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The GRANDEST of Adventures: Conclusion

9/30/2020

Needless to say, the combination of my fear of heights and Dan’s current condition, we opted to take a car back to the North Rim on Wednesday. Yes, it was disappointing to accept that R3 had officially become R2, but it was the safest, wisest choice possible. I was not going to die being a cardio tourist. It just wasn’t worth it. There was a small Bear waiting at home for me that I need to live for.

I ate my avocado toast and raised a delicious bloody Mary at breakfast, incredibly thankful I did not have to squeeze my feet back into those horrible shoes.

We were IN there!

So we spent the rest of Wednesday morning admiring the view from the South Rim. It was incredible, to say the least, to look down on the 3-Mile Resthouse AND Indian Garden and think, we were actually down there. We did it! We really did it. With what seemed like a wild idea one July morning became reality just several months later. It did not go nearly the way I thought it would - 3 soaking wet pairs of socks, not enough food, and over 5000 feet of elevation gain and loss - we actually hiked from one side of the Grand Canyon to the other. Holy smokes. It was like the marathon of marathons, with the most beautiful of scenery, limestone galore, and some serious moments of contemplation. And a rabid bunny thrown in for good measure.

By the time we got back to the North Rim, we were definitely in a celebratory kind of mood. We grabbed a few beers from the saloon (Dan’s new favorite three words: Cherry Vanilla Porter) and headed out to Bright Angel Overlook to enjoy the view. Of course, as I read (or reread, if you will) in the book after arriving home, a tourist slipped and FELL OFF of Bright Angel overlook, I probably would not recommend taking alcoholic beverages on the hike. Several people commented on our wisdom to bring frosty delights and asked when the waiter would be back. Almost as good of an idea as opening and In n Out next to Phantom Ranch.

It was really fun to chat with other hikers - most were shocked and genuinely impressed we had done rim to rim in one day. Hearing their comments was a nice boost. Had they see us stumble into El Tovar the night before, they may have changed their minds.

Really, at the end of the day, all I wanted to do was watch the sun set from the secret patio at the Lodge. And just our luck - a couple got up, freeing two chairs, with about twenty minutes until the big moment. We leaned back in those Adriondacks, kicked up our feet, and took in the view.

The Grand Canyon is magical. There is no other word for it. Simply magical. I have never felt so at peace. I cannot wait to go again.

If Bright Angel Trail is the golden child of the Grand Canyon, North Kaibab is definitely the bigger, scarier older brother. South Kaibab is kind of the red-headed stepchild, since it seems to be the most infrequently used trail out of the three. North Kaibab though...wow.

I convinced Dan to give the brother another try before heading home on Thursday morning, and he eventually gave in (“It’s only a half mile to the overlook! I swear!” He just wrinkled his nose and grunted.) Technically, I guess it was closer to .65, but who’s splitting hairs? I know, I'm pushy. But I love me some Canyon and wasn't quite ready to head back to Real Life yet.

From Coconino Overlook that morning, seeing some of the drop-offs in the light was...a lot. I’m not sure how I would have done with all those stairs going back up. But it’s is, without a shadow of a doubt, back on the bucket list. R3 may have evaded us this time, but there’s always room for Round 2.

We even got a chance to see the mule train in action again, this time with passengers. I realized the answer to the question I’ve been asking myself for years: what is my spirit animal?

I always thought I was a bunny in a past life; it made sense. Big feet, mostly veggie diet, frightens easily. But now I know, I clearly came from the mule family. They are slow, steady, with a rather large round backside. We may not be the fastest, but we will get there. And dammit if we are not incredibly stubborn.

I am one with my people

What would I recommend if you are thinking about a trip to the World's Largest Hole in the Ground?

Bring real food! We both agreed Dan’s condition was likely due to TOO much water and not enough food. He consumed close to 12L during the whole hike, and based on his size, should have eaten a whole lot more than he actually did. Gels are great for running in a shorter amount of time, but real food like sandwiches are necessary for long, slow hikes.
Try out all of your gear ahead of time. I’m so happy my pack was well-broken in; I knew how to shimmy out of it quickly, readjust the straps, and put that puppy back on quickly. No chafing on my arms or shoulders, either.
Bring water shoes! Again, not just for going off trail, but also for the water crossings that they do not tell you about. I can only imagine it is wetter in the spring as the snow pack begins to melt.
Layers, layers, layers. I was so happy to have gloves at the start; it was freezing (especially for us desert folks who shiver when it's cooler than 64 degrees). My lightweight windbreaker also doubled as a rain jacket, and my hoodie was thin but warm. Compression socks to sleep in is also highly recommended.
Speaking of socks...bring 3x the number of socks you think you will need. I am still pissed about my wet left foot. (Maybe that’s the title of a future book? “My Wet Left Foot.”)
I fought with Reinier on this one for weeks, but ultimately, I’m glad I found a hat to wear. For my giant noogin, I found a solid one at REI just days before the trip and it helped keep the sun off my shoulders. I was surprisingly not sunburnt despite being out there for almost 15 hrs.
Invest in the best head lamp you can afford. I switching out my running head lamps (battery powered) for a super fancy, rechargeable one a few weeks before the trip, and I am SO happy I did. The beam on it was BRIGHT and especially when there is absolutely no light, it will save your life. Charge it the night before the hike just to be on the safe side.
Trekking poles are a MUST, especially if you have any fear of heights. It was like having an additional two more points on the ground, which really helped my balance.

Overall, our hike came to just over 25 miles and took about 11 hrs of moving time, 15 hrs on the trail. This was FAR longer than I anticipated, but I’m glad we had the supplies and gear to get us through it. I packed as light as I possibly could manage, but still had all the necessary things in case things really went wrong. For now, my little safety kit - Bandaids, signal mirror, water proof matches, Nuun tabs, topo map, safety pins, and poncho - will remain in my pack going forward.

What’s next? Well, I’m eyeing a 50K race in November in Valley of Fire. If all of the races continue to be cancelled, well, I guess I will have to continue to hit the trails. And camping, though I haven't done it in years...well, the NPS may just receive a permit application from one K. Boschee in the next few weeks for Spring 2021. Because I really, really, really miss my hole in the ground.

Thanks for reading!

...and if you ever find yourself in Hurricane, UT, let me recommend this corn dog stand. Go for the dog; avoid the cacti. Trust me on this one.

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The GRANDEST of Adventures, Part 2

9/29/2020

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“I always start these events with very lofty goals, like I’m going to do something special. And after a point of body deterioration, the goals get evaluated down to basics, like where I am now - where the best I can hope for is to avoid throwing up on my shoes.” - Nuclear Engineer and ultrarunner Ephraim Romesberg, 65 miles into the Badwater Ultramarathon

Eventually, we found Phantom Ranch.

It was...disappointing. What was a popular canteen has now become a simple grab-and-go place with no hot food, no beer, and nothing appetizing. Thank you, COVID. I choked down a bagel and some gummies. There was loose talk of opening an In-n-Out Burger (can you imagine?!). I peeled off my shoes and socks to give my feet some air and was immediately bitten by 200 red ants in the dirt below the picnic table. Ow.

With the uphill grind still ahead of us, we had one last big “oh wow” moment - the mighty Colorado. My words will once again fail me here, because describing this beast is nearly impossible. I couldn’t believe how blue it was. So clear. And loud! It roared up at us from almost 50 feet away. The Silver Bridge was functioning again (thank you!), giving us the opportunity to save 1.5 miles, had we had to take the Black Bridge off of South Kaibab. I gingerly stepped on each grate, thinking of Indiana Jones (the second movie -"Indy! Cover your heart!") when they fall into the alligators. No gators here; just a very fast, very cerulean river. The bridge swayed in places. Instead of it feeling scary, it felt liberating. Silly fun, in fact. This was AWESOME.

