Getting injured two weeks before your race is a terrible feeling.

But - silver lining here - finding another workout option that improves fitness and allows healing: extraordinary.

Really, it should be "xtraordinary."

Behold...XCycle Indoor Cycling Studio.

The kind folks at XCycle reached out to me almost immediately after I got hurt.  Gabi, a good friend as well as XCycle's studio manager/GM, suggested I try one of their classes before Boston. She assured me the workout was low-impact, high-energy, and would torched a ton of calories. Pre-race weight gain is always a concern; I worried as my miles went down, the weight would go up. She generously set me up with a five-pack of classes and before I knew, I was making online reservations. Yes, me. Kim: She Who Hates Cycling. My legs are too long; my torso is too short. I don't know how to clip in. Pedaling to nowhere sounds decidedly boring.

But I didn't have a lot of time or options. My challenge was simple: maintain endurance without exacerbating the calf strain.  Sure, swimming was wonderful, but it didn't raise my heart rate the way running did. (...perhaps I'm doing something wrong?...) Plus, lap after lap in the pool was relaxing, not exhilarating. I missed my runner's high.

Also, I kinda missed...people. The pool is a lonely place at 5am.

Quite honestly, anyone that can get me on a bike deserves heaps of praise.  For me to actually enjoy it? That's essentially a miracle.

But XCycle is different. They succeeded -- "xceptionally" well.

The studio's white, clean lines lean more towards an exclusive spa and not a gym. Lockers, towels on each bike, spin shoes; all very nice and needed touches. I was a bit nervous, yes, but before each class, the instructor took extra time to help me set up my bike, get it to the right height ("Ooooh! This feels much better!") and in the correct handlebar position ("My back doesn't hurt anymore!"). They offered helpful suggestions and modifications on every ride to ensure my calf experienced no discomfort or endanger it to additional damage.

Even better, gone was the harsh glare of indoor lighting and that awkward feeling of riders checking each other out. I have no rhythm; I know that. I don't need anyone watching me bob my head on the wrong beat. XCycle, however, had thought of that - instead of the unforgiving, bleaching affect of white lights, the studio was lit only by colored beams and soft candle light. It just so happen the lights pulsated with the rhythm of the music, making the room feel like a warm, inviting cocoon of motion and sound. I loved the low lighting; it made me focus on the instructor and the music, removing any feelings of self-consciousness. We all cycle the beat of our drum, okay? Mine just happens to be a half-count behind yours.

Each instructor encouraged riders to "go their own pace," a direction I appreciated. I knew I wouldn't be able to be out of the saddle as much as others but didn't want to call attention to it. The intervals varied, both in time and intensity, causing my heart rate to finally - finally! - hit that lovely high. The "sprinting" - pedaling all-out with little resistance - recruited all those fast twitch muscle fibers that went dormant since my last speed work session. We all know hills are just speed work in disguise...who knew cycling was, too? With music pumping and the lights dancing, for the first time in weeks, exercise felt fun again. I couldn't believe it when 45 minutes was over. I was just getting warmed up.

I left each class dripping in sweat. Peaceful and upbeat.

Endorphins aside, want to hear the best part?

Immediately following class, each rider is presented with a chilled eucalyptus-scented towel at the door.

Heavenly.

Dude, running? Who wants to run? This was way more fun. I don't remember ever being handed a scented towel on the track. It was just me and a bunch of stinky high school boys. No eucalyptus anything. Just stinky boy smell.
 
Ultimately, I learned many important lessons in this training cycle. The first: sh*t happens. The second lesson: diversify.

Thank you, XCycle, for reinforcing the second lesson. I walked out of the studio that first day feeling euphoric - and without pain in my leg. I needed that sense of accomplishment to stave off taper madness, truthfully. It never occurred to me that I could taper via cross-training; I believe now XCycle was a critical aspect to maintaining my sanity amid the stress. Tapering is hard enough. But XCycle is intense enough to continue that lovely sweat-drenched, endorphin production, and low-impact enough to allow facilitate recovery pre-race. Win-win.

As challenging as this injury was and continues to be, I feel so fortunate I stumbled into this new, beautifully lit world of spin. I plan to use XCycle consistently in the future for additional cross-training, low-impact fitness. The best part? XCycle supplements any running program: you can cycle as many days a week as you'd like without the additional strain of running.
 
An injury is a depressing, disgusting event in an athlete's life. But it doesn't have to be a prison sentence. Whether you are injured or looking to add another layer to your workout routine, the care, thought and detail put into XCycle's classes are top-notch. I spoke of gratitude when I wrote about running in Boston; now, I feel nothing but gratitude when I think of cycling in Las Vegas.

Thank you Gabi, Jen, and the whole XCycle family for taking me under your wings during my time of need. I will be at the XCycle booth at the Revel Mt. Charleston expo this Friday from 10am-2pm. Come say hi!

XCycle Indoor Cycling Studio is located at 750 S. Rampart Blvd, Ste 6, in the Boca Park shopping complex. Classes are available multiple times per day, seven days a week. Check them out: www.xcyclelv.com, Facebook (XCycle Las Vegas), and Instagram (@xcyclelv).

Happy riding!

Thanks for getting through that first part yesterday. Yes, the days leading up to the race were difficult. I wish I could sugarcoat it and say it was daisies and rainbows, but...it wasn't. That would be lying. Just like with life, we have a choice: a) tell everyone it's fine, or b) be honest with the struggle. I seem to consistently chose the latter.

But I am happy to say - it has a happy ending. Really. And just like everything in this training cycle, the ending was far different than what I imagined.

Race Day

Miraculously, I slept well the night before the race. A solid 8 hours - from 10pm until 6am. I can't remember this ever happening before.

It felt wonderful.

I got ready quietly, sipping on coffee and munching on yet another Honey Stinger waffle. Those things are incredible. It's like a giant soft cookie. So tasty. If you are looking to carbo-load the easy way, I highly recommend these. I have a hard time not eating them for breakfast on regular, non-racing days. Dip it in your coffee...mmm...

I knew 75% of my race prep involved priming my leg. Much thought had been put into how exactly I was going to get through all 26.2 miles. For all my hope and prayers, my PT strongly advised me to not get too ahead of myself: this was not a tendon or ligament. This is a muscle, a very important one, and prone to fatigue. Running with a calf strain would only get harder as the miles ticked off. I was well-aware of what a full marathon does to the body on a good day. He, along with the masses, said it was best to go out as slowly as possible. I briefly wondered if I could just borrow a scooter, but realized any kind of wheels were not allowed (for obvious reasons). What about crutches? A walking stick?

I had been using KT tape in the days before to give the muscle structure, but on race day, I busted out the good stuff: Spider-Tech tape. This stuff is amazing. Four "legs" stretched up my calf, giving it twice as much support. I was so excited about this bad boy I drew a bad ass spider right on the heel. Power up, leg!

You know how they say don't try anything new on race day? Considering NOTHING was going according to plan, I decided to throw out the playbook and try a whole bunch of new stuff. Look out world, Kim's goin' rogue...

I donned a brand-new pair of Zensah compression sleeves, mainly because I wanted them as tight as possible. Then I put on my brand new Lululemon speed shorts, never worn a day in their life. I shunned my usual French braid-race-day-hair and just opted for a regular ponytail. And then - probably most surprising - I added some waterproof mascara and a bit of lip gloss. I almost never wear makeup when running, but today was different. If I was going to flame out spectacularly, well, I wanted to look good doing it.

I should have gotten a spray tan, too. I mean, why not?

I gave Brian and Judy a quick kiss before I left, and with that, my Boston Marathon experience had officially begun.

There's a lot about the Boston Marathon that I did not know/understand until I got there. I'd watched it on TV for years, but actually experiencing was a whole 'nother story.
 
