It's all good, friends. Really.

If you are a runner and absolutely had to pick an injury, I would highly recommend cutting your forearms. As bizarre as this whole situation has been, it's had zero impact on my training. It's inconvenient, annyoing, and unsightly, but overall, it's really no big deal. My run on Friday was actually five seconds faster than Monday's run, and it was the exact same route and distance. Life is weird.

As scary as those cuts looked, they are all bark and no bite. Yes, the process of wrapping my arms is time-consuming, but in the grand scheme of it all, it's been no problem. After Wednesday, the pain subsided substantially. The stitches are a bit itchy if they dry out, but it's nothing a squirt of Neosporin can't fix.

I have several looks for my wound care: daytime, evening, and running. Daytime is the most tightly wrapped, since I want to keep them clean and away from germs. Evening I can go without the gauze, which is much more comfortable. And for running or working out, I simply add a lovely pair of arm sleeves over the puffy white bandages as not to offend anyone. It's a bit warm, yes, especially when you live in Las Vegas in July, but it's a small price to pay. Brian is my chief wrapper; he has this great technique that makes the gauze stay in place (mainly because he has two working hands). I only have to wrap early in the morning, before my runs, but I have my sleeves to keep the wrappings from slipping.  

I had a chance to meet and thank the Boot Camp Guy that was so instrumental last week. His name is George, and he looked just as surprised to see me this Tuesday as he did last Tuesday, albeit under much different circumstances. George and I had a good laugh about it all and I had a hard time not hugging the man. Apparently, he told his boot camp about the incident because as I was leaving (after someone opened the gate - I may be foolish but I'm not dumb), they called me over and wanted to see photos. Interesting, the boot camp was all very fit males (single friends, take note) who squealed and gagged over the images. It made me smile. George doesn't know it yet but he's going to get a very large delivery of M&M cookies next week for all of his help.

My trek back to the scene of the crime also gave me a chance to see the fence again. Upon further inspection, I realized I was doomed from the start. Prior to last Tuesday, I hadn't been there for two weeks. Something must have happened to the fence in that time, because the part I climb over had been severely dented. The very top part, instead of sticking straight up, was bent so deeply, it was almost parallel with the ground. One metal hook was actually sticking straight out. In the daylight, the damage was obvious, but last Tuesday, it was dark, I was tired, and I never even looked up. I could actually pick out which part of the metal I scraped down on, based on the way it was bent. CSI Las Vegas is alive and well, friends. 

If running has taught me anything, it's that nutrition is key. You simply cannot expect your body to do crazy hard things if you are feeding it garbage. I approached wound care the same way: food is medicine. Even as Kat drove me back to my car that morning, we were strategizing over nutrients and foods to consume in the coming weeks. I'm been downing anti-inflammatory smoothies, eating as much Vitamin C, copper, and zinc that I can, supplementing with additional protein and hydrating, hydrating, hydrating. I even indulged my inner carnivore on Saturday night by slurping down three fresh oysters. (As much as I hate to say it, they were delicious.) And with 74 mg of zinc per serving, they are Nature's miracle cure to wound care. 

So it's all good, folks. I'm thankful for so many things - good friends, a quick recovery, no leg damage, and we are not in the zombie apocalypse. Let's face it - had these been zombie bites, I would have needed to have both arms amputated below the elbow. Or I would have just died and turned into a zombie. I don't like either of those options. So I'm happy that everything is totally fine and this is nothing more than a speed bump on the path to St. George.  

Here's the recipe for my absolute favorite anti-inflammatory smoothie - it's so tasty!!

Turmeric Smoothie

1 c non-dairy milk (coconut or almond)
1/2 c frozen pineapple OR mango
1/2 frozen banana
1 Tbl coconut oil (I omit this)
1 tsp tumeric
Pinch of fresh ground pepper
1/2 cinnamon
1 small chunk of fresh ginger
1 tsp maca
1 tsp chia seeds

Blend everything except the chia seeds in a blender. Pour mixture over the chia seeds, stir. Enjoy!!