About 500 ft into the trail near Pipe Creek, we saw three boats of river runners making their way down. It looked so fun. Fast current, yes, but what a ride. It was around this time that a mule train passed us. No riders, just two rangers with about 8 mules loaded down with supplies. That meant only one thing: lots of mule poop ahead. But at least the trail would be wider than North Kaibab. I locked eyes with one of those mules and I swear, we had a moment. I was proud of that mule. He’s probably seem some stuff.

The climb began. It was after 1pm at this point; my dreams of a 3pm finish time dashed. I figured it would take us about four hours to climb out. At least we were still feeling good and had seen some incredible stuff. This was truly the hike of a lifetime. As long as we got out of this canyon before nightfall, we’d be in good shape.

We climbed. And climbed. And climbed. We avoided mule poop and the rivers of urine; we pulled ourselves up and over the giant wooden stairs. The blisters on the sides of my feet from the descent began to scream. I ignored them. I realized why there are so few pictures of people on their ascent in the canyon; sure, we see the happy-go-lucky folks starting out, cruising down those switchbacks, but what about the climb? No one takes photos during the climb because you are still busy swearing under your breathe.

It was tough, to say the least. Most frustrating was that the mileage constantly seemed to be off. My watch was dead at this point, so I annoyed Dan with repeated questions of our altitude, mileage and overall time. I reasoned we'd hike between 25-26 total miles, additional mileage courtesy of our little sojourn to Ribbon Falls. We'd likely climb to close to 7,000 ft in order to get out, an elevation gain of about 4800 ft, and I was guessing we'd finish up in 12 hours total, around 2.3-2.4 miles per hour. If you think that's slow, try climbing the stairs at your house for 12 hours and let me know how fast you are going on hour 12. Throw some sand and mule poop in there for good measure, too.

All of the water taps at the South Rim were on, which was incredibly helpful. The three liters I added at Phantom Ranch were necessary, as sweat poured off of us. The temperature hovered in the mid-90s and I was down to my running shorts and tank. I suddenly and very clearly understood the concept of “cardiac arrest” from the book - and we were essentially fit, athletic runners. How did other people do this?

We climbed. We shuffled. Our pace was shockingly slow. I prayed my heart was healthy and Dan’s was too.

About an hour later, we hit the Three Mile rest house. Almost there! Except...we weren’t. We were at motherf*cking Indian Garden, a full 4.5 miles from the rim. WHAT?! I thought we had passed that hours ago. How was our mileage so screwy? I kicked a rock. I swore under my breath. I looked at the other hikers draped casually around the picnic tables - happy, clean, chatting, clearly on a day hike from the south rim - with pure annoyance. My mood plummeted further when we hit three - THREE! - water crossings directly outside of Indian Garden. All day, I had been so careful to not let my feet get wet. And with four miles to go, on the third crossing, my left foot slipped in off the rock and went directly to the bottom. My whole shoe was soaked. I had no dry socks left. I limped into the sand, my foot making squishing noises as it exhaled the water. “It would have been nice if they warned us about the water crossings!” I yelled to no one in particular. Dan turned around, trying to stifle his laughter.

The difference in mileage AND my soaking wet left foot was demoralizing, to say the least. It’s like that well-meaning spectator at mile 18 of a marathon shouts, “You are almost there!” and you want to punch them in the face. No such luck, friend. We weren’t almost there. And the roughest part lay ahead.

My foot gurgled with every step.

At this point, I started to worry about my mom. I had told her I would call her as soon as we exited, no later than 4pm that day. Dan’s watch said we were closing in on 5pm. I began to fret. At what point was Karen going to call Search and Rescue? Those flights aren’t free. I didn’t have an extra $30,000 to spend on an unnecessary helicopter ride out of this canyon. Even though we were still miles from the rim, I checked my phone and was delighted to find I had service again - thank you, Verizon tower! One quick text later, my mother was reassured.

We finally hit the Three-Mile Resthouse. Good gravy, that was a long 1.5 miles. I was shocked to find that in order to use the restroom at this stop, you had to rock scramble a good 50 meters just to get the bathrooms. More steps? Nooooo....While Dan rested, I dropped my pack and headed upwards to the potty. There was a deer standing about 10 feet off the trail. I don’t remember it, but apparently I waved to the deer and said, “What’s up, bro? Are you having a good day?” Dan just shook his head. Later, he told he me couldn’t understand my apparent fear of small woodland creatures, but when faced with an 8-point buck less no more than two social distances away, I was all casual.

Oh deer...

We continued our climb. As the sun started to set and darkness enveloped the Canyon once more, I felt the first strains of panic start to rise in my throat. We need to get OUT of here, my brain screamed. I did not think it was going to take us this long. We pulled our headlamps out yet again, and when I clicked my light on, I was shocked at what I saw. Dan did not look good. Pale, sweaty...almost green. Uh-oh...not knowing what else to do, we continued uphill.

I could keep tabs on him based on his headlamp, even though he was behind me. At that point, I started working out several contingency plans in my brain. If he collapsed or could not go further, I was going to wrap him in my Mylar blanket and go find a ranger. There was no way I could physically carry him, as he was a foot taller and almost 80 heavier. Provided he stayed upright and continued to put one foot in front of the other, we'd be fine. All of sudden those blisters on the sides of my feet stopped hurting as I worked through these scenarios. I couldn't tell if my headache was from stress, my headlamp, or my ponytail. Why did this seem like a good idea, again?

Nighttime on the South Rim

A few minutes later, I realized his light was not behind me. About 20 feet back, he sat down to take a break. While it was pitch black on the trail, there were still hikers around us. A couple that looked like they had been hiking for all of 30 minutes were leap-frogging us up the trail. On this particular jump, the guy got too close to Dan and Dan promptly puked on the guy’s feet. Surprisingly, the guy was cool about it. I stared at the canyon wall directly to the left, willing myself to not start sobbing. This was getting downright scary.

Puking - and then taking a Roctane gel - seemed to help. With a second wind (third? Fourteenth?), we managed to finally, finally drag oursevles past the 1.5 Mile Rest house. Knowing we had such a small distance to go definitely helped, and nighttime went from being scary to being my old friend - hello, Darkness. No drop offs to look at here! Back to hiking in the warehouse. I could see the ridge line above us and the lights from other hikers exiting the Canyon. We were so close! Almost there, almost there....we hit “Second Tunnel” - thank God - then First Tunnel! Then, out of nowhere, there was a weird house to our left. They wouldn’t build a house without being close to the rim, right?

I felt like sprinting out when I saw two girls standing at what appeared to be the trail head for Bright Angel. “Is this a parking lot?” I asked. They blinked at me, totally confused. I guess that's not someone's first comment upon exiting the Grand Canyon. I didn't care - I saw cars! It was! It really was! We had made it!

As much as I felt like laying down and weeping on a bench, we still had to get to the hotel, about a half mile down the road. But it was a road! With pavement! Mostly flat with only a slight incline! And no poop!

We dragged ourselves up the steps of the hotel, amid guests in rocking chairs, sipping cocktails in their cute, clean North Face gear with faces full of makeup and curled hair. The noisy din of cocktail hour muted almost instantly upon our arrival. We must have looked like we just crawled out of a swamp. Dan told me later that he was still unconsciously using his trekking poles WITH his headlamp on, making our entrance that much weirder. I crack up just thinking about it.

