Epilogue: Running to the Airport

     In all fairness, this blog entry is only a little about my running efforts. Since my grand debut into the racing world, I have continued to run 3-4 times per week with mostly unimpressive times and lackluster performance. Except for one day a couple of weeks ago when I decided to run after partaking in a couple of glasses of wine. It was certainly not the sequence I had intended, but it was more than I could do to refuse a drink when my husband arrived at home with a bottle in hand after my daughter successfully consumed a penny. She'd been enjoying some quality alone time during a timeout in her room, and had naturally decided to try to hold a penny in her cheek. She became distressed when she discovered she's no chipmunk. Apparently, as long as the child is not choking this is not an emergency, and I was reassured that she required no further intervention other than perhaps further clarification on the perils of inedible objects in one's mouth. Anyway, with two glasses of wine and the stresses of the day a fading memory, I headed out for my run. In defiance of all sound medical advice and logical arguments, I managed to happily jog around the subdivision with my fastest times ever without stopping. I logged 2 miles in under 24 minutes with my lightning fast pace of 11:35 per mile. The alcohol also appeared to have a significant drying effect as I did not even reach for a tissue until the end of my loop, and I think my lower half stayed dry, too, though I can't be completely sure. How exactly this was accomplished may forever remain a medical mystery.
    My children occasionally nudge me toward that glass of wine. They intentionally push my buttons and know exactly when to feign traumatic lifelong scarring by the imposition of a few meager boundaries. They are brilliant and sweet hearted masters of manipulation who still somehow manage to bring joy and meaning to my life.  I love them both dearly, and would lay down my life for them without hesitation, but this morning I could not get them to the airport fast enough. My parents graciously decided months ago to watch my little darlings for 2 weeks while my husband and I take a much needed vacation to Hawaii.  I am well aware that when they return my children to me at the end of this adventure, they will likely be convinced that my husband and I have failed miserably in our child rearing capabilities and will have found our offspring to be lacking in general morality, cleanliness, and any form of manners. I am prepared to help locate counseling services for them when this is over. I tried to caution my parents as they do not appear to fully grasp the devious and scheming aptitude of my little bundles of joy, but they have already agreed and it is too late to back out now. This is my celebration of life vacation; my "wellness tour." Though unintentional, in the nearly 10 years since our son was born, my husband and I have not had a single night together away from our kids, unless you count my various hospitalizations. I tried to convince myself that they counted, to make the 10 years sound less pathetic, but they really don't count. It is a gross underestimation to say that I am excited about this trip. Even my children are elated to be getting some time away from mom and dad, as my son ever so subtly informed me yesterday. My kids and my mother had a 6AM flight to Pennsylvania to catch, and this morning I was bound and determined to do my part to secure their safe and timely departure.
     My alarm went off at 3AM but there was zero risk of me hitting the snooze. I leaped out of bed, threw on yesterday's clothes, and rushed to get everyone else clothed, fed and out the door. I was a sleep deprived mom with tunnel vision, and was not about to be waylaid from my primary mission of the day. My daughter tried to throw me off course by spilling her apple juice over the entirety of the breakfast area flooring, making passage impossible without loudly sticking to the hardwood. I scrambled to blot the mess with half a dozen paper towels and left it to deal with later, while I shooed everyone toward the car. The normal brushing of teeth and hair were deemed impossible extraneous activities at that early hour, as they usually involve some form of battle with my kids who prefer the unkempt appearance anyway. We left the house at 3:45, an acceptable 15 minutes later than I'd intended, but still ample time to deal with potential delays at check-in or security. After driving the initial 5 miles, I was forced to do an emergency mid-street U turn to retrieve the kids' asthma medication which I'd left out in an unsuccessful attempt to remind myself to give them their morning dose. I rushed back home and had my son dart through the house, only to discover that I had, in fact, packed the breathing aids after all. I pulled them out of the suitcase and yelled at my kids to self-administer while I resumed my frantic drive back toward the airport, though at that point I was arguably in greater need of respiratory therapy than they were. I bombarded my mother with a litany of questions for any items she may have forgotten, but it didn't matter because as long as all three passengers were present, there was no way I was turning around again. I flew our car to the airport and fortunately had no difficulty with parking or while checking-in their solitary baggage item. I deemed the first line for security line too long and forced my entourage to head to the far end of the airport for the alternate security check point, which is usually less crowded. Unfortunately, we were greeted by a similar flock of travelers at that station as well. As I stood there absorbing the numbers, a voice from above (literally, an employee shouting from the overlook one story up) shouted that there was a 3rd security line that I'd never heard of just a bit further off with zero wait time.  I immediately herded my group in the farther off direction of the security utopia and thankfully saw what I needed. Empty lines and empty agents. The Hallelujah Chorus began to resonate in my head. My trio skipped forward, and my son jumped for joy and clicked his heels together on his way to the podium and I took their photo.

Excited kids...is it permissible to hang on the podium?

 To the uproars of the other travelers gathering in line behind them, my daughter proclaimed, "MOM! You can LEAVE now!" She took her sticker from the security guard, and lovingly waved a hand and stuck her tongue out in my direction. My kids. I love them to bits, but I am so happy I could cry!

My daughter's send off mid tongue thrust in my general direction

    
  

Winning!

Post Race Post:  Well, we did it! I survived my first 10K and am still here to blog about it! Overall, our times were less spectacular than what I had hoped, but the course proved to be more uphill than I had hoped, too. There were several 4 and 5 year olds who bested us, but at least we kept pace with the guy in the gorilla suit and we totally smoked at least one of the 90 year olds. As my calf muscles can attest to, I did my shuffle further today than ever before! I was even able to successfully evade all paramedics and first aid services despite the increased mileage. The weather was cooperative for my race and stellar conditions prevailed. While I had to make use of one port-a-potty about halfway through, I stayed mostly dry and in control of my bodily fluids. As we approached the fifth mile marker, I even let my sister have one of my precious tissues, because my supply was holding out so well and I was in a generous mood.

4km, 6 tissues, and one port-a-potty

She had been kind and told me how hard the race was and how easy it looked for me, and she never pointed out that my 1 minute rest walking breaks were closer to 5.  It was not lost on me that she was never out of breath enough to converse, and I only had to remind her once that I was incapable of such jolly banter. We lost a bit of time at my necessary pit stop, and a bit more at the Slip N Slide. In all the race day excitement, I even forgot to use my swim goggles while belly surfing on the slippery surface. The last mile was hard, and thankfully the cameras did not capture my pitiful ascent uphill into the stadium.  I managed to pull it together for a grand finish, because that's the mandated behavior at my moment of victory!

Pre-race, found a cow ON a crack

     So what's next for me? Another 10K? Maybe. I'm definitely not ready for a half marathon. I'll continue to try to run because I know that I've made huge gains in my endurance level that I don't want to lose, and someday it should get easier. Bolder Boulder next year? Perhaps. My son is now convinced he'd like to give it a try, and I'll admit I like the thought of playing coach:  what goes around comes around! My clothes are already prepped for a triathlon, so who knows? Biking is probably the only sport I like less than running, so a triathlon at least has some blog potential! For now, I am content to munch away on my hard earned chocolate doughnut and savor the accomplishments of the day.  Thank you to everyone who has offered support, encouragement, or advice, and followed me on my quest! Cheers!

Numbers 215 and 216: Seize the day!

Post-race energy running high.

Mmmmm. 

On Your Mark

3 days till race:  Here we go! Last entry before race day! I will be sure to post again after the fact to let everyone know how it went. I completed my usual 2-3 miles at the gym on Tuesday and Thursday without suffering any major incidents or set backs. I've got my ID bib, my timing chip, my superhero swim goggles, tissues, extra leakage protection, and no water! Everyone has been asking if I'm ready for my race. Absolutely, I'm ready! And by absolutely, I mean Hell, No! Really, people have you been reading my blog?   I'll do my best shuffle as long as I can, except for the uphill portions because everyone knows I'm really not ready for that. Who knows what times I'll put out, and I will only be truly disappointed if I'm so slow that I don't make it into the stadium before they lock the gates. I'd like to feel confident that I can run the entire race, but running is still hard. My best 3 miles is no 6, no matter how contorted the math is. I have made enormous progress since my breathless rest break at the end of the street, but my biggest success is still just being alive and well enough to enter. I am bound and determined to try to enjoy this thing and hopefully my fluid regulatory systems are cooperative. I've decided to go without tunes so I can revel in the race day hoopla that surrounds the Bolder Boulder. Also, I wouldn't want to miss my one fan out there cheering for me. If I execute my take off properly, I am confident I can shave a few seconds off my time on the slip & slide located around the 4th mile. Will my cardiologist resurface to nudge me onward? I'm not sure, maybe. He'll probably be standing atop those giant hills with one eyebrow raised at me as I trudge upward.  My sister arrives Saturday and we will no doubt sequester ourselves so we can memorize the course and plan our attack. She will hopefully bring more to the table, as my plan is limited in scope and consists of trying to run. I could have used another 3 or 4 months to prepare, but for better or worse my race day is here and I'm claiming my spot at the starting line! Bring it Boulder! Here we come!

