincloud sluice away my attempts at being happy or hopeful or optimistic. And that I am starting to have anxiety attacks on a regular basis. But running? Running helps me keep those things at bay. Running helps me keep the unhappinesses in perspective and the little black raincloud from turning into a hurricane and the anxiety from needing medication.

But I can also be honest: physical and mental health aren't the only reasons I like running. I like wearing cute running clothes. They make me happy. They make me excited to get out the door. Without cute running clothes I would be far less motivated to run. Call me selfish if you need to, or vain, or even just downright lame. That's OK. I know myself and my life and my reactions to it well enough: if I ran in Mormon-modest running clothes I wouldn't want to run as much. If I didn't run as much I would eventually find myself rocking on the floor in a dark closet somewhere, contemplating slitting my wrists.

"If you had enough faith to be obedient," my neighbor volleyed back (in my head), "it could overcome all of those things."

A point I cannot refute.

Despite this imaginary discussion with my neighbor (for whom I hold no hard feelings as this whole idea was discussed in my head), and my knowledge that it's my weakness that's the problem here, I'm not going to abandon my favorite running clothes. Because imaginary arguments aside, I need to keep myself sane and strong for my kids. And for myself. Plus there's the fact that I still get to chose, and my choice is that I am OK. My shorts aren't tiny. My belly isn't exposed. My tank tops have thick straps.

Perhaps my idea of modesty is different from the rest of my neighbors'. After all, I also buy and wear tankinis instead of one-piece swimsuits. When Haley was little I let her wear sundresses without a shirt underneath. I am also pretty firm in telling my sons that they are responsible for the contents of their thoughts, not the girl in skinny jeans. (Because saying "girls should dress modest so that boys can control their thoughts" seems like an inch away from saying "it's your fault I raped you because you wore that short skirt.")  I talk to Haley, too, about modesty. We don't always agree, quite frankly. Sometimes my ideas feel too prescriptive too her. I just keep trying but deep down I know: the style of clothes she settles on in her adult world might be sort-of influenced by me, but in the end she gets to choose. Just like I get to choose.

Besides. What does "modest" mean, anyway? It's very first dictionary definition has nothing to do with clothes, but with decorum: "freedom from conceit or vanity." Modesty, in the end, shouldn't be about hem lengths or exposed shoulders. It should be about humility. I don't run in running clothes out of conceit—I don't love my running skirts because of what I think they might make someone else think about me. I run in them because they (ultimately) help me to be happy. Or happier than I would be otherwise. Self-importance and showing off have nothing to do with my running-clothes choices. Comfort, functionality, and cuteness do. (As well as pockets, but that's an entirely other rant.) Flaunting my knees and elbows might be immodest, but so is flaunting your apparent superior righteousness.

Other than that familiar look, I have no idea what my neighbor really thinks of my running attire. Most of me doesn't care. Most of me thinks about stones and glass houses and judging not. If you don't like what I'm wearing, I almost said to my in-my-head neighbor, then don't look at me. Instead I said don't judge me for sinning differently than you sin to his silent smugness (in my head). And that made his smugness slide away. In fact, he was at last, blessedly, gone. Out of my head  He left me to run in peace—even in my tank top and skirt.

(For more ideas about Mormons and modestly, check out these  posts written by people whom I've never met but whose opinions struck me as, well, interesting.)

12 Current Running Truths

1. While I'm still a little bit freaked out about my first Ragnar leg (7.2 miles, 1743 feet of elevation gain) my training is helping me to de-freak. Running 7 uphill miles is just like running anything else: training for it = I can do this, right?
2. I should have listened to my gut and returned both pair of Gap running capris I bought. The mediums, while they fit my waist perfectly, were just too dang tight on my thighs. So I went with the large pair, which fit my legs perfectly but were just too dang big on my waist. I kept having to hoist them during my run today. Is it just me (well, yes, probably it is just me. And my enormous thighs) but is the Gap's newest demographic anyone with toothpick legs?
3. My Bondi headbands make me happy, especially the bright yellow one when I'm running around in the mountains.
4. I need to buy a new pair of running shoes. The maddening thing about this: the only part that's worn out is the spot right above my littlest toes, whose crooked joint rubs a hole right through my shoe.
5. My bunions are starting to bug me and I will probably have to have them fixed soon. But not until the fall; I don't want to miss an entire summer of running.
6. I was afraid that my winter running hiatus would strip me of the speed I gained while training for my marathon last summer. So far, it hasn't! (Remember, though: "speed" is relative. I'm still not very fast.)
7. I managed to squeeze in my first 2-a-day this week! As I've been trying to do this since February I'm not very impressed with myself. But I did feel awesome and, having done it once, know I can manage it again.
8. Part of conquering my first Ragnar leg is running lots of uphills. I decided that before the race I'm going to be able to run the entire paved length of Squaw Peak Road---uphill and down. (My last Ragnar leg? 7.0 downhill miles, with a net elevation loss of 1702 feet.) It's only 4.5 miles, but the elevation gain/loss is nearly identical (17-hundred-something).
9. Today I ran up Squaw Peak Road for roughly two miles. It took me nearly 24 minutes. I thought I would feel like dying but honesty I felt OK and could have kept going. I didn't because A---I didn't have time and B---I want to build up slowly.
10. Then I turned around and ran down in 13 1/2 minutes. Apparently I'm much faster on a downhill.
11. It will never stop making me happy to hear someone call me a bad ass runner. That happened today when I passed two dudes who were just getting out of their car at the spot where the road was closed (the sign on the gate said "road open on April 1." I guess the forest rangers missed that one.) One dude said "holy sh*#$*#!&, that girl is running up the road. She's insane!" and the other dude said "no, she's not insane, she's bad ass." Sweet!
12. It made me equally happy to be called a girl instead of a lady. Because the ultimate running fact is: what I'm trying to run away from is letting my body settle down and get old. That's right, I said it, I'm running away from old age. Think it will work?

