One summer when I was a kid, my family took a trip out west. I can't remember how old I was - maybe 8? Nine years old? We started from our home near Chicago and drove all the way out to Yellowstone National Park, making stops in Iowa, South Dakota and Nebraska along the way.

It was your typical family vacation: lots of fighting between my sister and I in the backseat. Not enough snacks. Frequent bathroom stops. I learned I have an extreme fear of heights and propensity to motion sickness when driving in the mountains.  My mom learned that "historic hotel" is code for "no air conditioning" (and we all suffered that night). My sister learned to stay away from her annoying little sister who throws up a lot. (Perhaps Kelly's future success in a career in nursing was born from my car sickness.) I don't know if my dad learned anything. Maybe next time, fly?

But it wasn't all bad. We saw some amazing sights, like Mount Rushmore and Old Faithful. We went on beautiful hikes and rode horses. We stopped at the world's oldest (largest?) pharmacy, Wall Drug, ate a lot of food, and took lots of fun family pictures.

One night in Wyoming, my parents signed us up for this chuck wagon supper. I was in that "I love horses" phase of little girlhood, the one where I just couldn't get enough of the animals. After we rode out out in the horse-drawn carriages, the staff started a fire to begin dinner while the rest of the group relaxed. They kept the horses a field away from where dinner was going to be served.

I remember going over to the horses with a large group of children. They let us pet them. They let us feed them hay. Then, to my incredible delight, the man in charge said we could sit on a horse as long as we had our parents' permission. Sit on one of these magnificent creatures? I didn't swear at the time, but hell yeah.  I don't know why this was such a big deal to me, since we had spent half the vacation on horseback, but I was in. All I knew was that in my little 8-year old mind, I had to sit on that horse. And I had to be the first kid to do it.

So I took off across that field of tall grasses, my parents directly in sights. They were all sitting at picnic tables, probably no more than 100m away. I ran hard. I had a goal: to sit on that horse. Must. Get. Permission.

Then - boom. Totally wiped out. My foot gotten lodged in a prairie dog hole, concealed by the tall grasses. The surprise of hitting the Earth hard jolted me. That wasn't expected. I looked down - nothing was broken or bleeding. I was a bit dirty, but no matter. I took off again.

And wiped out immediately.

Another prairie dog hole.

Annoyed, I got up again. Now my hands were skinned. Whatever; my mom will clean them up.

I didn't see any kids behind me (I later learned they went around the field, not through it) so I kept going. And I kept falling. That stupid field was literally littered with holes every few steps. It wasn't just one prairie dog hole; it was an entire colony of them.

I have no idea how many times I fell or how many times I got up. Every time I fell, I got up in a hurry, convinced one of the other kids was going to beat me. By the time I got back to the picnic tables, bloodied, dazed and dirty, they broke into applause. I looked around, shocked, and realized they had been watching this chubby little kid with a terrible unflattering Dorothy Hamil haircut flounder through a prairie dog field for what felt like eternity. One man actually commentated on the whole thing, yelling out the crowd, "She's up! She's DOWN! But she's UP again!" There were whistles and cheers. I'm sure my parents were mortified (but amused).

Their applause wasn't meant to mock me, but it was their way of congratulating me for chosing the path less taken. For dealing with the unforeseen circumstances encountered along the way. For never giving up.

Or maybe, because it was just really hilarious watching a fat kid with a bad haircut fall down a lot.

In the end, I did get to ride the horse. I wasn't first, but I made it.

I think about this story occasionally when I'm out for a long run. I fall, I get up, I keep going. Isn't that what this is all about? I don't think my 8-year old self had any keys to unlocking the secrets of life, but I do think she possessed the tenaciousness, competitiveness, and just overall stubbornness that still help - and occasionally hurt - today. 

I don't know what's going to happen this weekend, but I do know I'm going to give it my all. Maybe I'll fall. Or maybe I'll fly. I will get to the finish - regardless of the number of prairie dog holes out there. Just this time, with a much better haircut.

See you on Monday.

I realize now I incorrectly titled the last blog entry (and perhaps, just miswrote the whole thing).

In my mind, it was intended to be, "The Idea of Giving Up." Based on the numerous comments, messages and one very worried phone call from my mother, I realize now it read more like, "I Am Giving Up." No worries, friends. I haven't chucked my running shoes yet. Short of a catastrophic incident, I will run next Saturday.