WARNING -- this entry includes some graphic images. They are posted at the end of this entry. Reader discretion is advised.  

I'm not sure where to begin this entry. I'm still trying to process the events of yesterday. Something happened that could have seriously jeopardized my chance to run the St. George marathon, possibly even my life. I say that with no hyperbole and no exaggeration - it was a dumb, dumb accident and I feel quite foolish it even happened. I realize now it could have been much worse and I'm incredibly thankful many factors turned in my favor.

It was Tuesday, which meant speed work at the track and boot camp to follow. I'm usually the first person to arrive and over the course of the hour, others trickle. The gate to the track doesn't open until the maintenance guy gets there at 5:30, so we jump the 8-foot chain link fence. I'm not going to lie, this fence has been my nemesis since Day 1. I hate this fence. It's shaky, tall, and my feet are too big to use the chain links as foot holds. After Kat showed me a few tricks, I've successfully scaled it a number of times (even after speed work with dead legs - that's a doozy) but earned multiple scrapes and bruises in the process. No big deal; we runners are used to pain.

Yesterday was no different. I made the long walk up the shadowy drive with my bag, thinking about my workout (it was a good one!). As much as I hate this fence, I love, love love, running on the track. It just makes me feel amazing. Speed work has become something I look forward to now, not dread. Speed in fun. It's killer, but with the improvements I've seen as of late, it's really exciting. Boston or bust!

I tossed my bag over and noticed the top part of the fence was bent in. The little pokey things that formed the top of the chain links were angled towards me, not straight up. No matter. I grabbed a good hold and hoisted myself up.

Except my arms wouldn't push up. All of the planks and pushups from boot camp the day before had taken its toll. I dug my feet in deeper, trying to find a better hold, and clumsily continued pushing myself up, slipping all the while. I managed to get my right forearm and elbow on the top metal bar, helplessly trying to kick my leg over. If I could just get my legs on that bar, I could crouch, pivot, and drop into the stadium. Why weren't my arms working? My right forearm brushed against the top of the chain links, cutting the side of my arm. Ouch.

And then inexplicably, I lost my footing. Completely. With both elbows dangling over the top metal bar, the sudden drop yanked my arms down and directly across the top of the fence. Pain exploded. I hung there for a second before using my feet to push off, about a foot off the ground, and then dropped completely. I noticed blood running down my left arm as I doubled over in pain, cursing myself for being so careless. Damn that hurt.

Shit, shit, shit. I thought. I can't get over the fence and now my bag is on the other side. And I'm bleeding. I carry a first aid kit with me, exactly for this purpose, and now I can't reach it. Ditto for my phone and car keys. I looked at my right arm, which was also throbbing.

An entire chunk of flesh was missing.

In the darkness, I was able to see the giant gash, a black hole where soft flesh used to be. Instead of smooth skin, an angry, ugly opening lay instead. I could actually yellow globs  of adipose tissue.

My vision went white. I couldn't catch my breath and realized I was moments away from losing consciousness.  OMG OMG OMG how is this happening? OMG I'm going to bleed out. The pain was unreal. I dropped to my knees, not crying, but struggling to catch my breath. I began to shake violently. What in the world had I just done?

That little voice in my head, the one I try so hard to ignore when running, the one that is always fighting for my survival, said very quietly, Get up Kim. Start walking. If you lay here, no one will find you. Get into the light.

The voice was right. I was crouched in the darkest part of the hill, on my knees, trembling. The parking lot was less than 50m away and a single street light shed light on a flat dirt area.  I stumbled down the hill, not sure which arm to hold since both hurt, choosing instead to keep both out in front of me. I probably looked like a zombie: arms outstretched with (what I presume) a wild look on my face.

The whiteness hit me again right before getting to the dirt patch. No no no, I'm not blacking out. I collapsed on the ground, thankful to get more blood to my brain, taking deep breaths and willing myself to stay present. I raised my hands in the air, hoping to stem the bleeding. Crap, if only I could get to my phone. If only I could get my keys. I needed to get to the hospital.

