Kneeds

So this past Sunday my run didn't go as planned. And when I write that, I mean I sat down on the curb and quickly gave up. It would appear that running four miles with knee pain is difficult. Last week shin splints. This week knee pain. I'm wondering if this is karma, or the universe telling me that my enthusiastic chubby self should look into horizontal running. Whilst watching Downton Abbey. That kind. Does anyone give out medals for that?

On a positive note, the pain isn't sharp or excruciating. And after some rest and ice, it's actually feeling a lot better. I DO in fact have a brace, I just tend to not use it. Because it isn't really all that sexy. But when it comes down to it, nothing about the way I run is sexy. So it would appear this week I am bracing it up and going a little slower. I think my body was being persnickety about the increase in mileage. I'm spending tonight giving it a peace offering of wine in exchange for compliance. Not that I need an excuse to drink wine. 

This week I am keeping my mileage stable, doing two, three, and then four miles. Probably walking more than usual. Most likely slower than usual. Definitely with the same disdain as per usual. I am typically a hedonist, just doing what I want most of the time. It works. And I don't usually WANT to run. However, this hedonist WANTS to have run. And wants the medal. And the snazzy shirt. 

Although, maybe after this half, I might become passionate about biking. Or swimming. Or something else that results in endorphins and medals. (Get your minds out of the gutter. There aren't medals for that. I checked.) (I then also deleted my internet history.)
 

Shin Splints and Chocolate Cake

I made it 3.35 miles yesterday. I really wasn't feeling it. After stopping to walk for the third time, I really just wanted to lie down and take a nap. At 3.35 I was passing by my house on my final lap and decided to just be dunzo. I really was supposed to go another .65 miles. I took a nap on my couch instead.

This morning? I woke up with shin splints. It felt like someone repeatedly stabbing me in my shins for no good reason. Even poking them hurts. I laid in better later than usual and moped around the house this morning, feeling unusually perturbed by the most recent training side-effect. Then I started cramping... and suddenly it all started to make sense. Terrible, excruciating sense. Thanks, universe.

Now... I get it. I can't take off a whole week from training EVERY month, even though that's apparently what mother nature prefers. You just have to train through it, I suppose. But I get why yesterday's run was difficult and why I was feeling very emotional about my shin splints. So instead of doing anything at all today, I had a piece of chocolate cake. It was pretty delicious. I chewed slow... cross-training? Yeah. I think it counts. Tonight I am having some wine. Pulling a cork... Resistance training? Probably. So, while today isn't the *traditional* way of doing things, I'm coloring outside of the lines here. Run for me, y'all. Or bring me some chocolate.

Length Matters

Sundays are turning out to be my "long run" days. These are the days where you push yourself to typically run a mile more than you did the previous week. Which means every Sunday I am running a distance I haven't run in... years. Last Sunday was four miles. While that may sound mild, I wasn't sure I'd make it.

First, I had a back-up plan. Erich was home, and I warned him that if I called him he would need to come pick me up ASAP. I might be on the asphalt puking, so there would be urgency in that call. He accepted this task, shaking his head back and forth. He probably was feeling exasperated in having married someone that puts him on puke emergency response, but I like to think he was admiring me for getting ready to run FOUR miles.

As I got started I realized that for SOME reason the first mile of my run was uphill; not very good planning on MY part. I nearly called Erich fifty times chugging along up that hill. And then it happened: my life came full circle. Ever so briefly.

This new four-mile route had me running past my old middle school, something I have never done. Now, this may be hard to believe, but in middle and high school I was very anti-running. Most weeks I had my PE note, excusing me from running, all ready to go. Running was cruel and unusual punishment, and I wasn't going to submit; I knew my rights. The weeks I couldn't squeeze a note out of my mom, I would defiantly look at my PE teacher and claim to have cramps. I would arch my brows in such a way, daring my male teacher to argue with me, to tell me to run through the cramps (you know, the ones I probably didn't have.) And, luckily for all my teachers, most of the time they didn't want to pick that battle. Because I was going to die on the no-running hill.