{What I Love} no10: cute running clothes

(Please forgive the lapse in blogging. Kendell and I were out celebrating a milestone this weekend, which I shall blog about tomorrow.)

While I prefer that people might think of them in the euphemistic ideal of "muscular," when you come right down to it there's just no way to put it other than this: I have large thighs. In fact, they're downright disproportional. . . if I ever find a pair of jeans with a size 6 waist and a size 8 thigh I'm buying at least five pair. Until then, I'd say I like shopping for swimsuits more than shopping for jeans. (Which is saying a lot, because when I shop for swimsuits I have to try to cope with the other disproportional part of my body.)

I've mostly come to accept this fact about my body. I try to think of my thunder thighs in affectionate terms. They're strong! They can go forever, be it a day-long hike or an extra-long run I'm asking them to carrying me through.  They are...well, that's all I've got. They're strong!

Not very pretty, though. And definitely not easy to shop for. Forget the jeans: sometimes exercise clothes are just as complicated. Especially those cute tiny shorts so many runners are able to wear. If I went out in shorts like these? Well, I'd come home bleeding from the chafe. Because one of the perks of big muscular thighs is that no matter how much weight you lose or how in shape you get, your thighs still touch. Which means that when you run? Your thighs rub together.

So cute, tiny running shorts? Never going to work for me. I've worked around this by shopping long and carefully for longer running shorts. I have three pair I bought four years ago at Target. They're really starting to get worn out but, despite the fact that they have no pockets ("lack of pockets" is one of my running-clothes tirades), I keep wearing them because they work.

Still, despite the large-thigh issue, there is something motivating in finding cute running clothes. It's simply easier to get out the door when you feel like you don't look sloppy as you're slogging down the street. And I'll freely confess that I probably do own too many running clothes. But I feel a little bit justified in buying them anyway because A---I'm a careful shopper (READ: I always buy stuff on sale) and B---if a cute new running top lifts up any flagging motivation, it's money well-spent. My heart, lungs, and brain all agree.

I used to look at the runners in running skirts with envy. Those tiny little shorts under their skirts? Would never stand up to my inner-thigh chafing. Ever! But then I discovered, one lucky day at my local running store, the magic that is Skirt Sports. I say "lucky" both because I learned about the existence of a longer running skirt with 5" shorts underneath AND  because said skirt was on sale. (Plus it was pink. Happy sigh.) It is the perfect skirt for me. The shorts under the skirt even have pockets. Pockets! and prettiness!

I love my pink skirt. I wore it when I achieved one of my running goals at the Hobble Creek Half Marathon. I wore it for one of my Ragnar legs. I wore it for every single one of my long runs while training for my marathon, and of course, I also wore it for my marathon. It made me feel strong in a feminine sort of way.

But one skirt won't last forever. And when I found another Skirt Sports skirt on sale, I bought it for myself for Christmas. I was saving it for the perfect day when I A---actually went running (I haven't been very diligent since "winter" set in) and B---the weather was good. That day was Friday, when I'd been home all day with one kid struck down by walking pneumonia and another who'd been barfing his guts out all day. The second Kendell came home I was gone. Mostly because it was so beautiful. Fifty-two sunny degrees is abnormal February weather but I decided that to waste it would be unpardonable (and wouldn't make it snow anyway).

I felt exhilarated and happy and energized for about a half mile, and then the reality of not running for six weeks hit me hard. My lungs hurt and my infamous thighs felt weak. But I finished my three-point-two-five miles and I'm certain my cute new running skirt:

totally had something to do with it! (My favorite pink headband didn't hurt either!)

What is your opinion on exercise clothes?

My Last Long Run

One of my favorite essays in the fabulous book To Be a Runner by Martin Dugard (booknote forthcoming!) discusses the joys and terrors of running on mountain trails. The author writes about avoiding trails where mountain lions have been spotted, but only until he manages to "convince myself that the threat is no more or at least reduced." In his running grounds (California), the threat of wildlife on mountain trails is greater than it is here, yet he still does most of his running on trails. Why? "When I'm on the trails, my mind is free. The absolute quiet is a haven . . . Being in nature challenges me, fills me with a sense of adventure, and makes me whole. . . Nagging riddles and problems have a way of uncomplicating themselves. . . [and] because the hardest packed dirt is always softer than pavement, the scent of sage and licorice beats breathing exhaust any day of the week, and once in every great while, I witness some natural marvel that makes me high with wonder."

I included that long (but greatly shortened) quote because I respond to the entire thing. Those are the reasons I love running in the mountains along trails, too. Here's why I don't do it more often:

Fear.

Unlike Martin Dugard, I'm not especially fearful of wildlife. Of course, there is the possibility of coming across a mountain lion or a bear. But they are so rare now in our suburbanized foothills. A moose or two is more likely, or a rattlesnake. Squirrels, certainly. But what scares me more than coyotes, bobcats, or wolves are the human predators.