Then a Jeep drove into the parking lot and man got out. He was setting up gear for his boot camp. I called to him weakly; he ran over instantly. I think the sight of a women lying in a dirt patch in her own blood was startling, to say the least. I told him I cut my arms and he declared he was calling an ambulance.

"I need to get my bag," I told him. "I can drive myself, I just need to get my keys." Ambulance rides were expensive. Then I glanced at him. I wasn't sure he was going to be able to get over that fence, either. Besides, was my skin on the fence? Had pieces of flesh gotten caught on the nooks? Ew.

"I'll get it," he told me confidently, just as another car pulled up. Alex. Thank goodness. "Wait," I said, hoping to avoid the second impalement of the morning. "That's my friend; he can help."

The guy called out to Alex who sprinted over. He took one look at me and took off for the track. I knew he could scale that fence in seconds. It also occurred to me that he was one of the best people to have in this moment. The dude runs crazy fast and climbs like a ninja. I was literally running with a fast crowd, probably one of the fastest in town.  

Alex returned in seconds and both men gingerly helped me into Alex's car. My whole back and legs were covered in dirt. I looked to see if there was dirt in the wounds, but every time I looked at the cuts, that white coating came across my vision. My head buzzed uncomfortably. I was shaking and sweating, trying very hard to not throw up. Was this shock?

We got to the hospital in record time. I lurched through the double doors while Alex carried my bag. Registration took one look at me and immediately sat me down, covering the cuts with soft gauze. They got the basic info ("How did this happen?" "I tried to jump a fence." ::long pause::), and next thing I know, I'm being wheeled back to my room. At this point, Kat arrived (Alex had called her) and we all settled into my little area. I tried very hard to keep my arms still, because any movement caused that wave of nausea to wash over me. Don't puke, don't pass out, don't poop your pants. OMG this was turning into quite the Tuesday morning.

Somehow, between the two of them, they managed to keep the mood light. Considering my pain, I found myself laughing and conversing. We didn't focus on the damaged arms, just how runners are crazy. We giggled like little kids at every blank stare we received after telling them how the injury happened. What, most 36-year old women don't present to the ER with fence-wounds? Runners will do anything to train, I guess. I briefly wondered how this would impact training, tearing up for a second. Then Alex made another joke and Kat and I were laughing again. Thank goodness for good friends.

In all, it took 20 stitches to sew up the lacerations, eight in one arm, twelve in the other. Relief came immediately, as soon as the doctor numbed both arms. Ahhhh...agony, be gone. They gave me a tetanus shot to be on the safe side along with an entire kit of gauze, non stick pads, and arm sleeves. Finally bandaged, I looked like a botched suicide attempt. But as Alex pointed out, I did not get any blood on my racing flats, though I may have stepped in doggie poop. Whew!  

As much as this sucks and I'm totally embarrassed by the events of yesterday, I am so incredibly thankful it wasn't worse. Had I hit an artery or vein, I would not be typing this write now. It would have been the OR - or worse - and very little chance for any running in my future. The cut on my left arm is less than an inch from that big, meaty ulnar artery. I'm not letting my mind go there.

Likewise, there seems to be no major long-term damage. All tendons are working, as I was able to move my fingers right away and squeeze them completely. No need for physical therapy. The doctor was able to pull my skin closed on the right arm to close the gash, so there will be no need for plastic surgery in the future either. (I'm not sure I would have gone down that path, but it's nice to know it's off the table.) The stitches will stay in for ten days and then I'll have some cool V-shaped scars. All in all, best case scenario. 

Other protective factors include my three amazing helpers. Boot Camp Guy and Alex were in just the right place at just the right time, and thank goodness for Alex's speed and agility. For Kat and Alex to stay with me, keeping me company and laughing, forgoing their individual workouts, well, you can't ask for better friends. I'm not wishing you any ER visits in your future, but if that happens, you should call in Kat and Alex for comic relief. Laughter really is the best medicine.