First, the entire lot of runners, all 27,00 of us, are divided into waves and corrals. There are a total of four waves, around 7,000 people each,  and eight corrals per wave, about 1,000 people. You know what wave you are in based on your bib color. It starts with red, then white, blue, and yellow.  With seeding based on qualifying times, red bibs are the first wave - the fastest runners. If you are a red bib, there's a good chance you have cheetah DNA and/or ran a sub 3 qualifier.  Fun fact: both Alex and Reinier were red bibs!

Picture a marathon where the first 8,000 people are running 5:30 - 6:30 minute miles. It's like the best runners from every state and country, the people who usually win their local races, all in one place. That's insane.

That's Boston, my friends.

I imagine the Boston Marathon is a lot like being a freshman at Harvard University; you feel pretty good about yourself until you get there. Then you are like, "Holy sh*t...these people are legit."

I don't think anyone would have been impressed with my 21:18 5K.

(I stayed very quiet.)

More interestingly, every red bib I saw, I thought, "I don't look anything like him/her." (It's okay, this actually made me laugh). They were all lean ecto-morph dudes like Alex, or super-muscly guys like Reinier. The red-bibbed women appeared to be either tiny bird-like creatures or professional beach volleyball players.

Of note: on race day, I did not see a single red bib eating waffles. Maybe I should revise my fueling strategy next time around.

Next, Boston is a late morning marathon. This is the complete opposite of everything I've experienced; usually the alarm clock goes off at 3:30am and you are done well before lunchtime. Not in Boston. Each wave had a different loading and start time, with the elite women starting first at 9:30am. My Wave/Corral loaded at 10:05am with a start time of 10:50. That's CRAZY late. Many people ate a full breakfast at 7am, knowing it would digest by the time they toed the start line. I had not practiced a full breakfast, so I just kept eating waffles. I threw in a half of a banana around 9:45 and called it good. Depending on my leg, I reasoned a finish time sometime around late afternoon.
 
It was a process just to get to the starting line. Lululemon graciously rented luxury buses for us that would take us to a drop stop in Hopkinton. From there, we boarded another bus (sadly, a school bus, not nearly as nice) to the Athlete's Village. Once there, it was a long walk to the starting line...but before all of that, I made sure to find my favorite seatmate for the trip from the city into the country.

And there he was, red bib and all. Standing outside the hotel as we waited to board the first bus, Reinier whispered to me that he had forgotten his running shoes. I immediately looked down at his feet. He was wearing racing flats - good for about seven miles, but not a lot of cushion after that. There was a shared look of mutual horror, and we burst into giggles. I mean, what could you do other than laugh?

He leaned over and continued, "You know what I am really worried about?" I shook my head, having no idea what he was about to say. I leaned closer.

"Tonight at the party, how am I going to dance the robot if my feet are hurting me?" 
 
Oh RG. You will always have a special place in my heart. 
 
The bus out was full of humor, waffles and water. A quick transition on South Street and the journey continued. As we finally approached thge the Athlete's Village, a hush fell over the group. All of us were looking at the same spot on the roof of the high school directly in front of us. Clearly visible: two men in full military garb with what appeared to be very long rifles. Snipers. It suddenly hit home that bad people may want to...hurt us. And the good people of Boston were not going to let this happen.

Sh*t just got very real.
 
We made our way into the Village. Interestingly, there is no gear check at the starting line. Whatever you take with you to Hopkinton, you either leave there or run with it. Everyone clutched little clear baggies full of snacks (read: all the waffles I could pack), water, gels, sunscreen. Most people had throw-away clothing with them but very few were actually wearing them. It was too warm. In fact, by the time we arrived in the Village, most people were already stripped down to just their running clothes. Most made a bee-line for the large tents to stake a claim for some precious shaded real estate, away from the unforgiving glare of the relentless sun. 
 
Let's talk about the weather for a second...it was hot. And getting hotter. All the weather forecasters had issued dire warnings on Easter Sunday. We also had received an email from the BAA warning of us "unseasonably warm weather," urging us to go slowly and listen to our bodies.  Yeah, yeah, this was like LA 2015 all over again. I was so preoccupied with my leg, I gave very little credence to any heat warning. I knew the drill - salt capsules early, taking one every 4-5 miles, and water on is better than water in.  It was going to be hot, wet one out there, especially with the humidity. 

Temps at 9am were already hovering around 65 degrees, with a high of 75 expected. Doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. For running, always add 15 degrees. I's not the actual temperature that matters, it how it feels.  A high of 75 feels like 90 degrees. Add some sun and you have very challenging racing conditions. (This is why most world records are set when the temp hovers around 50-55 degrees under cloudy skies). When I ran LA in 2015, it was 88 at that finish. And let me tell you, it felt all of 103 degrees by the time I completed that course.

**helpful runner tip: this is how to determine your running gear. Look at the predicted temperature, add 15, and then dress accordingly.

But before we grabbed a piece of shaded goodness, I used the bathroom. Like, 5 times. So. Much. Water.

Time crept slowly by. They began calling wave and corral numbers. The Village gradually emptied.  I had just ditched my clear sack when they called Wave 3...and thus began the longest walk of my life.

...and long it was. By the time we got to the next staging area, my Garmin told me I had walked approximately 1.7 miles. Wait, what? Panic, cry, or laugh? Again, I just laughed. It was going to be a long, hot day with a lot of miles - might as well laugh about it, right?  My mind briefly flashed to Reinier in his running flats. Ouch.

At this staging area, people fluttered about like butterflies. More potty breaks. A Sharpie was passed around. When it came to me, I grabbed it and wrote my name on both arms. Probably one of the best decisions I made all day. I drank my Hot Shot nervously, swishing it around in my mouth like the directions said. Had I ever practiced with this before? Nah. Does it matter this point? Nope!

Another walk commenced, this time, to the starting line. I looked around and realized, gone were the ectomorphs and pro volleyball players. Everyone here looked like me: mostly women, mid 20s to late 30s. Most likely, they were moms of elementary school-aged children. Yesssss. But not your typical playground fare: this was one serious group of mother runners. Visors pulled low, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.  They looked like lean, mean moms, ones who handle tired husbands, piles of laundry, naughty pets and overscheduled children on a daily basis. These are my people. I imagine we honed our mental toughness out on the road and at school pickup. Let's do this, ladies.

As I stood there, I wish I could say the enormity of the situation hit me, but really, I just said a silent prayer for everyone out there. Heat was dangerous; I just wanted everyone to be okay. I happened to look to my left and saw two guys in uniform watching me. More security, yikes. I waved hi. They waved back. I gave them the thumbs up sign. They signaled back. I bowed, in kind of a "thank you for keeping us safe" manner. I don't know if they understood, but they bowed back. We were all grinning.

This was all so silly and weird. I have no idea why I was miming things; they were only 4 ft away. Yet the power of speech eluded me so I just made hand gestures. Yeah, I wasn't nervous at all.

::coughs uncomfortably::

And with that, we started.

A guy shouted, the crowd jumped, and the next time I knew, I had crossed the starting line. I was doing this! I actually made it to the start line of the Boston Marathon. This was crazy.

Next goal: get to the finish line.

My race strategy: run as many miles on two legs before resorting to walking, hopping, limping, or crawling. Seriously. I wish I could say the plan was more sophisticated, but I was in complete survival mode. I wanted to finish, period. And I had exactly seven hours and ten minutes to make it happen.

The first five miles breezed by. The only thing I could think was, "I AM RUNNING THE BOSTON MARATHON! This is IT!" 

The leg felt fine - completely and totally fine. Not a twinge, peep, or even a tiny "eek." My spider-wrap and compression sleeve were working. That 800mg of Advil I downed 20 minutes before the start was working, too. Had I ever practiced with that? No way, haha. I was throwing ALL caution to the wind.

First five splits: 8:34, 8:39, 8:41, 8:33, and 8:59.

Mind you, these miles are mostly downhill. I was pleased to take them so slowly. Hundreds of people passed me. Word on the street referenced going out too fast in the first half of Boston is what destroys most people's race plan. I wasn't "breaking" on the downhill, but I certainly wasn't pushing myself. I simply set the legs to cruise control and high-fived every child I saw.