Running Off at the Mouth

Week 7:  Saturday I let my 9 year old coach accompany me again on my neighborhood trail, but this time he got to ride his bike. He was a bit overly disappointed when I told him no, he was not allowed to yell at me and that he needed to offer encouragement. I gave him my old camera and charged him with the added responsibility of taking some photos of me en route, with bonus points awarded for capturing my lightning speed and grace. He remarked as we approached the end of the adjacent block, "Oh, you run this part now, too?" and I was once again happy with how far I've come.
     It was a warm but windy afternoon, and I was not at all confident that the weather and my eyes would hold out, so to the mortification of my son I wore my swim goggles just in case. I would be lying if I said that I didn't relish the opportunity to embarrass my offspring just a smidgen as occasions arise, and this time was no different. When we entered the exterior path around the subdivision, the clouds to the west looked ominous and threatened to rain. I had intended to try for 2 laps but was persuaded by the approaching storm to wait until Sunday and content myself with a single, non-stop 2 mile loop. It became apparent early on that I needed to lay down additional ground rules with my son. He did a fabulous job of riding ahead then turning to snap a few photos while I gradually caught up, but he kept trying to have a full conversation.

Saturday strong & smiling early in lap 1

Both of my children love the art of conversation and have been known to ramble on and on, usually without need of much more than the occasional interjection (...as you can tell from my succinct blog, they got that from my husband). Once again assuming the role of coach, however, my son was instantly loaded with open ended questions designed to force a discussion and make a poignant commentary on my level of exertion. I initially tried to be polite and told him in full sentence form that it was difficult for me to converse while running and that I needed him to refrain from asking questions. I even softened the blow with a "Honey." As we approached the end of the first mile and his never ending questions persisted, my response was shortened to,"Can't talk; too hard," and later to a non-verbal negative head shake and some sort of hand gesticulation that even I didn't fully comprehend. This race will be loaded with thousands of friendly runners full of entertaining stories and I haven't seen my sister in a long time, but I have no desire to talk to any of them while engaged my run, nor am I capable of it. Pleasantries will have to wait, I need every last breath of air to help me last.
     Sunday was my last attempt at a long run before race day. My son rode along again, but only after absolute terms for communication were established and agreed upon. The wind was strong again, and I was glad that I had my swim goggles while jogging the western half of the loop. The problem that arose during my second lap was that the combination of sweat and heat off of my forehead caused them to repeatedly fog, periodically obscuring my vision once again and damning my plan for visual success.

Sunday's sorrowful lap 2

I can only surmise this unforeseen turn of events was due to the longer distance as I had not previously been bothered by this phenomenon. The expansion of my mileage also proved to be farther than what my bladder control muscles are content to endure without complaint. I kept wishing I'd see my neighbors cheering me on from their windows, pointing me in the right direction and offering up their bathrooms for a moment of relief. Sadly, any notoriety I have gained from my blog has apparently not yet reached my neighborhood. I had to walk some of both the third and fourth miles, but overall still jogged the majority. My phone was not cooperative after the first lap, and I forgot to wear my watch so I don't know my times. I'm sure they were not anything impressive anyway. Fortunately, I have been reassured by several seasoned Bolder Boulder alumni that there are plentiful port-a-potties along the race course, so I will likely be able to refocus my body and mind midway. I wish I could say that I feel adequately prepared for my Memorial Day race, which is how I'm supposed to feel after the long run by now. I am thrilled with my progress so far, but I have this nagging sense that this is the level I was supposed to be at when I started my training 7 weeks ago. I can only hope that race day energy with permeate my soul and carry me through to the finish line. ...Snap out of it already, it will be great!

Double fist pump: Let's Go!

iFibrillator

Week 6.5: Tuesday and Thursday were gorgeous days but I could not persuade, bribe, trick, coerce or otherwise convince my daughter to resume her solitary confinement within the jogging stroller. We headed back to the gym both days and I decided to keep trying my luck at the track. I was excited to see what other record breaking times my phone would log. Apparently on Tuesdays, the traffic flows counter clockwise around the loop instead in the sane direction, and I was off kilter from the start. As a right handed individual, running to the left feels backwards and like life is continually unwinding. I had significantly more trouble keeping track of my laps. I am sure I logged an extra 3 or 4 laps as I went with the self imposed rule: that which I wasn't sure of, I had to repeat. I made it through my first 2 miles again without stopping, but was forced to stop for a tissue break at the start of the third mile. I walked a few laps during the third mile, but somehow kept my forward momentum for the majority of it. After my 39+ laps, I triumphantly checked my phone's record of my run only to find it was equally confounded by the counter clockwise direction and had measured only 2 miles.  Dissed by my phone! My prior endorsement of my running app is henceforth modified for use on tracks only when running in a clockwise fashion. It's a right handed world out there for people and their electronics, and all hell breaks loose when you force a left handed move.
     Thursday was back to normal and it seemed easier to focus on my run. I realized only after I had started that I had tragically forgotten my tissue supply. I trudged onward not wanting to interrupt my run. My nose was more or less cooperative and while still annoying, it was not performing at the prolific rate of production previously experienced, so I managed (I would prefer not to say how exactly I managed, but rest assured a thorough shower was had afterwards).  My cardiologist also vaporized into form again, this time next to me on the track. He didn't have any trouble keeping up, but was a bit easier for me to ignore. He didn't seem to mind my attempts to run him off the track to avoid collision with the handful of real life walkers who accompanied me in the slow lane. He simply vanished and would reappear with a smile once the path was clear. I gave him fewer opportunities to question my need to slow down, and he was mostly complimentary, seemingly impressed with my achievements. He had his stethoscope around his neck, but I didn't need him to use it. I wished he would at least bring tissues if he's going to accompany me on my runs. His lab coat pockets are deep and would hold a bunch. I persevered through my standard 3 miles, but this time jogged the entire distance except for only 2 laps at the onset of the third mile. My overall time on Thursday was 37:18, my best time yet! Furthermore, my phone had resumed its complimentary attitude about my run and recorded a total of 7.39 miles at a 5 minute mile pace, more than enough to secure my position with the elite few on race day. Though I wouldn't call it "easy" yet, I can definitely feel that it is not as much of a struggle to survive the full 3 miles. Now if the race were only 3 miles and not 6...
     Thursday I also happened to be in Boulder with my daughter on an unrelated errand, and I decided to do a test drive of the race course in my car. I dreamed up the brilliant idea of affixing my cell phone to the central rear view mirror with my headband and filming the race course while I drove along. Everything was going swimmingly for the first 2 miles, and then the reflective rays and cumulative heat from the Boulder sun against the windshield caused a melt down of my iPhone and all functions ceased to work. I immediately pulled over when I heard the tell-tale ping and tried my best to resuscitate my phone (an upgrade that I've owned for less than a month) but I couldn't get anything other than a black screen. I desperately tried to give it some cooling breaths with the car's A/C and compressed the home button at least 30 times, but the black screen remained. Flatlined. How I longed to harness the life sustaining forces of the defibrillator contained securely within my chest to recalibrate my phone. I covered the deceased under my jacket so it would not be further bothered by the sun and hoped for a miracle. Annoyed with my race, which was clearly at fault for the untimely demise of my new phone, I reluctantly continued to follow the race course the rest of the way to its terminal location at Folsom Stadium. I missed 4 turns, and part of the course runs the wrong way down a one way street which was impossible in my car, so some of the pathway will be left to the imagination. There was one steep hill around the 4th mile that I will no doubt be walking up. Because Boulder would rather have runners die than finish the race, they have made the end of the course another steep incline as runners are about to enter the stadium to cross the finish line. I may be down to a commando crawl by that time, but one way or another I will finish!
     After tracing the entire route, I took my phone to the Apple Store to see if anything could be done. The pleasant staff member listened patiently to my blathering story about running my first race, the exceptionally bright sun, and how I killed my phone. He carefully took my phone and powered it down with the simultaneous depression of the off switch AND the home button. Apparently, to successfully defibrillate an iPhone, one must use both paddles. We waited a minute or two then powered my phone back on and it was like new. Whew! Close call, but thanks to my skillfully trained technician, my phone and its running app live on and I can keep this little incident to myself.
     After returning home, I received the disheartening news that my internal defibrillator stands in the way of my access to the spiffy pink bladder muscle zapping contraption. So, until I can talk to the manufacturers of both devices, I'm stuck in a Kegle holding pattern. I'm guessing that the contraindication is based on theory and not actual human experience. After finding out the combined wave lengths, voltages, velocities, and other potential astrophysical parameters that I'd be dealing with, there may be opportunity for negotiation. In any case, the matter is not likely to be resolved by race day which is now just over a week away. For better or worse, I am back to my Special K days, keeping my fingers and toes crossed for good measure.

