After last year's ultra, I swore I would never return to Rachel, NV. If you have an hour (or four) to kill, here's the recap. The blog entry is nearly as long as the race, most of which I wrote in the hospital while Brian was recovering. To say the town holds some bad memories is an understatement. When I signed up to run the 10K this year, clearly I was drunk or delusional (or both).

Yet on Saturday night, we found ourselves northbound on the 15 headed to Area 51. No bus this time; Brian had agreed to drive and essentially stay up all night while we ran. For a guy who is staring down the barrel of a crazy-busy September including yet another trial, his selflessness really blew me away. As we chatted on our way to pick up Kat and Alex, he only asked once, "Why are we doing this?" I had been asking myself the same thing for a week. Once again, it was a Saturday night that could have been spent enjoying cocktails, a movie, a long dinner. But I'm tired of asking why. "Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'," I told him wryly, doing my best Red impression. Livin', we were.

The race was the same as last year. Ultramarathoners and marathoners get dropped off 20 miles before town. Half-marathoners unload a few miles after that, and everyone else starts in the parking lot of the LilAle Inn. The 10K runners begin at the 20 mile mark, run to the turnaround at 23.1, then back to the parking lot. For the 5Kers, they start five minutes after the 10K group and run to the first aid station and back. Ultramarathoners, of course, run to 25.7 and then back. I remember passing 23.1 last year and bursting into tears when the woman told me I could turn around. No, no I couldn't. But this year - hell yes! It was only six miles! Without the twenty mile warm up!

This proved to be the theme of the evening. Kat and I couldn't stop commenting how short this was. Six miles. Six miles! Anyone can run six miles. Dude. Six. Miles. It'll be over quickly. My pace would be slower than my 5K time but faster than half marathon. It's just a really weird late-night tempo run. I knew I'd PR since I'd only run one 10K previously in 2012. My time was 1:02? 1:03? Short of breaking a leg, I was confident I'd come in well under that.

Until we all got out of the car. The first gust of wind hit us. Then the second. Hmm...a bit blustery. We were, after all, in the middle of Nevada. The LilAle Inn was the only structure for miles. Alex immediately looked concerned. He's run the 10K four times now, taking second each time. He was determined to break the tape tonight. "This is not good," he declared as we walked to the Inn. My goal time of 46 minutes immediately dropped to 48.

The race didn't start until 1am, giving us two full hours to kill. We took silly pictures. We stretched. We went to the bathroom multiple times. We talked dreamily about the crazy foods we were going to devour as soon as this was over. (Having spent all day "eating lightly," the hunger level of our group rose with each passing hour. Alex kept talking about Fritos and tapatio and I couldn't get my mind off of Skittles.) Brian, delighted to find the cell service excellent, did a complete mock fantasy football draft.

I found this in the bathroom and thought it was a good omen.

I did a quick 5 minute warm-up down the ET highway and found fresh legs but a tired body. My 65-hour taper had worked; no running since Thursday at 7am though the late hour had taken its toll. I slept until 7:30 Saturday morning but, just like last year, was unable to nap throughout the day. Damn you, good sleep hygiene. I didn't feel sleepy, just...heavy. Slow. And that wind was annoying.

We lined up, counted down, and took off. Alex, of course, darted out of sight instantly. This was his race to lose. I hung behind Kat for the first mile, clocking a solid 7:19. She and I were alone in the darkness, and her shorts were shockingly reflective. As she got further and further away, the rest of her body disappeared into the darkness while those shorts radiated brightly in the light of my head lamp. Eventually, all I could see was the shorts. Kat has a very distinctive gait, and in the light, her hips bobbed from side to side like clockwork. It reminded me of one of those tiny hula dancers you put on the dashboard of your car. A much welcomed-change from last year and the lady wearing the seizure-inducing green oscillating wig. At least this helped my turnover.  

Instead of dealing with motion sickness, this year's challenge was contending with the heavy breathers. Opting to not wear ear buds, I could hear every sound around me, including the two dudes behind me who sounded like hungry zombies. The groans, the panting, the shuffling...it was driving me nuts. One guy ran directly behind my right shoulder, close enough to bite me. Pass me already, I thought grouchily. Just before the 3.1 turnaround, they both did, shedding light on one more dude in front of us (where did he come from?), but other than that, it was just us. Where were all the other runners? This was the quietest race I'd ever done. It felt more like a training run.