On mile 6, I noticed something not related to my leg or small children: the sun. It was out in full force now. It was in that mile that I could feel energy draining from me in a way that only heat can do. I've run enough in the desert to know and appreciate the power of the sun: it zaps your life force quickly and without warning. I started grabbing two cups of water at every station. As I poured that first cup on my ponytail, I felt the cool water on my scalp...and then warm water sloshing down my back. Oh gross. That warmth was the sweat I had just sluiced off. Uuuuugh. Cold on, warm down. This pattern would repeat itself for the next 20 miles.

Miles 6-11: 8:50, 8:50, 9:05, 9:05, 9:09, and 9:22. Definitely not marathon pace, but my leg was holding strong. I can do this! Eleven miles in, fifteen to go. Anyone can crawl fifteen miles, right? I had only been running for about an hour and thirty-seven minutes. A bit of marathon math put me at just over 12:15 EST, which meant I still had close to six hours to finish the course before it closed.

Miles 12 and 13 were fun: it was the famed Wellesley Scream Tunnel. Those girls are nuts.  The course was lined with the signs they had made and many of them held signs of their own. They were literally screaming. I mean, screaming-screaming. How they kept this up for hours on end, I have no idea. I have never laughed so hard while running. It was just all so bizarre and funny and uplifting. I watched guys stop and kiss the co-eds, which made me laugh harder. Earlier this year, when Johnny found out about this part of the race, his raging case BQ-itis only intensified. "I get to kiss college girls?" he exclaimed happily.

Yes, yes you do.

I opted to not kiss anyone, just more high-fives. Miles 12-13: 9:03 and 9:21.

I was cruising along and just enjoying myself. This was going to be the easiest marathon I'd ever run. Fuel-wise, I felt perfect. The sun was annoying, yes, and I felt drained, but the full extent of the heat had yet to hit me. I felt like I could run forever at this point. My leg was holding up nicely with this relaxed pace. I had plenty left in the tank. Halfway there! 1:58 with no problems. This is fantastic! I've got this!

I hit mile 15 and thought..hmm...it is a bit toasty. Uncomfortably so. It was well above 70 degrees with humidity cresting around 70%. A look at other runners told me they were feeling it too. Lots of sweat and red faces. My pack's pace seemed to slow. A lot of people started walking.

And right at that moment, sadly, the downhill/flat portion of the course ended abruptly. The real work had just started. An even worse realization hit: my leg was holding up because I was not pushing off it. The downhill gave me enough of a boost to allow less weight on the right leg. On mile 15, the course curved up and that awful feeling in my leg returned.

You may remember an older entry when I said, "There is no 'easy' way to run hills. It forces you to concentrate on good form, drive forward, and use your arms." This is a very true statement. I had no idea it would come back to haunt me in this way. Hills are challenging on two good legs. But on one leg? No bueno. 

I pushed forward. The leg screamed. By mile 16, it - and I - were in agony. This was not going to work.

Time to revise the race plan, yet again.  I was close to 17 miles in and had been running for two hours and twenty-five minutes. I had approximately four miles of hills coming up. I could accelerate on the hills, ignore the pain, and pray nothing pops. Or, I could scamper up the hills using the heel of my right foot, take the pressure off my calf, and shuffle down in an attempt to make up lost time.

Time for more marathon math. It was a high-risk, high-reward situation: if nothing popped and I continued to push, I could probably come in under four hours. If it did pop...well, I'm looking at six hours or more. If I employed the second idea, the walk/run approach, I was probably closer to a 4:30 finish.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

I took the safer option.

And it made all the difference.

For four miles, I power-walked the hills, hopping at times, to keep the pressure off my leg. I swung my arms as much as possible for added momentum. I called upon every single ab muscle I could recruit, pulling the weight off of my leg. As soon as I hit the top of each hill, I shuffled down, kicking my right leg out.

It wasn't pretty - but my plan appeared to be working.  It pained me to think of my time. Gahh...I couldn't look at my watch. I just couldn't. I didn't want to see those numbers. All that work...the early mornings, the fight to get my diet on track, the bloodwork, overheating... Everything I had done and sacrificed for two and a half years only to be walking  the Boston Marathon. Gahhhhhh...

As frustrated as I was, the crowd was not going to let me fight alone. Remember how I had written my name on my arms? Well, for the next forty-some minutes of my life, all I heard were encouraging shouts and cheers in that fantastic, famous accent. "Pow-AH Hou-AH! Kim from Pow-AH Hou-AH! You got this hill, Kim! Pow-AH up!"

It was the weirdest feeling - I was so mad but couldn't stop laughing. I was in so much pain but having the time of my life. These people were crazy! Just like the Wellesley girls, the crowds around Newton were just nutty. The whole course was, really. The spectators are just as much a part of the Boston Marathon as the runners are, and their support was incredible. The signs, the screaming, the cups of ice and orange slices - it never stopped. I've never taken anything from a spectator before - I've never even interacted with the crowd, really, but since I was going so slowly, now seemed like the perfect time. I laughed, talked, and high-fived with reckless abandon. Screw my time - I had mourned a good marathon time weeks ago. So instead, I accepted a cups of ice and crunched merrily on it. A lady behind me took an Otter pop and I whirled around, bummed I didn't get one too. Man, that sounded delicious. Anyone who yelled my name, I flashed them a very grateful thumbs up.

Right around the Boston College area, past Heartbreak Hill (which in reality, would not be very much to traverse with two working legs on a cooler day), I started the search for my family. Looking...looking...trying to ignore the very prevalent smell of marijuana in the air...oh wait, maybe that would help with pain management. I took large gulps of oxygen. I don't think it worked. But! I did manage to find Brian's head poking out of an impossible thick crowd of people.  MY FAMILY!

And for the upteenth time that weekend, despite the fatigue, dehydration, heat, pain in my leg, and overall exhaustion, I started crying. Like, big hiccuping sobs. My mom frantically shook her sign that said, "Run Buttercup Run" and screamed my name. Did she really glue fake flowers to it? Now I was laughing and crying. This was incredible. I love my family.

The crowd parted so I could give everyone a quick hug and kiss. "Do you need anything?" Brian asked. I know they were all looking at me, trying to access the damage. "Mile 17," I told them. I shook my head. "Not good. I'm just trying to get to the finish line at this point." They were now screaming for me to run again, so I gave Scotty another kiss on the head and started up again.

Splits for miles 15-22: 9:51, 9:42, 10:40, 11:33, 9:54, 10:35 and 11:52.

I haven't clocked a mile over 11 minutes since the ultra in the summer of 2014. Whoops. But again, it could always be worse.

Time to concentrate on the last part of the race, which was yet another gradual downhill. Miles 22 and 23 flew by - 9:41 and 9:37. I could just barely make out the famed Citgo sign in the distance. The only thing I could think was "You are so close! You are SO CLOSE!"

This is the part of the story where I start crying (again). It's hard to think back to those last few miles of the Boston Marathon without feeling incredibly grateful. Yeah, everything hurt. Yes, I wanted to be done. I was OVER running at that point, so over it. But the people of Boston...the roar of the crowd...it was insane. It felt like an out of body experience. Like, who was I to deserve this? What did I do to justify this kind of reception? I felt big and small at the same time. For a few minutes, I knew my exact place in this giant universe. I was someone and nobody all at once.

I was exactly where I needed to be and exactly where I wanted to be.

That, friends, is a beautiful feeling.

The roar was so loud that I was having trouble concentrating. I found Hereford. In the last ten minutes, my leg had completely detached from my body. People say all the time, adrenaline has its benefits...and it's true. I felt nothing. No pain. I couldn't feel any below the waist. I only felt pure exhilaration and joy. I could see Boyleston...I could see it...