The Loveliest Lap

Week 6: I did it! A whole lap around my neighborhood without stopping! Never mind that it's only 2 of the 6 miles I'm supposed to run in 2 weeks; I conquered my subdivision! The weather was warm and conducive to speed, and though my back pockets were overflowing with snot laden tissues, I did not stop until I had completed my loop. My eyes stayed clear and my bottom stayed dry, either through dehydration, luck, learned mastery of fluid regulation, or divine pity on my soppy soul. In any case, I had fewer hardships to contend with and was successful in enduring through a full 2 miles. The worst obstacle I had to overcome was near the end of the first mile when I was dive bombed by some sort of flying insect. I wholly expected to swallow the little beast, an incident I figure is now overdue given the number of days I've been running outside. The instant journey down the gullet would have been more palatable than the critter's chosen path onto my sunscreen plastered lower lip. He either was enamored with the flavor or became so embedded in the protective barrier that he was unable to free himself. I was not deterred and with a backside swipe of the hand (no time for tissues when bugs attack) he was gone and I never had to slow for a moment. His legacy was harder to erase and for the next quarter mile I continued to scrub the remainder of my sunscreen from my mouth and pronounced a few vulgarities in his honor, but managed to trudge onward without hesitation.

     After success in my lovely first lap, I paused and took a victory photo to commemorate the occasion. I was also in dire need of air, so I partook in my first walking break which I felt was duly earned. During the previous mile, I became acutely aware of the constricting forces of my new sports bra, which was competing with my lungs for control of my chest. It was the same size and brand that I usually buy, but it was made of a different material comprised mainly of nylon. The top portion was comfortable enough, but for unknown reasons the manufacturers replaced the standard elastic band at the base of the garment with an inflexible strip of concrete. This portion of the bra became increasingly restrictive as my breathing rate picked up, preventing my lungs from expanding sufficiently to breathe at a running pace. I found myself intermittently trying to relieve the pressure by physically lifting the bottom band upward and away from my chest so that I could manage a few sweet, unrestrained gulps of air. I survived my lap and did not let the belligerent article of clothing impede my stride, though once I finished the loop I gave in to a break to provide my lungs with some respite. While it is a pretty sports bra, it will no longer be accompanying me on my runs.
     Sunday was supposed to be my long run, so I ambled on for a second loop. I turned off my time tracking app, already content with the day's achievements. I walked the entire third mile and part of the 4th, but jogged the last downhill portion and all the way back to my street. I was never fully able to regain the pace or effort of my first lap, largely because my lungs kept complaining about the overpowering, oppressive vice grip of my bra. Unlike my fluid control issues and my limited endurance which both take time and dedication to improve, my sports bra can be easily changed with the reasonable expectation of immediate results on the next run. Despite not really lasting for anything close to a "long" run, I am happy to see some definitive progress in my endurance and tolerance of the sport.
     Monday morning I headed out to do some more shopping, but not for anything to do with running. I was wearing last year's size 12 pants and a large shirt, which I'd been continuing to wear despite the obvious abundant roominess present throughout. I wish I could take all the credit for my weight loss, but I received a significant jump start after my hysterectomy when I became seriously ill with C. Diff. Consider yourself fortunate if you never have to familiarize yourself with this nasty bacteria. For me, it took an infectious disease doc, IV fluids, and 2 months of treatment with 2 different antibiotics to treat, and I was one of the lucky ones who responded to treatment. Suffice it to say that the one remaining orifice that has not been problematic during my training runs so far provided me with ample running time throughout that ordeal.  Regardless, I have been diligent in my exercise routine and race day training, and have continued to improve my muscle to fat ratio while keeping the weight off. I have never enjoyed clothes shopping much before, because whatever would fit on top would infallibly be snug in all the wrong places below. Monday was different. I optimistically pulled some size 8 pants and medium skirts to try on, but the attendant laughed at me and further reduced my selected sizes to 6 and smalls. For the first time ever I fit into size 6 pants, and I didn't have to wrestle them on and I could still breathe! I have NEVER been a size 6. I skipped sizes 6 and 8 in high school and went straight into the double digits. The size small dresses and skirts that the wonderful store staff member brought were still roomy and one skirt was traded in for an XS. I may go back tomorrow and the day after that, too. Just to try on things in small sizes and savor the downsizing of my posterior. My butt may hate running, but by running I have less of a butt to hate, which is even better!  I came home and tried to take my picture, but I couldn't hold still.

Happiness in my new pants

                                         

The Fast Track

Week 5.5:  Thursday was a bizarre rainy day here in typically sunny Colorado and I headed back to my gym for a run. I decided to break from the treadmill and tackle the indoor track. At my gym, the track protrudes precariously from the perimeter of what would be the 2nd floor, if there were actually any flooring besides the 5 feet wide running surface. From the track you have a bird's-eye view of the entire gym below which is divided into three separate sections for basketball, more basketball, and joint cardio/weight lifting equipment. I borrowed a box of tissues from the locker room and placed them along with my towel in an inconspicuous location beside the track. The sign posted claimed that 13 laps was equivalent to a mile, but I wore my cell phone with running app activated to be sure, and to keep track of my times. I started off intentionally slow and tried to get past the initial sensation of muscle failure that always plagues my first mile. After the first few laps, I was surprised to find myself able to increase my pace to what I would consider more of a "run" for about the first half of each lap. I then resumed my former jogging pace for the remainder of the lap to allow some form of recovery. Truth be told, the layout of the gym below inevitably contributed to the timing of my enhanced efforts when in view of the more populated cardio room, and my recovery phase along the deserted basketball courts. I half expected people to openly look up and cheer me on, applauding my effort and perseverance in the face of grand scale humiliation, but I guess the news of my blog has not yet reached my gym. I found myself obsessively counting each lap and reiterating the number the entire way around lest I became confused and forgot a precious lap. I continued in this manner and completed the first mile with decent stride and without stopping. I took a brief tissue and towel break and checked my times. According to my phone, I am the latest and greatest running hotshot on the planet! Not only was my time under 12 minutes, but my phone thought I completed 4.37 miles in that time frame and averaged a 2:29 minute mile. It mistook me for my car. Disregarding the complimentary but far fetched mileage, if my time was accurate I completed my first mile in 11:38!  Another first!
     Nose and sweat once again contained, I resumed my meticulous logging of laps and trudged on though another 2 miles. This was the first I've been able to complete 3 full miles since coming down with my cold, and it felt like finally my training was back on schedule. By the end, my phone was convinced I ran 6 miles in 38:29 minutes. The app I am using is called RunKeeper, and I would highly recommend it to all other novice runners who might be similarly challenged to identify with the running world and who could benefit from some positive reinforcement. I would also recommend usage on an oval running track for optimal app performance, as I was less impressed with its record of my statistics outside. If only the race day timing mechanisms could be so user friendly! Regardless of the pleasantries offered by my phone, finishing 3 miles (confirmed by the 39 laps I painstakingly tallied) in 38:29 is still sweet progress for me. While I had to walk a bit more during the 3rd mile, I was able to jog/run nearly all of the first 2 miles, which was a lovely victory by itself!
     On Friday afternoon I stopped by the Bolder Boulder store to shop for a memento of the race. I had managed to retrieve my race day packet earlier in the week, so I am ready to go! While I was in the store, I noticed that to qualify for the topmost level, the elite "A" heat, one needs to have a time of 38 minutes or less. Once I recovered my faculties after the realization that some people can actually run that fast, I realized that according to my erroneous phone I nearly qualified to run among the superhumans. If I repeat Thursday's effort this weekend at the track, I'm sure I can shave off a half minute from my time. Then I can revisit the store and show them my undeniable cell phone proof to gain entry into the top heat!  It would be surreal to rub elbows with the fastest of the fast; to appear competent and fast, if only until the whistle blows. Sadly, whatever accolades I would gain from being secondarily clumped with the running elite would immediately vanish once everyone started their running pace and I was left behind doing my whimper of a shuffle across the starting line.  Eyebrows would raise and I would only be able to defend my performance to a certain extent. Still, the thought is entertaining and something I cannot promise to renounce.
     I returned home to partake in another Friday night happy hour, wishing that I had nothing else to talk about. This week was the meeting of the minds with my doctor about my leakage issues south of the border, and now that my 2nd glass of wine is on board I can confidently proceed, ensured an empathetic online ear. We discussed all available options to control the ever present jostling induced dribble. We ultimately decided against pharmaceuticals which seemed not applicable to my scenario, but which I would have happily gobbled up in hopes of a dry run. We also decided against surgery. As some are unlucky in love, I am unlucky in surgery.  Instead, I opted for a home gym for the nether region. The state of the art device is newly on the market and looks like a miniature leaf blower outfitted with a deflated punching balloon over the nozzle. The entire apparatus is bubble gum pink, in what I can only assume was a blatant attempt to make it appear more female friendly. Apparently one inflates the balloon section once it is nestled properly in its southern headquarters, and then Kegles away with audio guidance and biofeedback provided by the machine. It is also equipped with electrodes that provide impulses to further zap the bladder control muscles into shape. While intriguing and somewhat exciting to have opportunity to channel electrical impulses through that area of my body, there is still the concern of potential interaction with my defibrillator, firmly implanted in the northern quadrant of my chest. I have not tried out my defibrillator yet. I would prefer to never test its capabilities, despite whatever surreal experiences may inadvertently be offered by a super charged bladder control contraption devised to tighten the spigot of my southern hemisphere. My father also has an internal defibrillator which to his dismay has inadvertently misfired nearly 10 times.  He likens the ordeal to the sensation of a laboratory frog flopping about on the table, and I am not keen on frogs in general. The fact that the medical community maintains an incessant fascination with electrical current as a means to resolve whatever ails me is somewhat concerning, but apparently not enough to make me reject it as a viable treatment option. My doctor is currently researching its compatibility with my other electrical force-field, and then there's the ever present issue of insurance coverage. If all things are agreeable, I should be in possession of this gizmo within the week and stepping up my workouts inside and out, the envy of women everywhere! Just over 2 weeks to go and nothing but positives here! Giddy-up! I am ready to train!