I arrived home just twenty minutes later than I normally do. I made Brian's smoothie and sent him off to work. I changed out of my bloody clothes and soaked them. Had it not been for the white bandages on my arms, Scotty would have never known anything happened. It felt a little surreal, standing in my kitchen, replaying the events of the morning in my mind. The gashes hurt, yes, but it can always be worse, right?

Best news is that this will not affect my training schedule. Next week would have been a light week, so I'm just swapping this week for next. No miles or fitness lost. If anything, this whole experience has strengthened my resolve to run harder and faster than ever before. And ironically, it just may improve my form: I tend to hunch my shoulders and pull my arms up when running. This posture inhibits the amount of O2 you take in. With my current situation, I am forced to keep my arms at perfect 90-degree angles, since extending them hurts too much as does retracting them. Silver lining, anyone? 

So for the curious, here are the pics. Again, you've been warned. If gore is not your thing, look away.  
  
Let's start with a happy one. This is us leaving the hospital. Alex dubbed it "The Squad." I can't feel my arms. YAY!

Now, some not so nice ones. This is the left arm.

And the right one. This one hurts the most -- but the doc was able to pull the skin together and close it. Whew.

See? Doesn't it look much better?

And the left one looks pretty good, too. This doctor's stitching rivals my mom's! I wonder if he quilts, too.

All better! Let's guzzle some anti-inflammatory smoothies and begin the healing process!

It goes without saying: I will not be climbing any more fences.

Stay safe out there, friends.

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me, "When does running get easy?" The question took me by surprise; I stammered through a mostly nonsensical answer about goal-setting, shoes, and pace. I think I may have confused my friend more. It was before 6am. Anything that comes out of my mouth before the sun rises is mostly incoherent.

I thought a lot about that question on Saturday morning, as I arrived at the 5K. Technically, this should be "easy." Some may sniff at a 5K - "just" a 5K; a short(er) distance to be sure, particularly when compared to a half or full (or, egads, an ultra). The longer the run, the harder it is, right? But while longer distances take more time, shorter distances can be killer, too. Replace distance with speed and it's by no means easy. For most people, this race will be over in less time than the most recent Game of Thrones episode, but that doesn't mean it's "easier."

As someone accurately pointed out, you have far less room for error in a 5K. Hell, consider a 400 meter dash: with milliseconds separating first from last, absolute perfection is necessary. (For you LEGO Movie fans, I just heard President Business's voice in my head: "All I'm asking for is total perfection.") 5Ks are more forgiving, but as my friend noted, screw up that first mile and you'll never recover.

I was a ball of nerves on Saturday morning. This felt anything but easy. Like, shaking hands, jittery, live-wire nervousness. I've had my fair share of pre-race anxiety, but this was different. I was actually experiencing physical symptoms, not just your standard negative thoughts. I don't like the idea of being perfect. The pressure? No thanks. I think that's why distance running is much more appealing; I can mess up six ways to Sunday before I ever get past the halfway point, and there's still a chance for redemption. This race was making me feel emotionally claustrophobic.

The course itself did not help either: it was tight. Shaped like an infinity sign, we started in the middle, did a loop uphill, came down that loop downhill, then went into our second loop before arriving at the finish. There were quite a few sharp turns as well, something I had no experience with handling. Passing was also problematic: with all those loops, faster runners were charging at you as they headed back in.  When I got there and saw there wasn't even a timing mat, my heart pounded even faster. This was going to be a gun start? Aw man.