With the zombies in front of me, I concentrated on the third man. I passed him with ease and listened as he sped up. He passed me. I passed him. He darted past again. Oh, you wanna go? He clearly wanted to be in front. Okay, I get it. I sided up and ran next to him for several minutes, assessing the situation. Without music, I could listen to his breathing and ascertain how much effort he's exerting. This is something I've learned to do in the last few months, and it's actually kind of fun. As we ran, he was gulping air like a fish out of water. Far too shallow for this point in the run, and totally unsustainable. I smirked silently. He's really pushing himself. Since mile 1, my pace had dropped to a much more comfortable 7:49. I was running hard, yes, but this was moderately-intense for me. He, on the other hand, was putting it all out there. 

Sure of myself, I glanced over and turned my smirk into a sweet smile. He grimaced at me.

Then I kicked up my heels, did my best DiBaba impression, and dusted him.

It felt good.

I lost my smile slightly there after. Instead of focusing on what was behind me, I realized the greatest challenge lay ahead of me. Namely, large groups of walkers (not zombies, but real, actual people walking). Exuberant groups of folks marching down the highway in the middle of the night, without a care in the world. Clad in glow sticks and clutching green alien balloons, they were chatting happily and occasionally shouting nice things at me. Very helpful, appreciated, thank you. Whatever floats your boat. And they could party it up on that road all they wanted, just as long as they stay out of my way. Most moved aside, but two rather jubilant walkers decided to join in. Hearing my footsteps coming up from behind, they ran in front of me. This lasted approximately ten seconds. Instead of moving over, they chose to simply stop, completely blocking my path. I was forced to make a wide left to get around them, sucking up precious seconds. Grr...it's okay. Enjoy your night...we are all in this together...

Alex found me on mile 5.5. Tape-breaker that he is, he yelled all kinds of helpful things for the next .7 miles. "Use your arms!" "On your toes!" "PUSH!" It was like being in labor again. I pushed. I swung my arms. We weaved around more walkers. I was doing great until I hit the last 20 feet, literally directly before the finish line, when pavement ended and turned into gravel. I almost wiped out completely when my right toe got stuck. I managed to right myself and cross upright, coming in at a rather frustrating 48:12, a 7:46 pace. Twelve seconds past my worst-goal time.

At least my knees remained unskinned.

Finishing was weird. I dutifully stuck out my foot so they could cut off my timing chip. I caught my breath. I felt...fine. Shouldn't I be puking? Or dry-heaving at the very least? I glanced over at Kat, who had finished several minutes earlier, and commented, "That was weird." She agreed. "I feel like I need to go run five more miles or something," she said. We started laughing. We're so used to these big miles...six felt odd. I guess it's a good problem to have.

Alex was the overall winner, running a solid 37 minute-and-change race. Kat came in right behind him, around 41 minutes, giving them a 1-2 finish. They beat the rest of the field by almost five minutes. Knowing there were only three guys in front of me, I landed in 6th place finish overall and 2nd place female. It was a solid sweep by our little team. Discouraged as I was over my time, I was delighted to have placed second only to Kat. Accepting my award was really neat.

I felt like a legitimite runner.    

What I didn't know was how close two women were to beating me. After reviewing the results, the next female was only 18 seconds behind me, the next 23 behind her. I didn't slow my pace at any point, but because of the perceived lack of other racers, it was really easy to get lulled into believing this was more of a training run. I do a lot of "fishing" when racing - finding someone to run behind, then reeling them in, and this race didn't offer that. It's hard to press hard when there's no one to catch. Needless to say, I'm VERY happy I didn't Molly Huddle it; I ran through the line. Almost fell over the line, but I got over in enough time. ALWAYS RUN THROUGH THE LINE.

The next obvious step: do tequila shots. My bird-like friend with hollow legs and I happily stepped up to the bar and clinked together what can only be described as the biggest tequila shots I've ever seen. Maybe I'm just not drinking that much these days, but we both blanched slightly at the sight of those shots. They went down smoothly (thankfully!) and the salt tasted amazing. Fiesta!

That massive food celebration never materialized. The one gas station we stopped at wasn't open. I ate the rest of my almond-butter and jelly sandwich and called it a night. Brian and I dragged ourselves to bed at 6am, threatening the kittens with physical violent lest they opt to not remain silent for the next 3-4 hours.

Several miles away but quite possibly another planet, our little Bear was wreaking havoc at his sleepover. I got this picture at 7:45am Sunday morning.

God bless you, Jason and Courtney, for being the most patient people in the history of the world.