Anyway, now here I was, an adult running past THAT school. RUNNING. Running past one of the schools where I refused to run. And as I slowed down to appreciate the irony I threw up. Right on the lawn of my old middle school. And in that moment I had a brief, vomit-induced full-circle moment. Life is funny when you are running so hard uphill in front of one of the very places you used to refuse to run that you actually vomit. I thought my PE teachers might be impressed. And then they'd be pretty angry about the vomit.

I continued running, and thankfully, I run pretty darn fast nowadays. Downhill. Downhill running is my favorite. I'm chubby, so I have inertia. Which means I kick ass on the downhills. I made a turn to begin the two mile portion behind my house in a somewhat commercialized area and saw Cold Stone. I started deliberately slowing down, contemplating stopping for a snack. Before you make the face you're probably already making, consider all the calories I was burning by running around. Also, I had just thrown up my lunch. A frozen dairy treat break wouldn't be the WORST thing ever. I actually started walking TOWARD the Cold Stone. True Story. I really was going to have Cold Stone. In the middle of my long run. But then I remembered I had NO money on me. No wallet. No card. No cash. And honestly? I was sad about it. I was truly disappointed I couldn't have my mid-run Cold Stone. I considered calling Erich to come pick me up at the Cold Stone, asking him to bring money. But just picturing his face and hearing him mumble, "God dammit, Jennifer" was enough to make me run back over to the path and pick up where I left off.

Looking back that's ridiculous. I probably would have just thrown that up, also. But it seemed like a good idea at the time. Continuing on my run actually went pretty smoothly. I finished those four miles in an hour. Which I was pretty proud of. And I didn't even eat ice cream at the half-way point. As soon as I got home I sat in a chair and made a noise like I was about to cry. I mean, I didn't cry. But it hit me at that moment that four miles was a lot. The length of the run really matters. It was a record for me. I was proud. And also very exhausted. This week is a repeat week for me where I will run four again. Am I bringing money this time? Stay tuned.

Less Slow

Alright, let me preface this post by saying that I am not a fast runner. I like to attribute my snail's pace to the fact that I have abnormally short legs for my body. True Story. They're pretty short. There are potentially other variables more relevant that impact my pace, but this is usually what I defer to.

Yesterday? I ran an average of TWO MINUTES faster PER MILE than I usually do. I'll let that sink in. Go on. Read it again. TWO MINUTES. What? I was really shocked when I finished. I started replaying my whole morning in my head. Did I have speed for breakfast and just not know? Was it the coffee? Should I always have a crumpet before running? Was it my super cool shirt? The song list? Man. I really don't know. 

I'd LIKE to say I'm just getting faster. As in, the process is working. And I'll eventually be less slow. Not really "fast." But, more likely just less slow. I don't really know. I'd need to collect more evidence. It also could be I spent less time vomiting yesterday. No roadkill. I did accidentally run into a small tree branch... (Note to self: really, you should know this by now. Always LOOK up.) Apparently it didn't impact my time a ton, though the neighbors outside did find it amusing.

I really enjoyed the moment where I ran into my house and was yelling, "YEAH! Suck it! KAPOW!" It's a competition in my own mind.  And yesterday I won. By not only just not dying, but by improving.

You know, now that I think about it, it probably was the crumpet I had for breakfast. They're just THAT delicious. You read it here first.

No Hands

You know, I really appreciate how this is a learning experience. Nothing about this training plan is easy or expected. My life, routines, diet, drinking habits... all of these things don't tend to fit with the lifestyle of a half-marathoner. For example, I missed my long run last week due to a poorly timed wax appointment. Apparently you need to schedule those appointments prior to a rest day. Who knew? Now I know. Also, happy hour prior to a run isn't the best idea. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And then yesterday happened.