I meant the entry to read more like a call to action, a battle cry for all us fall racers toeing the line in the next few months. Kind of like, "You can do this! We're all in this together!" I think we all go through periods of wanting to give up, regardless of your goal. Even the big names -- Deena Kastor almost opened a bakery instead of pursuing a running career, for pete's sake. Instead, she can hang her lovely bronze Olymipic medal next to the homemade scones. 

Whether it's St. George, Chicago, NYC or a local race, we know the actual race is simply the icing on the cake. (mmm, cake). It's enduring the 12, 15, 18 weeks of hard training before you ever pin your bib on that count; that's where the real mettle lay.

I realize now my last entry sounded more like a cry for help. It wasn't and was never intended to be. I'm good - really. Maybe a wee bit stressed, but good. Like those final few days before you have a baby, and everyone is like, "Hi! Hello! How ARE you? When is the baby coming? Is the baby coming now? How big do you think the baby will be? Why is the baby not here yet?" And you smile while your blood pressure goes up and you realize you just want to be home alone scrubbing the baseboards. The anticipation is the worst part. This is why they call it taper madness. I'm not even IN the taper yet and I feel all over the place. Someone needs to rename the last month of pregnancy "Taper Month" and market that shit.

As for the outcome of the race -- it's good. It really is. It will be. Regardless of what that number is, I guarantee you: the sun will still rise on Sunday. Trust me. I'll make it. If I hit it, great, let's celebrate - and be prepared for the longest, most nonsensical blog entry on Monday because I'll be drunk on endorphins and most likely just drunk in general. If I don't make my goal, that's okay too. It's a cocky, brazen, audacious objective. If I fail, I will likely cry, retreat to a corner, lick my wounds for a bit, and then come back stronger because I'll be super pissed off. I say that because I know it; LA taught me that. I hated running LA but I needed LA. I needed to get my ass kicked to know what changes to make. Out of all the races I've done, my first half marathon in 2011 and LA have been my most valuable - yet my worst. Celebrate the good races, learn from the bad ones. 

As for numbers, yes, I'm very aware of mine. I've crunched my splits, examined elevation gains and losses, and played around with my VDOT score more times than I can count. I showed Brian how to read a marathon pace chart last night (he was not impressed). I know that this is going to be a close one. I'm going to run as hard as I can. But - if George doesn't work out, I have a plan B. Of course I do. I'm me.

(and a plan C, D, and E. Helloooo.)

With that said, I certainly appreciate all the kind comments and support. This has been a learning moment for me as a writer more than anything! Sorry for any worry, consternation or upset I may have caused. We're gonna make it!

Now -- hopefully we're all back on the same page -- let's talk about FOOD! Not cake, but pie (kind of). I love smoothies; I could drink them all day. I've been toying around with this one for awhile, and with the change in seasons, it's particularly fitting. Who doesn't love pumpkin pie? Pair it with a side of dried cranberries and pretend it's November. Enjoy!

Pumpkin Pie Protein Smoothie

**2 servings**

1 scoop vanilla Vega protein powder
½ frozen banana
1 cup pumpkin puree
1 cup unsweetened coconut milk
1 cup almond milk
1/3 cup water
¼ tsp nutmeg
½ tsp cinnamon
1 slice fresh ginger

Blend until smooth. Yum!

Nutrition facts:

Calories: 197
Fat: 7.0g
Carbs: 25g
Protein: 12.5g

I thought a lot about giving up this weekend.

Technically, I did. My last 20-miler turned into a 17.2 mile run. My right leg, directly below the calf, began nagging me on mile 8. It's just the uphill that's irritating it. (It was uphill for the first 10 miles).  I plugged on. This was my easiest 20-miler to date; my breathing was relaxed, my shoulders were finally pushed down (light bulb moment: keep your chin up, literally!), and my legs felt fresh. Then, right around 16.5 on a nice easy stretch of downhill, I took a step, inhaled sharply and swore loudly.

Pain. All the way up my leg. Acute, stabbing pain.

Done. I had hit the point of diminished returns. Those next three miles weren't going to do anything more for my training other than possibly worsen a potential injury.

In an unprecedented display of mental flexibility, I calmly pulled out my phone and called Brian. Last long run = dunzo.