Stroller Coaster Training

Week 5:  On Saturday I dusted off the cobwebs from our jogging stroller and took my daughter out for a short jog. I agreed to bring her on the stipulation that she remain in the stroller for an entire loop on our community trail. Our stroller is the Cadillac of the breed. It is a dual seater with enough storage in the back for carrying a whole suitcase full of tissues and it doubles as a bike trailer. The design of this enormous device has nothing aerodynamic about it, except its wheels which glide almost effortlessly when propelled. I securely fastened my daughter with both a harness seat belt and a lap belt, which at the time seemed a tad excessive given my less than breakneck speed. My daughter, on the other hand, had no confusion about my running skills and came prepared for an all day excursion. She brought along a backpack which she had previously loaded with a snack, a sticker book, 4 pages of stickers, a mermaid, 2 stuffed animals, a lift-the-flap book, and a tiara. I took advantage of the stroller's storage space for an extra jacket, my supply of tissues, and my cell phone which I had planned to use to track my times. We were fully stocked and prepared for a barrage of mishaps, except for the 2 flat tires that immediately derailed us as we attempted our departure from the garage. I tried to resuscitate them with our bicycle pump. This ought to have been easy if our pump were not really a trick pump that is impossible to secure onto tires and only designed to make you think it can be attached. I was forced to wait for my flat tire, bike pump proficient husband to come home to our rescue. As he explained after the fact, it is outfitted with a nozzle that emits air when the lever is released, and it fastens to the tire when the lever is depressed. That is to say, it works opposite every other bike pump nozzle known to mankind. Confirmation of what I already knew:  it was the pump's fault, not mine.
     Finally free from flats, we reloaded and took off. I activated the app on my phone to track my route and times. The first mile was harder than usual. The nearby terrain I had previously considered relatively flat was inarguably uphill. There is nothing quite like pushing a stroller to confirm an incline. I found that by alternating hands on the stroller every 4-5 steps, I could manage to nudge it along ahead of me without over fatiguing my upper body. It did not take me long to regret that I have never excelled at packing lightly. My daughter appears to have inherited that trait. I contemplated tossing non-essential items to the wayside, but I am generally opposed to littering and the heaviest item on board was still endearing on most days. I was forced to stop 3 times. Twice to retrieve and make use of tissues, and once because I realized I could speed walk faster and with less exertion than the nearly stationary jogging pace I was engaged in. My daughter was of no help. She quickly forgot the terms agreed to at the onset of our outing and began pleading to be set free to roam about and do the various exercise stations situated every few feet along the trail. I realized then the true rationale behind the dual seat belts and was happy to have her securely restrained within the confines of the stroller. She went for my Achilles and asked if there might be a shortcut that we could perhaps take to get home faster. She tried to convey ignorance, though she knew perfectly well that there was a shortcut, and that this shortcut traversed beside the community playground. She begged for a shortcut. Without hesitation my body joined the chorus, elated that she put into words what it was unable to verbalize. My mind was the only dissenter in the crowd. As it was difficult to speak and I could not cope with further lack of support, I made it known that any further requests would result in cessation of all future playground excursions and the immediate loss of one mermaid. Defeated, my daughter withdrew to the relative imprisonment of her solitary cell, and although sighs of disappointment remained intentionally audible, there were no further requests made and I was able to focus on the task at hand.
     By that point, I had rounded the corner and was enjoying a slightly downward slope and found I was able to use the stroller to help pull me along. Sometimes chasing the stroller and at other times making use of its momentum, I completed the remainder of my route which was the entire 2nd mile. A whole mile without stopping! Hallelujah! I would have loved to check my times despite my 3 early stops, but apparently the stroller ride is so smooth that movement is undetectable to my app and it turned off shortly after the 1st mile. Though I lacked documented times to corroborate my effort, I was overjoyed to finally last through a full mile, and confident that I could have done even better without having to push the stroller. I had high hopes for Sunday.
     I was forced to head out early Sunday morning to fit my run in as our day was already packed with other activities. This was my first ever morning run and I quickly found the air to be significantly colder at that time of day. It did not take long before I regretted leaving my swim goggles at home. I had to stop before the end of the street again because the flood in my eyes had reduced my visibility to the 4 feet directly in front of me. Against my better judgement, I decided to persevere like normal runners do. I came nowhere close to Saturday's performance and my visual impairment persisted the entire loop. At one point while I tended to my eyes, I ran into an overgrown forsythia bush that had dangerously sprawled over into the right half of the trail. Oh, I had noticed it before, but I cannot be expected to remember the exact whereabouts of every shrub and tree in need of a trimming when I am overwhelmed by a constant deluge obscuring my sight and swirling about my face. I also lost the functioning of my fingers by the halfway point thanks to the colder temperature causing me to recklessly fly through entire wads of tissues that I was unable to separate with my clubbed appendages. Once again I depleted what should have been an ample supply before reaching the end of the trail. I came home exasperated and wished I could take back the day and resume the pleasant aftertaste of yesterday.
     I am beginning to realize I might not be considered a "low maintenance" runner. I need a warm 70-75 degree day, without any form of precipitation, void of wind (slight breeze permissible), and slightly overcast but not too cloudy or too sunny. Internally, I need to be healthy, comfortable, not too hot or too cold, not hungry or too full, well rested, energetic, and I need to have leakage from my eyes, nose, and elsewhere contained and at a minimal rate of production. I admit this may be an incomplete subset and there may be other variables which I have yet to have the pleasure of discovery. My ability to run appears directly proportionate to the degree to which each of these conditions satisfies my body's requirements. I figure that race day nerves might be able to compensate for 2 or 3 of these factors but that still leaves a lot to happenstance. I'm hoping the celestial bodies align and that perfect conditions within my body and on the course prevail on race day.
     Training so far has had its ups and downs. I would have preferred a slow and steady acquisition of skill and speed, but that is out of my control. I can only brush (and wipe) myself off and try again. Tomorrow is another day and I still have the better part of 3 weeks to train.  Like Don Quixote I may be chasing the impossible dream but after every setback my inner optimist somehow resurfaces and I prepare to attack the next run with a renewed sense of bravery and perseverance. Onward Sancho! My windmill awaits!