I made a beeline for the registration desk, intent on ending this day as quickly as possible. When the kind woman told me our room was on the third floor - "It’s a historic hotel with no elevator" - I laid my head on the partition and cried. Gwen, as we would later learn her name, took pity on me. Because of our super late arrival, she started click-click -clicking through her computer and found a closer room on the second floor. It just so happened to be the Presidential Suite; the nicest room in the entire hotel. She upgraded us for free.

If I ever have another child, I will name her Gwen.

So there you have it: two exhausted hikers, covered in dirt and grime, one still green at the gills, hauled themselves up another set of stairs, only to collapse on the floor in the nicest room on the South Rim. At no extra charge.

Once the Hokas were off, I practically skipped through the giant suite with total joy. TWO sets of fluffy robes AND slippers! Look at that bathroom! We have a sitting area! And a couch! Hooray! I proceeded to take the longest shower known to man, with the bathtub looking like a murder scene as the red dirt swished off.

Happy Kim

This sure as hell beats Phantom Ranch

When room service arrived, the nice man asked where we would like the food. I told him anywhere, since we were going to eat it with our hands. We will likely never get upgraded again.

I can't help but look back on our hike and smile. Within a 60-minute window, our lot changed considerably. We went from muck and dirt with aching feet and vomit to devouring French onion soup, a New York strip, and a nicely chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Life is nothing if not surprising.

The conclusion and final thoughts tomorrow. :-)

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The GRANDEST of Adventures, Part 1

9/28/2020

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North Rim in the rain

Kaibab: Native American word meaning “mountain lying down” or “mountain turned upside down.”

My first sentence uttered upon seeing the giant pothole: “Wow. that’s...big.”

Please excuse my simplicity - seeing the Grand Canyon in person on the North Rim, even from the edge of the parking lot of the Lodge, was enough to render the chattiest of us speechless. And then it hit me:

“We have to go in there?”

Our little adventure had started a few hours earlier, on the second to last Monday in September. Brimming with supplies and good spirits, we set off from Vegas that morning, ready to tackle this canyon thing. We had gone over our supplies and gear, so I knew we had exactly what we needed in the event harm came our way. From compression socks to a fully-stocked medical kit, snacks, a tomahawk, several knives, a topo map, waterproof matches, my Boston Marathon Mylar blanket, and a tiny speaker with music (“to keep the energy up”), I thought we had covered all our bases.

We hadn’t even reached Arizona when the first injury happened. Waiting in line at a corn dog stand in Hurricane, Utah, I wandered over to a nearby rock store to look at the rocks. On the lot, there was a giant prickly-pear cactus with bright red buds. The buds looked so squishy. Careful to not harm the plant, I picked up one of the buds that had already fallen off, thinking I’d bring it home to Scotty as a little treasure. While I was careful to avoid the one-inch needles, I had no idea the bud was also covered in tiny, microscopic needles that immediately implanted themselves into each of my fingers. As much as I tried, rubbing them only pushed them in farther.

I sheepishly approached the truck and asked Dan for the medical kit. He looked up from his phone right away, surprised that we had not even reached out destination and I was already in need of aid. Sadly, there was no set of tweezers in the kit, so I was forced to pull each individual needle from my fingers one by one. It took hours.

I never finished that corn dog. (Remember friends: there are no vegan police.)

By the time we were both gazing over the side of the wall on the North Rim, mouths agape and speechless, those needles quickly were forgotten. The sheer enormity of the task ahead of us was daunting. But this is how I’ve felt on the eve of every marathon ever. The questions swirled. Did I do enough to prepare? What will go wrong? What did I forget? I wasn’t concerned about time or mile splits this time; I was mostly worried about temperature, heights, sheer drops, the weight of our packs, rock slides, flash floods, lightening, the aggressive Arizona grey squirrel, heat stroke, dehydration...to name a few.

Yes, some may think that reading “Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon” was a poor idea in the weeks before this trip. I beg to differ. While the first chapter “Falls from the Rim” made my palms sweat, the rest of the book was incredibly helpful. All 556 pages gave me an incredible boost of confidence - not because of my hiking abilities (which are poor), but for the simple fact that I, demographically speaking, was at a far greater rate to survive the canyon than pretty much anyone else. High five to all the other 42-year old women out there!

The book laid it all out. The highest risk group to fall from the rim? Males, 20-29 years old. Why? Because they are rock scrambling, showing off, or just simply goofing around by the edge. As of 2018, out of the 64 total victims that have accidentally fallen from the rim, only 10 were female. Of those 10 women, two were thought to be on drugs or alcohol, one could have been a murder-suicide, leaving the last seven having pitched over the edge because of vertigo, stumbling over their feet, or a simple but deadly attempt to take a photo. “Just one more step back” is a local joke. Death by Selfie is also a real thing too. But these numbers, instead of freaking me out, did the opposite: it made me feel better. I was not planning to use drugs or get drunk; I was fairly confident Dan was not going to murder me, and there was no way I was taking a selfie near the edge. We all know I am a terrible selfie taker. May the odds be ever in my favor.

The book had even more helpful information. Since less than 1% of the Grand Canyon’s total visitors ever venture below the rim, I knew the numbers were on our side. (“What are the odds of having a visitor go below rim AND be Auntie Anne’s winning pretzel maker from 1998?” Dan mused on Wednesday. I guessed .000000001%. I had no idea of his pretzel making skills). Of environmental deaths, men were the most likely to die, again from falling from cliffs within the canyon, heat stroke, or cardiac arrest. The age group 22-35 year old men had the greatest chance of experiencing heat stroke and dehydration, whereas as the 45+ dudes were most likely to die from heart attack as they climbed out. Note to dudes planning their Grand Canyon adventure: you have a very small window to make this happen. Dan happens to be 37.

While men died from thirst, women, on the other hand, were more likely to die from hyponetremia, an imbalance of sodium within the body caused from drinking TOO much water countered by not enough food. This, again, made total sense to me. Of course we, as women, would be hyper-concerned about our hydration needs and overdo it. I’ll admit, hiking was a total appetite killer for me; I struggle to consume real food simply due to lack of appetite. But if that meant my kidneys were going to blow out and my brain was going to swell? Pass the gummy bears.

Armed with this knowledge and much more (Most dangerous animal: that damn squirrel. Likelihood of a flash flood: low. Potential to drown: extremely low; we weren’t setting foot into the Colorado River. I skipped that whole chapter), I felt as though we had trained and prepared as much as we could. Perhaps the best part of the book is when it points out that mountaineer is much different than canyoneering. “Mountains let people know just how hard it really is gain elevation solidly via one’s own power....Mountains often weed out the unfit so early in the game that, once they realize they have bitten off more than they can chew, they can often return fairly easily downhill to their staging zone. Canyons do the opposite.” Provided no rabid squirrels bite me and I don’t trip over my own feet, my likelihood for survival was high.

Our plan was simple: Day 1, we traverse down North Kaibab Trail starting at 4am. Get through “The Box,” the hottest part of the Canyon, by 10am. Depart Phantom Ranch, the very bottom area, no later than 11am, and then hike back up Bright Angel Trail. With two routes at the South Rim, most hikers prefer to go down South Kaibab - only 7 miles but very steep - and go up Bright Angel - at 9.3 miles, it’s a much more gradual climb. I figured the whole thing would take close to 8 hours and we’d pop out on the rim no later than 3pm on Tuesday afternoon. On Wednesday, we’d take South Kaibab down to North Kaibab. Since this was Day 2 (tired legs) and more uphill, I estimated it would take us around 12 hours.