I made the most famous left turn in the history of marathons. Then I saw it: the finish line. Oh my god, this is really happening. I sprinted - or at least, tried to. It felt like I was running through peanut butter - very thick, gooey peanut butter. I have no idea what I looked like, slogging along, soaking wet, legs buckling with every step.

But I know how I felt. I felt invincible.

I AM GOING TO FINISH THE BOSTON MARATHON.

And I did - in exactly 4 hours and 12 minutes.

Short of childbirth, that four hours and twelve minutes was the hardest physical endeavor of my life. But also like childbirth - and this didn't occur to me until well after the race - was at no point did I ever think about giving up. Not once. 

And that is the real success.

If running is our purest form of freedom, then injury is a prison sentence. In the weeks leading up to the race, I was held captive by my body, to my negative thoughts. It was awful, a punishment I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. But regardless of what is happening to our physical bodies, we can still maintain control over our thoughts. I have learned: this is a skill, an important one, and one that does not come easily.

April 2017 will always go down as one of the hardest and best months of my life, right behind August 2009 and June 2011.

Boston was not my best marathon...but it was truly my greatest mental win.

Whew.

I finally figured it out...if you can't run fast, than run happy.

So I did.

I also now understand why everyone wants to "run Boston." I have never seen a city turn out with such enthusiasm, excitement, true interest in runners, and genuine sportsmanship. Boston is truly the Superbowl of running events. The energy was electric, and even as we walked (or limped, pick your poison) back to the hotel, I lost count of the strangers walking by that shouted, "Congrats!" Maybe they noticed my mylar blanket and salty, crusty face. Maybe it was the bib and compression socks that gave it away, I don't know. Either way, their continued support was awesome. Everyone should have a chance to experience their own personal parade; mine was held on April 17, 2017.

Thank you, Boston. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I get it now. I will be one of your most ardent supporters. For such a little city, you have the biggest heart.

Want to hear the most ironic part of all of this? As frustrating as that calf injury was...I think it saved my race. Seriously. It held me back. In that kind of heat, the only way to run a marathon is to go out slowly. I can't tell you how many people I spoke with after the race who said they just blew up in the last half because of the soaring temps. A friend sent this article, which describes the affect of heat on runners perfectly. So many people had a tough day out there on Monday, and yes, mine was less than ideal. But when I finished, not only did I have plenty of gas still in the tank, but all it took was two bottles of water and a half a bottle of warm Coke to get me up and running (metaphorically speaking) again.  Without the calf injury...who knows. Maybe I would have burst out of my corral faster than marathon pace and really blown up...

...I don't remember what mile it was on, but I saw a guy on the side of the road. Red bib. He was in agony. I have no idea what was going on, but I took note of his number. I can't believe I remembered the number, in my marathon stupor, but when I looked it up, it said he finished in six hours and fifty-two minutes. A red bib. 6:52. Ouch. I don't know that guy, but that takes guts. Seriously guts.  My hat goes off to him. That heat was killer.

As for me, I am doing okay. I probably shouldn't have two glasses of wine on the plane the next day. Marathons + wine = challenging to remain upright.

Overall, I am humbled. I am grateful. I am deliriously happy. I still cannot run (dammit!). But I'm working on it. An MRI is scheduled for next week.

My mom said it best. She wrote this to me in a card she gave me on Sunday night, but I think it applies to all of us:

"You are braver than you believe,
Stronger than you seem,
Smarter than you think,
And more loved than you'll ever know. "

(A.A. Milne, from Winne the Pooh)

Thanks Mom.

On Monday night, amid the revelry and raw oysters, she and I offered a quiet cheers to my dad with a little 'tink' of our champagne glasses. Without him, we wouldn't be here. I know that, I recognize it. We both miss him and always will. But when life hands you lemons, consider running the Boston Marathon dressed in a lemon suit. If that doesn't work, do the best you can.

Six years ago, I had no idea that the worst thing in my life was going to lead to one of the best things. Like the quote Johnny posted on one of our first runs together - "Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain." So very true.

Boston 2017 taught me 1) I cannot control everything, 2) there is power in acceptance and 3) for crying out loud, slow down, Kim! Enjoy the journey for once.

Easy words to say, hard ones to practice. 

Thank you, Boston.

Now go out there and slay your own dragons; I'll be eating cookie butter in the whirlpool.

This is going to be a long one, folks. Best to pour another cup of coffee, grab a snack, and settle in.

After all, I intentionally waited almost a week before attempting to transpose my thoughts onto paper. Boston was big - probably one of the biggest events of my thirty-eight years on the planet. So big, it's two parts. Part II will come out tomorrow.

Always darkest before dawn, remember? Well, I finally hit daybreak...but it was mostly uphill to get there.

Pre-Race (Friday, Saturday, Sunday)

Friday was not a good day.

I had posted the last blog entry around 4:30am, minutes before we left for the airport. Written the night before, I didn't want to publish until we were well on our way. I'm glad I wrote what I did, about making happiness a choice, because I needed to hear it. I needed to remind myself to be happy, because man, did my leg hurt. The opportunity to sink into a dark hole of worry and fear was high. I didn't know if it was the combo of Graston/ART on Wed, followed by dry needling on Thursday, flying, walking through the airports, or the stress of impending Marathon Monday, but my leg looked and felt like dog meat. Pain-wise, I was at a level 7 all day. I was having trouble just walking on it. My PT had cautioned me against using Ibuprofen as it could mitigate the healing process, so I was on my own. Lots of water, stretching and massage.Nine hours of traveling was not helpful.

I broke down Friday on our way home from dinner.

"I'm trying so hard," I sniffed to Brian as we walked back to our hotel. We had just packed my mom and Scotty into a cab, sending them back to their hotel. Not the thoughtfully-chosen hotel we had selected six months ago, the one that was a mere 800m away from own hotel. No,  this hotel was on the other side of Boston. Why? Because at 6pm Friday night, just minutes after we arrived at the hotel Brian and I were staying at, Brian received an email stating the first hotel was overbooked. No room at the inn. Whoopsy. Had I been more dramatic, I might have thrown myself on the bed, screaming "Why? Why?" But instead I just stood there, gritting my teeth silently, while Brian spoke with the hotel manager. They rebooked them at another hotel for just a night, on the other side of town, with the promise of being at the closer hotel by Saturday morning. I knew they would be fine, it was just the surprise of "why can't anything go according to plan?" that was bugging me. A massive headache that would plague me until Sunday morning had just started to form on the edges of my brain. No Advil, just water please.

So there they went: my mother and my child headed across a town I knew nothing about, a city with tons of traffic, too many cars and too many stoplights. Not to mention, everyone here seemed very comfortable saying the 'f' word with shocking regularity. My first impression of  Beantown: not good. However, I  appeared to be the only one affected. My mom was in great spirits, Brian was chipper, and Scotty was doing just fine. It was me on the verge of a panic attack/migraine.

Yippee.

The Red Sox game had just gotten out. Brian and I were fish swimming upstream against a tide of angry, swearing fans. I don't know if anyone noticed the crying, limping girl. I hope my momentary breakdown was witnessed by no one other than my husband.

"It's not a question of if my calf goes, it's when, I told Brian tearfully. "I have no flipping idea how I'm going to get through 26.2 miles; I can't even run 3. I'm trying so hard to keep it together and I...just...can't. I can't anymore." Sobbing now.

I wasn't exaggerating. I was beaten down. Terrified. It felt like nothing would/could swing in my favor. The last two weeks had exhausted me in a way I had not experienced in a long time. I needed a break. I needed comfort. I needed something to go my way.

There was only one person who could help.

On Saturday, I found Scott Jurek and asked for his advice.