Consequences of a Cardiac Conscience

Week 4:   Earlier this week, I had my first cardiac scare since starting to train for the race. I awoke in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in my left shoulder that throbbed and refused to go away despite flopping about in bed to shift my position. True, I didn't have any pain in my chest or neck, but I have read how heart attacks can present with shoulder or axillary pain in women, and given my cardiac history, I take all symptoms very seriously. It appears that the short sleeve of a T-shirt, when bunched up in one's armpit, will also reproduce these symptoms, but I hadn't discovered that yet. To date, I have been blessed with perfectly clear arteries, but I naturally began to suspect early signs of a heart attack. My thoughts quickly zeroed in on the bacon cheeseburger I had shamelessly enjoyed for dinner. I recognize that is not standard runner's fare, and I am not proud. For the most part I eat lean meats and loads of veggies. I watch portion sizes and I sometimes limit carbs, but I am no Saint. I like chocolate and pizza and occasionally bacon. Once a year I head out for a doughnut with my family while we watch the televised coverage of the rest of the state running the Bolder Boulder, and this year I am a little sad to miss our annual tradition. I began to question the intensity of my training efforts and wondered if my cardiologist had made some grave mistake in giving me the green light for this race. It was on a whim that I finally decided to palpate the exact location of my pain and inadvertently discovered my balled up sleeve. To my great relief, my symptoms dissipated immediately upon smoothing the crumpled mass. Crisis averted, I can proceed as planned and rejoice that my ticker is not yet ready to concede defeat. And I don't have to undergo a complete dietary overhaul yet, though I will likely steer clear of bacon cheeseburgers in the foreseeable future.
     My cardiologist visited me in my mind at my gym again Thursday. I neglected to tell him about my dinner selection, and this time I made him get on the treadmill beside me. My gym, my rules. I find it only fair if he's going to keep showing up and providing unsolicited commentary on my performance. To my annoyance, he managed an easy jog and never became winded. We played our usual game of "want or need" and I reluctantly retrieved my hand a number of times from its preferred position, hovering over the throttle, before giving in to the need to slow down. He nodded approvingly when I made the correct decision, and only raised an omnipotent eyebrow when I defiantly chose the slower speed anyway. I still had my unrelenting cold, after all.
     Sometimes it feels like a battle of mind over matter, but it would be nice if my matter were less inclined to drag. The first mile is always the worst. I start off optimistic and energetic (at least when I'm not ill) but by the first quarter mile, when my muscles realize the activity I intend to put them through, full revolt occurs with screams of abuse and mistreatment echoing from my posterior downward. I can't wait for this to improve and I'm still confident one day it will, I just wish my body were more cooperative with a faster learning curve.
     My race is now less than a month away, and I have been thinking that it is probably for the best that I've been down and out with a cold this week. Sure, I still made it to the gym once and did a couple of Jillian's, but I intentionally ignored my times and my performance can hardly count as training. On the other hand, my sister Kristiann, who is running the race with me, just ran a half marathon last week for kicks. She probably won't even notice the 10K ("Oh, is it over now?"). I am counting on altitude to help level our respective running skills.  She is accustomed to running at sea level, while I live and train in the oxygen depleted race zone. Hometown advantage. I'd say once you cut her oxygen supply in half, we're about equal in terms of where we're at in our training programs. I'm glad I've been sick, because 4 weeks left of training was seeming a bit excessive, actually. Overkill.  I am honing my running skills with such speed and grace that 3 weeks is plenty of time. I'm totally confident. I am willing myself over my cold and looking forward to new opportunities for success this weekend.  Game on! I was born to run.

Picking Pockets

Days 23-does anyone really care what day I'm on25:  The temperature on Sunday afternoon ended up close to 80 degrees by the time I headed out for my jog. I had been concerned about a rise in temperature since my first day of training. My only running shirts equipped with pockets suitable for my required tissue supply are jackets. Dressing in wintry layers while trying to run on a hot Colorado day would not improve my running performance, my health, nor my already borderline running image, so I've been keeping an eye out for potential summer clothes for weeks. After waiting diligently as the spring and summer apparel rolled into my usual stores, I found that running manufactures simply do not cater to the nasally challenged. There are no running shirts (or shorts) with pockets. Why? Could it really affect one's aerodynamics so much to make pockets an undesirable option? Unless the Bolder Boulder is lined with nose blowing stations stocked with an endless supply of tissues, I will have to carry my own. I dragged my daughter to REI to see if the sporting goods store would have anything more to offer. I enlisted a sales associate to help me find some pockets for my gear. I told him I was new to the sport and about my runny nose and tissue dilemma. We searched the running shirts together and laughed when we found only one top with a side pocket intended for a key and large enough for a single folded tissue. We found some nifty but too small pockets that velcro onto your shoelaces that I ultimately decided against. Even if I could cram ample tissues in them, I'd have to stop and bend over every time I needed one, and just one puddle would render the entire supply useless. All hope was nearly lost, and then I stumbled upon the biking attire. Bikers are smart. Racks of breezy, stylish shirts with 2 or 3 large pockets on the back, and as a bonus the back is longer to cover my butt. I found a very cute and comfy tank top with plenty of tissue storage space in the back. I bought 2. I may only be running a race, but with my swim goggles, my clothes are doing a triathlon!

     I headed out for my jog/walk late in the day prepared for the heat, the wind, and my cold which was still present despite a brief nap. I still attempted to run, but my feet felt like lead and I was back to wondering why anyone calls this "fun."  My enjoyment was further amplified by the experience of my first essential runner's spit. It was not executed well. Just when I thought I had sprung all leaks humanly possible, I discovered yet another body part capable of exuding forth liquid from within. In the future, I will wait until the wind is at my back before attempting this maneuver. The silver lining is that I had a tissue in hand almost before the deed was done to mop up the tell-tale remains on my chin and cheek, thanks to my new biking shirt. I can't say whether my cold was to blame or because something physiological happens to runners after a magical combination of jostling and breathlessness, that causes an unbearable buildup of a thick, most unpleasant substance in one's mouth. I have seen lots of other runners spit with abandon, though they would likely deny it during interrogation. Most are proficient at it. I have never been good at spitting, although I knew some girls in high school who could spit impressively upon command. I was always the one with the residual trail on my face, quickly swiped away by my sleeve. I guess I can add running spit practice to my internal fluid management training regimen. I make a gross runner.
       Today my gross quotient has skyrocketed. My cold has consumed my entire head and I am a walking pile of congestion, leaving a trail of tissues as I hack my way aimlessly around the house. I have only a random inaudible squeak for a voice and am rapidly losing my resemblance to the human race. I made it through 20 minutes of Jillian this morning but bailed on any form of running this afternoon. I suddenly find myself with time to type amid abundant spitting practice on a Special K day. Illness is not easily accommodated in my preparations for race day, but I have no other option than to temporarily suspend my quest while I toss my sneakers back in the closet and try to get some sleep.  I hope this doesn't last long.