"Throw some elbows," Brian and Alex both encouraged.  I shook my head no. Can't we all just orderly file into a nice, cooperative formation? I didn't want to throw anything, let alone an elbow, and I certainly didn't want anything thrown at me. Competition aside, I was mostly concerned about wiping out. My mind briefly flashed to the Girls on the Run 5K I did last year, the one where the runners and girls were so tightly packed, some 12-year old in lime and pink ribbons took me out. One moment I was chasing after my girl, the next, I was air born. The flight was fun, the landing was not. Scrapes on my knees, thighs, palms, elbows and chin (because if I'm going to fall, why not land on my face?) made planking very challenging for weeks. Not to mention the humiliation. Wiping out amid a crowd of girls wearing satin capes and hair bows is one thing, but I did not want to crash and burn among my peers.  Also, I was wearing shorts and a tank. Skin on pavement at 7.5 mph = serious road rash.

Thankfully, the start went off without a hitch. My friend Kat inexplicably lined up behind me, one of the few people who actually had a chance to win the race. As soon as I realized this, I pushed her in front of me. Um, hello. I love my fancy new shoes and feel confident about recent speed work gains, but I'm not delusional. Kim does not need to be standing in the front of the fasties.

I attacked the first mile as planned. Considering I had run it a few weeks ago and couldn't get under nine minutes, I breathed a sigh of relief when my watch beeped 7:44. Making the turn and heading downhill, I allowed myself to relax into the run. Not listening to music was crazy helpful; I could hear the runners around me and was able to stay in the moment at all times. My form, my arms, my legs, my turnover. Pitball wasn't singing about going to da club; Ke$sha had been silenced. It was just me and the footfalls of other runners. Yes, a man pushing a double stroller passed me in the second mile, which I can tell you, is incredibly demoralizing, but the dude was flying. I had already told myself that this wasn't about me "beating" anyone else; I knew my goal and it was 23 minutes or less. Even if the whole field came in at 22 minutes and I finished dead last, sub-23 would still be a victory. Let's just all keep our elbows to ourselves...

Second mile: 7:08. The fastest mile I've ever run in my whole life. Holy smokes.

With just over a mile left to go, my legs started screaming. All of those fast-twitch muscle fibers (all 12) were pretty well fatigued at this point. Kenyan, I am not. This was also around the time I noticed I had somehow fallen into a grudge match with some 10 year-old kid. I'd pass him, he'd pass me. We were in the stretch where other runners were coming directly at us and it was getting a bit dodgy. I certainly didn't want to crash into a potential winner/placer but this kid was annoying me. Fall behind? Speed up? I don't know.

My brain had woken up by this point as well and was trying to sell me some incredibly unhelpful thoughts. "This is tough," it yawned. "You're tired. Give yourself a break! You're doing a good job. You can slow down." I grimaced and fought to ignore that awful voice. "Really, no one will stop loving you if you come in over 23 minutes. You are really pushing yourself. Slow down, you've got nothing to prove."

Stupid over-sized, protein-saturated organ. Always fighting for my safety and survival, even when it's not necessary. This was not the time or place to conserve energy, though I knew I was fighting against years of evolution. Running, in so many ways, is kind of like dunking your head into an ice-cold bucket of water and keeping it there. Your brain screams at you to pick your head up and breathe. Live. But in running, you have to override that survival instinct, push past the pain, and keep going. I think that some of the best runners aren't the ones have the best conditioning or fastest legs, but the ones who are simply willing to suffer the most. At its most basic, running is about compartmentalizing pain for pre-determined amounts of time and then managing it. But it's not all bad; don't think I'm some masochtic martyr in sneakers. We runners know there is an incredible, endorphin-soaked tiki party at the end of that pain train.* That's the part we live for and the reason we keep lacing up.

Thankfully, just as this war waged in my brain, my eyes noted Kat's boyfriend Alex was standing at the corner, waiting for me. Incredibly speedster that he is, he finished the race in under 18 minutes. Instead enjoying his victory and relaxing, he trotted back on the course to find me and bring me in. Now that's a friend. 

Seeing him wave shut down that negative internal voice. I concentrated simply on what he said and pushed harder. He cleared the path for me literally and metaphorically; with about 200 meters to go, he actually deflected a small child that had accidentally wandered onto the course. I would have laughed or at least smiled at the irony, but in the moment, that took too much energy.