(The additional .7 miles is after that mental flexibility faded and dogged tenaciousness resumed.  A bit more running just to "test things out" - and to get to at least 17 miles).

The gravity of what I had done didn't hit me until later that night. YOU DIDN'T FINISH YOUR LONG RUN! my brain screamed. I went to log my weekly miles and found myself under 40. This was supposed to be my last week of big miles; I had failed. I missed my target. Who am I to think I can BQ if I can't even get through a 20 mile run?

That's been on my mind since Cedar City. Sure, maybe you're thinking, "Dude, you ran a half in 1:39. That translates to (1:39 x 2 [+10 min]=) a 3:28 marathon." To qualify for Boston, based on my age, I have to come at three hours, forty minutes or less. Really, it needs to be around 3:37, since the BQ cutoff can be up to 2 to 3 minutes under your qualifying time. That translates to about 8:18 per miles. For 26.2 miles. 

(If none of this is making any sense, I apologize. An entry explaining Boston-qualifying times - and why Boston is such a big deal - is coming later this week).

But the thing is, I'm doing better with shorter distances than longer ones lately. While my speed work has been strong, my long runs have suffered. Either I go too fast down Mt. Charleston or too slowly up Charleston Ave (Why is everything in this town called some version of "Charleston?") Worse, I loathed the long runs. All of them. I felt anxious the night before, consequently slept poorly, and then just hated every step of those runs. Well, except the first one when I was drunk on downhill momentum.

So while I have had recent success in 5Ks, 10Ks, and half marathons, the marathon remains an enigma to me. It's that post-20 mile body-breakdown that stands out most clearly in my mind. That feeling in LA when I wound my way up that stupid hill on mile 21. The way I felt on mile 24 ("where is the mother-f*cking downhill?"). Passing my family on mile 26 and being just devastated to see my watch read +4 hours.

On Saturday, as I laid on the couch petting Chewie (the softer, nicer kitten), clad in my tightest compression socks, I realized: I'm tired. Really, really tired.

Not physically, but mentally. I'm worn down. 

As I thought back, I realized I've thought about Boston every day for the last nine months and twenty-two days. BQing was one of my new year's resolution; brash, ballsy, and completely unfounded in reality.

It's one thing to set a goal to run a marathon; with enough planning, you can do it within a year. It's another thing to set a time goal for a marathon. That's a little more complicated. It's complete insanity to think you can improve your marathon time by THIRTY-FOUR MINUTES in the span of ten months without injury and/or mental breakdown.

I honestly thought Boston was pie in the sky until that 5K in May. It wasn't my time that surprised me; it was coming in 3rd overall. Me? Third? I get a tiny plaque? Well...thank you, I'm honored. BQ-ing felt more attainable than ever after every race this summer.  I watched my numbers go down because my speed went up. Brian built me a tiny Shelf of Achievement in the kitchen to highlight my (very small) collection of awards. Boston qualifiers have trophy rooms; they too likely started with a shelf. I was on my way!

Cedar City was incredible and so much fun, but in all honesty, it was mostly downhill. Severely downhill. As in, 4-8% down grade. Yeah, yeah, downhill poses its own challenges, I know, but it's not an accurate predictor of George. George is down but not that down. More concerning, I was tired at the end of Cedar City; not completely spent, but ready to be done. How in the world was I going to pull that off again, this time with an additional 13.1 miles tagged on the back?

I began fantasizing about giving up. Skip my uber-early pre-boot camp runs. No more Track Tuesdays and tuba players. Saturdays could be spent making pumpkin pancakes, not plugging along Hwy 159. And while we are on the topic of pancakes - FOOD! What would it be like to eat whatever I wanted? I think there's this fallacy among the general public that runners get to eat whatever they want. That couldn't be more untrue. Diet has never been more important because of its role in recovery. What would it be like to  not plan, examine and ruminate over every bite of food?

Last week, the marathon hunger hit hard. More days than not found me in the kitchen, snarfing down large bowls of vegan chili at 10am. One afternoon before baseball practice, I accidentally pounded 5 harvest cookies that were innocently sitting on the counter. Five, one after another, without thinking. I was so hungry. I immediately freaked out over what I had done. I have to carry those 5 cookies with me on the next run! That's like, 475 calories! Of simple carbs and fat, that will likely stick directly on my hips. I could care less how I look; it's carrying that extra weight up a hill that matters.