I did exactly what the book suggested, which was leave a note in the car stating our names, descriptions, routes, and estimated times of arrivals and departures, hence anything go wrong and rangers could easily find the vehicle with our itinerary. For good measure, I sent the whole thing to my mother the day before we left. I knew Karen would call Search and Rescue and keep us safe.

And Tuesday morning, at 4:08am, amid total darkness, we arrived at the trailhead of North Kaibab, jittery and full of anticipation.

Hey hey! Who has poles and is ready to hike?!

We started the descent. In the inky blackness, all I saw was...sand. So much sand. Why didn’t anyone mention the sand? It was like a freaking beach up here. Then I realized - the sand was for the mules’ hooves, to make the ground softer. Ooooh....that gave me a boost. If a mule can do this trail, I can too!

We passed Coconino Overlook with little celebration; we were only .5 miles into the trip. Supai Tunnel came out of nowhere; that was about 1.7 miles down. Dan stretched out his massive wingspan, all 6’6”, and touched both sides of the tunnel.

With no light except the ones coming from our headlamps, there was nothing to see; no cliffs, no heights, no drop offs. I could have been walking in a warehouse for all I knew. Instead of the darkness being scary, it was reassuring. No vision meant no fear of heights!

The trail began to get more gravely. I had on gloves, a shirt, a swifty, and my hoodie - while the temp at the top was around 40 degrees, we were warming up quickly. Considering we still couldn’t see anything around us, I opted to not remove any clothing until we had better lightening.

About two miles down, there was a small rustling sound to our left. Dan pointed out a tiny grey bunny. I looked over to see a large rabbit with red eyes and long teeth. It jumped. Near me. There was a thump. I screamed. Dan laughed. Wth? Rabid bunnies on the trail? He pointed out it was completely harmless, but I strongly disagreed. That bunny had a look in its eyes and it was not normal. Dan then pointed out my scream most likely scared away anything else living on this side of the Canyon. Fine with me.

Around mile 4, we were delighted to discover a bridge - bridge! That’s novel! I thought there was only the bridge across the Colorado River. In reality, there were probably 7-8 bridges in the Canyon and we greeted each one with the same level of excitement and wonder(“A BRIDGE! OMG!”) Clearly, hikers are an easy group to impress. We crossed the Redwall Bridge like champs.

By the time first light broke, I realized two things: the mule poop had stopped and we were going down what appeared to be an epic number of steps on the side of the Canyon wall. In certain parts, it was narrow. Like, really narrow. And the Canyon walls caved in, making the path that much smaller. How the hell did people run this? I held my breathe, taking baby steps, and concentrated on Dan’s feet in front of me. These traverses were short to be sure, but holy moly. No rock wall, no trees, nothing but a sheer drop of about 400 feet directly to my left. And no mule poop meant...this trail was officially not for mules anymore. My palms began to sweat in my gloves.

The sound of a waterfall was like music to my ears. We had hit Roaring Springs, the first “big” moment on the hike. Snapped some photos, admired how far we had come, and cruised on through. Manzinita was up next, at 5.1 miles. This was a rest area, complete with potties, picnic tables, and my favorite: a map. I was really surprised we were only 5.1 miles into the hike. My Garmin was already acting weird; it had clocked us at close to 8. I had a feeling the real number was around 6 miles, but we were feeling good, making good time, and enjoying the scenary. It was almost completely light out at this point; close to 6:30am. A light drizzle started to fall, bathing the Canyon in an eerily, grey light that made the colors that much more vibrant. This was truly one of the most beautiful things I had every witnessed.

At the rest area, I watched a girl at the picnic table eat tuna directly from a pouch, and realized if you had told me it was 5:30pm, I would have believed you. I had no concept of time at this point.

We kept moving, hitting all the normal stops with no problems. We had agreed before the trip that Ribbon Falls, at mile 8.1, was a definite “must-see.” Unfortunately, when we got there, we were greeted with this:

Um...

Seems legit.

I shrugged. Oh well, it was a nice idea, but not going to happen. I picked up my poles to continue downstream.

Dan was undeterred. He insisted that we could find a way over the creek via another crossing. Alarm bells went off in my head (“Most hikers that die in the canyon do so because they wandered off the original trail”...the book pointed out numerous times.) Ever the rule follower, I followed him but remained on the trail. He cut through the shrubs; I followed on the path. Eventually, we found a crossing where the water was only several inches deep, but it was still moving fast. I still wasn’t sold on going off-trail when I realized he had his shoes off and had plunged a sock-footed leg into the freezing water. “Dammit!” I cursed. If he jumps, I do too.

Mentally, I calculated how many socks I brought with me. Enough, I reasoned. I gingerly followed. Once we made it over the slippery river rocks in nothing but our socks, I dug around for another pair, ready to put my shoes back on. But instead, I found a pair of outdoor slippers my mom had sent me for my birthday a week earlier; they were to be my “after hiking” shoes. With a thick rubber bottom and neoprene foot covering, they could also double as water shoes. Score one for Karen!

I happily threw on my pink slippers and couldn’t believe how much better my feet felt. I practically danced on the rocks, through the creek, over the cacti on our way to Ribbon Falls. Shunning the Hokas for footwear that actually allowed my feet to feel the ground, I wondered if maybe I was a Vibrams girl at heart. My feet felt AMAZING. It was like wearing ballet slippers, and I was using my toes again. Heaven!

By the time we made it to Ribbon Falls, I realized Dan had been right the whole time: this was TOTALLY worth the detour. It was probably one of the most incredible things I had ever seen. Water cascaded from two separate falls with greenery trailing up the side of the falls and little red flowered bursting in bloom. This was like utopia to us green-starved desert dwellers. Knee-deep, the 50-degree water rejuvenated tired muscles. I was hesitant to get wet - water = chafing in my running world, but today, we were hikers. We got soaked in the little fern-covered grotto, soaked our tootsies in that mineral water, and wished we had a floatie and maybe a beer. This place was paradise.

All too soon, it was time to leave and carry on. Crossing back over, drying our feet, and smushing my feet back into those unforgiving Hokas took some time. My anxiety started to creep in again when I realized our little waterfall adventure had taken almost 90 minutes, throwing us completely off schedule. But it was worth it. Totally worth it.

We marched into the Box right around 11am. My jaw clenched; this was exactly the wrong time to be in the Box. Based on weather predictions, it’s best to avoid the area between 10a-4p, as it can be the hottest part of the canyon, with temperatures soaring to 110-115 with no shade and no wind. It could be stifling. We, however, lucked out - the cloud cover made it the perfect day, and the temperature could not have been higher than 85 at that point. We marveled at the beauty around us - the slot canyons, Bright Angel Creek, the green. So much green! I felt like a brachiosaurus head was going to pop out from around the bend at any moment. It was like Jurassic Park met Jumanji, with a dash of Indiana Jones thrown in. This was the adventure of a lifetime. I had never seen such untouched, pristine land before.

That’s when it hit me: very few people will ever see this. The process of getting down here - and then back up - will prevent most people from being able to witness the amazing grandeur that is the bottom of the canyon. There was nothing here with wheels. There were no kids. No strollers, no ice cream stands, nothing that would suggest we were living in 2020. We had our phones out to take pictures, but had no service. There was nothing but the sound of rushing water. It was truly the land before time.

