Since announcing my decision to run the Vegas marathon, I've gotten the question "Why?" more times than I can count.

I've tried to rephrase the question to "Why do you run?" instead of "Why do you want to run a marathon?" After finishing Born to Run, I thought I had figured it out...because we are born to run, silly! It's who we are. By denying our natural ability to run, we are, essentially, denying our very identity as people.

That all sounds really good and deep and existentially interesting, but when it comes down to it, I honestly have no idea why I run. This question was put to the test on Saturday night as I found myself flying down the hills of Red Rock Canyon. "Why am I doing this?" was quickly replaced with "Why the [bleep] am I here? This [bleeping] SUCKS!"

It was not a good race, folks.

Maybe it was the wind and plunging temperatures (my thin desert skin starts to shiver around 60 degrees. I'm completely convinced my twelve years in Vegas has made me cold-blooded). Maybe it was the dark night sky, absent of a moon, that made the canyon black, cold, and completely uninspiring. Maybe it was the deer-like runners ahead of me that scampered up the hills with such ease that I seriously began to doubt my own training regimen.

Whatever it was, I crossed the finished line a full ten minutes ahead of my time last year but nauseous from motion sickness due to the bobbling headlamp that lit my path. I could barely celebrate my new PR because my hands were so cold I could barely open my pack to get gloves. The cold sweat that had beaded on my back was quickly dropping my body temperature. All in all, it was a miserable experience. On a night I could have been 1.) out with friends 2.) drinking beer or 3.) curled up on my couch with my husband and child, why choose to torture myself this way? I felt tears popping up as I stood at the finish line, desperate to find a familiar face and feeling scared and alone.

And then, sitting, laughing, and chatting just to the left of the finish line, was Michelle and Kerry. They came armed with a giant box of beautifully-decorated cupcakes and tiny bottles of champagne. In our goodie bags, so lovingly packaged, was also Chapstick, Tiger Balm and face wipes (brilliant!!). They showered Nancy, Greg and I with hugs and pictures as we attempted to eat our snacks with frozen fingers. Their presence was like a giant warm light that made the last few hours somehow worth it. My tears of frustration were quickly replaced with tears of thankfulness and appreciation. And my new question is now, "Why does running make me so damn emotional?"

So maybe that's why we race. Recreation has its reasons, and I'm starting to understand that it's not the race itself that makes it fun. Maybe it's what is waiting for you at the finish line; the kind people in your life that go above and beyond the scope of friendship that make you feel really special, really loved. It's the post-race beer shared over pretzel bites and curly fries in the cozy neighborhood bar at 12:45am. Perhaps the true value of running - and racing - isn't about negative splits or proper hydration. For me on Saturday night, the benefit of racing had nothing to do what was out there on the Loop at Red Rock. It was found in the goodness of the people waiting at the finish line.

 

Last week, three people in three different conversations asked me in what time I wanted to run the marathon. That question has been hanging over my head for the last seven weeks. Finally, being put on the spot, forced an answer.

Without thinking, I blurted, "Four twenty-seven."

As one person commented after a rather pregnant pause, "...that's very...specific."

Well, it's what my training guide says. I have it printed out and stashed in a kitchen drawer. Long runs are highlighted (usually with a scared face next to it), mileage per week is tracked, and I take great pride in crossing off each run as it's completed.  The paper is wrinkled, spotted with coffee marks, because I pour over it every morning, reading, deciphering, and staring at what is expected of me next. Those folds highlight a great deal of consternation, thought and worry.

All three people expressed surprise when I told them my time. I quickly assured them I am not trying to set any new records (ha! As if) but the time limit for the Vegas course is a mere five hours. Maybe because it's so flat? Either way, if you are behind, they drive a bus around and pick you up. When I heard that, my first thought was, "I'd run away from the bus!" I'm not getting on any bus. After all this training, to be chauffeured to the finish line sounds like a humiliating finish.

On Sunday morning, as I set off for my first 16-miler, officially the longest distance I've ever run to date, I wondered if I was setting the bar too high. Four twenty-seven boils down to a 10:04 mile. A ten minute mile is a really comfortable, easy pace for me at this pace, so why not? I can do that for 26.2 miles, right?   It's good to have goals. Training has been going so well (minus that yucky 14-er two weeks ago). Let's raise the bar, not worry about where it's set.

This internal dialogue played out as I drove in my warm, comfy car to the official start. The moment I stepped out, a cold blast of wind almost knocked me over. It was 4:45am and the sun was two hours away from making an appearance. Clad in only a thin, sleeveless shirt, my fears of overheating now danced wildly on the other end of the spectrum. It was freaking cold, people. 