If I gave up now, I could have a beer. I could eat the cake I didn't get on my birthday. My toes wouldn't be super sensitive, I could stay up later than 8:30, and maybe, just maybe, my husband and I could have a normal date night. One that doesn't involve compression socks.

These thoughts are wild (and OH SO tempting!) and were on my mind most of Sunday. Ridiculous, since it's less than two weeks away. I should be embracing the taper, not anxious to get it over. And that's when it hit me -- it's not that I want to give up, it's that I'm terrified of failing. I'm standing at the precipice of probably the biggest goal I've ever set and while reaching that finish line is within a hair's breathe, the closer I get, the scarier and more real it becomes.

I really, really, really don't want to fail.

Race day is nothing if not unpredictable. The weather, first of all. The other racers, the course, your body, that last 10K -- there are no guarantees. I have no idea what the route is actually like, how steep the downhill, how punishing the uphill. I've played out the end of the race - both scenarios - in my head a million times. Almost every time I go there, regardless of victory or defeat, I tear up. This is a big deal to me.

The day I cut my arms, I begged the Universe to let me get to the starting line. Made all kinds of promises with a higher power, bartering and pleading to just let me get to that line. Something worked - I'm still here, and I'm still running (and my arms are looking smashing, thank you very much). In my silly "giving up" fantasies, it finally hit me - I'm going to wash away five months of serious training because I'm afraid to fail? Hell no. What a seriously immature reaction. With that attitude, I don't deserve to run. 

These are certainly first world problems, without a doubt.  But I will say: it takes an amazing amount of courage to get the starting line of ANY race. Whether it's a triathlon with an ocean swim or a marathon in the desert, lining up is half the battle. Dealing with the voice that says, "...but what if you don't?" is torturous. But in the same way speed work teaches you faster turnover and hills build stronger calves, running really is the best metaphor for life: You get out of it what you put into it.

11 days and counting.

In running (especially distance running), I would say three pre-race cardinal rules are:

1.) Wear shoes that you know
2.) Never mess around with hydration or nutrition 24 hours pre-race
3.) Stay healthy

On Saturday, I broke all of those rules. All of them. Maybe rules are meant to be broken?

The drama started early last week. I was shoeless. Truly. My well-worn and well-loved Brooks had over 300 miles on them. It simply had slipped my mind to get a new pair. Plus, I wasn't really feeling my Pure Flow 3s anymore. The 4s never fit, and I was 99% sure my current shoes were responsible for all of the issues with my left foot. The love I felt for my new Adidas Takumi Sen racing flats rivaled Dorothy and her ruby slippers (or more appropriately - Dumbo and his feather.) I'll admit, I was feeling a little sneaker-curious. Was it time to make the jump from something other than Brooks? This was so...bold. So audacious.

I found an amazing pair that just so happened to be the older brother of my Takumis aptly named Boston Boost. Only problem? The store had to order them. I patiently sat through last weekend, drumming my fingers and trying not to think about it. They'll be in by Wednesday, no worries. Then on Labor Day, something hit that they weren't coming in. I went to Amazon and bought the same pair; guaranteed delivery by Thursday, 9/10 at 8pm, thirty-five hours before the race. I've never cut anything this close in my whole life. I would have to skip my run on Thursday and do it on Friday to break the shoes in. Even then, I'd only have three or so miles on them. This was running Russian roulette. My audaciousness suddenly skyrocketed to cheeky gutsiness.

That instinct was right, however, and the store never called. At 7:55 on Thursday night, a cheer went up in our household when the doorbell rang and the kind UPS driver delivered my new shoes. Friday's run went great. They were light, streamline and perfect for my long skinny feet. Having spent the last four or so years running in men's shoes, it was nice to have a somewhat feminine looking shoe. They were actually kind of pretty.  

Right around 10am on Friday, post-run and newly shoe-confident, I began to pack. Cedar City was nothing more than a tune-up half marathon before St. George. This was a practice run. I hadn't given much thought to the actual logistics (elevation profile, packet pick-up, food) other than to know I needed to come in under 1:48 to even consider a BQ in George. Like most runners, I had three times in mind: must-hit 1:48, actual goal of 1:45, and then a pie-in-the-sky-keep-dreaming 1:43. This equated to around an 8:00-8:07 mile per minute. Totally doable.