I tend to run around my neighborhood. In the dark. After getting home from work. And yesterday, after drinking a pretty awesome margarita. I didn't really *want* to, but I needed to do it. A couple interesting things happened. First, within a half-mile I threw up that margarita. On someone's lawn. But, the margarita was green... the grass was green... I'm thinking it'll be alright. Also, it was a half-price margarita. So, I didn't feel so financially irresponsible when I regurgitated it. I did, however, get vomit in my nose. And I may have made some awkward noises and used profanity all while attempting (without result) to get the vomit OUT of my nose. This ruined my mile time, and I ended up continuing on, with the smell of happy hour lingering in my sinus cavities.

After the undoing of happy hour I really wanted to go home. But, let's face it: usually somewhere in that first mile I want to go home. It's the worst mile. It's the toughest mile. My body hurts and all I can do is think about how much running is left and how much I need to do at home. To get myself into some sort of "zone" I listen to rap music. Hip hop. Something about the rhythm keeps me pumped. I also tend to sing along, I guess. You'll do a lot of things to keep your head in the game, to forget your legs hurt, and to keep going forward. In my little world I sing "Get Low" by Lil Jon under my breath. It gives me something else to focus on. I don't really think I sing THAT loud. It isn't really *singing* in my opinion. I sometimes mumble. 

And that is the lead in to the video. You see, last night Erich ran out after me. And he came up behind me and realized I was rapping "No Hands" by Waka Flocka Flame whilst running. I guess surprised, he decided to shoot a small video of me running around the neighborhood rapping. I had no idea he had taken it until we got home and he sent it to me. I was initially angry. But then I did see the humor in the chubby, white, blonde girl ambling around the neighborhood spitting rhymes. 

I asked Erich if I was really all that loud. He said some people did in fact stare. And that the worst part was when the song changed to "Get Low" by Lil John and I randomly mumbled, "Skeet skeet skeet." I'm not going to win a marathon or be the next American Idol. I'm just happy to get home from a run without dead animal on my shoe or vomit in my nose, really. But, here it is. This is *really* me. Running around my neighborhood rapping. Terrorizing dogs. Keeping it real.

Gear it up!

So, last week I DID run. I just didn't run as much as I should have. Or even have time to write about it. Because work was just over the top this past week. And I've been slowly getting sick. Doesn't the universe know that I'm training to get a medal and a free shirt over here?

Last Sunday I had a headache and was pretty sure the only thing I was going to run would be a fever. In spite of it all, I made it out for a two mile run. And since then my health has been slowly degrading with a dull headache most days, congestion, a lack of sleep, and too much work. I've made it out a few times, but my training has definitely suffered. I'm going to try to rest up this weekend and get back on track. I've got 17 weeks until the big day.

This weekend will be the great shoe adventure. I need new shoes. Because the ones I have are older and they have vomit and possum guts on them. I think if I'm really going to do this I need shoes that don't have roadkill on them. (See, last week I accidentally ran through what was once a possum. Which was worse than running through my own vomit.)

In addition to shoes, I think I need a new sports bra (read: boob jail). With a girl like *me*, a sports bra is actually MORE important than my shoes. I can run barefoot. I mean, people do that in other parts of the world. However, there is NO running without a very expensive, steel-reinforced sports bra that takes a good ten minutes to fasten myself into.

I'm also getting ready to pay my exorbitant registration fee. It's the San Diego Rock 'n' Roll half-marathon on June 2nd. Sign up. Do it with me. And yes: we have to PAY to do this. But we get a shirt. And a medal. Totally worth it.

With this being the weekend of gear and spending I think it is safe to say shit is getting real. This is an investment. No backing out. Seventeen weeks of sweat, vomit, and who knows what else.

Today is a two-mile run. Tomorrow is a three. I'm playing catch up. Stay tuned.