Working the Clif Bar exhibit, we got through the usual pleasantries ("Hi, I've met you before. Las Vegas?" "Oh yeah, Red Rock Running!" "Yup!") before I launched into the statement I had prepared while waiting in line. "So I strained my calf muscle two weeks ago. I immediately re-read the part of your book where you broke your ankle four days before the Hardrock 100 but still managed to win it. How did you do that? By the way, I cannot eat anymore turmeric." He laughed, looked surprised, and wished me the best. I don't remember exactly what he said, but it was along the lines of "You just have to remember, pain doesn't last forever." I nodded. Okay, seems legit...did he know it was my right leg? My driving leg? If I end up in a boot, I won't be able to drive. I have a child. I have to be at school pickup by 3:30 everyday...

Pain doesn't last forever...pain doesn't last forever...I repeated that to myself as I wandered over to the expo building. Huh, the line looked...long. Wait, it went outside the building? Oh, it goes around the building...oh...that's not the end? Where is the...OH MY HEAVENS.

It appeared as everyone left the 5K in Boston Commons right around the same time to hit the expo. I limped further until finding my place behind approximately 13,000 other runners. Once again, I tried not to panic. I needed to be back to the hotel by 12:15pm for a bus tour of the course. It was now 11am. The hotel was at least 20 minutes away on foot.

We inched along. Hollie found me in line and I immediately started crying when I saw her. (My pattern of dehydrating via tears before every marathon seemed to be holding strong). Man, I needed to pull it together. But my head was throbbing, my leg ached, and I hadn't eaten yet. But Hollie is such a sweetheart with a great head on her shoulders; the tears didn't phase her in the slightest.  She gave me a big hug. Much needed.

Once inside, I realized bib pickup was on the third floor. There were more lines just to get on both elevators. I asked a security guard if the long lines were normal. After all, I had run Chicago, which had 15,000 more runners but no where near this kind of wait. He just shrugged and said many people treat this like graduation. They like to bring their families, take photos, etc. Hence the lines.

Interesting. My family was somewhere in Boston: doing the duck tour, checking out the aquarium, walking the Freedom Trail, eating lobster rolls. I insisted they do their own thing; standing in line with a bunch of runners would have not benefited any of us. Regardless, I suddenly felt intensely lonely in a crowd of thousands.

Bib obtained. Picture taken. I'm smiling but I don't mean it. Wait, happiness is a choice.

Must. Remember. This.

Once I had my bib in my hot little hand, I hustled back to the hotel. The expo was on Boyleston, my hotel was on Boyleston. This can't be too hard to find, right?

As I walked, I noticed the iconic Hereford/Boyleston street sign. Right on Hereford, left on Boyleston: those are the last two turns before the finish. I snapped a picture and said a silent prayer to please get me to this point in approximately fifty hours.

I passed an angry-looking goose on my way back and took his picture too. Bad idea. Not only did he get up and look like he was going to charge, but my phone immediately died. Plugged it into the portable charger; nope, that wasn't working either. I am now phone-less in a foreign city trying to get escape a pissed off goose. Only one leg worked properly.

It's okay; I'm already on the right street. T-minus 15 minutes until the bus tour. I am Judy Hopps. I'm not giving. I'm not quitting...

Twelve very stressful minutes later, I tearfully asked a stranger for directions. I had shaken the goose but was wandering across highway overpasses; where the hell did Boyleston Street go? Why is there a giant community garden directly in the middle of this street? Is NO street in this city straight?!

The stranger was very helpful; I managed to get back to the hotel just in time to see people queuing up for the buses. Sprinted to my room, said good-bye to my phone as I plugged it in, grabbed a bagel and a packet of almond butter. They'll have snacks on the bus, right? My tummy rumbled uncomfortably. I was supposed to be carbo-loading and doing a fairly poor job just getting food into my mouth. I had lost five pounds in the past two weeks, mainly due to having almost no appetite in the wake of CalfGate. Here I was so worried I was going to pack on the pounds and the opposite happened. I will admit, almost nothing causes me to lose my appetite...except extreme stress. I was going to hit a wall not on mile 20 but mile 2 at the rate I was going.

::deep breaths::

I'm not sure how to describe the next few hours of my life other than... they did not have snacks on the bus. #nosnacks

What should have been a 90 minute tour of the course took close to four hours. For reasons still unknown to me, we did not actually arrive in Hopkinton (the starting line) until close to 2:30. We had left at 12:45.

The trip back would take another two hours.

None of this would have really mattered except I had an appointment in town at 4pm. Whether I showed or I didn't, I would still be charged. Aside from wasting money, I had assured the person I would show up - on time, no less - because "I value other people's time." I actually said that, like a fool. LIKE A FOOL.

That afternoon in Hopkinton, while everyone briefly stretched their legs, I stalked around some poor person's front lawn, kicking rocks. That moment, I realized a huge piece of the puzzle:  I had completely lost control of most of my life. NOTHING was working. Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. My leg. The last two weeks of training. My mom's hotel room. The expo, the goose, my phone, food, this Gilligan's Island-esque bus tour...

Choose happiness, remember Kim? Must..choose...happiness.

Well, happiness could go...::insert four-letter word here::...itself...I was over this whole bleeping weekend.

And then, ladies and gentleman, my seatmate saved the day.

Just like he had during my first full marathon back in 2013, Reinier regally stepped up to the plate. This time, he wasn't coaxing me down the Las Vegas strip one step at a time; no, this time, he resorted to humor to keep me (and every other annoyed person) distracted from what was happening. He let me borrow his phone so I could contact my appointment. ("I'm going to miss Pilates!" I wailed to him. "Kim, that is the biggest first world problem I've ever heard," he said laughing. I gave him a withering look but gratefully accepted his phone.)  We decided that this whole afternoon was actually a grand social experiment, one designed to test our patience days before an important race. ("Kim," he told me solemnly, "you are failing." I literally choked on my water, I laughed so hard.) He messed around on the non-working bus PA system, requesting snacks. He sang songs.  I honestly don't think I've laughed that hard in a long time, just from the sheer silliness of it all.

Before we knew it, we were back in Boston. The back of the bus missed the entire course and the description, but I know I gained back something I had lost two weeks earlier:  my sense of humor. Thank you, RG.

Mood lifted, I hightailed it to Pilates. My instructor graciously allowed me to push my appointment back from 4 to 5, and I was in an Uber at 4:35pm, ready to roll. I stuffed a Honey Stinger's waffle in my face as we headed to yet another part of Boston.

I knew I was in the right place when I walked in and Julie, the instructor, was eating what appeared to be the most amazing salad ever. A salad I would have ordered. The last few days of my life had been carbs, carbs, carbs. Blah. It was fun for about a day, then you just start to feel gross. I realized how much I wanted just a nice salad...and perhaps a big glass of wine. When I saw her chick pea/kale bowl of goodness, I couldn't help but be a bit wistful. Two more days...

The lesson itself was incredible and very helpful, and she was extremely gentle with my right leg. It felt so good to stretch out all of those poor muscles that have been dormant for two weeks. We chatted for a bit after the lesson; I asked her if she was running, she said no. She would be having coffee with a friend. She went on to say that this friend was one of the many folks affected by the bombing in 2013...and her friend was now a double amputee. Julie told me about the many survivors she'd worked with in the past four years, how everyone was still healing. Just the mention of her friends and she teared up. Watching her tear up made me tear up - and everything hit home.

My leg. My dumb leg. I'm not going to say it wasn't stressful, but it's about perspective. After all, I still have my leg, it was just a strain and the timing of everything was not ideal. But - to witness firsthand a person's reaction to the events that rocked this city four years ago - I realized, that's what matters. These are REAL people with REAL lives and very, very real feelings. We've all seen the five minute new clips and read the stories, but I had never really felt the realness, the very raw and devastating everyday problems that the survivors still face.

All of a sudden, all of the weekend's apprehension melted away. So I had a stressful, annoying day. So I'm running a marathon on a bum leg. So what. I'm here - with my family, with my friends, with my health. Life is good. REALLY good. Happiness IS a choice; a hard one, especially when patience is tested. And you have to look for the good in the situation, but it's always there. Happiness may be a tough choice at times, but ultimately, it's always the RIGHT choice.