As I dragged the suitcase upstairs, I realized I couldn't lift my arms over my head. My face and ears were burning. My throat was scratchy. Despite the heat, I was freezing -- I had donned a sweatshirt, socks, and long pants even though it was closing in on 100 degrees outside. I randomly took my temperature - 101. Huh? Where did this come from?

I'll be honest, I considered not going. All I wanted to do was crawl in bed. But like a dutiful solider, I set out my clothing and gear and just packed. Head down, mind blank except the task at hand. First step: pound some Advil. Second step: Get in the car. Third: get to Utah.

By the time I reached my hotel, I was ready for more meds. I had hit that burning hot/freezing cold/everything ached phase of illness. Do I attempt Theraflu and risk GI distress? What if it keeps me up at night? These little questions, these binary yes-or-no queries, set the eventual path for the race's outcome. I hated knowing each answer would put me further down a path - was it the right choice? Can I go back and redo it if I've made a mistake?

By the time I had my packet, bib, and room key, I triple checked all of my running gear. I didn't care if I had to drive home naked, but I needed all of my gear. It appeared to be there. Yes I had forgotten my glasses, toothbrush and iPod shuffle cord (I grabbed Brian's phone cord instead, making it impossible for him to charge his phone for the night) but I seemed to have the important things. Brian texted me to let me know I had also accidentally locked Chewie in one of the upstairs rooms and she was pissed. Whatever. I'll deal with the angry kitten later.

Food sounded horrible. I limped to a nearby coffee shop and ordered the only thing that seemed remotely edible: a giant spinach wrap with carrots and Romaine lettuce. This was the worst carb-loading in the history of racing. Feeling utterly defeated, I got a side order of Swedish fish just to cheer myself up. Advil and Swedish fish: the dinner of champions.

Jammied up and tucked into bed by 7:30, I was halfway through that wrap when I sat straight up. Gels! I forgot my running gels. Oh for heaven's sake. This was ridiculous. If this was a test run for St. George, I was quickly learning just what a disaster a race could become when you're using half a brain. I eyed the bottle of honey I had brought with for my oatmeal in the morning (yes, it's not vegan. I'm aware of that) and briefly considered squirting it into two baggies to be used during the race. But honey is so sweet - too sweet. I needed about 100 cal of pure glucose twice during the race - honey seemed like overkill. Not to mention, I had failed to look up how many aid stations there were. I wasn't planning to run with water. Even two or three miles with the aftertaste of sticky sweet honey made my stomach turn.

I threw on a pair of shorts and headed out. Thankfully, the one sports store in town was still open. Though they did not have my caffeine-free organic Honey Stingers, beggars cannot be choosers. I said a silent prayer the caffeine in the gels wouldn't destroy my stomach like it did two years ago and headed back to the hotel. What else could go wrong? A meteor hit my room? Zombie apocalypse?

The last and final freak-out occurred Saturday morning after a rather fitful night's sleep. Utah is on Mountain time; Vegas is Pacific Standard. When I looked over and saw my phone read 5:20 (with the last bus leaving at 6am), I suddenly wondered: had my phone synced? There was no alarm clock in the room. What if it's really 6:20 and I missed the bus? I hightailed it out of my room to the park across the street, fearful to be met by silence.

The buses were still there. My phone was correct. Whew.

After that, I'll be honest, I stopped caring. I think my nerves were so shot I couldn't muster up any additional concern. And talk about a ton of wasted energy! I was shaking my head, annoyed at myself, but thankful this wasn't St. George. What a giant waste of a weekend.

But it wasn't. The Cedar City half marathon was probably one of the most beautiful halfs I've ever run. By the time we exited the buses, the temperature was a perfect 55 degrees. The pine trees! The camp fires! The stars that shone in the complete darkness! It was all so peaceful. Aside from having to run 13.1 miles in the next few minutes, I suddenly found myself at total peace. This was killer! Totally worth all of the stress of the last 48 hours.