Last spring, a woman runner was raped and beaten on the lower section of one of the trails I run on often, the Provo River Parkway. This is a paved trail with plenty of traffic. Enough traffic, in fact, to cause controversy. (It's all the long boarders fault.) But she still had this horrific experience, on a section of the trail that runs close to a neighborhood, apartments, and a park. The fact that her rapist was a convict from the state prison who'd escaped while on work detail did not make me feel better about running there; neither did his quick capture (he was later sentenced to life in prison. Hopefully this doesn't include work details). I didn't run on that section of the trail for more than a year, and I avoided the entire trail almost all last summer.

There are three different trail systems within a five mile drive of my house. I long to run along them. I have, in fact, done so a couple of times. But not as often as I wish. And not because I am afraid of cougars; I'm afraid of being vulnerable to the attack of a deranged person. So I take the safe route. I run in neighborhoods or on the paved and crowded river trail, nearly content with my safety but still feeling the tug toward wilder country. I don't like that I let my fear determine my path. And honestly, I don't know if it is a rational fear or one flamed by watching TV shows like CSI.

Two weeks ago, though, I went running in the mountains anyway. The leaves are past their red peak, but I wanted to be outside one more time in their chilly fire. I needed to get a good long downhill run in before the half marathon I was running the next weekend. And I craved the casting off of fear. So I had Kendell drive me to the top of Squaw Peak Road, and then I ran home.

As we drove up the mountain, we talked—about the kids, and Kaleb's upcoming appointment with the heart doctor, and who needs new shoes soon (Jake and Kaleb), and the advisability of my plan. Kendell wasn't so certain I would be safe. But, despite my usual pre-long-run nerves, I felt confident that I would be OK. Certain to not let fear overtake me. When we were about three-quarters of the way to the top, two Subarus passed us going down. In each car was a man wearing a helmet. We both laughed a little at how odd that was—why the helmet? But it left an impression on me. Their helmets were nearly identical and I imagined they were friends, doing some sort of mountain-esque something. Something that involved helmets. Those were the only cars we saw, though, until we got to the top of the road.

The road ends in a parking lot. There is a trail head there that will lead you to the actual Squaw Peak (this is the short route I've never taken) but most of the traffic there comes at night as the view is incredible. (Also it is a good spot for making out with your boyfriend I have heard.) There was one lone, black truck, empty, in the parking lot. Kendell asked me one more time if I was sure—and I was. I wanted to run that scenery. I hopped out of the car and then he trailed me for awhile, talking and joking, before he had to speed off to work. Not four minutes after he left, one of the Subarus passed me, this time going up and with both passengers. This made me twinge just a little. Why were they coming up the road again? Why were they still wearing their helmets? Was there malice in their intent? What did they think of the sight of my solitary run? (Kendell also saw the Subaru. It stressed him out enough that he stopped at the bottom and took a photo of the other Subaru's license plate number, just in case.) But I went with my courage and my gut feeling that I would be OK. I went with my desire to fly down the mountain, surrounded by autumn, to find that quiet rightness that only exists away from suburbia.

Of course, running on SPR isn't exactly trail running. It's a paved road. But it's windy and narrow and steep. And beautiful. Even now, at the end of the fall leaf season, the landscape is still stunning, with dusty yellow and faded red and even a few orange spots left. There were no mountain lions, bears, wolves, or rattlesnakes to be found, although I did startle a large tidings of magpies away from something they were eating (I didn't stop to investigate). It was chilly, but as the road wound around the mountain's curves, I'd find myself in captured pools of warm air. These dissipated when I rounded another curve, the warmth blown away by wind, so that I was exposed to seemingly every possibility of temperature. I watched the trees and mountains in front of me and relaxed into the downhill, letting my legs go as fast as they wanted.

When I was about halfway down, I started hearing a strange, humming rattle coming from behind me. It sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it. And then, just as I rounded a curve, something low and fast shot past me—something wearing a slick, aerodynamic teal-and-grey suit. Something burnished by speed. 

Something wearing a helmet.

Now the puzzle was solved: the men in the two cars going down, one going up? They wanted to fly down the mountain, too. On their long boards their flying was remarkably faster than mine. I had a clear shot of that first speeding human; I watched him hurtle down the straightaway, then take a curve with precision before disappearing into the trees. He reappeared a few seconds later on the switchback below me. Then, ten minutes later—I assume they timed this so they didn't run into each other—his friend catapulted past me. They were each a dynamic composition, something made of technical fabrics and slick wheels and a seemingly complete lack of fear.

That realization hit me like a sound wave: did they lack fear? Or were they winging down the canyon with their spines mere inches from the blacktop not out of courage but out of the desire to feel the fear—and do it anyway? They had to be terrified of hurting themselves. Yet the exhilaration overcame the fear.

Only the first five miles of my last long run were in that steep canyon. That left me seven more to think about my experience. I loved running down the canyon for the sheer fact of running down the canyon. It's a steep, swift descent and its Alpine beauty is a panacea. But I also loved that I ran it despite being afraid—that the exhilaration and the quest for quiet nature was stronger than my fear of rapists. It is a feeling I want to hold on to through the long winter (SPR has since been snowed on twice and will soon be impassible to anything other than a four-wheel drive, if that) until the spring when I hope I will be brave enough to stride out into the wilderness around me.

Maybe I'll even be lucky enough to see some wildlife.

"Rejoice, We Conquer!"

This was the message the Athenian Pheidippides carried on the day in 490 BC when he accidentally created the marathon. It was an astounding message: an army of 10,000 (the Athenians) had conquered one of 100,000 (the Persians, who were the time's reigning terror). "Rejoice, we conquer!" he announced.

Then he died.