Running as fast as my legs could take me, I crossed the finish line at 22 minutes and 58 seconds, two seconds faster than my goal time.

Success.

This time, I really did think I was going to vomit. Not because I had consumed wine the night before (which I hadn't), but because for the first time ever, I had really, really, really pushed myself. Of course, I'm a terrible puker and an even more awkward spitter, so I stood next to the finish line, gracelessly dry heaving and ineptly wiping saliva off my chin. Who loves running? This girl!

We stood around for awhile, congratulating other runners, taking pictures, and reliving moments from the race.  So many people shouted hopefully cheers to me while running; Lulus, FN racers, Ninjas.  I wish I had been able to return their enthusiasm, but I couldn't get a single word out. The running community here in Las Vegas is pretty incredible and this race certainly brought out the best.

Brian, Scotty and I walked to a nearby restaurant for breakfast before the parade started. As we ordered, my phone chirped.

WHAT?!

I put my head down on the table, mostly laughing but crying a little too. Seriously? Seriously?! First? I don't think I've ever taken first place in anything in my whole life. That third place finish at the Memorial Day race was pretty awesome and I thought I'd never get a chance to experience that again. And this...this was too much. 

Also, clearly all of the other 35 to 39 year old female runners slept in. There are at least 23 women my age in town that I can name instantly that would have crushed me like a grape in a foot race. But they weren't there so there you have it. It's funny and silly and crazy, all at the same time. Mostly silly.

Kat and Alex both placed first in their age groups as well, and Alex was 4th overall. Kat and I both PR'd, which was crazy.  A ton of Lulu runners also had PRs and placed, and the overall female winner was an incredible runner I see during my Tuesday morning track workouts. Very cool that so many friends ran strong, and a totally awesome way to start the Fourth of July. Maybe I'll make it a habit to run on every American holiday. Note to self: check availability of local 5Ks for Labor Day weekend.

Don't worry, it's not going to go to my head (much). Brian wisely taped the end of the race, which I watched with great anticipation. But instead of seeing an Olympic marathoner with perfect form effortlessly breeze across the finish - which is how I felt - I watched this blond lady with hunched shoulders and a poofy French brain** (the humidity was killer) cumbersomely slog across the sidewalk. Why was I leaning back? Were my heels actually touching the pavement? Why do I sink into every foot strike? Why the hell am I running so slowly? 

The video was horrifying yet helpful.

Lots of room for improvement, friends. So much room. In fact, if improvement was a room, I just bought a mansion.  

So to answer my friend's initial question, when does running get easy? I don't know. Saturday was killer. I have yet to have an "easy" race. I don't think running is ever easy. You just get stronger.

*Loosely paraphrasing The Oatmeal's "The Wonderful and Terrible Reasons Why I Run Long Distances."

**I've found the French braid is the only way my hair will stay out of my face during a run, without having to use an elastic band (which breaks tiny baby hairs). Also, the more I sweat, the tighter the braid becomes, which is strangely awesome yet very helpful. Yes, I feel kind of weird braiding my hair, but it works, you know?

When I first started running, I didn't time myself. I didn't run with a phone or a Garmin, as my focus was distance, not speed. Back then, completing the training run was a huge victory. I was covering miles that seemed previously insurmountable. In 2011, finishing a six-miler took almost an hour and fifteen minutes. I felt like an Olympian afterwards, like I had just done something really spectacular. In reality, all I had done was shuffle and sweat for just over an hour. But talk about a cerebral victory. If I could go six, I could go more...

Like most things, the more you do it, better you want to get. Now I can run a 10K in under 50 minutes*, but it has taken a long time to get there. Gaining speed feels like it takes forever, and last summer, by doing the ultra, I really screwed that up. Longer runs dictate slower speeds, and with 20 milers sandwiched between 8's and 10's, I watched everything I had gained from the 2014 Summerlin Half Marathon die a slow death in the hot desert. Good-bye, 8:30 miles. Hello, 9:45s (and beyond).