Food for Thought

Days 19-getting harder to track22:  The still thawing, muddy conditions from recent snows forced me back to the dreaded tread at my gym on Thursday.  The cardio room was oddly out of tissues.  Someone must have been plowing through both boxes during her recent workouts.  I had to pre-load in the locker room, and managed to empty that box as well. My nose still runs on the treadmill, just not as impressively as when outdoors in the elements. And I'm able to stash a handful or two of tissues on the dash and not up my sleeves, so I don't mind as much.
     I was forced to take a different machine because my usual one was stuck up in the air at an unhealthy incline that I was unaware it was capable of.  I don't know the status of its last rider who had to dismount from that bizarre angle, nor do I know how one would venture to re-board without drawing undue attention, but I am positive that my bumbling body was not up for that challenge.  The new machine's touch screen interface worked perfectly, except when I wanted to use it.  The TV was stuck on the travel channel, which is usually a good thing as I like to dream about being elsewhere.  At that particular hour, however, the mandatory show selection was animal wrestling, skinning, gutting, and eating.  I elected to listen to my ipod and not the channel's audio so I may be incorrect, but from what I could ascertain the show was designed to try to find something that its overweight main character would not enjoy eating.  After reluctantly watching parts of 2 back to back episodes, I can confidently sum up the entire season and claim that no such item exists for this man.  Without a moment's hesitation, he indifferently munched away on various parts of a wallaby, an alligator, ants on a tree, and then a herd of hand sized frogs, after first demonstrating how one could squeeze some slimy stuff out of their glands. Why, just that morning I had wondered how to squeeze a frog properly.  At one point, some critter's intestines were tossed on a campfire and snacked on BBQ style. I did not think it possible to further enhance the offensive nature of the treadmill but I stand corrected.  It was as if the network had me and my treadmill in mind when they concocted this gastric-tastrophy. I tried in vain to change the channel but was held captive audience to the appalling culinary onslaught before me.  In spite of this show, my treadmill seemed to be outfitted with a far superior timing mechanism capable of tracking my speeds and distances much faster than anything before, and I chose to ignore the inconvenience of nauseating TV. My faster jogging pace of 5.5mph and shorter recovery periods may have also had something to do with it.  I was elated at the end of my first mile to find myself chasing that elusive 12 minute mile, shy by only 38 seconds!  And at 3 miles I was a whole minute and 22 seconds faster than before!  I left the gym beaming and psyched to watch any other disturbing TV shows the treadmill throws my way, confident that in spite of its renewed efforts to break me, I will prevail.
     By Saturday, the outdoors beckoned with the temperature approaching 75 degrees, however, my throat was now waging a war with the congestion formerly confined to my nose.  Feeling under the weather, I made it through a single Jillian and headed out for a meager walk around the neighborhood with my daughter.  She had begged to come along, and was delighted to pick some weedy flowers along the way and help me with my "workout."  Though only 4 years old, my daughter would make a stellar training coach.  Her strategy is to get just far enough away from the house so that retreat is no longer practical, then feign exhaustion and insist on being carried.  I lugged her halfway around the subdivision piggy-back, with her cheering me on and showering my neck with kisses and what could only have been some of her own nasal discharge, too.  With her simple manipulative technique, my leisurely stroll was abandoned and replaced with hard core endurance and weight training.
     The real motive for me venturing out on my walk with my daughter was to try out an app on my cellphone that I had purchased (free) several weeks ago that would track my distances and more accurately gauge the total mileage of my usual route.  I now know that the app and my phone require a charged battery to work properly.  At the point when my phone died, we were just over halfway and it had already measured 1.6 miles.  This made me realize I am no better at judging distances than I am at running them.  What I previously thought was just over a mile is actually going to be closer to just under 3. At least the error works in my favor!  I would have gone straight back to bed grumbling if my fancy new app had determined my loop to be only half of my perceived distance.  While I still don't know for certain, 3 laps around my neighborhood should be well over 10K, which is a far cry from the 6 laps I figured I needed to do.  If only all of my training errors could be skewed to my benefit so that I actually get to do less.
      Back at home base, I have been dutifully taking my vitamins, drinking OJ, and steering clear of my husband who fell victim to 2 rounds of a nasty cold virus over the last 2 weeks.  It is now Sunday morning and the battle is on in my throat and my voice has become a bit shady, but overall I'm no worse off than yesterday.  Today is supposed to make Colorado proud with another sunny 75 degree day, and I still hope to venture out later for something resembling a run. It's supposed to be my long run day, and while it will absolutely be long, I'm not sure how far I will be able to go. One thing is for certain: I'm going to need some more tissues.

Special K Days and My Cardiac Conscience

Days 16 (again)-18:  Well, Sunday night I had exactly one minute of running on the treadmill before I had to revisit the bathroom, which lead me to question how much I actually had to drink during the day. What I really need on race day is for someone at the water stations to smack the cup of water out of my hand.  I had headed to the gym after dinner, which in hind sight probably did not help matters.  The bloating and pressure against my already stressed bladder only served to add to my misery.  It was only a small dinner, but apparently of the expanding variety. I tried to run every few minutes but my discomfort and overall dissatisfaction with my ability to stay dry eventually led to a full abandonment of my running effort in favor of a less stressful speed walk. My goal had been to clock 4 miles in 60 minutes with my run-walk combination.  I don't really know if I achieved this because sometime after 10 minutes I inadvertently hit the stop button on the treadmill's screen when I intended to use the toggle lever to slow back to a walk.  How accidental this was could be argued. All of my stats were lost to that point.  After that incident I managed to keep the machine on, and I resigned myself to a tolerable 4 mph speed walk.  I vowed to try for a better running effort next time.  During that stretch of speed walking, I managed 3 miles in 45 minutes, which was extremely disheartening because there was only a 5 minute difference with my best run attempt.  In total I probably achieved my goal.  It just didn't count as a victory.
     On Monday, I revisited my Kegels with renewed fury.  My days filled with obsessive compulsive Kegels have become known to me as my "Special K" days, and Monday was extra special.  I threw in a Jillian workout, even though compulsive Kegeling alone really ought to count for something.  By Tuesday, I was better prepared to face the treadmill again, with my usual mid-day timing and eating pattern reestablished.  As I entered my age and weight into my chosen machine, I found myself wishing it would ask me if I had any incontinence issues and whether I had previously been in heart failure.  There should be allowances for that. It could ask me periodically how I'm holding up and whether I need a break.  At the minimum it could make the allowable time for a "pause" longer, as the bathroom is on the other side of the gym and I currently have to race the 2 minute timer to see if I can make it back before I lose my statistics.  So far, I can't.
    The miles dragged and I fought to keep attempting my run.  Enter my heart doctor.  My runner's conscience has developed a face, and it is that of my cardiologist.  When I was in heart failure, I told him that I  had to stop and rest after climbing up a flight of stairs. He asked me why, and my answer was that it felt like I had no blood going to my arms or legs, or my brain, and that I would surely die if I didn't.  A year later I was still struggling and I told him I could only manage a jog for a minute or two.  He asked why, and again the answer was that I felt like I would die or pass out if I continued.  Now, when I want to stop running, I see him standing beside me in his white lab coat asking why I feel like stopping.  My knee jerk response is that I hate running, the treadmill, and him for asking.  Then I feel guilty because he saved my life and he's just doing his job. I try to tell him politely to go away, but he doesn't.  When he finally vanishes, he always comes back.  The real answer is because I feel so excessively uncomfortable in one way or another, but no longer because of imminent death.  I do a cardiac reality check when I want to stop and most of the time I find that my heart feels fine, pounding away as it should.  The joy this revelation triggers should not be underestimated.  It is a powerful motivator to push myself just a bit more, just a bit longer.
     During my 3 miles Tuesday, I was bound and determined to perform better than my laughable effort on Sunday.  I intermittently tested out slightly higher speeds of 5.5 and 6.0 mph., and in a mad panic that I might not surpass my prior times, I sprinted the last 3 minutes at 6.5 mph.  Turns out that my 2 weeks of training has not yet prepared me for speeds of 6.0 and higher, as evidenced by my emergency button stop and doubled over form while I heaved for air.  I did, however, successfully beat my best prior time by a whopping 15 seconds.  I also realized that any difference between 5.0 mph and 5.5 was imperceptible, so I will likely try for the slightly higher running pace on future treadmill days.   Overall, I'm content with Tuesday's effort and I guess I'll have to settle for slow and steady gains.  I'm used to that, but it doesn't make patience come any easier.

Dog tired

Days 15-16ish:  I spoke with my older sister, Mag, yesterday on the phone.  She has been running for years and is no stranger to half marathons.  She told me she hasn't been able to run lately because of her dogs.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I've always thought dogs were supposed to be ideal running companions.  I imagine a dog would make a true friend, gently urging me onward yet passing no judgement on my awkward gait, oblivious to my flying snot and able to serve as my guide dog as the stream of tears becomes too thick. Not so with her dogs.  She rescued them a few months ago and while she claims they are docile, wonderful animals, they allegedly lean toward the neurotic in terms of potty behavior. They reportedly take inordinate amounts of time and distance outside carefully selecting the most appropriate location to relieve themselves, all the while lollygagging and leaving no rock unsniffed.  Indoors, however, they will happily defecate at random without a concern in the world.  I think they are brilliant.  Masterminds of some greater scheme to reverse the owner-pet relationship with my sister and quite possibly rule the world.
     At some point during our conversation, she inadvertently mentioned that while she was running she used to cover an average distance of 30 miles per week.  Wait, what? She prattled on, but I didn't hear anything else she said.  After having thought about this, I believe what she meant to say was 5 miles per week, but she rounded up to 30.  I've already seen how a runner's math can work like that.  Is running 30 miles per week even humanly possible?  Crap, did my family drop the ball in letting her pursue a law degree when we should have steered her towards the Olympics?  I don't know how fast she was, so maybe it took the better part of the week to complete.  As far as I'm aware, her kids have always been able to recognize her and correctly identify her as their mother, despite her running habits and more than full-time job, which makes me think she couldn't be that slow.  She runs two separate scouting clubs for both of her kids, and she's an official at Habitat for Humanity, and I believe she may in fact be Wonder Woman.  Her house's dirtiest day is still cleaner than mine on a good day, except when her dogs wreck havoc on the carpet (God, I love those dogs).   Someone needs to run over there and give her a trophy, or a medal, or both in a hurry before I have a stroke on her behalf, which she could never do because she doesn't have time for that.
     Having difficulty processing the 30 miles per week concept, I called Kristiann, the sister running the Bolder Boulder with me.  With some careful calculations, she admitted to averaging 15 miles per week, with a bit more miles added shortly before race time.  Had I talked with her first, this probably would have still seemed alarmingly high but after my discussion with Mag it seemed not at all unrealistic and potentially attainable.  For now, I need to keep my focus on the task at hand and trot along as I am able. Confidence restored, I am stepping up my workouts.  I am getting ready to tackle my "long run" today at the gym, aiming for 4 miles of monotony.  I also lengthened my work out yesterday and made it through two ugly, back to back Jillian workouts for a total of 40 minutes.  Five weeks of training to go, better get moving.