Phantom Ranch, our lunch spot, was allegedly 13.6 miles from the North Rim. Today, however, my watch was reading 18 miles in and Dan’s read 16 - and no Phantom Ranch in site. We continued onward. The mood became a bit grumbly. The temperature was definitely climbing and we still had the hardest part yet to do. I was trying hard not to think about it. But every glance up at the soaring limestone gave me a little pit in my stomach: we climbed down here.

Now we have to climb out.

Part 2...TOMORROW!

5 Comments

Maturity

9/14/2020

5 Comments

So, 42. Wow. 42.

I never feel old until I’m around younger people — then I’m like, wtf did I do with my life for the last X amount of years?

But this is a different kind of birthday. I dont' feel old at all. In fact, I feel...refreshed. It’s kind of a like a rebirth in a lot of ways.

For the last 2+ years, I’ve been scrambling. Divorce, job, finances, child, my own mental health (which seriously got the back burner more times than I could count) - it was a hot mess. Me, trying to make ends meet. Me, trying to please everyone. Me, putting down boundaries and then getting walloped in the face. It was not fun.

While I certainly don’t wish anyone to go through what I’ve experienced, I can tell you this: I’m stronger and better because of it. I now know my worth. I am not going to settle. Insecure dudes - take the high road. (Or low road, as several have done...) I know what I’m good at and what I need to improve upon. Check your own issues at the door; they are not welcome here.

I’m made colossal mistakes over the past few years. Trusting people who did not deserve my trust. Ruminating on situations I could not change. Trying to make others change when in fact, that was not my place.

But it’s been a long, slow road (::insert hiking analogy here::) to finally get a lot of the life lessons that I needed to learn. Slow down. Be patient. Meet people where they are at. Be kind. When they are not kind, still be kind. Stand up for yourself. And probably most salient: BE PRESENT.

I struggle with being present because I’m predisposed to anxiety. That’s not a cop-out; it just is. Tell me a situation, and I’ll tell you all the positives and negatives that could come about. I will quote you stats. I will tell you all the ways this did not work in the past, because dammit, I've researched it and talked to people and done my due diligence. I will never tell you the best part about being in that situation because I’m thinking 10 ft ahead and possibly two weeks ahead. Maybe that's a good thing - maybe it’s my advanced age. But I am starting to understand - thinking ten feet ahead helps no one.

As the Grand Canyon trip approaches, this advice is more literal than esoteric. I have watched SO many freaking videos on the trails, and I’m like, wow. I need to keep my head down and just move forward. My fear of heights has not gone away; I’ve just learned how to deal with it with all the crazy Mt. Charleston climbs (which, btw, are terrifying. The phrase “rock wall” will send a chill down anyone’s spine if they cannot look at heights.) A friend asked me how I was going to handle the drop offs at the Grand Canyon. My response: I’m not going to look. He said, “You are going all that way to NOT look?” Me: Yes, 100%.

Because that’s practical. That’s me. And I’m okay with that.

As I get older, I’m realizing life is what you make of it. No one is coming to save you. You have to be your own hero. You want a birthday party? You make it for yourself. You want to do big things? You figure it out, and despite the obstacles, you keep going. Grand Canyon has been a weird mix of yes, I’ve got this and, who do I think I am? And at the end of the day, it’s the words of David Goggins that resound most strongly in my brain: I’ll show you. Let me be the next.

I got this.

It’s freaking awesome to have another birthday. In the days of the ‘Rona, some don’t get to. Me, I’m healthy, agile, and athletic. I have the means to travel. I am truly, truly lucky. I can’t wait to see this giant hole in the earth, potentially faint, and then keep going. As Reinier has said many times. conditioning me for the hike, “It’s going to suck at some point.” I’ve always dreaded the suck. Now, I feel like I’m looking forward to it. Just like the half marathon this past weekend, when points of it sucked and I wanted to quit, I reminded myself about the beauty of life: nothing lasts forever. That’s the good news...and the bad news.

Bring on the suck. I got this.

Onward to more adventures!!!

5 Comments

The Next Big Thing

9/9/2020

2 Comments

This doesn't look like running gear...

Hey all!

Anything new?

So yeah...how's 2020 treating you?

I won't rehash what already has been said and I will try to refrain from using words like "unprecedented" and "uncertain times." This year has definitely been one long, strange trip and I think we'd all agree, there is no end in sight. Let's just all take a moment to be thankful that the murder hornet threat turned out to be unsubstantiated and the Garmin cyber attack resolved itself fairly quickly. Everything else that's going on...I got nothing.

What have I been up to? Well, that's a great question. Prior to the world losing its collective mind, I was counting on an aggressive fall running schedule with the Marine Corp Marathon on October 25th and then the New York City marathon six days later. Obviously, none of that is happening. In fact, during the first few weeks of the pandemic, I struggled just to get through the day, let alone get a few miles in. The combination of the uncertainty of the fate of humanity PLUS working from home, home schooling a fourth grader, AND a global crisis?

My little brain was fried.

Consequently, I did what many others did as well - I laid on the my couch, ordered far too much Thai take-out (yellow curry is my comfort food), and packed on the pounds. It wasn't until mid-May when I put a dress on and questioned why it was so tight around my hips. A quick jump on the scale shocked the hell out of me. I haven't weighed this much since 2012, a year after I started running. After a week of crying, moping, denial, and kicking stuff, I put on my big-girl pants and called the only person I knew could help me: Reinier.

Every Monday for the next month, I spent in his garage lifting heavy stuff and whining about my life. Thankfully, the man not only has a great sense of humor but an incredible amount of patience to boot. He encouraged me to run "just one mile a day." Kim circa 2017 would have laughed at this; she was clocking 35+ miles a week BEFORE Thursday morning's speed work. However, 2020-Global-Pandemic-Kim couldn't seem to shake her pad thai habit or locate her running shoes.

At the end of the day, however, I listened. I got my miles in. I stopped shoveling noodles down my throat. I bought arugula. I actually ate the arugula. Around 80% of the fruits and veggies purchased at the store were consumed as intended, instead of meeting an untimely death in my fridge. I ghosted my Uber Eats guy. The pounds began to melt off. Whew.

Randomly, Scott and I spent a long weekend in Utah in early July and that's when I realized how incredibly inexpensive it was to travel now. We had the best time riding horses, drawing by the pool, and playing golf; that vacation was really a turning point for my mental health. It felt SO good to be out of the state, and more importantly - outside.

I stopped feeling sorry for myself and decided to set some big, hairy, audacious goals. If all the races were going to be cancelled, well then dammit, I will make my own.

So one morning a few weeks later, while the small Bear slept. I crept out to the loft and started my research. For years, the idea of doing the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim has appealed to me, but it was nearly impossible to get reservations at local hotels or a permit to camp. But that was all pre-COVID; what if the pandemic has affected visitation to the Grand Canyon too? What if there was a silver-lining to this whole mess?

Several hours and a few phone calls later, I could not believe my good fortune. Somehow, there were a few open slots left for the hotel on the North rim in late September. It was during the week, which was not ideal, but holy cats - there was actually an opening! Because it closes for the winter on Oct 15 every year, the season is so short and they book up so quickly. I managed to find a place on the South rim, too, that matched our dates and the next big thing suddenly sprouted wings.