And by the time I got to dinner that night, an hour late and inappropriately hungry, I walked up the stairs in the restaurant to find Brian, Scotty and my mom directly in front of me. The booth  overlooked the bay with ship lights twinkling in the distance.They were all smiling and laughing. They actually appeared really happy to see me - me, a cranky, limping, hungry runner who immediately attempted to shove most of the bread basket into her mouth before even sitting down. They had the best day. So much to tell me about!  I was so happy to be there, with the people that mattered, with people that I love and who love me. I laughed and tried to take in all of their descriptions and photos from the day. 

I knew in that moment, it was all going to be okay.

I texted Johnny that night, telling him about the bipolarity of the day's events, and ended it with #zenkim. Because that's exactly how I felt. I was done stressing and being upset. Hanging out with Reinier, talking with Julie, and dinner with my family was the key to turning my weekend around. Humor.  Perspective. Gratitude. THIS is what makes people happy. Not fake-happy, but happy-happy. Real-happy.

Sunday was a great day. Easter egg hunt for the kiddos in the morning. Baseball game at Fenway Park that afternoon. I ate a giant pretzel with ton of salt on it. Weather forecasters were calling for a HOT one the next day...and I'm pretty sure that salt saved me. But more on that later.

Dinner in Little Italy that night. I organized my pasta like only a nervous runner could. I'm pretty sure precise penne yields a greater chance at a PR, so try it next time you have a race.

It seemed as though every person was out on the streets in Boston that night. The city literally rippled with excitement. Easter Sunday! Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox are all in town!

It's Marathon Eve!

Part II tomorrow -- the race! And after.

To be continued!

Over the last few months,I've written this entry a hundred times in my head.  The final entry before Boston...::dramatic music plays:: Needless to say, the content shifted considerably as the situation did.

It's been a week of ups and downs. 

I tried to run on Monday. Got through 1.44 miles when the right calf balled up without warning. Stopped immediately. Limped home. Kicked a few rocks on my way. 

Later that morning, I had an appointment for dry needling. I don't have time to cover the specifics, but 1) it is not acupuncture and 2) it involves 4" needles inserted into the myofascial trigger points of muscles. For me, specifically in the calf. This causes the muscle to contract then relax. Then they hook the needles to electricity and zap the area. More twitching. Then - Yes! There's more! - the PT takes one of those spicy topical creams and rubs it all over your punctured, electrocuted muscle. Pain level: about a 6. If anything,the  neural twitches made my stomach flip. It's a very odd sensation. The true pain arrived when I tried to stand up. My right leg was completely unusable from the knee down. It was fatigued, cramped and achy. Pain level: 9. Emotional pain, as the thought "WHAT HAVE I DONE?" raced through my head: roughly 22. 

Needless to say, I cried for two hours. 

But it was a good cry. I needed to let it out. I needed to mourn my marathon. So I did. 

Tuesday I woke up and my leg felt better than it has in years. 

Wednesday I ran two miles pain-free. 

Thursday, I went back for more needling. 

Are YOU nauseous yet? Yes, this roller coaster of pain, hope, and horror has made me sick, too. I have vacillated between devastation and confidence more times than I can count. 

And you know to what conclusion I finally came? After two, head-spinning weeks of heartbreak, optimism, torment and disappointment, I came up with a plan. You know me, I'm a planner. I like to have a Plan A and a Plan B. Maybe even a few more letters when needed. 

But for this situation, I only need two. 

Plan A: have a great, fun race. 

Plan B: have a great, fun race. 

IT DOESN'T F'ING MATTER. 

The sun will still rise on Tuesday. 

It doesn't mean I'm giving up. Oh hell, I have wanted to SO BADLY. Say loudly, screw this. Eat and drink to my heart's content. Skip cross-training in the wee hours of the morning and sleep in for once. Have a glass or three of wine. Stop the merry-go-round of torturous appointments. I mean, how many times can someone stick, poke, roll, scrape, tape or twist my right leg? It looks and feels like tenderized meat. I'm all for suffering and believe there is magic in misery, but this is ridiculous. Yet I dutifully stayed the course. Normatek daily, cryo, gentle stretching, rolling, warm baths, ice and heat every few hours, Graston, ART, dry needling. Had someone told me eating live goldfish would improve my leg, I would have driven straight to the pet shop with cash in hand. 

In one brief and shining, albeit slightly awkward moment, I envisioned this crazy fantasy of throwing the whole race. Just intentionally tanking it. The daydream involved me running as a giant lemon. It would have been so perfect - a silent nod to the awesomeness of lululemon, yet also a way to say, "let's make lemonade from lemons." Alex actually has a lemon suit; the DTS store will occasionally break it out for local races. I imagined myself toting that costume, including the little stem hat, on the bus to Hopkinton. Putting on a bit of extra body glide because lemon suits might chafe. Crossing the finish line, sweaty but not sour. I tip my yellow hat, accept my medal, and walk off into the sunset.

If this race is going to blow up, at least let me control the explosion. 

Then I read the BAA rules about costumes very carefully (*being married to a lawyer makes you cognizant of the fine print): no non-form fitting or bulky costumes extending past the perimeter of the body are allowed on the course. My dream turned into a nightmare as I pictured race director Dave McGillivray and the FBI roughly tackling me on mile 3. Scraped knees, handcuffs. I don't look good in orange. 

This is the kind of stuff that makes the national news. 

No thank you. 

So I shelved the lemon idea. 

But you know what? The choice to heal is now over. I've done everything in my control to better my leg. Literally, everything I could think of. And so now, the only choice left is: what kind of a race do you want to have? 

I want to have a good one. I have nothing to prove. No goal.

I want to finish. 

I watched this brilliant podcast a few days ago that showed a Google CEO talking about happiness. He said people tend to be happiest when their experiences line up with their expectations. My ears pricked up. Go on...When those expectations are not met, we do not feel happy. Yes, I would concur. Then, he went on, he looked at life after he lost his son. He said that locking himself in his room and crying all day would not make him happy, nor would it bring his son back. Nothing would bring his child back, so being sad and choosing to isolate himself would only worsen and stall his ability to heal. If he wanted to feel happy again, he had to make it HIS choice. Willingly. Readily. With effort and purpose. 

Listen friends, I worked my butt off for this. I have thought of nothing but Boston since January 2015 when training for a sub-4 LA in March. I didn't get it. I didn't get a BQ in St. George. I didn't get a BQ at CIM. I finally, finally, finally rang the bell on Mt. Chuck after 18 LONG months. Then I pissed away the fall, watching baseball and drinking beer. (eh, so sue me...I'd do it again, too, if the Cubbies play in October). I had a tough start, eventually hit my paces, found a great new running buddy, and then got injured two weeks before race day. I could have thrown in the towel long before this. But I didn't. And I'm not. I'm going to finish no matter what. I haven't come this far to fail now. 

I am making a cognizant choice, one that requires an enormous amount of effort and purpose, to run a good race, regardless of the outcome. This is the last thing I can control. I cannot control my leg, my ovaries, the weather or other runners...but I can and will make the choice to RUN HAPPY. 

Back in December, the lulu survey asked what my "walk-out" song is. I stated, "Try Everything" by Shakira from Zootopia. The minute I saw the movie, I was like, "Judy Hopps! That is me!" I've never identified so closely with a fictional character. Get scratched in the face by a fox, stand up again. Cut your arms on a fence, run the next day. I loved the part when she's on the train, headed into City Center, looking at the different precincts with awe. I want to arrive in Boston that way.

I want to RUN Boston that way.

Say a little prayer for me Monday morning, ok?

Bib #17928. Wave 3, Corral 2. I start at 10:50 EST. 

But now, I raise my glass, filled with water and Nuun and offer this toast: to hope, health and happiness.

See ya'll at the finish. 