And the wind. Oh, the wind. My slow trek into Red Rock Canyon was uphill and made more difficult by the unrelenting wind. Why did I agree to run this direction? I was by myself and turning around was an option. Why torture myself? I mean, as I ran, I passed others wearing parkas, winter hats and gloves. I looked naked compared to these people. By mile 5, I could barely move my hands. Reaching for water and gels became a comedy of errors with my frozen fingers.

My neat 10-minute miles dragged into 11, 12, and 13 minute. As I trudged along, I wondered if there was anything worse than this. My brain told me yes, many things are worse than running alone into a dark, cold canyon. Hello, Jesse Pinkman. But in the moment, if someone offered me a ride to the nearest Starbucks, I would have taken it. Screw Born to Run. I was born to drink coffee in a cozy sweatshirt.

No one offered me a ride, so I ran to the turnaround. Then it hit me - on race day, I have no idea what the elements will be like. It might be windy. It could rain. Hell, both may happen.  And what a valuable lesson  about timing. As much as 4:27 sounds glorious, variables out of my control (weather, crowds) will affect the race. My goals for race day shifted dramatically during that run, and I'm happy to report they are much more open to interpretation.

First and foremost, I'd like to finish without having to climb on that bus.

Second, I want to enjoy the experience. Reinier said your first marathon is always your favorite; I'd like to prove him right.

And finally, I want Scotty see his mom finish strong enough to pick him up at the end of the race for a much-need post-running hug.

I'm not going to wed myself to numbers anymore. I'll save that for my second marathon.

(somewhere, Brian just slammed his head on a desk).

Every once in awhile, a play date comes along that is both fun for the kids and the parents. We were fortunate to have one of these yesterday.

It started out rather unassuming; it was a dull Thursday afternoon. Brian was going to the gym after work, so Scotty and I were rolling solo through dinner. The weather in Vegas is changing, and while it's not cool yet, it's also not 115 degrees. Playing outside is finally an option. I wanted to share a new drink made with chia seeds I had been making all week with a friend, and the only person that could appreciate it (and have the sense of adventure to drink it) was Courtney. I texted her, she texted back, and I broke out the ingredients for a lemon chia fresca. And so, an impromptu play date sprouted.

The kids were wild in the house. Scotty inexplicably punched Sam in the gut because she refused to give up her toy. After a tearful time-out, Court and I realized we needed to let the animals run before things got out of control.

I broke out the stomp rockets. Peace flourished.

Notice how Carson and Sam have their eyes on the sky? Our fearful Bear had no interest in getting beaned by a stomp rocket. He was hightailing it to higher ground.

Once cool, they began playing with the ice. They drew their shadows, created facial "war paint," and had fun spitting pieces of ice in the lawn (and let's face it, at each other). What could I say? It was just going to melt anyways. No clean-up, no mess. It was just frozen water.

Courtney and I were so delighted by how consumed the children were that we went to the big freezer in the garage and got a giant bag of ice that had probably been sitting in there since 2011. It wasn't useable for beverages anymore, so why not play with it?

The kids loved it. Our street turned into mess of ice chips, ice balls, and tiny puddles. Scotty threw an ice ball and hit Sam, and me, hoping to avoid yet another time-out, told Sam to just chuck one back at Scott. She was delighted at this idea. It ended up hitting me (though he howled in protest), but an eye for an eye, right? Seemed like a primitive way to handle things.

A few neighbors drove by. Most smiled. I assured them it was just ice and they seemed to understand. I mean, in 90 minutes, there would be no evidence of our play date.

If ice is good enough for sea otters and pandas at the zoo, it was good enough for our little monkeys. Ice is the overlooked play toy of the Pre-K set. For Scotty's next birthday, I think I'm just going to hand out three pound bags of ice to all the children and tell them to go play in the street. Brilliant and cost-effective.

They were red-faced, sweaty, and grinning from ear to ear. There may have been some ice-down-the-shirt moments, but the squeals and giggles were worth it. And for something so easy and cheap, it turned into an epic play date that actually allowed the moms to be able to finish a conversation. Mostly.

I mean, playing on the street with your best friends after school. Isn't that what childhood is all about?

When the going gets tough, the tough go the only place that makes sense...

Barnes and Noble.