So what the heck is this trip all about? Well, my friend Dan and I will be taking the three biggest trails in the park - hiker highways, really - and covering just over 48 miles in two days. Starting on North Kaibab, we will descend about 5,400 feet over 7 miles into the canyon, then cover just over 7 more miles on flatter ground. From there, we'll hit a little campground called Phantom Ranch, which is a where most people spend the night. We, however, will be continuing up another 9+ miles out of the canyon on the Bright Angel Trail to hit the South rim. All on Day 1. We will spend the night on the South Rim (hotel, thank you very much, WITH air-conditioning and private bathrooms), get up the next morning, head back into the canyon on South Kaibab until we reach North Kaibab Trail, and then up and back out. Seems pretty straight forward, right? My biggest concern at that point was how I was going to fit my 27-step nightly skincare routine into my hiking bag.

What, you think I wake up looking like this?

Like everything in my life, I was inappropriately overconfident until I actually had to do it. So with Reinier and another friend - who happens to be an elite cyclist - we set off to conquer Griffith Peak, a ten mile hike with about 3600 ft of elevation gain. I stupidly texted Reinier the night before and said something ridiculous like, "ONLY ten miles? And we get to walk it?! This sounds luxurious!"

Kim. Oh, Kim. Oh silly, silly, stupid Kim.

That morning in August, I learned how freaking heavy a backpack was; 3L of water felt like a small child on my back. I learned how much damn food you need to bring and that I hated all of my food within three miles. I learned one mile may take you twenty-five-freaking-minutes and it is the LONGEST TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. I learned the first four and half miles may take you over two hours (unless you are an elite cyclist; then it only take 1:40). TWO HOURS of climbing. Straight climbing. Imagine getting on the stair master at the gym and just going at it nonstop for TWO HOURS. That morning, I slogged behind Reinier and Max like a grumpy toddler, silently letting the tears run down my cheeks as I fretted about just about everything. I kicked a lot of rocks, annoyingly pulled my pack way too much, and considered throwing in the towel.

In my excitement over scoring a reservation, I also had foolishly chosen to disregard my darn-near paralyzing fear of heights. I've had this fear for as long as I can remember, and it's so bad, I literally cannot change the air filters in my house because they are "up too high." Okay, you may be asking yourself, if I can't change an air filter, what in god's name am I doing hiking the Grand Canyon? Yeah, that's a great question. I have no idea either. I mean, like every single marathon I've ever done, it all starts out as a good idea. And then I realize, I am in WAY over my head.

Griffith Peak, Aug 1. I'm smiling but I don't mean it.

It took me over 33 minutes to GET OFF of Griffith that morning. That's going DOWNHILL. Reinier coached me the whole time ("trust your shoes") as I literally choked back my fear during those first 50m. It's pretty sad when you like climbing uphill better than going down. In my mind, I kept picturing myself tripping, then rolling like a ball, then.... off the side I go. All 10,600 feet to the ground. Weeeeeeee...

Even now, typing that, my hands are starting to sweat.

It's been a long, strange journey since that climb. In my attempts to multi-task, Scott and I would hit Wet N Wild and while he climbed seven stories to go down the slides, I climbed seven stories...and then went back down. And then up again. Then down. My one-day PR at Wet n Wild is 208 floors. All of the lifeguards were laughing but hey! I got some serious steps in while the small Bear was having fun.

Each weekend trip to Mt. Charleston provided more helpful training. I've summitted Charleston Peak twice, Griffith twice, the Saddle six separate times, and then just on Sunday, I decided to create my own route. Eighteen miles and 5,394 ft of elevation gained, I have never been so happy to see my car. Or my sandals. I also made the very tough decision that I will be bringing NO skincare products with me because quite frankly, I'm not carrying that shit.

We leave for this epic adventure in just under two weeks - the biggest miles are behind me. And I'm VERY happy to report that while this hiking stuff takes FOREVER (what happened to the days of running 20 miles AND still being on time for 9am baseball?), it's just as effective as running in terms of weight loss. Reinier, magic man that he is, managed to carve off 13 lbs and close to 4% of body fat. While not quite "fighting weight," now I can concentrate more on how much my water weighs instead of my booty.

So stay tuned! The real adventure is just beginning. Excited to be back to blogging and as always, thanks for reading!

Charleston Peak, summit #1

Charleston Peak, summit #2

Griffith Peak, summit #2

Scrambling up Camelback Mtn in mid-August; it was 115 degrees.

2 Comments

Adventures in Running

7/17/2019

1 Comment

As marathon training ramps up, so does the adventure.

Ever since I read "Born to Run", I get what I call “Badwater fever" every July. As most know, Badwater is that ridiculous ultramarathon in Death Valley. It is held mid-July and spans 135 blistering, horrible miles up to Mt. Whitney. People describe their shoes melting into the pavement, experiencing heat-induced hallucinations, and essentially, the feeling that they are going to die on the side of the road.

Of course, the minute I read about it, my only thought was, “I must do this.”

Two summers ago, I started to incorporate heat-acclimating runs into my daily runs. Mostly they were 3-5 mile runs when Scott had baseball practice; about 110 degrees for 30-50 minutes. Not because I was training for Badwater, but more because I wanted to be ready for the end of marathons in full sun and rising temperatures without feeling like I was dying.

It worked - I ran Indy very well that November, albeit it was cloudy and 50 degrees. But the heat training made me think there was something to it. The mental benefits alone were significant. You just need to remember to bring gum, a handheld water bottle, and the belief that nothing lasts forever.

Nowadays, my running time is limited. Cool morning runs have been replaced by rushed lunch runs on the unforgiving Beltway Trail, a hellish path with no shade. But to be honest I kind of like the suffering. Typically, I'll run to the bank, take an hour to trek up the Beltway, then wind down the streets of Summerlin only to arrive at my office with a crazy sense of accomplishment and a ton of energy. It feels great. By the way - my Board of Directors TOLD me to take these breaks. Who am I to say no?

Even better, we had a record-breaking cool spring; it was amazing. Summer arrived in Vegas in mid-June with a vengeance, but my desire to keep training in heat persisted. Perhaps most exciting: I can sleep in! No more 4am wake ups to get miles in. I am heat acclimated! I am a desert lizard! I AM WELL RESTED DESERT LIZARD!

(::insert inappropriate yelp of pride that will soon be followed by its fall::)

On Saturday, I slept through my alarm. Note to self: buy a new alarm. By the time I finally dragged myself out of bed, it was 10am. Wow. I felt like I was in college again. Scott was safely in the Midwest with family and I was single as a Pringle. I could do whatever the heck I wanted. Namely: run Red Rock.

So despite heat warnings, I packed my car and headed to the town of Blue Diamond. I LOVE the town of Blue Diamond. I wish I could live there. It’s so small and so quaint; it’s essentially located in the armpit of Red Rock Conservation Area and its population sign actually references the burros that wander through town on occasion. A million runners and cyclists stage here every weekend, swarming the little town with aggression, ambition and bad parking. I have no idea how its inhabitants stand us.

Tell me that's not adorable...

That Saturday, I parked. I stretched. I looked around and breathed in the arid desert air. I said a silent thank you to the Universe for letting me live in a place of infinite beauty. And once I reached Highway 159, I took off feeling like a million bucks.

That lasted approximately 18 minutes. By mile 2, I stopped to catch my breath. This was way harder than I thought. But if I was running Badwater, I would have 133 miles to go. So I kept going.

I climbed and climbed. I’d run this route a hundred times before, but never with this much effort. I kept my footsteps on the white line, since the asphalt was spitting heat at me. Small goals: run the mile you are in. Be present. Embrace the suffering. It will all be okay.

By the time I made it to the Overlook, mile 6 out of 12, my tune had changed considerably. It sounded more like, “F this s**t.”

