"It always seems impossible until it is done."

                                                            -- Nelson Mandela

When the year started, I sketched out my running goals:

A 5K in January: under 27 minutes. (I eeked that one out by the skin of my teeth; having just gotten over being sick AND the trauma of losing one very stubborn, bloody toenail. I came in at 26:57).

Summerlin Half in April: under two hours. (We all know how that turned out. ::silent fist pump::)

Chicago Full Marathon in October: found out I got in on April 14th, two days post-Summerlin half. Woo-hoo! Only concern: the weather. Either we will be running in snow or 90 degree temps. Oh Midwest, you fickle mistress...

Las Vegas Rock-n-Roll (half) Marathon in November: help a new runner complete his/her first half-marathon. This is less of a goal, more of a pledge. I just want to pay it forward, similar to what Reinier did for me last year. :-)  

And finally...

Run an ultra, anytime this year. To complete the totally made-up trifecta of running events: a half, a full, and an ultra. I don't know if such a thing really exists, but I like to think of it as a the hat-trick of running.

I've referenced the ultra on the blog, but I don't think I've given details. First question is always, "What IS an ULTRA marathon?" Essentially, it's any race distance over 26.2, your standard marathon length. Ultras can range from 50km to 50 miles to 150 miles. If you've read Born to Run (which by this point, you should!), some of the more popular ultras are Western States 100 Endurance Race (100 miles), Badwater (135 miles through Death Valley in July), the Hardrock 100, and the Spartanthlon (153 miles). By the way, these races have no breaks in between. Once you start, you don't stop until you finish. This isn't the Tour de France; no giant plate of pasta or a nice warm bed waiting for you every night. In some ultras, it's 20-40 hours of straight running.

Needless to say, ultras attract a well, unique crowd. I get the same reaction when I talk about ultras as I did when I was still in practice: either people step closer to you, interested, or they step away from you, scared.

It's awesome.

When I started reading about them, my only thought was "of course I have to do one."  

Traveling for an ultra is out of the question at this point, with Brian's work schedule, so I knew I had to find something close to home. And because ultras are so, well, bizarre, the more random, the better. Reinier suggested the ET Full Moon Midnight Marathon in Rachel, NV as my first. It fit perfectly: 51km (so it's a tiny ultra, just what I wanted. 51km = 32 miles), close(r) to home, and really, really eccentric. We will run a stretch of highway 375, also known as Area 51 starting at midnight under a full desert moon. Thirty-two miles or eight hours later, it'll be over and the group will meet for breakfast at the Little A'le'Inn in Rachel, NV, population: 54.

I'm so in.

I mentioned the idea to several running friends and gauged their reactions. All stepped away except one - Kat. Her eyes got big as saucers, her grin widened and she immediately suggested we make t-shirts. Hell yes, she's in, too. It also happens to be her birthday that weekend. I'm thinking alien-shaped balloons at the finish line?

The weird part of all of this (as if this wasn't strange enough) is that I'm dying to start training. Like, itchy, fidgety, annoyingly impatient. The two-week break after the Summerlin half has been long enough. I didn't realize how much I enjoy reviewing my training schedule every morning, analyzing it with a cup of coffee in hand. I have nothing to think about in the morning and nothing to worry about at night.

I do not enjoy being a runner without a race.  

Spring break and the week after was a good reminder as to what running does for me. I enjoyed myself during those two weeks - I mean, really enjoyed myself. There was a near-constant flow of wine. I ate chow mein at 10pm after hanging out with synchronized swimmers. (long story).  I went out with friends - on a Thursday night - that prompted one of them to post a pic of all of us with the tagline, "Kim's reintegration into society." (I guess I didn't realize I had become such a hermit). I just kept exclaiming, "There are people out! Really, people! Do people do this, like, a lot? Wow..."