I won't give up, no I won't give in
Till I reach the end
And then I'll start again
No I won't leave
I wanna try everything
I wanna try even though I could fail

Just to clear up any confusion: we don't know exactly what happened to my leg. The only way to really know would have been to get an MRI. By the time I realized the extent of the injury, it was already too late. Plus, an MRI would have only served diagnostic purposes, not treatment. I would have continued along the same course regardless of what it showed. I've heard varying opinions, ranging from a grade I gastroc tear to a plantaris muscle rupture. If something happens to the leg in Boston, my plan is to come back, get an MRI stat, and rest and rehab accordingly.

When you are accepted into the Boston Marathon, you will get a lots of emails. The usual kind - apparel, run club, groups, shoes. Lots of advertisements. I didn't mind the new spam because it just got me excited all over again. You are selling the official Boston 2017 phone cover? Why yes, don't mind if I do!

In late fall, an email came through that was a bit different. It began:

I see you. A little birdie told us you were running Boston this year. You are the rock star runner we've been looking for.

Um, okay. Flattery with get you everywhere.

It continued:

We promise a good time.

Sure you do.

Next steps: CAN YOU COME? Send us your bib number, email, phone number, and home address.

Here's my bank routing number too!

It was signed, "Your Boston Crew"

I was fingering the delete button when my phone buzzed. It was Kat. "Reply to that email NOW!" she texted. "It's legit!"

I paused, forwarded it to Brian ("I just got this. It's from a Boston lululemon store. Not sure what to make of it") and wondered what the heck was going on. Kat and Alex both work for the lululemon store at Downtown Summerlin, so perhaps they knew something.

So I replied, gave the appropriate info, and called it a day. At that point in time, we had yet to book our hotel and flights.  I was running about 20 sad miles a week. Boston seemed very far away.

The emails continued. More information was requested. Slowly, with clever wording and thoughtful advice, the picture appeared: our "Boston crew" was a group of lululemon peeps that had created a group of 80 runners from around the world. They wanted to give this group the "best Boston experience ever."

We filled out surveys with the fun questions. "What is your walk-out song?" (Try Everything by Shakira from the movie 'Zootopia'), "What is your favorite post-race treat?" (Good California Chardonnay and raw oysters), even "What size shorts do you wear?" (Um, 6...) and then best of all, "Where would you like your awesome swag sent?" (HOME ADDRESS!)

I read the emails and replied diligently, but couldn't let go of the  sinking feeling in my gut. I clearly should have not been selected. This was a mistake. They must have gotten my marathon time wrong; I ran a 3:33, not a 2:33. I'm not elite; just your average mid-packer with cheetah dreams. No average runner deserves this kind of treatment.

But Leigh, our Boston contact, was quick at assure me that I was definitely not a mistake. Our group varied from 2:20 runners to charity runners, people spanning the globe from the US, Sweden, Spain, Mexico and Canada. A private FB group was set up for us so we could get to know each other. It was so fun to check in every day to see the different conditions people ran in. For example, those in flat lands use multi-storied parking garages for hill work. I'm still not sure how they avoid cars, but brilliant. (side note: thank you, Red Rock for being so hilly and delicious) I watched Canadian runners trek through long runs with spikes on their shoes while the Texas crew battled heat and humidity in February. Even after the terror attacks in Stockholm last week, a Swedish runner post that the morning after, his group had taken the to the empty streets to run a 26K.

My head spun. This was unreal. I love running and love the community that is creates, but this was almost overwhelming. To be a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle, to be bonded by a common passion is what we all aspire to. And here I was, once again by sheer luck, part of this incredible global community of like-minded individuals. I've talked a lot about how we run not to necessary beat each other, but to be with each other, and by no direct hand of mine, I stumbled into this. George Sheehan is smiling up there.

Of these relationships, one woman wrote that she would be in Las Vegas for a conference in mid-February. I jumped at the chance to meet up with her. Of course, part of me worried that meeting a random stranger on the Strip would be awkward but...there's always running. Always the perfect topic if the conversation lagged.

My fear was completely unsubstantiated. I don't think either of us took a breath during that three hour visit.

Monica couldn't have been nicer, funnier or more real. We talked about running, our families , our careers. How running makes everything more complicated but better at the same time. By the end, we were picking out lipstick colors for each other at Sephora. We took a picture at the Las Vegas sign and posted it on the board. "Clicked like Seigfried and Roy!" she stated with girl runner emojis. We giggled like old friends.

Monica was one of the first people I texted after the calf injury happened. She had been a boot the week before due to a nagging shin pain. Only other runners can really understand what it's like to be injured, and this was only weeks before the race. Monica essentially talked me off the ledge that day as I laid in bed, propped up by pillows, willing my calf pain to go away.

A week later, we were sending each other pictures, discussing our pedicure color choices.

Blue and yellow, obviously!

The lulu group, aptly named "Run Like a Bos(s) Squad" did exactly what it promised to do: it made me feel like a rock star runner, before I've even run a step. In addition to taking care of our hotel accommodations(they rented out an entire boutique hotel), they sent a very generous gift card with the directions, "Get yourself some new clothes for your long run!"

They've planned an amazing weekend complete with a tour of the marathon course, motivational speakers, yoga, a shopping day at the Boston store, lots of organized shake-out runs, and my personal favorite: breakfast every morning. Yessssss. Because 2-3 days before the marathon means one thing: carbs. YAY! Hello, Mr. Bagel.

Last Wednesday, as I laid on the couch with my calf wrapped and elevated, my mood was bleak. Pity party, table for 1, please. It's easy to get lost in your thoughts during the taper, and if you are rehabbing an injury, it's very easy for those thoughts to turn ugly. But then I checked the mail, and found a giant package. In it, a lululemon Scuba hoodie and the super soft, luxe align pants. Both in the right sizes, naturally. Yes, free swag is INCREDIBLE...but the feeling that someone is rooting for you? Priceless.

I texted Leigh right away, asking how I can ever thank her for everything. Her response: Run the race of your life.

It made me cry. Will do, Leigh.

Thank you Leigh, your entire Boston crew, and everyone who has made this happen. Qualifying for Boston in itself is a DREAM. The added excitement created by this lulu experience is...phenomenal. I have wanted to give up countless times since injuring my calf; I haven't and I won't, because I know you all are waiting for us and cheering us on. Thank you for kindness, your support,  agreeing to my silly egg hunt idea for the kids, your patience with my endless questions, and making ALL of us feel like rock star runners. I can't wait to meet you in person (finally!) and give you a hug.

Three days until we leave. Six days until the race.

Regardless of the outcome, at least I'll be dressed well!

Want to learn more about yourself? 

Train for a marathon. 

Reinier told me this when I first toed the line back in 2013. I remember thinking, "I'm good, thanks." But my reluctance did not stop the eventual illumination; as the miles increased, so did my awareness of various strengths and weaknesses. When I read "The Lore of Running," the quote that stood out most was "Running has taught me who I am...and more importantly, who I am not." Thank you, Dr. Noakes. It's true. Stripped bare of comfort, in pain, and exhausted, you will learn a great deal about what makes you tick.

I've learned so much about myself over the last eleven weeks, particularly in the last six days.

This is the blog entry I did not want to write. The one I have been sitting on for over a week. I have not said much on social media because I don't want pity. I don't want anything except to feel better. 

I haven't run since last Saturday. 

It started out like any other long run; sixteen miles at Red Rock, picking up Johnny on mile 8. Same time, same course, same food. I was on a high from a week earlier, having placed second at a local 5K and set a new PR (21:18) in the process. I conquered my 20-miler the next day. It was the perfect combination of speed plus distance. Those last two miles of the 20 were rough; both quads cramped, very similar to the later miles in a marathon. I needed to experience this and mentally, I practiced my marathon strategy. I was strong. My right adductor was screaming but I simply ran the mile I was in. I finished, rested, ate, and didn't think anything of it.