The Great Wide Open

Every single day, every single run is an adventure. Running outside just has too many variables; it is completely uncontrolled. And even suburbia can get a little wild. Just take Charlie, for instance. This results in fear, profanity, injuries, unwelcome neighborly encounters, and so much more. But, I've tried running on a treadmill. I really gave it my best. I put my little towel over the stupid informational panel and chugged away like an athlete. And I hated it. I kept lifting up my towel every quarter mile. Also, it's too easy to just get off and go next door for frozen yogurt. I write from exeprience.

Truth be told, I just like doing it outside. I said it. I prefer to do it in the great wide open. Even though everyone can see me in all my glory. Feral animals may chase me. I may run into trash cans and be forced into awkward neighborly conversations. But this is how I like to do it. I'm owning it. And if you need to avert your gaze, that's fine.  In fact, I prefer it. I like doing it outside, but I don't need you all watching.

Anyway, today my legs were sore, and I was going slow. A distant neighbor was outside and yelled, "Everyone is going for a walk today, huh?" And I wish he hadn't used that word. You know: walk. I am NOT walking out there (you know, like a good half of the time). Or at least I wasn't intending to at this moment. Sure I was slogging along. But I think you could tell I wasn't attempting to walk. Probably. Thus, I replied "THIS... IS... NOT... WALKING...." And I don't know exactly how I looked or sounded at that moment. But he looked very puzzled and shook his head. I probably would've fired back with something obscene and witty. But my legs were killing me, I was almost home, and also almost out of breath. Because I was RUNNING. He was lucky. Just wait until I'm better at this and I'm able to run AND offend at the same time. That'll be the day. It's good to have goals.




   

Beware of Shiny Objects... and Charlie

I was pretty proud this morning. Instead of sitting around dreading having to run three miles today, I just got dressed and did it. Is this progress? Or is this caffeine? Who knows. 

For some reason my calves were killing me today. My breathing was great. Everything felt fine. But my calves were going rogue on me and deciding I could just run without them. Not bloody likely, calves. I kept hoping they'd jump on the bandwagon eventually; they started cramping at about 2.5 miles. My body's individual parts are just as stubborn as their owner, apparently. Also, a muscle cramp will make you contort yourself into crazy shapes in the middle of the road. I felt as though I should bring a hat and set it on the ground in front of me during those moments; I think I could collect a fair amount of tips during my performance.

I finally got my legs under control and started to run home, trying to finish big. My time today was a little slower than usual, and I was trying to bring my average up on the last push. Then I saw something shiny; a pink iPod shuffle was just lying in the middle of the street. I stood there, thinking about what to do. Ruining my time. Over a shiny object. Should I try to find the owner? It looked pretty banged up. Maybe the universe was giving me a present for running. Maybe it doesn't even work. 

In my moment of distraction I heard barking, which is nothing new. All the neighborhood dogs bark at the passing runners. It really is just background noise at this point. But this barking grew closer. I turned around and saw this tiny, hairy dog barreling towards me, planning to probably eat me. The owner was chasing it yelling, "Charlie! Charlie!" Charlie?! Charlie was trying to eat me. I am thinking Spike or Jaws would be more apropos. Charlie sounds like we should enjoy a cup of tea together. This was not a Charlie. This was a bloodthirsty animal trying to take advantage of my "oooohhh, something shiny" moment. 

I decided in the wild I'd probably be eaten rather quickly. My instincts took a minute to kick in. However, I finally began to run for my life, pink iPod in hand, Charlie not close behind. I was trying to yell something, but I was a little short of breath. It came out, "Why... leash.... Charlie... Help... Tired." Something like that. Soon Charlie gave up pursuit and returned to his owner, still growling at me. The owner was apologizing, but at that point I was just ready to get home. 

On that note, everyone should use a leash. Even if you're dog has a friendly name like Charlie. And if anyone lost a pink iPod in my neighborhood, you're welcome to have it back. But beware of Charlie on your way.  

Karma

Even though I was exhausted when I got home, I laced up. I was a little nervous. I needed this run to happen after my prior curbside breakdown. I felt like I had something to prove. So I stuffed my boobs into boob jail and went for a run even though it was dark. I figured fear would probably motivate me past any existential breakdowns mid-run.