By this Sunday, however, a full two weeks into my bacchanal buffet of amusement, I felt physically awful. Although I made it to boot camp every morning, I'm fairly confident I was sweating Chardonnay (oaky, with a hint of green apple). I was exhausted, cranky, and achy. The less I ran, the less I wanted to run. I got slower and slower during my "easy" runs and easy runs felt like long runs. The more I thought about running, the worse I felt, if that was even possible.

So let me be a tiny little case study for all you new(er) runners out there, or experienced runners trying to get back into it. Your lifestyle has to support your running or things can get very, very painful. Eating poorly and not sleeping enough make it very, very difficult to find the motivation to lace up those sneakers. It's totally common sense but sometimes hard to put into practice.

Thankfully, by Tuesday, I managed to get the right food in me and sleep well - and it all came back easily. The joy, the freedom, the peace. My seven-miler was on of the best runs I can remember and a good reminder that those feelings are better than even the best vintage or late night out. Bring on the lentil burgers and kale salad! Hooray for water!

The ultra may seem excessive, but to me, it's the next logical step. I need it. I want a goal - a big, crazy, outlandish, over-the-top goal. I want to complain about this come July ("I'm so tired! I'd kill for a beer right now!" Somewhere, Brian just slammed his head down on his desk) and wonder if my legs will ever stop feeling tired.  But what keeps me going is I honestly never thought it was possible to complete a full marathon. The moment I crossed the finish line, the wonder and shock I felt amazed me. I hope that feeling travels to Rachel, NV this August.  

Remember how on Friday I was all like, "Strategy, splits, hydration, blah, blah, blah?"

Well, by night as I sat in our backyard eating salted watermelon, I devised a new strategy. It was clean, simple, and to the point. 

Run like hell. 

I liked the ring of it. 

Saturday started before the sun at 4:45am. A tiny scoop of oatmeal with raspberry jam has become my new favorite pre-race meal. I arrived at the starting line too early, a result of a lead foot and way too many green lights. As I paced the parking lot nervously, scanning the crowd for familiar faces, I knew my odds were good; there were over ten friends from boot camp running that morning as well. It was one of the things I was most looking forward to - running in a real race with my boot camp comrades. After having spent the last three months running hills with these folks at 6am, this felt like a Boot Camp Field Trip. Or at the very least, a final exam (which is kind of silly because boot camp never ends.) 

We eventually found all of our people and divided up among our corrals. I had listed "1:50" as my finish time, which put me in the first block. As I looked around at the thin, angular people around me, I felt like a giant. I just hoped they didn't throw me an annoyed elbow after the gun went off. I know, I was surprised at my seeding too. Whatever, dudes. You can run around me and my massive bulk (comparatively speaking). 

I had been advised to run well over race pace for the first two miles to bank some time. If I got out ahead right in the beginning, I wouldn't have the unpleasant chore of trying to make up time towards the later end of the race. Besides, I knew the course well - it was not exactly conducive to PRs. While the first two miles were downhill, the next five were up. It's about an 800 foot elevation gain, which is no big shake if you are just out for an easy run. But when you are attempting to run about 30 seconds per mile faster than your usual comfortable pace, well, it adds up quickly. The last 6 miles are a "sweet downhill" according the race website, but in reality, they are more like "just not uphill anymore." It's flat(ter) but by no means a "sweet downhill." The loop at Red Rock has sweet downhills. This was just even ground. 

I knew if I made it to mile 7 within my split times, I would be okay. But that meant a strong start and a ridiculously strong push up those hills. I said a silent prayer, turned my music on (first song: On Top of the World by Imagine Dragons), and kicked up my heels. 

Mile 1: 7:45

7:45???  I didn't even know I could run that fast!

Mile 2: 7:53

OMG! Two sub-8 minute miles in a row? What the wha? I really am on top of the world! 

Then it started to go uphill. Oh, heavy breathing. 

I knew I had to get to the 5K (3.1 miles) between 26 and 27 minutes. Anything later than 27 minutes and I would jeopardize the entire goal. 

Mile 3.1: 24:00, a full three minutes ahead of schedule. 