As for the "why?" in this story, I learned Saturday night that "why NOT?" is so much more fun.  I mean, you can only have so many drinks, eat so much food, and see so many movies. Running down a restricted highway with good friends and random strangers against a gnarly headwind in the middle of the night: now that's livin'. Just ask Red.  

One of the cool perks about writing this blog is I get offered lots of free stuff. I rarely accept unless I feel it will enrich my life and yours. I'm especially picky about books since there's a time-component to reading. As a wise friend once said, time is our greatest commodity; use it well. I have a hard time investing time and energy into a book if I don't think it's going to have a good pay-off. Therefore, I offer to review very few - unless it really strikes a chord.

This one did. When I first heard about Desolation Sound, a novel by Fraser C. Heston and Heather McAdams, I was immediately intrigued. Anything involving serial killers is an automatic. I could chat about psychopaths all day. Set in the Pacific Northwest? Even better. Rain is super spooky. The killer targets runners? Blond runners? Yikes! Now I can't look away. And just to add intrigue, Fraser C. Heston is the son of the late Charlton Heston. Hello, I've seen "The Ten Commandments." It's not everyday you can say Charlton Heston's son sent you a book.

The nice people at Agamemnon Films did just that. I read - no devoured it - within two days. A definitely page-turner, Desolation Sound is based on a true still-unsolved mystery: running shoes with feet still in them keep washing up on shore in the Gulf Islands of British Columbia. Retired detective Jack Harris happens to discover foot #13, bringing him into the somewhat political, sexist world of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Were the feet a result of tragic accidents or foul play? Do the Mounties always get their man?

Right from the start, I was hooked. In the second scene, Liz MacDonald, an up-and-coming star in the RMCP, is used for bait to catch an alleged rapist that attacks runners in one of the community's parks. She just happens to fit the profile. The scene plays out like one of my worst nightmares: you're out for your morning run when you notice someone behind you. A guy in a hoodie. He start to chase...but as much as you try, you can't get away. Eeeeeee. I would have liked to know more about what kind of shoes Liz was wearing and her pace, but that's just me being a runner nerd.

If that wasn't chilling enough, during a particularly gruesome scene, the novel narrates from the killer's point of view as he is about to dismember his latest victim:

"Runners have a special quality...they are fighters. They are half nuts. Who is their right mind ignores shin splints and their IT band to push through a seven-mile run? Runners. That's why he loves them so much."

It gets worse.

(but honestly, seven miles? I would kill for a seven miler these days.)

"He liked long-distance runners. Marathoners. Half-marathoners. Blond women who need that run to survive. To be able to blank whatever stresses they have running thought their pretty little heads. The type of girl for whom running is oxygen. Who gets antsy is she can't got for a run." 

The whole time I was reading this, I kept thinking, "Why blond? Why can't you go for a brunette? A sprinter? A dude?? Ahhhhh!!!"

Yes, technically it's fiction, but this was hitting a little too close to home.

Ever so savvy, victims were found on Facebook when they'd disclose their running route. Chills went down my spine. Reading this (in horror) the night before a Saturday long run, I literally reached over and reset my alarm at that very moment. More sunlight, less darkness, and let's run a new route. Disclosing my new course only to Brian, he took my jitters in stride, promising to not tell a soul as well as alert the authorities the moment I went missing. 

After the whole fence incident, I'm taking no chances.

I judge a book by its ability to make me feel. This one succeeded admirably. Taut, suspenseful, and with enough twists and turns to keep you guessing until the very end, Desolation Sound is a solid narrative with sound character development. It strikes just the right balance between action, horror and drama. Best of all, you don't have to be a "half-nuts" runner to enjoy it; if you like a well-crafted, creepy psychological thriller, this is the book for you. That is, unless you are a blond distance runner who spooks easily. Then, you may want to play it safe and find a running buddy - or save the book for daylight hours.

Enjoy!

Big thanks to Shannon, Fraser and Heather for the advanced copy.

About:
Agamemnon Films; Paperback, ebook
On sale August 11, 2015, Amazon.com
200 pages / $9.99 paper, $4.99 ebook / ISBN-13: 978-1514193945 
 

It would be an understatement to say the last few weeks have been rough. I'm hitting that icky expanse of marathon training where the body is fatigued nearly constantly, yet the race is still far enough off to feel like there is no end in sight. I knew I was in trouble on Thursday afternoon when I sat at a friend's kitchen table, sipping coffee, staring at her like a zombie. If thoughts were electricity, I had maybe one or two zaps course through my brain.