This death wasn't necessarily due to the twenty five miles he'd just run. (The marathon became 26.2 miles in the 1912 London Olympics; the 1.2 miles were added so the race would go past the royal spectator box.) Pheidippides was a runner, as in, running was his job. He delivered messages, and he'd run plenty of miles before his last great stretch. Probably he left Marathon, running towards Athens, already exhausted; perhaps it was the joy of his message that carried him through.

I thought of many things during my own marathon on Saturday; Pheidippides and the history of the marathon was just one way my mind went. But I kept going back to his message: rejoice, we conquer! Because there must be some message other than the one made by your own legs and heart and lungs that pulls you along your own great distance; the effort is physical but also mental. Your mind keeps you going just as surely as your hamstrings and quads.

Sort of like that long-ago Athenian, I became a runner this summer; a runner in the sense that running felt nearly like a part-time job. I had a printed schedule I kept on my desk, and five times a week I crossed off another distance. I wanted to arrive at the race prepared; I didn't want to cheat myself out of being ready. And honestly: I felt ready. Until, that is, the second week of my tapering. ("Tapering" is the time during your training when you drastically cut back on the mileage you're running. You do this so you are rested for the race and recuperated from the long runs you put in.) My longest run that week was only 8 miles; the others were 4, 5, and 3. Cutting from 40+ miles down to 20 made me feel like running long distances was something I only used to do. I was a little freaked out.

And then the week of the race arrived—and with it, fall. Gone were all the long, gorgeous, sunny and warm days I'd trained in. Back were rain, wind, and cold. And I am the first to admit that I am a fair-weather runner. I hate being cold. And while I've done several rainy runs, they aren't my favorite. The weather increased my freaked-outedness. I kept trying to picture myself slogging through 26.2 wet miles, my legs covered in goosebumps, my hands freezing, but I couldn't even imagine it. I couldn't decide what to wear or how to cope. And as Saturday grew closer, the weather only got worse. It turned positively Decemberish. My anxiety built and built.

The course I chose to run for my first marathon started on Antelope Island, which is about seven miles into the Great Salt Lake. A causeway connects the island to the city of Layton. Even though I've lived in Utah my entire life, I've never been to Antelope Island, which was one of the reasons I picked this race. And although every single "you can run a marathon" book I read suggests picking a big urban race for your first marathon, I knew this one would be my style: small, and run in a wild landscape. And while I've admittedly never ran through miles of cheering spectators, I'm not sure they would bolster me as much as nature does.

The morning of the race, when my alarms went off nearly simultaneously at 4:00 a.m., I peeked out our hotel window. The worst thing I could imagine was cars coated with snow; luckily, that didn't appear, but the parking lot was slick with rain. Somewhere in the night of troubled sleeping (does anyone actually sleep well in hotels?), though, my anxiety had at last melted away. As I got ready, I thought of the other cold, wet experiences I had not only survived but learned something from: my night Ragnar leg, the pioneer trek, the Provo half marathon. They had prepared me, and they gave me a sense of calm strength: I survived those experiences, so I could survive this one, too. Even if it rained. Even if it snowed.

The starting line was about nine miles past the causeway. I was so grateful when I saw that there was a tent-like pavilion with a heaterfor the runners to stand by while waiting to start. After a quick trip to the porta potty, I stood under that blue pavilion and did not budge away from the warmth of the heater. My only movements were to get myself ready: I pulled on my argyle leg warmers, stuffed the pockets of my running skirt with my two Clif shots, twelve Bloks, eight Advil, and one Neutrogena chapstick (the kind with sunscreen!), adjusted my shoelaces, got my headband in the right position and centered my sunglasses right on the top of my head. Five minutes before the start, I reluctantly removed my sweats, shoved them in my sack, and left the warmth of the heater to take them to the truck that would return all the bags to the finish line.

This is when my resolve faltered just a bit. Away from the heater, in the still-dark dawn, it was freezing. So I pulled my long sleeve running shirt—the one I'd brought just in case—out of my sack. I couldn't imagine heading out with that cold on my arms. Then, even though I only had three minutes left, pulling my long sleeve over my head, I raced back to the tent—weaving back through all the runners facing forward—to the heater. As if I could stock up on warmth. I didn't leave it until the gunshot and the cheer announced the race had started. Then I took a deep breath, left the heater, and started running.

I didn't turn my music on at first. It was still dark. There aren't any street lights on Antelope Island, of course, and the sky was cloudy, so the only light came from the lights attached to the bikes of the occasional passing support volunteer, who pedaled up and down the course checking on the runners. These first three miles felt like running does when I dream about it: completely effortless. Quiet and calm, except for when I passed the two mile mark, checked my time (18:12), and couldn't help myself: I whooped. It hit me: I was here. I was doing it. I was finally accomplishing this goal that I have carried for so many years. I whooped, and I gave a fist shake of triumph, and some of the runners around me whooped back, and then I settled into the run.

Before this, not even halfway into the first mile, I realized I'd made a mistake: despite the cold, I didn't need my long sleeves. In fact, they were bugging me. At the first chance I had—the first water station, at three miles—I took off my outer layer and my little stretchy disposable gloves, and dropped them in the pile of other's mistaken clothes. I was pretty sure I'd get my shirt back at the finish line, but I was willing to exchange not carrying the jacket around my waist for 23 miles with the risk of losing it.

I turned on my music just as the world started to lighten and I could see the landscape. I think that appreciating beauty in the Great Basin takes a certain sensibility. It's not a grandiose beauty. It's not flashy and startling. It's subtle: the shades of pale colors and the shapes of greenery twisted by wind and tautened by drought. It is a gorgeousness made of sereness, of the brittle external forms of things, a beauty defined by want and struggle and occasional pauses of lushness. Emerson said that beauty is God's handwriting; here His penmanship straggles and wanders and gets a little avante garde—but its very subtly made those miles on the island some of my favorite I have ever run.