It was at that point that I think I actually exhaled for the first time since the race began. 

Then we started chugging really uphill. My iPod nano fell out of my pants. I almost choked on the top of a gel wrapper. Some random woman out walking her dog, probably terribly confused as to why all of these people with bibs fastened to their shirts were charging at her, didn't pull her dog back fast enough and I almost wiped out in the leash. (hello, dog walkers! Get off the course!). I somehow made it to the Crestdale bump at mile 5 in one piece. Next challenge: get to mile 6 before 54 minutes. 

I flew in under 51 minutes. 

This was starting to get silly. I mean, this is the same girl who forgot how to breath on the treadmill three weeks ago. This is the person who hit the STOP button 24 times in the course of one speed work out, inspiring the pity of Nicolas Cage and frustrating her to no end. This is the same lady who once tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and cried not because it hurt, but because there was no one there to help her up. 

Who was this runner? And how was she doing this??

(one major shout-out goes to the very wise, very experience Kerry G, boot camp trainer. The night before the run, she texted me some serious inspiration: "Just relax, breath easy, and let your legs goooooo!" Oh, you speak Frozen? I speak Frozen, too! Let it go? I can do that!) 

I did. I somehow how let it all go and found myself flying through this course. By mile 9, when my very sweet friend Tonya passed me in Cottonwood Canyon with a gentle tap on the arm and a warm hello, I knew I had this in the bag. I relaxed. I could literally log 10 minute miles for the rest of the race and still come in well under two hours. 

Mile 10 involves this yucky 60 foot hill that is straight up, and it's a good thing I relaxed when I did. Ole lefty, the calf muscle that caused me so much consternation during the full marathon, chose that very time to seize up into a ball of agony. I instantly flashed back to November and I was suddenly running MLK in the dark of night, next to Reinier, swearing a blue streak. This was not going to happen again. 

Despite what my brain said, Lefty didn't listen. Righty chose to join the party. Cue the swearing. 

Mile 11 was my slowest mile, save for miles 6 and 7 that actually involved hills.(According to the elevation profile, Mile 11 is decidedly downhill.) In that moment, I told myself would delete my entire Facebook account as well as this blog if I didn't come in before two hours out of complete and utter embarrassment, because there was no way I was posting my time if it was a second later than 2 hours. See? This is the box I painted myself into. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

I gritted my teeth for miles 12 and 13. I thought about all the stuff I had given up to do this - sleep. Sanity. Animal-based food products. My mind flashed to a birthday party (adult, not toddler) held earlier this month at the very trendy Brooklyn Bowl. There were bottles of Vevue Cliquot that flying open with reckless abandon. Waiters carrying all the craft beer and cocktails you could imagine. Piles of that famous fried chicken, grilled flatbreads, fries with gravy, and deviled eggs (OMG deviled eggs! My FAVORITE!) kept appearing from the kitchen. It took everything in my power to have a bite of hummus, one beer, and head home by 9:30. I still can't believe I left all of my friends (and all of that revelry) for running. 

That birthday party was not about to be in vain.  

Mile 12: 8:11 (I was fueled by the thought of those wasted eggs) 

Mile 13: 7:58...(I. LOVE. EGGS.)... 

and a finish of 1:52:02. 

Mission accomplished. 

I hugged Scotty hard, not just because I was happy about my time, but because I was so relieved the race was over. This one, by far, has been the most intense race of my life. It required almost as much mental energy as it did physical. While the full marathon was an exercise in perseverance, this was more like an all out, balls-to-the-wall, no-guts-no-glory kind of race. 

My favorite image, however, from this whole experience, is this one:

These are the people to whom I owe the race. They are my friends, my hill day comrades, my inspiration. The gentleman standing next to me (third from the right) just ran the LA Marathon on his 63rd birthday with a time of 4:18. The woman next to me who so graciously passed me, just had her third baby 12 weeks ago. (no joke). She's running Boston next Monday, returning after last year when she finished forty minutes before the bombs went off. And the girl in all black, smiling shyly? She won. As in, the whole race. First female finisher overall with a time of 1:24. She'll also be running on Marathon Monday down Boyleston. 