It was just a two mile run, and I started off pretty fast. After my half-mile point I felt vindicated when I didn't sit down and contemplate ordering pizza. My pace wasn't ideal, but it wasn't my worst. I felt a little wonky at about a mile and stopped to walk briefly. And then I threw up all over the pavement. I think jiggling around all my innards is just a lot for my digestive tract. And, admittedly, I didn't eat the healthiest lunch.

After the great pavement purge I picked back up and felt mediocre. I mean, I was running. So, I didn't feel great. But I've felt worse. I turned around to head back home and it was pretty dark at this point. I was looking up at the stars thinking to myself, "No, Coldplay. You are so wrong. They aren't yellow AT ALL. They're like... white. White stars, Coldplay. Way to go, Chris Martin. Way. To Go." And while I was arguing with Coldplay in my mind I stepped in goo. I stopped in the dark and held my phone up to the goo trying to figure out if I had stepped in roadkill. Because that wouldn't be cool. I am not okay with guts on my shoe. But, no. It was my own vomit. Running back home I ran through my own vomit while arguing with Chris Martin in my head.

I think I made a disgusted face the rest of the way home. I had to hose off my shoe and just leave them out front. I think this is what karma is. What goes around coming back around. Just in the form of vomit. Vomit karma.

It's alright. I need new shoes, anyway. I secretly blame Chris Martin. If he reads this, which he totally does, he should send me new shoes. And change the name of his song to "White."  

Not Tonight, Buffalo Bill

I honestly didn't want to write this post. But I think it has to be done. So here it goes. Today? I quit. I mean, not training completely. But I quit halfway through my run.

I started work this week, and everything has fallen apart. And it's only Tuesday. I didn't run yesterday, and I barely slept because I was working on... well, work. I also didn't really eat today. I just kept drinking coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Probably I am keeping Starbucks in business this week. My barista knows my order. Maybe I have a problem.

Anyway, I got home today at dusk and knew I had to run. I already missed yesterday. No excuses, self. There's a medal at stake. I quickly got dressed and went outside. (Mind you, it's freezing cold. At least for southern California.)

The first song that came on my playlist was "Do it With a Rockstar"  by Amanda Palmer. Which is a GREAT song. However, today I noticed she asks over and over, "Do you want to go back home?"And all I could think was, "YES. I DO. WHY IS IT THIS COLD? HOW FAR HAVE I GONE?" (I totally was thinking in caps-lock.) My legs started hurting. My side started hurting. My nose WOULD HAVE run, but it was so cold it all froze. Into some sort of snot-cicle. Or just really cold snot. Either way. My shirt didn't feel right. The street lights came on. And then I realized I had only gone half a mile. Just. Half. A. Mile. 

And in that moment it felt right to sit on the curb and feel sorry for myself. Why would I even do this? Half a mile? I suck at running. This whole thing is torture. No way can I make it 13.1 miles. How did I ever do it before? Is there ANYONE that could come pick me up and drive me back the HALF MILE home? Because my whole body hurt. And I was tired. And then maybe that person could bring pizza and beer. Maybe I could just order pizza. And HE'D drive me home. Do they deliver beer?

It was a grand pity party. But then it happened... It got dark. And suddenly every single approaching pair of headlights was Buffalo Bill in his crazy murder van trying to catch me and turn me into his creepy lady-suit. And I realized not only was it freezing, but my irrational "Silence of the Lambs" based phobia was way worse than whatever personal issue I was having with running. And I quickly ran home. In record time. 

And when I got home, I realized it's fine. I can't run a half-marathon yet. That's why I am training. I am going to trust the process. And maybe try to eat and sleep before running. My two mile run became a one mile runwalkpitypartysprint. No big. I'm going to stop working for the night, eat dinner, and watch Downton Abbey. Because Matthew Crawley makes everything all better. There's not ALWAYS tomorrow. But, statistically speaking, I have a pretty good shot at having a tomorrow. Stay tuned.