At every water station—every two miles—I took a cup of water and swallowed a blok. This is sort of how I had trained during my long runs, except my water breaks were spread out more. By the water station at mile 7, I realized I was drinking too much (or maybe not sweating as much as I usually did in the heat of summer) because I had to do something I've never done in a race: stop at a porta potty. I tried to do this at mile 7, but after waiting for three precious minutes for the man inside to get out, I gave up. I didn't want to lose the momentum I had going, so I pushed on to the mile 9 station. Where there was a line  at the porta potty. Foiled again, I thought, but by then it didn't matter; I needed  that porta potty. Luckily the girl in front got tired of waiting and headed off into the bushes (braver than me), and the next girl was super fast, but still: the bathroom thing had added 4 1/2 minutes to my time.

I tried to break the race into three parts: the island, the causeway, the back streets of Layton. When I got off the island and stepped onto the causeway, the sun was finally up, though still covered by clouds. There were birds swimming in the water, casting little wakes behind them, and the air was fully of that fishy smell that comes from shallow water; quite immediately I was not there running my race, but danging my legs off the bow of our yellow boat with my dad in the captain's chair behind me. The water lapped my heels and I turned to smile at him. It was just a few seconds, that memory, but so intense it was if I really was there. Or, perhaps, that he was there with me and told me by bringing me the memory. I couldn't think on it too hard, because it made a lump start to form in my throat; crying is never conducive to running. But it stayed on the fringes of my thought, just as the expansive view of the water was on the fringes of my sight, as I crossed the seven miles of causeway. I talked to a few runners, passed some others; I stopped at the water stations but drank much less; I felt a surge of energy when I reached the 13-mile mark. My hands were so cold that, at 13 miles when I wanted to take my first Shot, I couldn't tear the package open and had to ask one of the volunteers to do it for me. But the second third still flew by.

One of the runners I talked with after we both passed the 16 mile marker. He talked about how a half marathon is a distance almost anyone can run; you almost don't have to train for a half. But once you're past the first half of your marathon, that's when things start hurting. "My muscles are stiff," he said, "and my gait feels awkward." I didn't feel any of that yet; I still felt energetic but calm. We talked for a few more minutes, and then he fell behind me or I sped up and I was alone again.

But, admittedly, getting a little bit anxious. I knew the last third of the race would be the hardest. It would take me to a distance I had never traveled into. It would test me. And it would wind through uninspiring back roads, away from any vistas. At mile 19, I had my other Shot and I felt OK. The landscape was a little uninspiring, but now there were people cheering us on. Well, some were cheering. Here's a suggestion if you're ever at a race as a spectator: cheer loudly. For every single runner. There is nothing quite so dispiriting as running past a group of silent spectators. It saps your energy as if their silence sucked out part of your soul. I know: we're complete strangers! But, if you're going to stand there, give me a little cheer.

From 19 to 20 miles, what kept me going was the runner in front of me. She had on a bandanna and I'm not sure why, but the bandanna made me nauseous. It was the print on it, and the way the ends flapped around her head, but I couldn't stand watching it anymore. So I worked on passing her. Then, from 20 to 21, I just concentrated on making it to the next porta potty, as my decreased drinking had not done the trick and I had to stop one more time. Luckily there wasn't a line, but I have to say: the only thing worse than stopping to pee during a marathon is having to stand back up and start running again. The rude girl who was waiting outside for me—the one who banged on the door and shouted "could you take any longer?" (I really didn't take very long) might have been the only thing that got me out of that porta potty.

I don't know. Was it the stopping? Or just that I had reached my limit? Whatever the cause, the last five miles were excruciating. I don't think I could tell you exactly what hurt. But I was in pain. Five miles seemed like an eternity. I could see, off in the distance, Bandanna Girl, who had passed me while I was in the bathroom. I was surrounded by the last runner/walkers of the half marathon, which seemed like a discouraged group to run with. I kept trying to picture the five mile routes I'd run so often in my training, reminding myself that I'd run five miles literally hundreds of times in my life. I could do five miles.

Then Braid Girl passed me.

I'd passed her when I left the porta potty, as she was walking. But she started running again, and she passed me. This gave me just a little bit of energy; I wanted to catch back up to her. I pushed my legs as hard as I could. I sang random snatches of songs out loud. I kept my eye on her flopping braid, and slowly pulled closer to her, and then she started walking again, and I passed her, and my competitive edge flowed away, and perhaps half a mile later she passed me again.

We frog jumped each other for the rest of the race, one passing the other and, in the passing, trading off a little bit of energy. The world reduced down to the bare minimum: moving my legs, ignoring the pain, catching Braid Girl or watching her pass me by. The one message I had left to carry was only this one: keep going. Don't stop.

And I didn't. Didn't stop. Kept going. At last, I passed the 25 mile marker. This led me into what felt like familiar territory, as Kendell and I had driven down the night before so he knew where the finish line was. I knew I only had to make it to that light, and then the next light, and then past the golf course, and then I could turn at the corner and I would be able to see the finish. Just as I could see the corner of the golf course, the sun came out and the way lit up. I even had to put on my sunglasses. I don't know where Braid Girl was—in front of me or behind—but I knew I had it.

I turned the corner. I spotted the finish. And I found one last little bit of energy, enough to help me both speed up and smile.