These people get it done. 

I don't know how I got so lucky. But I do know that where you run and how you run is not nearly as important as with whom you run. And for that, I'm eternally grateful I found this little tribe. 

There was some serious talk of strategy around the breakfast table this morning. 

"You're going to have to start fast and stay fast. Don't look around you; let the the other people do what they want. Just focus on what is in front of you. Go fast. Really fast. You will get tired eventually but don't think about that. No negativity, only positivity. You can do this. Dig deep. Eye of the tiger. EYE OF THE TIGER!!"


A pep talk from Brian, pre-Summerlin half, perhaps?

Nope. Today is Scotty's egg hunt at school. I got to play coach. 

Poor kid was so amped up (and confused) by the end of my lecture that he ran in circles in the garage, shouting nonsensically and pumping his arms. Nothing like winding up your four year old to divide and conquer through a bunch of plastic, candy-filled eggs. He is the Genghis Khan of the Pre-K set. 

On the other hand, I am calm in light of tomorrow's race. I feel good, honestly. In the past, tapering has been my undoing but this time, I feel different. Calm. Ready. Confident. I started the week tired and not sleeping well, but managed to log a few good hours and my outlook changed substantially. Nutrition has been spot-on and when Brian called in the middle of the day yesterday and asked what I was doing, I was tempted to respond, "Storing glycogen. You?" 

The only thing left to do is pick up my packet. My clothes are laid out and the alarm is set. I know what I'm eating tomorrow morning and how much to drink. My new running capris (battle-tested at Hill Day this past Wednesday) have those neat side pockets for gel storage, eliminating unnecessary energy by digging in a back pocket. The hydration belt is staying at home (as it should - I hate that thing) and my playlist, honed, crafted, perfected, was downloaded yesterday (uploaded? Technology confuses me). My splits are memorized and I know how to handle the hills when my pace slows. This is, after all, my fifth half marathon. I've run the distance countless times but this will be my first time running for time. 

I am ready. 

I can do this. 

Sub-2. Sub-2 Summerlin. S2S, as a friend commented. 

S2S. 

S2S. 

S2Sssssssss!

::insert battle cry here::

See y'all at the finish line! 

I think there's a book in that title. It might be one of the most bizarre phrases I've ever typed. 

Regardless, it's been my Thursday morning for the past few months. Speed work, that is. 

So you are probably thinking, "There she goes again, talking about these running terms that I don't understand." I find myself doing this quite frequently these days - I told Brian a whole story about taper madness and fresh legs v. dead legs, and he just sat there looking at me, blank-faced. When I finally got to the punchline, gleefully punctuating various parts of my tale with hearty laughter, he responded in a flat voice, "I have no idea what you just said," and walked away. 

Huh. 

Speed work: short, fast intervals with recovery jogs between; increases your leg turnover and maximizes your stamina and race confidence. 

Now that we are all on the same page, you may recall I started speed work last fall in preparation for the full marathon. My first attempt was nothing to write home about. Chained to the treadmill, I gasped, wheezed, and clawed my way to the end of seven agonizing miles, walking at various periods and cursing everything about running, myself, my shoes, and the wretched gym that surrounded me. 

During that miserable workout, a certain Academy-award winning actor walked past me. We made eye contact and he gave me this face that said, "Aw. Poor chubby girl. Running too fast." 

I don't want to name him but let's just say, I don't think he's leaving Las Vegas anytime soon. I mean, if he did, he might have to hop a flight and it just might be Con Air. I know he appreciates his privacy and I'd certainly hate to have a face/off with him. One might argue he's a bit of a national treasure, so let's give the guy some space, okay? He likes to workout and deserves a bit of personal solitude. 