It was a relief to start running. Running - this I know. I couldn't control my immune system or a mad cat or shoe store deliveries, but I could control my pace. And I did. I watched as hoards of people took off in front of me. I kept my distance. I let my legs warm up for the first three miles - 7:46, 7:38 and 7:41. This was easy peasy. The downhill was between 4-8% and I just let it take me. I knew the course evened out around mile 5 and then had a few uphills. No need to get crazy; plenty of time to do some work in the later miles.

By mile 5, you could tell the folks who had trained on downhill courses and who hadn't. Paces slowed. Walking commenced. Quads were turning into jelly right before our very eyes and folks were hobbling. I said a quiet thank you to Mount Charleston for the knowledge it had bestowed upon me in August. Downhill is fast and fun, sure, but continued downhills will wreck your legs. I kept an even pace.

By mile 6, I was having fun. Like, too much fun for a half marathon. My legs felt great and my shoes were delightful. "Fit and focused," my wise friend Teri had once said. I felt both. I focused on nothing more than the runner in front of me, which I took great pleasure in gobbling up. I wasn't even breathing hard! I am Pac-Man. I am Ann Transon. I'm Kenyan. I am a running god...

The only mistake I made was looking at my watch at mile 7. For whatever reason, it just shows my pace per mile, not the actual amount of time elapsed. It said 7:38/mile. I flipped to the time of day, knowing we had started at 7am. Now it read 7:59am. Fifty-nine minutes had elapsed in 7 miles? Yikes. How was that possible? That meant I had to maintain an eight minute mile pace for the rest of the race to come in under my worst-case scenario time of 1:48. I picked things up a notch.

I would find out later that we didn't actually start the race until 7:06am, hence the delay.

I picked off more runners. Mainly I was gunning for females who appeared between 35 and 39 years old. Yes, this was absolutely silly. However, having three podium finishes this summer, I was hungry for more. I want more. I've become a monster, I know. This was a much bigger race with a more competitive pool of athletes, but whatever. I could try. By mile 10, I wasn't just running anymore, I was racing. And while intense, it was fun.

In the last mile, there were only two women in front of me. One was walking. The other stopped to encourage the other to continue. I blew past both of them. Suckers. The taller one (who looked a bit older) was not pleased and suddenly she was right next to me. I ran hard. She ran harder. The third girl dropped out of our make-shift death match after about 20 meters. With about 50 meters to go and tall girl and I neck-and-neck, that voice in my head said to me very quietly, "Kim...don't kill yourself. This isn't worth it." I slowed my pace. The chick totally outkicked me in those last few meters, but that's okay. I'll save that last go-big-or-go-home sprint for George.

When I finally saw how much time had elapsed, I gasped. And swore very loudly amid a crowd of families with little kids. If there's a finish line picture of me, my mouth is gaping open because I'm saying, "Oh SH*T!" It read 1:40. Huh? Way, way, way faster than I intended to run. Seriously, 1:40? How the heck did that happen? Did I just destroy myself for George? The body felt okay but I wouldn't know until Monday morning just how much carnage there was.

So just imagine my surprise when I went to get my official time and the guy told me, "1:39:42." Again, I cursed (loudly) among the small children. (My apologies to the good people of Cedar City). A sub-1:40 half? Even in my wildest dreams, I didn't know that was possible. I was deliriously happy. Elated. Concerned for my recovery. Unreal, really. 

Curse of Mom's Marathon Journeys struck as soon as I got my phone. No kidney stones this time, just a sick Bear. Scotty's fever was 102, having picked up what I had the day before. This meant no friend's birthday party and no first baseball game of the season. Thinking I didn't have to race back to town to coach, I hung out at the finish line, cheering as my friends finished and talking (without vulgarity) to the locals. It was truly a beautiful morning.

I took a leisurely shower and packed slowly. Ate some almond butter straight out of the jar. Read through the Facebook statuses of friends who were also racing that day. We seemed to be dotted all over Utah that weekend. It wasn't until I was in St. George, picking up food for the boys, did Brian ask if I was going to coach the game. Why would I? Scotty was sick. He encouraged me to text the head coach, who informed me yes, my presence was necessary.

I was in Vegas by 2:30 and at the baseball diamond by 3pm. I sat there, counting pitches and strapping catching gear on kids' legs in 104 degree heat, wondering if the morning was nothing more than a dream. It certainly felt like one. 1:39:42. Who would have guessed??