To Run or not to Run? Depends on the Warrior.

Days 10-14?             Boston.                   Texas.                    Breathe.
      One thing I am quickly learning to appreciate about running is the quality alone time that so rarely happens in my life.  Time to contemplate and hash out the news and stresses of the week with wonderful, uninterrupted trains of thought.  The week's events forced a reflection on humanity and why bother to run at all.  Every time there is a Boston, or a Texas, or a Newtown, or an Aurora, I am reminded how deranged and scary this world can be, and of the fragility of life.  The temptation is to withdraw and never do anything public. Terrorism and tragedy poke fun at the pastimes and ordinary daily activities I take for granted.  What an absurdity running and other sports must be to the people of so many other nations faced with the daily insecurities of food, peace, and shelter, and where death and the threat of violence is never far removed.  I am so grateful that this nation still views the pursuit of happiness my unalienable right, along with life and liberty.  My existence has been blessed with a sense of security and entitlement to these freedoms, and I have had the luxury of being able to enjoy nature and to partake in activities designed to entertain and feed the spirit.  Why bother to run? My inner warrior kicks in and proclaims that I want and deserve to take advantage of every opportunity and every joy this body will allow while on this planet. I want to see if I can.
      As I contemplated the meaning of life on the treadmill this week, because we had finally received the foot of snow predicted last week and anything outside was off limits, I cranked out another 3 miles on Tuesday and 2.5 miles on Thursday.  My times seemed less relevant with the recent tragedies heavy on the mind.  Happy just to be able to trot along, wet or dry, and to be able to retrieve my daughter from daycare when I was through.  When I came home from the gym on Tuesday, a package was waiting for me.  My in laws sent me tissues and Depends.  It was inevitable.  Undoubtedly, my siblings and parents will collectively applaud and salute them for this well played gesture.  Sadly, I was more offended by the XL on the tag than by the Depends.  Not about to let them break me, I tried them on over my workout clothes.  Crinkly, yet light and airy.  Their bulk would prohibit their use as an undergarment for sure, but I can't deny some potential as an exterior shell of sorts.  The papery light fabric breathes easily for maximal ventilation, and they are waterproof.  They offer far more security than the typical loose nylon short-shorts that I've never understood why runners wear, without the risk of accidental exposure of one's nether region  to unsuspecting observers while stretching or during a stumble.  I performed some complicated stretches for my entertained family while my husband captured the future bribe material with our camera.  I resisted the mild temptation to show off my latest sports fashion statement around the neighborhood (...there was the snow, remember?).  Besides, I don't have nearly the reader base for that level of craziness, though I am vaguely aware of the "shares" multiplying as I type. Instead, I booked the appointment with my doctor, with whom I thankfully don't have to discuss the matter for another 3 weeks.  And, in a Friday happy hour fueled preemptive strike against any future bribes, decided to post my photos here.  Here's to a better week ahead, Cheers!
     

The Cow in the Crack

Days 8-9:  My son has coined a new motivational expression to help keep me on my running schedule.  It happened yesterday while we were on a miscellaneous errand to the bank and passed a herd of cattle grazing in a field next to the road.  One of the cows had made it's way into a ditch that was about 4 or 5 feet deep at the edge of the field.  He was happily munching away on the grass in the bottom of the ditch, content to stay put, while his friends covered the more sizable terrain of the field above him.  The observation of this cow led to a lengthy discussion about bovine behavior and how this cow will likely stay in the ditch until someone rescues him, rather than to try to climb out by himself.  Now, I know nothing about cows and their behavior in ditches, but I have heard that collectively they are not the brightest nor most agile creatures and the path of least resistance seemed like the cow's most certain course of action.  My son thought it comical that the cow would rather lazily remain in the small crack rather than attempt to climb out a relatively small slope in order to restore its place with the herd.  And suddenly our new phrase, "don't be a cow in a crack" was born.  Immediately, the applications to my running performance were apparent.  "Mom, are you going to run today or are you going to be a cow in a crack?" and  "don't stop--don't be a cow in a crack."  No one wants to be a cow in a crack, let alone a cow.
     Later in the day I headed back outside for my jog, optimistic and proud after my surreal experience on the treadmill Thursday.  I felt I had made such rapid gains in my times and I wanted to keep the momentum going.  As I turned the corner at the end of the street, however, I realized that my entire life force had actually been sucked out of me by my last workout 2 days ago, and I was in no way prepared for yet another day of training.  I was doomed.  To make matters worse, what looked like absolutely zero wind from my house, was actually gale force at the edge of the community trail.  Something must be flawed in the design and placement of our neighborhood, so that winds are actually created and magnified into a constant whirlwind along the periphery.  I am also certain that its jogging path is actually an impossible uphill spiral.   I trudged along having rediscovered my familiar slow pace, disappointed that I was not yet able to feel any ease in my stride. There were no measurable gains in my time since my last day on this route. I had downloaded a new app for my iphone to help keep track of my statistics, and I was glad I forgot my phone at home.  Gone was the champion of Thursday, and I had to fight the urge to become the cow in the crack.  My success Saturday was in not lying down in the grass to sing along with Adele--who has no business on my running playlist anyway.  I persevered and made it home. There are horses along my trail, but still no cows, and that made me happy.

The Treadmill

Days 5-7:  Wednesday and Friday were boring, but I tried to kill myself via treadmill on Thursday.  The weather outside was better in terms of wind and temperature, however there were bound to be mud and slippery sections around my standard path so I opted for training indoors. This decision did not come easily, as I had to face the gym.  Given my unresolved leakage issues and my questionable running form, I was reluctant to showcase my talents in a room full of people, who at my gym happen to be facing the backsides of those on the treadmills.  I happen to own a perfectly good treadmill, however, 6 months ago it took up residence in our unfinished basement where it currently remains, disassembled, waiting patiently for a designated workout room.  Thus, as I have not done my circuit around the neighborhood since last Sunday and I was afraid of losing ground, I committed to becoming reacquainted with the beast.
     I have a love-hate relationship with the treadmill that is deep rooted and complicated. It stems from decades ago when I had to endure stress-echos on a regular basis.  These tests are a fancy combination of treadmill endurance and ultrasound imaging of the heart.  For these, I was outfitted with numerous electrodes with wires sticking out everywhere underneath a hospital gown, and I was never permitted to wear a bra, let alone the sports variety.  My protests and concerns raised over the discomfort and long term effects of the inevitable vertical displacement of my (albeit modest) chest were disregarded as irrelevant.  Usually, there was a crowd of caregivers, eager to learn from the young one with the medically exciting heart, staring either at myself or the heart monitoring machine while some lucky individual progressively increased the incline and speed at set intervals. I was instructed to not hold on too tight, which is the exact opposite of what basic instinct would inevitably make me do, and to tell them if I felt faint or could do no more.  I then quickly had to move from the inclined treadmill to a nearby stretcher, where they could finish the test with an ultrasound of my heart. The entire test never lasted long, and I could only ever nod some sort of implied meaning in their direction as I clumsily slid off the back and hobbled over for the ultrasound of my heart.  These tests were my mission impossible, with utter humiliation being my guaranteed final outcome.  At some point, my doctors thankfully abandoned this perverse test in favor of a more traditional ultrasound.  And since then, the treadmill has tried to become a friend again, assisting me in my pre- and post-surgery days. It has served a purpose for me, but I still loathe it.
     My anxiety over the looming gym and treadmill encounter made me nauseated on the way to the gym. That does not likely bode well for me on race day. Fortunately, my stomach and nerves settled once I saw that the parking lot was empty and there was only a handful of individuals in the cardio room.  I deposited my kids in childcare and took off for the restroom.  Prepared as well as could be I claimed a machine in the middle of the room, next to a woman who by my estimation was at least 7 months pregnant. She was attempting a speed walk.  If anyone there could make me look decent on a treadmill, it was her.  I felt ashamed, as I realized I was seeking out others who could perform at least as poorly as myself, in order to boost my runner's ego.  But you could not have paid me to climb on the treadmill next to the chiseled guy at the end, who was probably running a triathlon or two later in the day before his zero fat dinner.  I started out beautifully, with my warm up proceeding without incident.  Unfortunately, it seemed the treadmill I selected did not have the belt tightened properly, so when I cranked up the pace to 5.0 mph (which from my carefully conducted internet research is the lowest "legal" running pace) my footing would slip at random times.  This felt like running on ice and kept startling me, making my arms spring to the ready in case of a stumble. So much for grace. After 15 minutes of  trying to discern whether it was me or the machine, I gave up and followed the pregnant woman's lead and went for a potty break.  Then it hit me:  she was my continence twin!  Suddenly I felt a loving bond with this very pregnant woman who I never met.  I knew she could relate to me and my desire to have endless port-a-potties lining the 10K path, and there was no judgement being passed between us. She was my friend. Until now, the only person I knew who could empathize with me has been my 4 year old daughter.  Perhaps by some bizarre medical mishap I was pregnant too, and had received IVF instead of a hysterectomy!  I do still have an unexplained bulge in my lower abdomen that I assumed would vanish along with my uterus.  Perhaps I could just tell people I'm pregnant? I look amazing for 5 months pregnant, but as my surgery was in January I'd only be 3 months along and that's not sounding nearly as impressive. Oh yeah, I started a blog.  Which also begs the question as to whether I'm lacking the normal cerebral filtration process which would have enabled me to keep this to myself?  Best not dwell on that...
     I snagged the treadmill in the corner opposite the triathlete, and reluctantly moved farther away from my new workout buddy.  I cannot fully explain what happened next.  I became possessed with the desire to perform like an athlete next month, and not just a leaky person.  I envisioned running not just for myself but for cardiac patients everywhere with Post-Traumatic-Stress-echo-Disorder.  I wanted to run a race and not to the bathroom.  I also wanted to outrun those other pregnant Boulderites, who are more fit at 9 months than my continence twin and I are today.  I was a treadmill stomping fiend on a mission, and I ran faster and further than I have before in my life.  Holy crap, I AM Forrest Gump! OK, not entirely true because every few minutes I still had to slow to a walk and gasp for air.  I had to cover the screen of the treadmill for the bulk of my run to retain my sanity, so truthfully I don't really know how much was a run and how much was a walk. The miracle is that I somehow managed to finish 3 miles in just over 41 minutes, which means I averaged less than a 15 minute mile!  And everyone knows that 3 miles is almost 4 which is practically 6! And I kept my pace between 4.0 and 5.0 with an overall average pace of 4.6mph, which technically counts as "mostly" running, and is not that far off from an actual running pace.  At this rate of progress, I should be ready to run a 10K next week and I will probably win the BolderBoulder!  When I finally stopped, my face had turned a complimentary shade of tomato and my sweat was a constant stream from my forehead, but it felt amazing to be outperforming myself.