 
Despite the pain and the exhaustion and the feeling of being completely empty right down to my mitochondria, I was smiling. I was conquering. I was rejoicing.

I turned the last little curve of the road and I saw Kendell, and Becky who came to see me finish too. I couldn't look at them because they made me want to weep. It's not "rejoice, I conquer."  It is "we."  I ran it, but they helped. Becky encouraged me, Kendell supported me, and I was so grateful to see them at the end. I pushed, I ran, I smiled.

 
I finished.

And despite the fact that my time is probably dismal in comparision—4 hours, 31 minutes, 8 seconds—I allowed myself to feel proud. To know that I had set the goal, and done what I needed to do to accomplish it. Like Pheidippides in Athens, I died when I crossed the finish line. But only a part of me. The part of me that wasn't sure I could do it? She's gone. In her place is a new person carrying a new message. 

Twenty Miles

Back at the beginning of July, when I was slowly building my long runs into the low and middle teens, I approached my 15-mile run with trepidation. Fourteen miles was the longest I had ever run in my life, so all longer runs are new territory. When I finished running 15 miles, I was tired. Tired. I kept thinking: how am I going to do the marathon, now that I've signed up and am officially committed? How will I be able to run for eleven more miles when I feel so wiped out after running just 15?

But, I took a deep breath. I reread some of the marathon training sites I like. I reminded myself to trust in the process, and I moved on in my training plan.

Strangely enough, I started to get nervous to do my long runs. Sometimes these nerves have been nearly enough to undo my resolve to get my shoes and out the door---but not quite. I've missed a couple of shorter (5 mile) runs, but not a single long run. I got through the nerves by focusing on my process of getting ready. I've done all of my long runs in my favorite pink running skirt. It's my favorite because it's exactly the right length, a titch longer than the usual running skirt, which means the shorts under the skirt are long enough to cover my chubby inner thighs and prevent chafing. But I also love it because it has two little pockets, one on each leg. Pockets mean I can carry some fuel for my run (namely, Cliff Blocks). To get ready for each long run, I follow the same process: get dressed, apply sunscreen to my face, Myomed to my knees, and Glide to my bunions. Then I sit down and make sure I have no toe fuzz before I put on my socks (trust me...multiplied by so many miles, even the tiniest bit of toe fuzz can be disastrous), which are always, on long runs, my favorite cushioned pair of SmartWools. I find my watch and my MP3 player, and then I pull my hair back into a ponytail. This action---the making of the ponytail---is a sort of switch. Once I do that, my nerves start to calm. It cues my body that it is ready to go and I don't need to worry.

In August, I got to this point I’ve never been to in my running: wondering what I am doing. Training for a marathon takes a lot of time. It nearly feels like a second part-time job. I’d been getting more and more obsessive about not deviating even a bit from my training plan. And while my body has changed a little bit—it feels a bit stronger and leaner and tighter—the fact that my scale wouldn’t budge (still hasn’t) was discouraging. Still, I’m trying to not let this feeling discourage me, but push through it. And I’ve had some long runs that have been amazing.

Last week, I made it to the litmus of marathon training: the twenty mile run. This is approached by a two-steps-forward, one-step-back sort of approach: mileage is increased for two weeks in a row, and then jumps back a bit for a rest week. (If you consider fifteen miles restful, which, oddly enough, they do feel just like that: 15 miles is short when the week before you ran 18.) Depending on the training schedule you're using---I'm using Hal Higdon's intermediate plan---you build up to one or two 20 mile runs (or, sometimes, longer), and then you taper, which means the last two weeks or so before the race, you run less and less, to give your body a chance to rest before the next big push---26.2 miles.

For my first twenty mile long run, I plotted a route that took me along Utah Lake, one of my favorite places to run. It was partly out and back, partly through neighborhoods, partly along quiet back roads. And right through an enormous construction project I hadn't taken into account. The hazards of running through a construction zone (the catcalls from the workers, the lack of any sort of shoulder on the road and the fact that I was often running right alongside cars and praying none of them hit me; at one point, a kind and non-catcalling construction dude had me wait for a minute while he stopped all the cars going both ways so I could run without fearing death) slowed me down a bit. But in general, I felt awesome. Tired, of course, but not excessively so. I finished 20.5 miles (I threw in that extra .5 mile just to make sure) and felt like I could keep going.

In fact, I feel ecstatic. Euphoric. Absolutely confident that I can run a marathon.

Not so yesterday, when I finished my second twenty miler. For this run, I took a completely different route. I started from my dentist's office (after getting a cleaning and hearing the news that two more of my fillings have cracked), headed down to the river trail, and started up the canyon. Usually when I do an out-and-back along the river trail, I'm happy. It was beautiful. But I was almost immediately weary. It's one of the strange things about running. Sometimes you feel perfect: energetic, and smooth gliding, and that's when running feels nearly effortless. Other days, it's the exact opposite: as if your shoes are made out of concrete and you weigh an extra 100 pounds and there's a layer of wet wool stuck in your trachea that you must pull air through. The latter is how I felt yesterday from the very beginning; not an auspicious start to a run that took me 3 hours and 20 minutes (excluding water breaks!)

But I slogged along. I've been listening to the Harry Potter audio books during my long runs, so he, Ron, and Hermione traveled along with me. I stopped for water and a Block and a quick ITB stretch at every fountain; I also doused my forearms, which somehow helps me feel cooler. I reapplied sunscreen once an hour or so. And I moved slower, and slower, and slower. The last half mile of my twenty was a steep uphill, and I'm not even sure the way I moved up that hill could be called "running." I did make myself put on a burst of speed for the last block, but I confess: I don't know what I would have done if I had to run six more miles.