I had an easy 6-miler this morning before boot camp and my recovery efforts were not in vain. Everything felt great; a bit tired, but certainly not like my first Mt. Charleston expedition. I did no damage and still manage to emerge with a ridiculous time. Someone pinch me.

Sadly, Scotty is still sick and home from school today. Not the 37th birthday I expected, but at least he's on the mend. All I asked for was a new half PR, cooler temps in Vegas, and a key chain shaped like an Ewok. We're batting a thousand, friends.

Oooooh...it's almost that time! A slight nip in the air. Shorter days, longer nights. Halloween catalogs in the mail. Pumpkin displays at Barnes and Noble. It's almost autumn!

What I consider the most superior of all seasons, fall is nearly upon us. Yes, it means different things based on where you live - autumn in the desert means a brisk 90 degrees - but the anticipation and excitement is the same. Maybe it's the Midwesterner in me, but fall to me means cooking and baking. I want hole up in the kitchen, whipping up all kinds of harvest-based creations. Pies and stew and chili, oh my!

I've learned over the last few years that just because we are sliding into the holiday season, the diet does not have to suffer. Keeping things plant-based and healthy, this is one of the easiest seasons to maintain a fresh and clean menu. Sure, you could turn it into an all-day sugar cookie binge (disclaimer: I reserve this right after the St. George Marathon) but really, this is a fantastic time to dig into some great harvest veggies at their peak.

When the nice people at Whole Foods sent me a guide to picking great fall produce, I knew I had to share it. I've always wondered what to look for when selecting fruits and vegetables. I'm totally a watermelon tapper. I smell pineapples and squeeze mangoes with wide-eyed innocence. No longer, my friend. Knowledge is power. Go forth and pick your veggies with authority.

Best, Whole Foods also launched a fun campaign called "Shop in the Name of Love" to show its appreciation for customers. Running now until November 3rd, stores around the country will have weekly giveaways, fun promotions and a few other surprises.

The first one to catch my eye? Coffee for a quarter. From now until September 30, all 12 oz cups of coffee are only 25 cents. No limit per customer (heck yea!). I'm a huge fan of grabbing a coffee before I start my leisurely stroll around the store. Sipping something hot helps me avoid bakery temptations, though the occasional vegan chocolate chip cookie has inexplicably jumped into my cart. 

For those of you who frequent the Whole Foods on Ft. Apache and Charleston, here's a little sampling of some of the activities they have planned. I'm headed to Cedar City today for a half marathon, so I'll miss the breakfast giveaway tomorrow, but maybe I'll see you in the aisle one of these days, sipping our coffee and attempting to ignore the baked goods.

September 12th

A Thank you breakfast giveaway! Come down and eat breakfast with us on Saturday September 12th & five lucky

Whole Foods Market Shoppers will receive breakfast on us! Customers will be randomly selected between the hours of 8am and 10am

September 18th

Pride Parade Las Vegas 2015 7-10 P.M

September 19th

Pride Festival- Join us at our Whole Foods Market Las Vegas Pride booth we will have giveaways, games and more! 12-8pm

September 23rd 

Organic Gala Apples from Cuyama Farms

10-12 while supplies last, one per customer

September 25th

Mystery Gift Box Giveaway! For The first 20 customers we will be giving away gift boxes filled with Whole Foods Market Goodies!

8am until supplies last

September 26th Deliciously Dairy Free

Free tour and healthy eating cooking class hosted by Sari Dennis Of My Wellness Counts.

12-2pm

October 1st

We are saying Thank you to one of our community Partners; The Working K-9 Rescue ! Cantina Laredo & Whole Foods Market Fort Apache

Will be offering a 6 course tapas style dinner & tequila tasting. All Proceeds will go to the  Working k-9 Foundation. $30 pre-sale . Event will be hosted @ Cantina Laredo.

Please RSVP at (702) 202-4511

October 7th

Love Fest Single Stem Flower giveaway

4-6 PM while supplies last, one per customer

October 21

Chocolate Square & Cookie Giveaway

10-12 while supplies last, one per customer

(Author’s note: I'm totally going to this)

It's my run-iversary! The fourth anniversary of that momentous decision to lace up the sneakers and go for a run. Four years. What's the traditional gift for four years? New running shoes and thoughtfully selected quotes from Pinterest? That's exactly what I got myself!  