After my disastrous run on Saturday (which I wrote about here), I knew that my major concern wasn't my legs or tummy. It was my head. I had to get my head straight before I could even contemplate another long run, mainly because I was scared out of my wits. The only coherent thing I could utter at Boot Camp on Monday morning (aside from a growing list of ailments) was "That can't happen again. I mean, it can't happen. I simply cannot do that again." If every long run meant fetal-position-stomach-cramping that lasted five hours, well, I was ready to hang up my running shoes without so much as a backward glance. Clearly I wasn't meant for this sport.

Serendipitously enough, the night before my ill-fated run, I went to a little gathering with friends. While we stood around and noshed on heirloom tomatoes, fresh from a Kentucky farm, and straight-from-the-oven foccacia bread, my friend Nancy asked me if I had ever read "Born to Run," by Christopher McDougall. Nancy is a tiny, sprite-like fleet-footed trail runner with more energy than my toddler.  She said that the book, among other things,  describes the Leadville race, an ultramarathon in the Colorado. This perked my interest - Reinier had just done the Leadville race this past August. Considering Nancy's impressive track record, I trusted her recommendation.

So as I wandered the aisles of my local book store on Monday morning, desperately trying to convince myself a pumpkin spice latte would not be in my best interest, I stumbled upon the book. Maybe it would be a good read? I was really more in search of books about nutrition and training - whatever I could read that would ensure my stomach wouldn't hurt while running. But I had a gift card, so throwing another book on the pile didn't seem like such a big deal.

What can I say about "Born to Run"? First, I finished it last night, less than 48 hours after purchase. The sign of a good book, by Kimmy Standards, is if I refuse to talk to my family because my nose is buried in a book. I once spent an entire Christmas ignoring my family because I wanted - no, needed - to devour the third Harry Potter book. (I was like, 16. Cut me a break).

This book is like running Prozac. Or running Xanax. Or some kind of wonderful pharmaceutical that just makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. McDougall, the author, made me feel like he was just like me - a runner who liked to run but kind of sucked at it. His foot hurt, his legs were prone to injury, and he had trouble upping his miles without serious disaster. The part where he is not like me is that he is an award-winning journalist  who gets paid to trek off into the deadly Cooper Canyons in Mexico to study the world's greatest ultrarunners, a tribe of Indians called the Tarahumara. Lucky dog.

Embedded in the narrative about these fascinating, amazing people, McDougall crams in all kinds of fantastic running advice. While the form, stride and pace info was helpful, it was the historical (anthropological, actually) and spiritual bits of wisdom that made me run for my highlighter pen. And when you think about it, if you are about to set off and run 100 miles through the wilderness, you better have your head on straight. I've always known that the biggest struggle of running exists between my ears, but this book was like a massive wake-up call. I can do hill days and night runs until my knee caps fall off, but until I really embrace the cognitive challenge ahead of me, it's all for naught.

My favorite quote? From Ken Chlouber, the creator of the Leadville Trail 100: "Make friends with pain, and you will never be alone." Not to get all hippy-dippy, but as any philosopher would tell you, in order to truly conquer something, you need to embrace it, not run from it. Running 26.2 miles is going to be tough, and the more I try to tell myself it's not going to hurt, the more inauthentic I become. I need to own it, to acknowledge it, to shake its hand. Pain, nice to meet you. Welcome to my life.

And the best part (to me, at least) was how he was able to link present day runners and ultrarunners to our earliest origins, Homo sapiens. I mean, we've managed to survive all of these years without claws, sharp teeth, rapid speed, or incredible strength. We survived years before the advent of primitive weapons, and we did it with a wimpy, skinny little bodies and oversized heads. How? Endurance running. If we can outrun our prey, we win. We might not be the fastest or strongest, but we can outlast the animal through persistent hunting. So what he's arguing, is that essentially, at our deepest core, we were born to run. By denying our ability to run, we are denying who we are, who we were born to be: natural runners.

See what I mean? Deep thoughts. Like, whoa.

As much as I love (adore, actually) this book, I'm not sure if it would appeal to non-runners (but if you don't run, you really should start.Please reread the previous paragraph.) For those with Gu in their pantry or the ability to talk about socks for hours, this book is a fantastic way to rediscover your reason for running and inspire yourself to be better. I plan to reread this bad boy the week before the marathon to get my head in the right mindset.

The amazing ultrarunners, the Tarahumara, run and run and run. They actually get faster as they older. Everything about what they do is counter-intuitive to American running beliefs. But as McDougall notes, "You don't stop running because you get old. You get old because you stop running." On the eve of the my 35th birthday, this just fills me with sense of lightness and joy. In the two years since I started running, I feel younger, fresher and full of more energy than I ever thought possible. I feel happier, more at peace, and more balanced than ever before.

