This past Saturday, a few friends and I headed west to pass out water to runners at the annual Twilight Red Rock Half and 5K. I've run this previously (The Value of Racing and Home Canyon Advantage), but this would be my first time ever volunteering. Heck, I've never even spectated a race before, so I was curious to see what it was like "on the other side." Does everyone look as tired as I feel? Do others waterboard themselves at water stations too? And most importantly, how much crying really happens at the finish line?

Well, I didn't get a chance to see the tears at the finish, but I did get a bird's eye view of miles 1.8 and 7.6. Running the loop at Red Rock is not for the faint of heart; racing is even tougher. This isn't your standard road half, but it's not a trail run either. It climbs over 1,000 feet in the first five miles while you pound the asphalt. It's not conducive to PRs but what a rush to run it, especially at night. The scenery is breathtaking and we were treated to a tiny cresent moon. Aside from a tree branch that looked like a scary baby arm, it was pretty awesome.

But first, let's take a selfie.

Ryan is a fledging runner, dipping his toes in long distance running and curious to see the inner-workings of a race. Kerry agreed to come because Kerry is simply awesome. She was also part of the ET Ultra Alien crew of this past summer.

So what did I learn?  Lots.

I take this sh*t seriously. Maybe too seriously.

So many of the runners seemed relaxed at my water station. Granted, it was 1.8 miles into the race (and the real climb had not yet begun), but I was surprised to see so many happy, smiling faces. Huh? Game faces, people! You should be suffering! Or not. Maybe they were actually having...fun? Running is supposed to be fun? Fun is PRing....right?

It was interesting to see others' race strategies, too. There were the obvious front-of-the-pack kids, motoring up the hill without stopping. But then there were groups of people, clearly running together, holding back to make sure everyone stayed in the pack. They were actually...laughing. I don't laugh while running. And then there were the groups of people who were there for the experience; you could tell they didn't care about their time, but run/walking the event was the real thrill. It seemed as though they were more in it for the adventure, less for the clock. And many, many, many folks walked through the water station. Few sloshed water around their mouth opening and let the rest drip down their chin (my preferred method).

Fascinating.

Maybe it's time to rethink my strategy. Because more than half of these people really looked like they were having a good time.

Note to self: chill out.

Second note: ...after Chicago.

I would last two, perhaps three hours tops, on "Naked and Afraid"

And I'm not talking about tapping out; I'm talking about dying.

The weather here in Vegas took a serious turn on Friday, vanquishing our 100-degree temps with cool breezes in the span of twenty-four hours. The tiny hurricane from Friday night thankfully disappeared by Saturday, but those frigid temps stayed put. Clad in my thermal running pants, three shirts, Marmot jacket, gloves, an ear wrap, AND a ski hat, I shivered uncontrollably once the sun set at 6:30.

The offensive temperature?

61 degrees.

I recognize that as a desert dweller, my blood has thinned to the point that I can barely tolerate the frozen food section at the grocery store. But this was just sad. And as I told Brian of my suffering later that night, he commented, "You sunburn easily too, so you would struggle in a warm climate as well. I believe this drops your Primitive Survival Rating to...negative 1.2."

All of those meta-physical life-changing transformations that runners go through happen silently

While I started on mile 1.8, my group dropped me off to continue water distribution at "the Wall" once the last runner had passed. This meant we had to drive by all of the runners on the course, either making their way up to the Overlook Ascent or charging down it. While I run, there are so many thoughts going through my head. Aside from just general posture and technique concerns, my mind will wander to bigger, grander, and most thoughtful topics. Running is truly transformative. You never finish a race the same person you started as.

But from the outside? It just looks like a lot of running. And suffering, I'll be honest. All of the participants silently climbed, nary a peep. I didn't know who was calculating splits or their monthly budget, who was deciding whether to push harder or leave their job. I had no idea who was contemplating fartleks or starting a family. It all looks the same from the outside.

And I was tired just watching them.

Volunteering is fun; try is some time!

Good friends make great volunteers. As Ryan aptly stated, "Kimbo brought the treats, Sallee brought the beats." (Ryan enjoys nicknames). There was some booty-shaking in between runners (I was really just trying to stay warm), pretzel sticks (MY FAVORITE!) and Rice Krispie treats, and lots of laughs. It wasn't your typical Saturday night in Vegas, but it certainly was a memorable one.

Last week, I totally bagged Chicago.

As in, I'm not running it anymore. In my head, I cancelled the hotel, changed my flight, and just ate the entry fee. It was foolish of me to consider running a full marathon eight weeks from my first ultra, and well, I completed overestimated my ability while grossly underestimating the punishing power of the ultra.

Remember when I said I had zero issues with recovery? That's was true - and not so true. I didn't have time to even think about recovering from that race since five minutes after crossing the finish line, life smacked me in the face. Hard. I didn't think about ice baths, sleep, or hydration. I did what the situation called and kept on truckin'. I was even at Hill Day that Wednesday, a mere three days after the race, chugging away on fumes and adrenaline. Ran eight that Saturday. In the weeks that followed, I continued my 3:45am wake-ups to get 7-8 miles in before 6am and one Saturday, I got up especially early to get 14 miles in before heading downtown in heels for a Junior League event, existing on about four hours of sleep.

An elite athlete, I am not.

Function well without sleep, I do not.

(Talk like Yoda, I will. Much Star Wars, I have watched.)   

The toll this has taken on my body has been a sneaky one. I thought I was fine after the ultra - toenails, all counted and present! Knees, hips, glutes, and hammies were great. But fatigue, that sly devil, slowly crept in until it had me in a choke hold. Burning the candle at both ends morphed into a sinus infection AND an ear infection. Now illness on top of exhaustion and my 8oz running shoes suddenly felt like cement boots. Speed work? Ha! That's a laugh. Tempo run? Not gonna happen. The best I could manage was to crawl up Hualapai at a ridiculously slow pace and then flop face first on the couch post-run.