We all know the story of my less-than-auspicious start. I skipped the very first team run, as you can read here. But I got out there the next week, did four agonizing miles, and triggered what I now consider one of the best decisions of my life. But it hasn't been all roses and rainbows, especially in the last year.  

Since writing last year's run-iversary special, I've run the Chicago Marathon (4:14), the LA Marathon (4:09), the Vegas Half (no time; ran with a friend), the Summerlin Half and its new course (1:57), two 5Ks, and most recently, a 10K. For me, this is a LOT of racing. It's a lot to put my family through. I started this whole thing as a way to manage grief and it's morphed into something completely unexpected. For the longest time, I thought was I running away from something. Sadness, fear, unhappiness. It's only in the past year that I realized I was running towards something. And that, my friends, is pretty awesome.

However, there's a cost. Ask any runner and they will tell you, racing is so much different than running. My mental game has shifted considerably. I don't know about others, but running hard takes an incredible amount of inner effort. Energy conservation - physical, mental, emotional - has become my new focus. I realized about two months ago that I have a finite amount of energy to expend during an average day; If the activity is not necessary, there's a good chance I've cut it out of my life.

Training occupies an hour to three a day; the other 21 or so hours are needed to facilitate the fastest recovery possible.  Eat, run, recover, repeat. Oh, and sleep. Mmm, sleep. Everyone plans their bedtime based on how many hours of sleep they will get, right? There are some nights I wake up and am absolutely delighted to see it's still the same day! "It's only 11:30! I still can get four more hours of sleep!"

While we're at it, let's face it: sleeping in compression socks is hot. Said no one, ever.

Am I proud of what I've accomplished over the last year? Absolutely. Learning to run faster is a monumentally slow process. Glacially slow. One must posses the patience of a saint and the self-discipline of a monk to endure because it sucks. It's the least linear experience too; two runs go well then three do not for no explainable reason. It's frustrating, upsetting. Maddening, really. Running laps on the track, getting slower, feeling fatigued, avoiding the band kids - it's so offbeat, you almost have to laugh.  "How the hell did I get here? I'm 36 years old and still trying to avoid the tuba player." But similar to that perfect golf shot or a great crack off the bat - one good run is enough to hook you to keep enduring the madness. We're all chasing the same dragon.

I've also learned the bad times are almost always followed by some kind of breakthrough. LA is a perfect example.  I was devastated by my experience. Here I had probably the best training program to date, the most comprehensive workouts without a single injury or issue going into race day. I hit all the runs on my program, nailing splits and paces. I waded through the crazy "6am boot camp on Tuesday morning - 6pm Tuesday night speed work - 6am Hill Day on Wednesday" routine. That turnaround killed me for the first few weeks until my body acclimated. The theme going into LA was "You are stronger than you think" -- and then it all fell apart four days before the race. A stomach virus, practically no sleep, and watching a dude have a heart attack at mile 21 found me limping tearfully across the finish line, nine full minutes behind pace, shaking my head saying, "Never again."

But that, I now realize, was necessary. It highlighted a need for a change. Out went the high volume, high mileage workouts, in came shorter, faster distances. Instead of taking May to July off as I had originally planned, I buckled down. I didn't want to - trust me, I really didn't want to. I wanted to go back to my "normal" life. You know, hang out with friends, drink wine, and sleep in until at least 5am. Instead, the alarm went off even earlier. I lost weight and ran repeats until my legs buckled. 

Is it worth it? Without a doubt. It doesn't matter that I'm never going to run elite or earn money from running. This is essentially "just" a hobby; I don't have a shot at anything bigger. And that's quite fine. I've learned more about myself through the pursuit of running than ever possible. Almost too much at times. There have been moments where I was like, "Okay, I'm done. I don't want to know anymore. Self-discovery is done, thank you!" Ultimately, running makes me a better person. I stress less about the things that don't matter and have a greater appreciation for the things that do. Running keeps things in perspective. Unnecessary drama? Hell no. Excessive use of emotional energy? Count me out. I'd rather tackle a tempo run, thanks.

I don't know what is going to happen in St. George in October. I might BQ, I might not. It may take me 15 marathons to qualify. Regardless of the outcome, I know the process is worth it. I'm happy to celebrate one more healthy year as a runner.