Since LA and this year's Summerlin Half, my main focus has been shorter distances, faster. If you may remember, my least favorite kind of workout is speed work. Chaining myself to a treadmill, running at an extremely uncomfortable pace for 60-75 minutes (while a certain A-list actor lurked nearby) was misery. But then a friend suggested I get off the treadmill and try a track workout. Track? Like, the oval-shaped rubbery thing with lines? I've never run on a real track in my whole life. I did one year with the track team in seventh grade, but our middle school didn't have a stadium, so we took laps around the school on the concrete sidewalk. Not to mention, I couldn't run a 10-minute mile then, so they only allowed me on the team provided I run hurdles (the least popular event). I won't bore you with the details, but 11-year old Kim's hurdle career was short, unremarkable and rather painful.

36-year old Kim is doing much better. Lo and behold, you know what is really fun? Running on a track! Seriously! The first time I did it, I looked up at the stands and imagined a cheering crowd. How fun would that be? How cool must those athletes feel? Yes, it was 4:30am and I was completely alone, but man, what a rush. Running for me has always been a quick path to feeling like a kid again, and this was the cherry on top.

Over the last six weeks, I practiced 200m -1000m at various paces, trying very hard to hit each split in the time allowed. One week I hit everything perfectly and the next, I missed every single one. Whoops. I will say, running fast not on a treadmill means you are doing all the work; there is no belt pulling you, no button to hit if it doesn't go well. Ultimately, I discovered I could go faster than ever imagined; I would have never set the machine at a 7:26 mile, but left to my own devices, it was suddenly attainable. 

The best thing I learned? You can still run fast on tired legs. I had five 1000m repeats on Tuesday that required a 4:42 pace. With a one mile warm-up, the leggies felt good on the first lap. 4:45. Solid effort, three seconds too slow. Second one yielded the exact same result. By the third repeat, I was giving myself permission to slow down since my legs were tiring. But that lap was 4:41. This gave me rush; maybe legs weren't the key here...maybe if I moved my arms more, focused on turnover, and ignored the fatigue...fourth repeat was 4:41 and my last lap yielded a sweet 4:39. Lactic acid, be damned.

Another cool thing about speed work on a track is watching the really fast people. There is much to be said for training up. Yes, you have to check your ego at the door, particularly when their warm-up pace are your intervals, but man, they are incredibly to watch. Legs flying, arms pumping - I tried to mimic what I saw with limited results, but it was very cool to witness.

With all this focus on speed, I splurged new shoes - racing flats, to be exact. I've been in Brooks since Day 1, so this was a major shift. Several stores and much discussion later, I had found a winner. Weighing in at a mere 6.1 ounces per foot, my new Adidas Takumi Sen Boosts are downright magical. Plus, they actually look good too. I honestly don't know if I'm cool enough for these shoes. They fit perfectly, grip the ground, yet feel like there's nothing on my feet. Don't get wrong; I love my Brooks and *kind of* feel like I'm cheating on Scott Jurek (sorry, Scott), but these shoes are awesome. The thinner heel and lighter weight make my turnover faster and more efficient. Which, when running fast, is exactly what you need (amid a whole list of other things, too). ::swoon:: 

The 5K is tomorrow; this will serve as a time trial for St. George training. Things working in my favor tomorrow: no wine tonight, fancy new shoes. Working against me: the heat and the first mile (all uphill). And for the first time in four years, I'm running without music. My goal is to focus, not distract myself, from the task at hand. This is a complete departure from what I've come to know and love about running. Instead of using it as a stress reliever or a way to rock out, I'm looking inward to concentrate. Who is this person? I barely recognize myself these days.

Personal growth aside, I'm excited! There's nothing better than a little pre-race anticipation. Hope everyone has a great 4th!

*For me, this is great. For others, this may be incredibly slow/fast. Everyone is different and running is relative. Please don't compare times. My only competition is myself.