I found a totally normal-looking family on holiday WITH A COOLER and begged them for a bottle of water. They looked at me like I had three heads. I tried to play it all cool and nonchalant, like yeah, I do this all the time, oh, you think it's hot? Wha? Nahhh.

They gave me water.

I almost cried.

I ran off before I could ask them for a ride.

My main reason to continue: we all know Strava is unforgiving. It tracks every step. Accountability is clearly the thief of joy.

I ran back. Downhill, right? Easy peasy. Except my damn heart rate wouldn’t go down. It averaged between 190 and 200 bpm; WAY over the max for a long run, especially going downhill. My lips were cracking, I had stopped sweating.

The water I had left for myself at the next stop was boiling hot. I was pissed. I was hot. I was looking at my watch constantly; how in the WORLD was it only mile 7.3?

The horizon started to shimmer in the distance and the first tentacles of heat stroke were slowly starting to twist themselves around me. By the time I reached First Creek, I looked around for other human beings. Help in the form of modern transportation. I spotted a small male loading logs into his car. Damn the fact I had just watched the complete series of "Confessions of a Killer: the Ted Bundy Tapes." I needed help and I had few options. If the dude clubs me to death, well, that's a tough way to go. Yet it still seemed like a more glorious end than dying on the side of Highway 159 and having my body picked apart by vultures (who, by the way, were circling above).

Turns out Ted Bundy was nothing more than a sweet graduate student from UNLV that enjoys hiking and traveling. He needed the logs for a research project. He told me later that he honestly thought I was going to yell at him for taking logs when I first approached him. I'm not even sure I was walking a straight line at that point; I was in no place to comment on his log-collecting.

Happily, he drove me to the entrance of the town without incident. I told him I would pay his kindness forward and thanked him for not killing me. He laughed.

The good people in this world outnumber the bad. Period.

I spent Sunday licking my wounds and Monday running in those delicious morning hours. Tuesday, I slept in (ahh!) and managed to arrive almost an hour early to my second meeting of the day, conveniently held at a nature preserve, as the team was meeting to discuss a possible venue for our Fall 5K. With my free hour, why not run the course? I had my running shoes on! It was only 91 degrees. Plenty of water AND time. I can get my 2 mile warm-up in, then bust out some 400s. I was feeling exceptionally proud of my planning until...

A golf cart scared the pants off of me on Mile 1.5 when it drove up behind me. The security guard rather formally told me that a call had been made about a “random jogger” in restricted areas. Restricted areas? I am a rule follower! I didn't see any signs. I looked at my feet; still on pavement. I'd been on the road the whole time; it wasn't like I was scaling fences. The man told me that I missed the main trail (how?) and my presence was “of concern.”

I was still trying to formulate a response ("...I broke the rules?") when he offered me some advice: “Jogging in this heat is dangerous.”

Like any runner, the use of the “j” word is enough to inspire an eye roll, a shake of the head, a snotty comment. I blinked. Choosing to ignore his vernacular ("...I am a jogger?"), I simply said I was heat-acclimating. He asked what heat-acclimation was. I explained the issue with hot marathons. St. George. LA 2015. Boston 2017. Badwater EVERY year. Runners live to suffer. So I enjoy frying my body in the midday sun while pushing the pace - what's the miscommunication? Why was this guy not getting it?

He blinked at me. We were at a total standstill.

Like fool, I didn't know when to shut my mouth and informed him this was only the warmup; I still had 8x400 to run with 200m floats, followed by a 1 mile cool down.

His jaw visibly dropped. I guess people don't use this area for speed work?

He told me the trails were for “walkers and cyclists,” not joggers. (I coughed loudly; the j-word again) and said I needed to leave. Fearing arrest via golf cart, I agreed to head back to the main area. I wasn't sure if I should run or walk - running was forbidden, yes? Well, it was too hot to walk. So I ran, a tiny little rebellion that felt pretty darn good. By the time I got back, I found my water bottle and called it a day. I finished my run later at Mesa Park, where runners are allowed to run at all times without government oversight or interference.

The summary of all of this: running in heat is a suffer fest but it makes you stronger. Some people may never understand this, and that's okay. The bottom line: running is always an adventure.

And Badwater is still on my mind... :-)

1 Comment

Looking Ahead

6/17/2019

1 Comment

It’s crazy when I look back on the last 18 months of my life; talk about major life changes. But as I mentioned previously, the one constant has been running and for that, I am grateful.

I know a lot of people hate running. I can’t help but think, why? It’s such a great way to work through anxiety - albeit, marathon training produces a lot of anxiety. But it’s a way to structure your thoughts, to organize your day, and to ultimately, find a well of strength that you did not know you have. Not to mention the people - so many people have come into my life that I would have never met had it not been for running.

The opportunities that running continues to provide are jaw-dropping. As I look ahead, I can’t help but squeal silently at the Fall racing season. Yes, I am out of shape. Yes, I’ve gained weight and lost muscle. But when I look back, I think, if eight additional pounds is all the collateral damage I have to show for the last year and half of my life, I’ll take it. Eight pounds is nothing.

Most notably, I decided to sign up for the St. George Marathon. Long-time readers will remember that this is my only DNF to date; in 2015, I was foiled in my BQ attempt by a ruptured ovarian cyst. I don’t know when it happened, but I got through 10 miles at marathon pace before succumbing to the pain at mile 14. Laughable now, I remember how the race director, the bus driver, and I all screamed at each other on the side of Snow Canyon Road. I did not want to take an ambulance to the hospital - those things are expensive! - but they did not want to transport me for fear I was going to like, die on that bus. I ended up convincing them to take me anyways. At the finish line under the care of a very sweet doctor, he told me to go directly to the ER. I drove myself. I was in pain but fine. I got meds, a rather unhelpful brochure encouraging me to “exercise more,” and the resilience that a DNF does not define oneself.

It’s ironic that the marathon this year falls on October 5th; this was the day the divorce papers were officially signed by a judge and I was returned to "single status." A very weird phrase. I had a hair appointment that day. When I dragged myself up to Carlos’ station on the 2nd floor of the hair salon, I could not stop sobbing. I told him to cut off all my hair and dye it red.

A good friend and more importantly, an amazing man, he took one look at me and said, “No.”

He picked up my bag and essentially, me, and put us both in his car. I had no idea where we were going - a bar? Were we going to drink our sorrows away mid-afternoon? I found myself staring a some hole-in-the-wall place with giant doors in the middle of ChinaTown. Just as I was thinking about the copious amounts of whiskey I would consume (editor’s note: I HATE whiskey), the doors opened to reveal the most splendid, tranquil tea garden I’ve ever seen. Carlos forced to not only order a sandwich, but also eat it along with dessert. It was the first time I had eaten in 24 hrs. I had a work phone call that day (sorry Jennifer E) that I muddled through, while he chatted lightly and made me feel normal.

I can’t help but think October 5, 2019 will be much different than its predecessor. I want to run St. George strong for any number of reasons, but mainly, as a massive do-over. To both myself, and the Universe. Will I BQ? Unlikely. But I am just excited to see the last 12 miles of the course that eluded me in 2015.

Speaking of marathons...in kind of a kismet kind of way, I got into the NYC Marathon in early November. I’ve been trying to get into this one for years - it would be my fourth World Major. I missed the time qualifier by 2 silly minutes, and had no luck in the lottery. As fate would have it, NYC has a rather robust council for Girls on the Run, and I am officially in as a charity runner. Two marathons in one month is not ideal, but my World Major times is not anything to be concerned about. I am just excited to be a part of it and earn that 4th medal. Only London and Tokyo to go!