All of this fatigue means one thing in my life: overly emotional Kimmy. Yay...

I cried through boot camp multiple times. I broke into sobs during one Super Loop. I cried at my birthday lunch. Like, literally putting my face on my plate and crying into my napkin. (that was a fun one, let me tell you). When my (free) Rent-the-Runway birthday dress failed to arrive on time, I sank into my knees on our porch, choking back tears. You would have thought I was play-acting in a bad movie, but nope, those tears were genuine. It's because once I hit that bone-achingly tired phase, just about anything causes me to lose it. Even Scott, sweet little Bear that he is, asked me, "Mom, you eat all the good food, right?" I nodded. I think I was making a salad at the time this conversation took place. Scott continued, "...then why don't you win the races?"

Thanks, kid.

Thankfully, a dish towel was nearby to catch the tears.

All of those horrible, no-good, incredibly unhelpful thoughts about running go through your head during these times. I'm not going to win. I'm not going to qualify for Boston. This doesn't pay my mortgage and the pride of the nation does not rest on shoulders. This started out as something fun (FUN?! What's that?!) and has totally turned into an animal I can't control. Running is essentially recreation but it doesn't feel that way anymore. Why am I doing this? No really, why? Can anyone answer that? I certainly can't.

Thankfully, I've been doing this long enough to know that the minute I start asking "Why?", it's time to redirect. Time to turn off my brain. We're reaching the danger zone...and if it goes on too long, there's a good chance I'm hanging up my shoes and not looking back. Because screw it, what's the point?

So on that fateful day when I decided to cancel the race, I had a long talk with myself. It was time to chill out. I do not need to adhere to my training schedule 100%. It's time to scale back. Sleep in a few mornings. I skipped - yes, skipped - one whole workout completely.

And you know what happened? Aside from the sun continuing to rise and the Earth continued uninterrupted on its rotational path?

I survived.

I don't know what is going to happen at the Chicago Marathon, but I'm happy to say that I will be there. My original goal was to beat 4:44 and I'm sticking with it. It's so easy to get caught up in the excitement of others and their goals, and as cool as a sub-4 run would be, I just don't think it's in the cards. That's okay - because I have hit all of my other running goals for the year, save one. Sometimes scaling back is what is needed to get one foot out in front of the other.

During my 8-miler this morning, in the black of night down the Beltway trail, instead of my shoulders slumping forward and me drudging on, I felt light for the first time in six weeks. And know what? I finally, finally hit my pace.

Finally.

The Chicago Marathon is twenty days from today and I'm praying for 19 awesome nights of sleep, good weather, and lots of positive thoughts.  

On Labor Day, we brought home two new members of the family.

Meet Chewie and Yoda.

(guess who named them?)

We walked into the first of three shelters we planned to visit that day and as soon as I spotted them, I made a beeline for their cage. They were so...soft. Like bunnies. And so floppish. And quiet. They were tiny little creatures with big eyes that reminded me of the cat I had growing up. Despite my stern warning to both Brian and the Bear that "we are not getting a cat today," it was me who was pleading to take not one but both of them home. I mean, who can resist squishy-soft kittens? Especially when they just melt in your arms?

Scotty, obviously, was all in. And Brian too - he's such a softy. The kittens are sisters born in early April, putting them just around five months. This was exactly what we were looking for - and plus, they had been fostered since being really little and just gotten to the shelter the Friday before. Most interestingly, they are part ragdoll, a breed known for being extremely good with children, having docile temperament, an affection nature, and the tendency to go limp when picked up. Floppy cats? Yes!

Plus, the lady at the shelter told us they can grow to be the "size of a watermelons." Considering Emma's petite stature, I think this perplexed Brian and I. We've never had a cat greater than seven pounds. ...the size of a watermelon? Really? Game on, sister.

The first day of cat ownership was not an exciting one. In fact, it looked a lot like this:

Our sweet kitties immediately retreated to the safety of the green chair. The only thing visible after they climbed up into the chair was a tiny tuft of (bunny-soft) fur. I'm not even sure who it belonged to.

We kept them in the guest bedroom for the first week with plenty of food, water and toys. Every morning, I'd visit, whistle, and be greeted with silence. I cleaned the litter, freshened their food, and tidied up the place. They remained under the chair. I kind of felt like maid service but that's cool. They'll warm up soon, right? I don't need much back in return...

On Saturday, we opened the door to their room with great flourish ("Release the kitties!" Scotty yelled joyfully). After several hours, Chewie poked her head out, looked around, and then went back under the chair.

Sunday, however, was a different story. On Sunday, they turned into Frat Cats.

And by that, I mean they party all night and sleep all day. The sound of their tiny, tiny footsteps echo in our hallway at all hours of the night. I have no idea what they are doing, but it sounds like elephants thumping down the stairs. I almost tripped over one of the furballs on Monday morning as I made my way down the dark stairs on my way to Hill Day. They ripped apart the Packer Christmas tree in the loft ("shiny balls! Garland! This is AWESOME!") and enjoy throwing their food around with reckless abandon. This morning, I found my beloved blue orchid tipped over with wood chips scattered across the kitchen tile. Picture frames are upside down, pens are scattered...it's like Kittynado hit our house.

So now, every morning, my routine has evolved into freshen water, clean litter, tidy room, but also fix whatever in our house has been unhinged by these tiny creatures. Because when that sun goes down, it's on. The Party Cats are ready to rage.

This is a stage, right?