(Btw, yes, we were all really excited when we first saw him at the gym. Brian once even stood behind him in line at the cafe and recommended a smoothie to him. [I heard that and was like, "What?! How do you know he likes pineapple?? I don't think you should talk to the famous people!"] It was cool seeing him the second, third, and fourth time, too. And then, after awhile, you realize he's just a person too and probably doesn't like fame all that much. I mean, you can't go anywhere without someone recognizing you or staring. Heavy lies the crown.) 

Back to my story. Speed work eventually got easier, I got stronger, and this person - let's just call him Mr. C - was no where to be found throughout the fall months. Glorious. I started speed work again in the winter to prep for the Summerlin half and had no problems. I found my miles growing, my speed accelerating, and at times, it felt like I was flying. Speed work was becoming one of my favorite workouts, ever! I could barely stop smiling as I ran.  Weeeeee!

Until two weeks ago. 

The plan in front of me told me to warm up for a mile, run 5 miles at a 8:06 mile, and then cool down for a mile. (technically this is a tempo run, but let's not split hairs). 8:06 is  fast for me - I'm no cheetah. More of a tenacious mountain goat, really. This was really pushing it, but I was ready. After all, I had just completed 5 miles at 8:13 the week before with zero issues. I was in the zone! I was ready! 

I almost passed out on mile 4. 

Like, shaking, numb arms, light-headed dizziness. The gym turned into a sauna within seconds and I found myself inexplicably reaching for the STOP button. I never reach for the stop button. A quick self-diagnostic check reveal my legs were fine, my back felt fine, and my feet were okay. The only thing I couldn't do was breath. Just a minor thing. Who really needs oxygen anyways?

I squeaked out the last few miles at a disappointing 8:34 pace, confused and concerned. And then, in a moment of sheer irony, I thought, "It would be really funny if Mr. C was here" just as he walked by.

I actually looked around the room for cameras, thinking I was being punked. 

The following week, same story. Struggling to breath on mile 4. Drop my pace slower and slower. Had to hit the stop button twice. And then - AGAIN - he walked by again. Same track suit, same iPhone, same look of pity from so many months ago. He was probably wondering why that chubby girl keeps torturing herself on the same treadmill, week after week. 

Whatever, Mr. C. Mind your own business. 

By now, this whole situation had become a running joke among my friends. Several people were in the cafe while I was running and managed to snap a picture of him.  They sent it to me with the caption, "It's a good thing you left when you did."  I replied, "OH I KNOW. STILL HERE. STILL RUNNING. CURSE HIM!!!" 

It's not like I'm starstruck and get nervous by him. It's not like he's even talking to me. It just seems that whenever he's in the building, I can't freaking run. It's a bizarre coincidence I'm pinning all on him (not me!) and it's making me CRAZY. 

(one could reason that 5 8-minute miles in a row are a bit of a stretch for my level of fitness, but then we would lose the lovely narrative quality of this story, right? So just go with me.)

Today, I changed it up. It was, after all, my last speed workout before the half marathon next week. I had one last chance to get it right and nail those 8 minute miles. I decided to pull a fast one on old Mr. C and go LATER than usual to the gym. See, he's usually there earlier; maybe if I sauntered in around 10:30, I'd avoid another bad workout. I patted myself on the back for my clever thinking. 

And two minutes into my warmup, guess who walked by? 

Bloody hell. 

Instead of freaking out, I channeled my inner Scott Jurek and remembered what he told me: dig deep. (and by the way, why can't HE workout at our gym? Now that would be inspirational!) I watched Mr. C mosey down the aisle, wearing oversized sunglasses and his black and orange track suit, and told himself, this doesn't matter. His presence doesn't matter. He's nothing but a ghost (rider) to me. I AM BIGGER THAN THIS. 

It worked out just dandy. I got my miles in, didn't drop my speed, and never touched that nasty little STOP button. Kim for the win! 

While I'm pretty sure this issue has been put to bed, my only concern is next weekend. I can already picture me lining up in the  1:50 corral at the Summerlin half starting line, only to turn around and find myself staring at him. 

Then I'm really going to have to kick-ass.