I had flatlined.

Back in July, because of my arm injury, I switched up my long run schedule. What should have been 12-14-16-7-18-20 became 12-14-7-16-18-20. Yes, look at those last three. 16, 18, 20 in three consecutive weeks. We could debate all day if this was in my best interest, but in the end, ultimately I need the time on my feet. I hadn't completed a run over 15 miles since mid-March. Long runs are necessary for physical gains but also to strengthen mental toughness. Lord knows I need more of that.

The 12 and 14 happened while on vacation in the humid, mosquito/deer fly-infested lands of the Midwest. ::shudder:: Hot, sweaty and itchy, I rejoiced when they were done and applied more bug spray. The seven miler was, as expected, a breeze, spent happily chatting with Lulu runners while pulling on my arm bandages and trying not to think about chain-link fences.  

The 16-er took place among the quiet pines of Mt. Charleston. That beauty is deceptive; with such an extreme slope, the first five miles flew by in a blink. I clicked off 7:20, 7:27 miles. These times were insane. I am Kenyan! Okay, Kenyan B-team, but this is amazing! I literally felt like I was flying down the slightly lopsided highway. It flattened out a bit around mile 10, but my average pace was still a ridiculous 7:42. Pride took over and I huffed out those last six, coming in at 2:06, a 7:54 average and twenty-seven minutes faster than the first half marathon I ever ran. Insane. That's my tempo pace, not my long run. I was a full minute-and-six-seconds faster per mile than I should have been. I limped to brunch later that morning, convinced I had broken my foot but deliriously happy with my performance.

Then I got out of bed the next morning. Like a baby deer learning to walk... 

I could barely lift my legs. Going up the stairs - yeah, that wasn't going to happen. Down the stairs? Are you kidding me? By Monday, I managed to get out of bed and slog through a recovery run almost 45 seconds per mile slower, pain exploding in my dead legs or weary hips. It felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to my calf muscles. I was so tired, I actually skipped hill day that week. I could barely drive to the park, let alone run up hills. It's okay, I just had to run 18 miles in three short days.  Sure...

This time, I started two miles down the hill to avoid the extreme down and intentionally went slower. Kenyan no more (the dream was fun while it lasted), I trotted through my 18 like a wounded but tenacious squirrel. I finished. 8:38 pace, legs tired, but I did it. I took a brief ice bath and nap Saturday afternoon then we went out for dinner. A few cocktails, high heels, and probably not enough water. It's okay, I could push through this. I wore compression socks under my clothing at a friend's baby shower on Sunday (half the people there were runners; they understood) and called it a day.

Until Monday morning when I felt like complete poop. My weight was up (as we all know) and I felt completely and utterly spent. And I was staring down the barrel of a 20 in just six short days, but first, let's complete a week of boot camp and speed training! YAY! No! By Thursday, the day of my zombie-coffee date, derailed by an easy four miler that morning, I knew something was way, way off. Blinking hurt. It was only week 6 of a 13-week program; there's no reason why I should be feeling this badly, so soon. What was I doing wrong?

This is probably the most frustrating part of any training program. Feeling like you are putting in the effort but not seeing results. Watching your pace (and weight) go up. It's maddening. To think I have seven more weeks of this...I wanted to quit. Clearly, I picked the wrong sport. Maybe running wasn't for me.

(for long-time readers, you'll note this happens during every training program. Like clock work, really).

Before I hung up my sneakers for good, I took stock of my actual behaviors. Taking an honest, hard look at yourself is probably one of the toughest things you can do. I started using My Fitness Pal again. I wrote daily food diaries, tracking food and hydration. I pledged to be much more thoughtful in those first 24 hours post-long run, knowing that it would set me up for a most successful week of running. Recovery is easily overlooked and I had been careless. The actual run is only several hours a day; my focus needed to be on what I was doing during the other 22 hours.

To everyone who responded about gaining weight during marathon training: thank you. That was illuminating. My friend Tanya posted this link and it was an eye-opener. It's helpful even if you aren't running and just trying to lose weight. It's so easy to fool yourself into believing you can eat more than you need. If the scale isn't moving, reexamine what's going in. I did, with surprising results.