#boom 

#gainz

I ran on Monday as expected; iced my right Achilles that night since the lower leg hurt. Easy run on Tuesday: no problems. On Wednesday, I had 3x2 mile repeats at marathon pace. It was hard. My right adductor, that lanky inner groin muscle that runs the length of the leg, was not happy. Cramped, overused, and downright cranky. Ran on Thursday with dead legs but a happy heart. Took Friday off and totaled my monthly miles: a new high, coming in 226.20. My right leg was still acting up, but as we know, not all pain is significant. 

Until it is. 

On Saturday, on mile 9, right after Johnny and I met up, I was just telling that we just need to get over the Overlook and we'd be home free. It had been a windy, uphill battle getting through the first 8 and my calf was sore. But the run was going so well - fast even! Only six more to go and my last official long run was in the books. That had been a lot of chatter earlier in the week of taking the last five miles at marathon pace and he was all in. I was, too. Johnny's faster than I am and running with him is so helpful; he was ready to take the lead and I was happy to follow. 

Except, just as the words were out of my mouth, something popped in the back of my right calf muscle.

I cried out in pain and we instantly stopped. Was it a cramp? A muscle spasm? I've had many, many running cramps while running and none have ever come on this strongly or with a popping sound. I knew I couldn't finish the run; I couldn't even put weight on the leg.  Even if it was just a bad cramp, there was no sense in running another six silly miles with only two weeks before the race. The goal at this point was simply to get to the starting line uninjured. 

Johnny gave me a look that I'd only seen once before; it was the same expression Brian wore while I was in labor. Abject terror. The look passed quickly, thankfully, and being the stand-up guy that he is, Johnny gave me a quick hug, assured me it was going to be okay, and sprinted to get his car. I limped behind him. I had gotten about a half mile down the road when two cars pulled over: Mercy and Bree. Hooray! It was like someone had called the cavalry. I explained what happened and Mercy ushered me into her truck. We picked up Johnny, got his car, and he finished his last 5 miles while I sat in my car, icing my leg. 

My mind raced. What now?

We all know the answer to that: suck it up, Buttercup. It's time for Little League. 

**why is it always about Little League?

But I did just that. Drove the game, limped over to the field. Silently wiped tears from under my sunglasses as I sat on the bleachers with a bag of ice on my leg, one Brian had retrieved from the concession stand. I don't think Scott knew anything had even happened, and that's a good thing. 

The advice that came in over the next few days varied from an extreme cramp to a minor calf muscle strain. I watched my leg like a hawk; no bruising, no discoloration. If this was a cramp, this was a Category 5 cramp. By the time I saw Dr. Nick (essentially the village shaman to all of us Las Vegas runners; we are literally putting his children through college at the rate we are going), he did some serious Graston and ART on the calf that colored it purple. Now my leg hurt more from his bruising, making me confused as to what was hurting and where/why it hurt. But honestly, he could have taken a sledge hammer to it, if it meant it would be better by Marathon Monday. 

For the rest of the week, I limped around. Bought a monthly package at a local cryotherapy place to do Normatek legs daily (in one word: heaven!)  Slept in compression socks to the point I worried I would develop Athlete's foot. Wore a calf sleeve during day hours. Applied arnica. Ice, heat, gentle stretching. Googled ailments incessantly. Determined I had cancer, multiple sclerosis, low calcium AND that I am definitely not a doctor and should stop pretending to be one.

When attempting to run three little miles on Wednesday, I completed them - but not without pain. For the first mile, I rationalized that I was just warming up. Second mile felt okay. Third mile hurt. Going up the tiny ramp at Willows park meant I had to change my stride as well as how my food hit the ground.

These is not a good thing.

But cryotherapy is. It's cold and refreshing and hopefully sending healing vibes to that leg. Plus you get to wear a sweet bathrobe.

There is a silver lining here - there always is. In my frustration on Monday, I realized that I am a runner with no Plan B. I can't keep putting all of my eggs in one basket, using running as my only form of exercise. So I thought long and hard about what I could do and decided to go as low impact as possible. I fished out the old bathing suit, grabbed some goggles and a swim cap and hit the pool. And you know what?

I LOVE SWIMMING. 

It is so fun! All those years taking swim lessons, being a lifeguard in college, getting SCUBA certified...I forgot how much I love water. Maybe I'll take on a second sport after Boston and grow some gills. Holy relaxation. Gently gliding through the water, practicing all of my strokes and being mindful of my breathing - I was grinning from ear to ear by the time I popped out. Sure, my cap was on crooked and hair was sticking out, but I was a happy camper. I got my heart rate up, felt like I had done a solid workout, AND did not further injure my leg. Score!

As I write this, we are 10 days out. The body possesses miraculous  healing properties; I learned that the summer I cut my arms. A LOT can happen in ten days. God created the Universe in only seven - and that includes a rest day. I have high hopes for my wee calf. 

I'm scarfing down as many anti-inflammatory foods I can get my hands on, so much so Johnny and Alex have taken to calling it "brujeria" (witchcraft). Call it whatever you want; I believe in my potions. Turmeric, black pepper, chia seeds, garlic, chamomile, blueberries, tart cherry juice. Lots of things that stain your hands. Hey, if Scott Jurek can run - and win - the Hardrock 100 with a broken, uncasted ankle, I can get through 26.2 measly miles, right?

Speaking of eating, one of the hardest things about the taper is not eating yourself out of house and home. Marathon hunger is REAL and it usually hits right when your mileage decreases. My first thought after the injury occurred was losing myself in a bottle or two of wine and perhaps a bag of chips, but I knew it would only serve to complicate matters. There was a rather unfortunate incident involving marshmallows from the Lucky Charm box, but I'm happy to report I caught myself before it got really ugly.

As for Boston, I am running regardless. This is the difference between a sub-4 marathon and a six+ hour marathon - all of which don't matter in the grand scheme of life. Disappointing, yes. A tragedy, no. What is happening in Syria is a tragedy. This is a serious case of first world problem-itis. After coming to terms that I will NOT win the Boston Marthon, life got a bit easier. Just please don't tell Maria, my dry cleaner. (She wants me to win. I love her).  Obviously, I am terrified that this issue will flare up during the race - but there is nothing I can do but smile and hobble to the finish. Nobody likes ugly race photos.

I've gone through the whole spectrum of emotion; if you have been one of the people who have held my hand,  handed me tissue, or fielded a emotionally charged text over the last six days, thank you. If you are rooting against me, um, well, why are you reading this? Go waste your time doing something else, silly! That's kind of weird.

Maybe this is nothing. Maybe I'm being dramatic. (who, me?) Maybe I'll get to the starting line in Hopkinton and absolutely nothing will hurt. This is BEST case scenario and I hope you are right. I hope more than anything this is nothing more than a minuscule speed bump in my running career, an unexpected curve ball that forced me into an early taper. Besides, this exact issue happened to me before St. George. Exact same scenario - I PR'd in Cedar City, was unable to get through my 20 miler a week later due to severe right calf pain and spent two weeks hobbling around. Interestingly, that calf did just fine during George; we all know now, it was my reproductive system secretly plotting against me. So who knows? There are no guarantees in marathon running. You hope for the best, plan for the worst. Also, pray you don't have terrorist ovaries.

The last two weeks before any marathon are a crazy time; the taper is rarely fun. It's full of aches, pains, worry and lots of Hail Mary's (both the prayer kind and the football analogy). I do want to state clearly: this has been such an incredible training cycle. So many great things happened! I started slow, warmed up, and then really hit my stride. Running truly became fun again. Fantastic mileage, challenging hill work, a 5K PR: all things I am very proud of. I have grown SO much as a person and a runner in the last 10+ weeks. And whatever happens ten days from now, this will always go down as my favorite 10 weeks of training, ever. 

But I don't want my finish time to be the defining characteristic to this cycle. The hard work is done, the race is simply icing on an already well-baked (though slightly neurotic) cake.

Plus, it's always darkest before dawn, right?

I'm ready for daybreak.