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.  ;)

The inspiration for my blog

This is the letter I composed and sent to my sister, Kristiann Witherup Herring today, after my 1st official day of training for the BolderBoulder, a 10K race we are signed up for on Memorial Day. David Bailey encouraged me to post this and after a couple of glasses of wine, it seemed like a great idea. Enjoy.

Hi!

Thought I'd let you know I officially started my BolderBoulder training today. I'm confident I'll be able to run at least 4 or 5 of the blocks. I only made it through 3 today before I had to stop. I thought I might have to rest at the end of our cul-de-sac, but I kept pushing it and wouldn't let myself give in. Although you may have some doubts, with my persistent training over the next 2 months, I'm sure I can last an entire 4 or 5 blocks before having to rest.

Also, if wind is a factor like it was today, I'm going to have to wear swim goggles because I couldn't see a damn thing. Eyes kept tearing up. I thought I was prepared with 10 tissues stuffed in my sleeves (no pockets), giving my forearms the lovely silhouette of being the same size as my legs. I was mistaken. They were no match for the constant stream of snot and tears intermingling on my face. The tissues gave out about 2/3 of the way (my total distance today was about 1.5 miles). So on race day, I figure I'm going to need roughly 100 tissues for 6 miles, and I'm not sure where I'm going to stuff them.

Furthermore, apparently my post surgery and post pregnancy body has decided that it is difficult to hold my pee inside while jostling around on the pavement. This was interesting, as this has not really been a problem during my Jillian Michaels workouts, so you can imagine my surprise as I was jogging around our neighborhood and found myself with yet another body fluid to deal with. I wondered how long I could keep going before evidence of this would be visible on my form fitting, booty-hugging yoga pants. My entire stash of used tissues was of no help in my sleeves, and I only briefly entertained the idea of relocating them. Fortunately, the only other people I encountered were headed the opposite direction (perhaps they knew something about the wind?), so I was able to still nod a friendly snot filled and teary faced greeting in their direction without them becoming any wiser to my situation. I will somehow have to resolve this issue before race day.

Ultimately, I made it home in half an hour, so if all goes well with my training, I am on track to finish the race in 2-3 hours. On a positive note, my knees were not a factor in today's run.

I am so glad we signed up to do this race. So far, I love running. I almost felt that runner's rush everyone talks about as I was taking off of our front porch. Can't wait for race day.

Hope you are having a great time in Cancun!

Love,
Laurilyn