After a rather gruesome 20 miles in the heat, made worse because I failed to bring enough water (my autobiography will be titled, "Thirsty: The Tale of One Desert Runner"), I logged my calories. While I did burn 2200 during the run, I consumed a whopping 850 during the run and directly after. This included my pre-run breakfast, 3 gels, 1L of coconut water, and post-run recovery shake. EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY. I'm fooling myself if I think I can eat whatever I want during that critical 24-hour period. Those calories add up in a hurry, and despite the 2,000+ calorie deficiency, I was clearly having no problem putting in what I just took out. A few vegan treats here and there and I had more than made up for what I burned. Plus, I was waiting too long to eat, hence the cravings. Per the article, the longer I waited, the more likely I was to crave sugar and fats. My poor body thought it really was the zombie apocalypse and I was starving. Grab all the cookies before the walkers come! Sheesh.

Hydration was another giant piece of the puzzle. Those post-run cocktails on Saturday night? Not doing me any favors. Sure, I wanted to celebrate being down with yet another week of marathon training, but it was essentially compromising the next. Also, sitting out by the pool in 110 degree heat was turning me into beef jerky. I needed to break out the foam roller, spend more time in the ice bath, and log some serious shut-eye.

Though the 20 was ugly, I'm proud of what came next. I PR'd in the ice bath (a solid 12 minutes), wore my compression socks to bed (Brian, thankfully, remained mum on the subject), and ate way less than in previous weekends. Hyper-conscious about food, I forced myself to not become a remorseless eating machine.  I also sought out different and more nutritious options. Instead of reaching for a handful of chocolate chips, I opted for a handful of raspberries. And you know what? I survived! It wasn't even that bad. Not surprisingly, my weight is down again. (whew!)  

No alcohol meant better sleep, and I logged a full ten hours Saturday night. I spent Sunday in the temperature-controlled bliss of our living room, building Star War Legos with Scotty, sipping on 100 ounces of water. All in all, kind of a perfect way to recover.  

My recovery run this morning went off without a hitch and for the first time in three weeks, I feel strong. At this point, I only have three more big-mile runs left until George. Is there a light at the end of this tunnel? Perhaps. My newfound commitment to recovery may not make me the life of the party (hell, I'm not even at the party; I'm home in bed), but I can get through the next six weeks. Best yet, my head is back in the game. Onward!

**I wish I could take credit for all of these amazing recovery tips, but the bulk of them came from my friend Alex. Thanks for talking me off the ledge last week! Thankful for your running expertise and friendship. :-)

Last week, I wrote (what I believed to be) this very inspiration tale of my one hundred and one pound weight loss journey over the past six years. Yes, 101 pounds. I never set out to lose that much weight - just like I never thought I would gain that much, either. It's crazy to think that I once carried all that on my 5'6" frame. In the last few days before Scotty arrived, I could barely walk 50 yards without my back going on. This past Saturday, I crested through an 18-mile run at a 8:38 pace. My uplifting little tome created for the blog was chock full of all kinds of helpful, educative advice such as "take it slow!" and "make it a lifestyle!" and "find a tribe!" It was lovely, really.

But then I got on the scale this morning and saw a number that I haven't seen for awhile. My 101 pound-loss suddenly became 96. What the hell? I ran 18 - no, actually 19, if you count the striders - miles this weekend. I barely ate anything. Yes, I had a few cocktails on Saturday night but that was about it. I had green beans for dinner on Saturday night, for heaven's sake! GREEN BEANS. To add insult to injury, my impromptu weigh-in came right after running 5 miles AND a 60-minute boot camp class, so there the number was artificially lower due to water lost through sweating. 96 suddenly became more like 94. I'm the only person I know who actually gains weight on a marathon training program.

I deleted my original post. What do I know about anything?

And it's then I realized - this is all a journey. There is no destination. We are never "there." Yes, I'm annoyed about my alleged 7-8 weight gain, and perhaps you are thinking, "I have 10-20-50-100 pounds to lose!" Dude, I get it. It can feel overwhelming, especially if you aren't seeing quick results. There is nothing more maddening than putting in so much effort and seeing the opposite happen. The thing is, there is no magic pill or bullet. I always tell myself, if Oprah hasn't figured out a way to buy it yet, well, there's not much hope for the rest of us. 

While sucking down yet another vegan protein smoothie while icing a hurt foot, I realized - it's just consistency, consistency, consistency. And patience. A lot of patience. Good food in, move your body, and keep on keepin' on. There will be good days and not so good days. It's been a long six years of tiny victories. And I've managed to keep it off for this long because I did take it slowly. It was a lifestyle change AND I found a tribe of amazingly supportive people. I am doing many things well, but there are still a few changes I can still improve upon. So instead of pouting, it's time to suck it up, Buttercup. Up, down, all around - as long as I'm still moving forward, that's what matters.