I finished my second twenty feeling horrible. Nauseous and dizzy and exhausted. My legs hurt, the entire length of them, as if it wasn't blood but needles running through my veins. My lungs were spent, my back ached, and my knees were as stiff as an old woman's. I felt the opposite of last week's twenty: dejected and unhappy and defeated. Completely sure whether or not I can run a marathon.

Now, a day after my second twenty, I’m feeling a little bit better. I’m hoping it was so hard because it was the second one, and I didn’t give my body a chance to rest between them. Or that it was the dentist’s fault, or the fact that I didn’t start until almost 11:30, or the heat or the route or the mysterious indefinable thing that just makes running hard. I am, I confess, looking forward to my upcoming weeks of tapering. And I’m trying to take a deep breath (even though my lungs seem like the most tired part of my entire body) and trust, again, in the strength and wisdom of the process. I hope it will be enough to get me through my upcoming 26.2 miles

Hobble Creek Half 2011 Race Report

For nearly three weeks, I haven’t reset the chrono timer on my running watch. It’s been stuck there, at 1 hour 58 minutes and 53 seconds, because I can’t bear to not have that visual proof of a long-strived-for goal.

I ran my first marathon, the Hobble Creek Half, in 2003, with my sister Becky. We slept at my mom’s house, and stayed up too late talking and laughing. This meant we woke up late and then rushed to the bus pick-up spot—the high school we’d both attended, her far more successfully than I—in my dad’s car. Then we couldn’t get the key out of the ignition, and then we realized we needed to leave our jackets in the car, and then we couldn’t lock the door. Once we got the car figured out, with the help of a friendly passerby, we started walking over to the busses, only to watch the last one pull away. So, instead of riding in a bus to the top of Hobble Creek canyon, we raced back to Dad’s car, wrestled with the lock again, and drove ourselves. Except, we couldn’t park at the top, so instead we parked at a random pull-out spot that seemed to be close to the top, and started walking up to the beginning. Then, when runners going down the canyon started to pass us, we turned around and started our race.

And that is how, on my first half marathon, I managed a sub-two-hour time: I didn’t run the entire 13.1 miles.

Since I’ve now run the same race two more times, once in 2004 with my friend Midge and once again three weeks ago, I know that where we turned around and started running was less than a quarter-mile from the start of the race, so I wasn’t far off. Still, I’ve had the same goal now for eight years: run a half marathon—an entire  half marathon—in less than two hours. I’ve never been exceedingly far off; my longest half was the Provo race, when I wasn’t really ready, and it was cold, and my ITB was killing me, and it took me 2 hours and 18 minutes. I got so tantalizingly close at the Moab Half, coming in at 2 hours and 48 seconds. "It’s close enough," so many people told me, but I despaired. I didn’t want to be close enough. I wanted to really do it. But I wasn’t sure I ever would—after all, when I got that close, it was at the culmination of a different goal, to run four half marathons in a year. When else would I have that sort of endurance built up?

I thought that perhaps, last fall, I’d finally do it when I ran the Halloween Half. This is a race with a steep beginning downhill; the first nearly-six miles you lose about 1700 feet in elevation. The canyon was beautiful and the temperature perfect and I flew down that grade, passing the 9-minutes pacer and the 8 1/2-minutes pacer and nearly catching up to the 8-minute pacer when I left the canyon—and hit the nearly-flat part. (Three hundred feet of elevation loss in nearly seven miles.) The nearly-flat part I’d done almost all of my long training runs on. My legs seemed to lose all ability to push along; the pacers caught up with me, then passed me by, and I felt like weeping. I know now that I should have trained with more steep-then-flat downhills so my legs were used to the seemingly-skidding halt the flat parts provide, but during the race I knew nothing other than discouragement. I ran through seven miles of The Wall and finished in 2:04:27.

To be honest, then, this year when I planned my half marathon (the one my training schedule suggests you run), I nearly didn’t think about that sub-two-hour goal. I was just looking at the Hobble Creek Half (which I finally managed to get a spot in) as another long training run, except with a bus ride to the top, water stations, cheering supporters, mile markers, and lots of people to run with. Plus, I’ve been running my long runs at a fairly slow pace (again, as suggested by my training schedule and nearly every running book I’ve ever read). Finishing in under two hours didn’t feel important.

Like the first time I ran Hobble Creek, I spent the night at my mom’s. She dropped me in the morning, so there were no missing-the-bus possibilities. (The race won’t let people drive to the start anymore anyway.) At the top, I huddled in my sweats until thirty seconds before the race started, dropped my bag in the back of the truck that took it (along with everyone else’s) back down to the finish line, and started my watch more out of habit than hope. But, again out of habit, I glanced down to check my time at the one mile marker, and nearly stumbled when I saw the numbers: 8:20. Thinking it was a fluke, I left the time alone until I got to the third mile: 26:18. This meant I was doing about 8:15 miles. Stolid, dependable me, always closer to a ten-minute mile than any other number? I nearly didn’t believe my watch.

So I started doing running math, making sure at each mile that my pace was staying in the 8-something range. A few strides after the sixth mile, another runner asked me for the time, and then he seemed baffled, too. "I should be back with the 10-minute-mile runners," he said between steps. "I’m not sure how I’m going this fast."

"I know! I feel the same way. But I’m going to take the speed as long as it will come," I said. And then I left him.