And then I Almost Died

There was really no getting out of it today. It was distance run day. And this early in my training, that distance was JUST three miles. It sounds so small, doesn't it? Three? I spent a lot of time sitting around this morning thinking about how I didn't want to do it. And then I slogged into my room, slowly geared up, and sighed as I decided to just get it over with. Three sounds so small. I'd just get it over quickly, and get on with my day. 

Running is as much of a mind game as it is a physical sport. At only a quarter mile in I get bored, start calculating how much longer I have to go, start thinking about everything else I could be doing (like anything OTHER than running). Pretty soon I'm fully in my own world, my little Jen bubble that I retract into in order to survive. I'm talking myself around each bend, telling my legs that if they get me through this I promise I'll let them wear pajamas the entire rest of the day. 

I took a new route today, and as I hit 1 mile I ran past a park. And I was thirsty. I decided to take the hit in my time (because it is so fast, right?) and grab water at the fountain quickly. As I was drinking I felt it. That feeling you get when someone is staring at you. I'm only half present, already red-faced and exhausted. I lift my head up and it isn't just ONE someone staring; it's a whole birthday party. Because I am standing on a bouncy house laid out to be blown up. And 20 or more kids are staring at me, open-mouthed, confused. No one really knew what to say, probably because I looked scary, chubby, and feral. My first reaction SHOULD have been to move and carry on. However, I couldn't help but notice the cake. It was HUGE! I thought about holding that bouncy house hostage until I got a piece to go, but then I realized it'd be difficult to eat whilst running. And, it might be a tad counterproductive. At this point, after causing a minor scene, I quickly left. Without cake. Whatevs. 

After the break it took a bit to get back into my zone, get my momentum back. And as soon as I did, I rounded the corner and stared up at a giant ass hill. Giant. Ass. Hill. Seriously. I thought about turning around and going back for cake. But I didn't; I teared up a little, and started up the hill, muttering every profane word I could think of in that moment. That hill was big for no reason; I saw no purpose to that hill other than to torment me. Really, housing tract designers? Random giant hills? Great. And then it happened: I almost died.

I was running EXTREMELY slow up the terrible hill when a car began backing out of a driveway. I stopped on the street to wait for the car to back out. Then the car stopped, and where I come from, this was the car's way of saying, "Go ahead, chubby kid. Run along. I can wait." So I gave my friendly little wave, and took off again running. However, that car and I had some sort of miscommunication, because right at that moment the driver began to reverse quickly. Into me. I screamed and started to run away from the car quickly, imagining how painful it was going to be to be run over. My life didn't flash before my eyes, contrary to popular opinion. I only thought of two things: 1. Great, I'm going to die running. And 2. I should've had some damn cake.

My girly screaming must've caught the driver's attention, as she quickly hit the brakes about an inch away from me. I quickly started running away, when the driver (an elderly woman) slowly pulled up next to me to apologize.

Driver: "I'm really sorry! I almost hit you! Are you okay?"

Me: "I... Well... Yeah. I mean, Yeah."

Driver: "I am so sorry. I can't believe it!"

Me: "I mean, I guess you would've been doing me a favor. Now I have to finish running up this hill."

Driver: "Is there anything I can do? Do you need a ride?"

Was she crazy? I was NOT getting in that car.

Me: "No, I'm okay. I'll be fine."

Driver: "Is there anything I can do?"

Me: "No. I mean, Hallmark probably doesn't make a card for this. Maybe a fruit basket. Or cake."

Driver: "Huh?"

Me: "Right. Well, bye."

I mean, a fruit basket would have been fine. But I wasn't going to press the issue. I just wanted to get home at that point. 

The good news? Almost dying helps your mile time. The second half of my run I went noticeably faster. And was slightly more aware of my surroundings. If you're not careful, you can accidentally crash parties or even die. Running books don't tell you that. You're welcome.