I hope I have 35 more years of running ahead of me.

Happy trails, friends.

On Saturday night, I posted this on Facebook:

(hash tags are silly, no? I still don't quite understand them.)

As it turns out, I was not having some spiritual exposure to a higher power. I was just a goofy runner in bright green compression socks, high on caffeine and rapidly overheating.

Let me set the scene: it was my first 14 mile run. At night. This would officially mark my longest run to date. In the past two weeks, I had done a 10-miler and a 12-miler with zero problems. With the Red Rock Twilight 1/2 Marathon coming up at the end of September, I wanted to fold in a few night runs, just to make sure I (and my stomach) were ready.

Hoo boy. I should put "ready" in quotes.

I followed the instructions to a tee. Light meal at 4:00pm. A banana and 8oz of water at 6:00pm. (Brian sat next to me on the couch, snacking on deep dish Pizza Hut pizza. Pepperoni. Oh, the torture). One Gu and a half-cup of coffee at 7:15. As I tied, double-tied, then triple-tied my laces (over and over and over again...long distance running seems to bring out my compulsions), I felt...great. Fantastic, in fact. I was going to rock this run. My head buzzed a little, but I thought it was just anticipation.

My normal pace is between 9:30 and 10:00 minutes. (slow, I know. You fast runners out there, just work with me, okay?) Anything over that usually means I'm going uphill. Anything faster means I'm going downhill or running away from a dog.

My first mile (uphill, nonetheless)?

9:05. Whoops.

But I felt great! High! Amazing! I rocked out to some new songs on the playlist and charged up hills, darted around sprinklers, and danced over curbs. I even texted a few friends. Texting while running - is there anything more hubris-tic?

By mile 6, my overuse of energy was starting to be felt. Mile 8 found me pulling from some reserves, but I reasoned that I was almost done. By mile 10, I was pretty much done, but I still had enough energy to text Brian and let him know I was on my way home. I cruised through miles 11-13 and coasted home. Done! Legs are tired, my tummy hurt a little bit, but I had finished! In a respectable 10:05 pace. 1,883 calories burned. Boo-ya.

My first indication that something was wrong happened when I caught sight of my face in the bathroom mirror. It was ghostly white. I chugged a glass of Gatorade and shook it off. After my shower, I dried my hair quickly and planned to grab a quick snack (not pizza) on the couch before going to bed.

Which is when the unfortunateness happened.

It was as though a giant creature just crawled into my abdomen. I could actually see movement in there, like an alien baby had just birthed itself. The cramping in my stomach was debilitating. I never got to the kitchen for a snack but decided to sit on the couch and wait it out for a bit. Sitting quickly turned into laying, and before I knew it, I was clutching a pillow and moaning. After an hour of writhing in the fetal position, I though I should move this party upstairs. Except when I attempted to traverse the first step, dizziness, heat, nausea, and blackness hit my head all at once. Considering passing out is one of my greatest fears in the world (and we have hard tile, people. Head injury anyone?) I dropped to my knees and immediately crawled back to the couch. And just in case you are wondering, Brian was watching me with a mixture of confusion and concern through all of this. I didn't know if I should drink water, throw up, or eat something. He just sat there, patting my leg, until I told him to stop because the motion was making me nauseous.

After another hour (it was creeping past midnight), I attempted the stairs again. Crawling, I made it. But when I put my toothbrush in my mouth (dental hygiene is always a concern, regardless of my mental/physical state), the blackness came yet again. All I remember is hearing Brian say "That's not going to happen tonight" as he set my toothbrush on the counter while I collapsed in the closet. Yet another hour passed before I limped into bed, exhausted and still not sure what was wrong with me.

The stomach cramping lasted until 3am. I managed to get several sips of water and a few crackers to stay down. By Sunday morning, the whole experience was like a bad dream. I felt tired but not exhausted. I ate several small meals throughout the day and everything stayed where it was supposed to.

After an analysis at boot camp this morning, the consensus was that the coffee messed with my digestive system (the Gu had caffeine in it, too - double whammy). Also, drying my hair after my shower heated, not cooled, my body and I quickly descended into runner's stomach cramping madness. Oh man, I do not want to experience any level of that again.

Reinier told me marathon training is all about learning about yourself and your limits. I think on Saturday night, I found mine. I may be grumpy but I'm not giving up. I'll figure out this running thing one day.  Just hopefully by November 17.