I didn’t want to trust my time. In fact, every time I thought about the sub-two-hour possibility, I’d nearly start to cry, and as running and crying do not mix, I just tried hard to concentrate on the math, and to keep my pace up, and not think about how I’d feel if I hit The Wall again. Feel adventurous, I even downed a Cliff Shot at the 6.5-mile aid station. I hate Shots as much as I hate Gu, but the volunteer sort of shoved it in my hand, and what else could I do but take it? It was coffee-flavored and delicious and didn’t make me gag in the slightest, the texture more like caramel than the mocha-y snot I was expecting.

The last three miles of this race are nearly flat, and the scenery loses its brilliance. Instead of mountain canyon, you wind through suburbia (past my aunt and uncle’s old house, even). The very last mile is along a wide, straight rode, utterly void of charm. I knew I was slowing down a bit, all those fast miles catching up with me. I really wasn’t sure if I would make it, but I resisted looking at my watch. I just pushed as hard as I could with everything I had left. [the last 10 seconds or so of the race; they made us take our earphones out when there was .25 miles left and it made me a little nuts to have them slapping against me, so I held them like that while I finished. Don't tell, but I could still just barely hear my music; "Authority Song" brought me to the end]

The .10 part of the 13.1 miles seemed the longest bit, wrapping around a church and dropping onto grass. I heard Kendell cheering but I didn’t see him. I just pushed, and then as soon as I passed the finish line I pushed stop on my watch. And there it was, the goal fulfilled, the time I can’t bring myself to clear:

1:58:53.

My friend Jessica, who I didn’t know was also running the race, was at the finish line.  
[please note the cheesy grin on my face; also, the unfortunate placement of my race bib makes my lumpy belly look lumpier and chubbier than it really is]

"Did you do it?" she asked in an excited voice. And if I had any moisture left in my body, I would have burst out in tears. The happy, good tears. I could answer, finally, yes. I achieved my goal of running a half marathon in under two hours.

As I talked to Kendell while I devoured two pieces of watermelon, sipped a chocolate milk, and stretched, I felt a little niggling voice creep in. "You shouldn’t be this excited over coming in just barely under two hours," it jeered. "Think of all the people who finished before you!" But I refused to let my usual self-doubt ("and plus, you only did it because it was nearly all downhill")  ruin the moment. Instead I kept looking at my watch, and thinking about my dad who had been in my heart, and just relishing what felt like a win despite the fact that I didn't win the race.

Finally ready to go, we gathered up Kaleb (how handy was it to have the race finish in a park? This meant that all the supporting children were saved from the usual race-finish boredom!) and started walking back to the car when I remembered I’d forgotten to get my sweats bag. I went back to find it, and as I did I heard a couple of runners talking to each other. "I’m just so excited that I managed to finish in two hours and twenty seven minutes!" one gushed to the other. "I feel so good about it!" I found my bag and they wandered away, but I wanted to hug that runner. She’d completely silenced my self-doubt and reminded me: in running, it is nearly never about who runs faster (or slower) than you. Her under-two-and-a-half-hours goal was no less worthy of merit than my under-two goal, and my feelings of accomplishment didn’t have to pale in the face of, say, Jessica’s 15-minutes-faster-than-me PR. All that mattered?

I finally, finally, after eight years of carrying it with me, achieved this goal. I did it. Which has to mean that I can also achieve other goals, even the ones I’ve carried with me for even longer.

Unbudgeable

Tonight, while working on revising some of my Textuality class (which is going to start up again on October 6), I did something I haven’t for awhile:

I ate a big bowl of my favorite ice cream.

(Breyer’s mint chocolate chip, if you’re curious.)

Why the hell not? Because here’s the deal:

I have been running a lot lately. A lot. Like 35-40 miles a week.

I’ve been doing sit ups and push ups and various other calisthenics.

I’ve even done some weight lifting and Pilates classes at the gym.

AND!

I’ve cut way back on my calories over the summer. Barely any sugar-filled drinks. Protein shakes or oatmeal for breakfast. Smaller portions at every meal. A drastic (although, granted, not total) cutting back of the cookies-candies-cakes-and-snacks food group. An increase in fruits and vegetables and whole grains. I haven’t put even a dollop of half-and-half on my berries.

I’ve been taking my daily vitamins. (B, D, E, calcium, and fish oil.)

I’ve been cooking with olive oil.

I’ve been sleeping more.

I’ve been drinking water.

And no matter what I do, the scale refuges to budge.

Before you say it, I know the argument: all that healthy stuff is causing me to gain muscle. Magic how that losing-weight/gaining-muscle balance remains exactly the same! Really, though, I know this isn’t true because my clothes don’t fit any differently.

Well, that’s not completely true.

My bras are now too big. (All of them, even my running ones, which has resulted in the most-unpleasant sort of chafing I've ever experienced.)

Sweetness! The one place I don’t want to lose any weight is the only place it’s melting away.

To say I’m frustrated is to understate the fact. Vastly understate it. Why is none of this working? Why does my scale refuse to budge? What am I not doing that I need to do in order to finally lose the last ten pounds I’ve been battling for two years now?

I was certain the marathon training would help. I mean, if you do the math, I should be able to lose a pound a week, because I am exercising nearly a pound’s worth of calories during my seven days. I’d even settle for half a pound a week. But even that regimen, while improving my endurance and even my speed a little bit—and giving me a wicked watch tan line on my wrist—is not bringing me any closer to my desire.

So tonight, I drowned my sorrows in ice cream. Obviously, that is not going to help my weight-loss goals. But somehow it feels like it won’t hurt them, either, as seemingly nothing can make my scale budge.