And if you are on a similar journey, stay strong. Don't let the scale affect you too much. Today, I'm going to acknowledge my successes over the last few years with an understanding that there's still more work to do. My decisions today are next month's results.

We've got this. :-)  

**Just to clarify: my weight goal is more about performance than appearance (though there's nothing wrong with that, either). With St. George just over seven weeks away, there's a specific weight I'd like to be at when I run to help with speed. If this is still unclear to you, strap on two 5-pound weights on each ankle and go for a 10 mile run. Yes, that's kind of how I feel right now. Ow.  

Is ARMmageddon over yet? Please?

Over the last two weeks, I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about my arms. Looking at them. Studying them. Wondering what the heck is going on in my body. Worrying about the bruising, contemplative about healing, engrossed in the daily changes, meditative about how this may affect my gait, energy level, and overall fitness.

Arms, arms, arms. I have become obsessed with my arms.

Throughout these last few weeks, while I have been thoughtful, I have not been very emotional about it. I didn't shed a single tear at the ER, not one when I got home, and remained stoic for the next ten days. While those gashes looked nasty, they were not very painful. Once the stitches were in, I felt an enormous wave of relief. I was at hill day within 24 hours, ready to rumble, and got at least six miles in every day. Arms, schmarms. I could do this.  

This bravery ended spectacularly on last Friday morning. Stitch removal day. I had no idea, but those stitches were like tiny black crutches. Cue the water works.

As my doctor gently removed each stitch, laying them in uniform order on the white paper of the exam table, I felt great. No more itchiness! My left arm had taken the brunt of it, red and puffy from irritation. I couldn't wait to get these things out and go on with my life.

"All done," he announced.

I looked down. And once again, almost passed out.

Yes, technically the wounds were closed. But instead of a smooth surface, two red, swollen cuts lined a little pink valley of tissue. There was space between those cuts; a lot of space. It looked as though all I needed to do was stretch my arm out just enough and bam! Skin would split apart and once again, I would have giant holes in my arm.

In my best, my professional voice, I told the doctor to please put the stitches back in.

He smiled. "You heal from the inside out," he informed me kindly. "Your cuts will not reopen."

I shook my head. They pass out medical degrees like candy these days. This guy clearly did not know what he was doing. I repeated my request, this time with an edge to my voice.

Now he was laughing. "The majority of healing happens within the first 72 hours," he stated. "You will be fine."

This was not going well at all. In the first 24 hours of that critical window, I consumed a margarita the size of my head and chased it with cough syrup. This was a bona fide disaster.

I felt a tiny bit better after he applied the Steri-Strips ("just one more," I encouraged him as he taped my arms together. I'm such a backseat patient) but the idea of extending my arms terrified me. Walking out to the car, I gingerly carried them, walking like an oversized Barbie. Out of the office and in the safety of my car, I laid my head on the steering wheel and wept.

Scotty, in the backseat and justifiably freaked out by his mother's behavior, cried too. Epic parenting failure.

Somehow, somehow, my arm cuts did not reopen. The compression arm sleeves gave me a hit of confidence during my 16-miler down Mount Charleston on Saturday morning (wakeup time: 3am). In addition to seven pounds of water, I also carried my phone and a tiny make-shift first aid kit in the event the cuts decided to split apart on mile 7 when I was completely alone (and likely surrounded by wolves. Oh, that imagination of mine). Despite the extra weight, I finished a full minute faster per mile than I should have, which highlights just how downhill the course was. My legs paid the price but at least my cuts remained closed.

By Tuesday, two weeks after the accident, I found myself in the chiropractor's office complaining of neck pain. All of my Barbie-ish movements had pulled on my right trap, making it almost impossible to turn my head. Once again, I found tears in my eyes as I told the doctor about my fears of seeing the inside of my arms again. He handed me tissue, gently patted my leg, and readjusted my neck. He also encouraged me to stretch my arms daily, since those muscle fibers are regrowing. Without stretching, they will regrow tight, making this an issue going forward.

How am I now? Mostly irritated that I keep crying, haha. But this morning, my arms look better than they have since this whole event happened. The original Steri-Strips have fallen off, but I keep reapplying my own. Is it possible to develop an addiction to Steri-Strips? It's really more for peace of mind. I love Steri-Strips. I'm also becoming a regular at our local CVS.

Let's hope this entire incident will be a thing of the past by the end of this week. I just don't ever want to see the inside of my body ever again.