I'm screwed.

Days 3 & 4:  These were snow days here, though the 1 inch of accumulation fell short of the predicted 6-12.    Many people run outside in the cold and are not fazed by a mere dusting of snow; that will never be me. One more element to deal with outdoors solidified my decision to revert back to my standard indoor 20 minute DVD with my arch enemy, Jillian Michaels, yesterday and today.  Besides, my knees were starting to complain after my somewhat overzealous extra lap around the neighborhood last time.  

     Last night, as I was starting to feel guilty about taking a break from my running efforts so early in my so-called training, I decided to research actual training schedules for the novice who is trying to survive a 10K.  The first website I looked at said I would be prepared in 8 weeks, running 4 days per week.  That is, assuming I can already run 2 miles.  Well now, if I could already run 2 miles without difficulty I wouldn't call myself a beginner, and I wouldn't feel the need to consult a website for training guidance.  I moved on to the next website which offered a 7 week plan to get the beginner ready for a 10K.  Their plan also called for 4 days of running per week with an additional day of cross-training thrown in.  The wannabe runners who select this plan start out with 15-30 minute runs the first week. If I run at what might be viewed as an actual running pace, I can currently last in the ball-park of 3-5 minutes.  Apparently I should have started training for my training program months ago. At least it was pleasant to discover that I am not, in fact, supposed to be running every day.   The other piece of information that I learned was that I don't actually have to run 6.2 miles in training in order to run a 6.2 mile race.  All of the sites I checked claim that if you can run 4-5 miles, then you can surely finish a 10K. Surely.  Finally something positive, even if the math is a bit off.

     Obviously, I need to veer from mainstream running philosophy and develop my own non-traditional running plan. I will run as my knees and the weather allow, and I will aim for 3-4 days per week of running.  I will continue to do my 20 minute workouts with Jillian intermittently when I can't or won't run.  When I was in heart failure and barely able to walk or climb a flight of stairs, my cardiologist wanted me to do 20 minutes of exercise every day.  I still frequently fell short of the daily regimen.  After 6 months passed and I was still struggling, my primary care doctor told me to try to do just 10 minutes of exercise on the days when I couldn't manage 20. That stayed with me.  Even though I can now hold my own against Jillian, sometimes I cut her short after 10 minutes, because she can be annoying, and my doctor told me I can.  While training, I will happily take a couple of days off per week, which seems to happen anyway most weeks.   I will continue my efforts to increase my running times and decrease my walking times with the full knowledge that there is no way in hell I'll be able to run the entire 10K by Memorial Day.  Then again, I have been known to  beat the odds before, so who knows?

     

Small Achievements

Day 2:  Faced with the unexpected challenges from yesterday, I decided to go shopping.  I bought some comfy and guaranteed-to-cut-my-time-in-half running shoes, and a new running shirt with pockets for tissues.  Notably, none of the spring T-shirts had pockets, so I'm not sure how I'll deal with that obstacle when warmer weather arrives.  Perhaps we will still have a cold Memorial Day.  I also dosed up on 2 prescription nasal sprays: one for allergies, and the other is a nasal antihistamine which is supposed to dry the flow.   Once I was feeling super fast and prepared for all kinds of bodily fluids, I took to the pavement, but this time with my son in tow at his urging.

     This is not the first time I've gone "running" with my son.  He has previously spurred me on with playful gests and occasional competitive mini-races which he could usually run in circles around me.  I would often end up pleading for walking breaks, or threaten time outs if he did not wait for me, for fear of losing him entirely around the next corner.  Today, however, I had the upper hand.  At one point, he commented, "Mom, you are definitely faster than the last time we went running."  I thought, well, I'm no longer in heart failure.  I beat him soundly in our mini-sprint race (about a block long), which for some reason he only suggested once.  Perhaps my championship Rocky-style dance, entitled "Your Momma's Faster" was a bit much.  Did I mention that he has asthma?  I beat my 9 year old asthmatic boy in a mini-race for the first time today, and I will someday feel guilty for this, but at the moment I'm still happy.  

     The wind was still strong today, but my eyes were less teary, perhaps another benefit of the antihistamine?  My new challenge was my bangs.  Bangs were not designed for wind.  When I dropped my boy off at the house and decided to head back out for another lap of my walk-slow jog, I grabbed a little barrette to hold my hair out of my eyes.  I also grabbed a fresh baked brownie bite to refuel, because I'm human, and they smelled so good.  The barrette worked well at first, but for some reason half-way around my lap I felt a ping on my forehead and the clip spontaneously launched itself somewhere into the adjacent field.  Really?  Is this associated with running? I looked around a bit but eventually had to abandon it in the grass.  Barettes have never spontaneously snapped off of my head before, so I'm guessing this was either a faulty barrette or once again had something to do with the jarring on the pavement.  Either way, could be a safety hazard in a crowd so perhaps a headband is the way to go.

     Sadly, the slow leak at the other end was present once again today, though this time I was more prepared.  I had hoped for a fluke of nature, one time occurrence, but no such luck.  Fortunately, I had not yet donated my stash of feminine products that I had optimistically set aside after my hysterectomy.  The damage today was at least contained, and I Kegel-ed my way around my route like crazy, visualizing dry days ahead.  That's bound to work, right?  ...RIGHT?

     Maybe it was my new gear, or because I outperformed my son, but for some reason I felt faster today, though inexplicably my times for the day did not reflect any overall increase in speed.  I also learned a little about pacing:  if I go super slow, I can make it to the trail around our subdivision before I need a rest, already making my goal of 4-5 blocks by race time.  And I made it 2 laps around our subdivision in my walk-slow jog pattern, which seemed to have shorter walking periods today, probably due to my slowed pace.  I now am patting myself on the back for a job well done, and wondering how many days per week do I actually have to do this?  The forecast here over the next 2 days is for heavy snow, so I might be forced to take a break and revert back to my indoor workout.  That would be a shame.  ;)