While running and motherhood is the beacon of my existence, it was a shock to hear in early May of additional good news news. I had coffee with the manager and assistant manger of lululemon. Over the course of our beverages, they let me know that I had been selected as the new run ambassador for the Downtown Summerlin Lululemon store. I was dumbfounded. I am the not the fastest in town, nor the prettiest or skinniest. But according to them, they wanted someone who “inspires others through audacious goals” with roots in the community. I don’t think my jaw ever left the floor during that meeting.

Humbled and honored, I accepted my role. First up: a photo shoot for the picture that would eventually hang in the new Lululemon store. I was flabbergasted - and totally overwhelmed. I ate Cheez-its for dinner the night before the photos. I am supposed to be a normal person, right? Well, here is me in all my normalcy. Eek.

My first engagement as official run ambassador happened on June 5th, Global Running Day. Lululemon had organized a giant run from the store, and almost 250 people showed up. I spoke in front of the crowd and then all the runners out on a 1.5 mile loop and back. To have 250 people following you is incredible; I wish I could say I handled it better. But after the speech, I was so busy directing the crowd that I promptly forgot about my own child. I took off - and around mile 1, I realized, “Shit! Where is he?” Thankfully, good friends had taken the little Bear under their wing and were running with him. Based on their feedback, he never complained once, which is a true feat. Whenever I run with Scott, I’m met with tears within the first 800m. God bless Alan and Gamini for being the adult male role models that Scott needs in order to run well.

So there you have it. Girls on the Run Las Vegas is thriving. I am marathon training. Scott is not complaining on his runs (albeit, not with me). Life is moving on, and for that, I am thankful. If the last 18 months have shown me anything, it’s that we are stronger than we know. We are smarter than we understand, and braver than we think. If you are fighting your own battle, keep a stiff upper lip. Life happens in seasons; some seasons are not pleasant. But Fall season - and hope - is just around the corner.

Cheers to many happy (hot!) miles ahead --

Global Running Day at DTS lululemon store! Oh my goodness, so many people!

Proud of the Bear!

1 Comment

Grateful

5/15/2019

3 Comments

It’s been awhile.

A lot has changed. That would be an understatement.

My whole life has changed. While my marriage did no work out, my relationship with Brian has been amazing. He’s a great dad, a great support, and we continue to work well together.

That isn’t to say things haven't been hard. Divorce is a very strange thing; the collateral damage that I experienced has been significant. The loss of friendships, the loss of people in my life...it is breathtaking.

But at the same time, some things remain constant.

If running is a constant, well, I have been so fortunate. The loss of a dear friend in October took the wind out of my sails. I wasn’t unable to run for most of 2018 into the new year.

The amazing part - others came into my life. And this is where I find my faith in humanity.

Literally two days after the passing of my friend, a peripheral friend - someone I had known for years but was not close to - reached out to me. She became and still is a lifeline. Others - friends I had not yet met, as well as others that I had not been close to - came into my life. Hope springs eternal.

I spent most of the winter months just surviving. I know now what that means. You get through the day. You dot your I’s, cross your t’s, and go to bed. My job is anything but survival; it’s all performance based. As I struggled with personal demons, I found my solace in work. I love my job. It’s my calling. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but my work kept me afloat when my personal life threatened to drag me under.

The hardest part is when I don’t have Scott. I went from a full-time stay at home mom to a working mother. While I loved my job, the guilt of not being with him was overwhelming. I hated my quiet nights. I could not function. Getting up in the morning without a child to get ready with? What does that mean?

I stopped running. Then I started again, mostly out of obligation. After all, I had identified myself as a runner; that’s what my job entailed, right? I had to run. So I started again. And then when I did, I found myself unable to cope with emotion. It was so eerily similar to when my dad passed away, I was shocked.

On one of my first runs, I stopped, 800m in. It was a stoplight, a natural place to stop. But while my legs stopped, the tears did not. When I doubled over willing the sobs away, dog walker going in the opposite direction looked at me with concern. He asked it I was okay.

Almost automatically, I stood straight up, stopped crying, and smiled. Pride got the best of me. “I’m okay,” I said out of reflex.

And I was.

You cannot run and cry at the same time. I learned this years ago. You have a choice: breathe or cry. I would much rather breathe.

And as trite as it may sound, I would rather breathe. Breathing is life. Crying is a reaction.

Over the last few months, I know now: breathe. Run. Push. Life is hard. I was shocked at the number of people that took glee in my misfortune; people who felt by kicking me, they could somehow feel better about themselves.

But at the same time - I also there is a whole community of others actively cheering you on.

Life is hard. Pick your tribe wisely.

I keep pinching myself, because my new tribe is better than I ever dreamed.

And more importantly - life evolves. It’s slow and scary, but if you keep your sights set on what matters - life has a way of working out.

I am so optimistic about the future. I feel like I know what a true friend is. I am much more cautious with who I have in my life. Best, I know what I am capable of - and it’s more than I ever thought possible.

So stay tuned. I turned 40 in September but feel like my life is just starting over again. I cannot wait to see what the future holds. With the bumps and hills come easy miles too. Life is...good. Life is open.

And for that, I am thankful.

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New Beginnings

9/2/2018

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For me, Labor Day has historically marked a new beginning of sorts.

It dates back to 2011 when I laced up my running shoes for the first time and hit the pavement for at-the-time an unheard of four mile run ("who can run four miles without stopping?" I remember musing as we lined up to start). It had been just over two months since my dad passed away, and I was desperate to feel normal again.

Was I running away from my grief? Running to some unknown out there? I had no idea. I only knew that I wanted normalcy in my life again, for the pain to subside, and to feel whole again.

In that small run, I found what I was looking for, and it has carried me through the last seven years.

That small decision altered the course of my life. I also had no idea that the choice would place me on a completely unexpected path. Running opened the door for so many great things; it has brought so many wonderful people, places and things into my life. Even more, the life lessons that running has given me are profound. Probably the lesson I think about the most, especially lately, is that there are no guarantees: no guarantees in running, no guarantees in life. When the unexpected happens, you need to figure out how to roll with it. Dig deep, and keep moving forward.

That said, this Labor Day now marks another life-changing moment. Simply put, Brian and I have decided to end our marriage. What started as a small question earlier this year (“Are you happy?”) led to the decision to dissolve of our marriage. Formal documents will be filed with the court in fall of this year.

I want to be clear: this is a joint decision. It was a devastatingly tough series of conversations between Brian and I that led to the mutual decision of where we are today. There was no wrong doing by either party. No one is beating anyone. No one is joining a cult, no infidelity, no addictions. (We are boring, lol). It simply was a result of two people growing apart over the years. Two very different set of core values and two contrasting dreams for the future. We reached a point where sure, we could go on for another 20 years if we wanted, but at what cost? To whom and why?

While the rationale seemed easy enough, the process has been anything but. In short, it has been devastating. I had no idea the emotional turmoil, the pain. Starting all over again is overwhelming. Going from a mostly-stay-at-home mom to a full-time working single mom was chaotic and dizzying. An uncertain financial future. The loss of friendships. Debilitating loneliness. And a deep sadness that has the potential to seep into each day's happy moments.

Divorce is really like a death - it’s the death of the dream you have of your family. And as one rather savvy, well-dressed attorney pointed out to me, the difference between death and divorce is easy. What do they recommend to a person dealing with the loss of a loved one? Make no changes for at least two years. In a divorce, however, you are expected to make thousands of decisions quickly, all having long-reaching, lasting consequences. It's mind-boggling. Emotionally paralyzing.

(This attorney requested a $15,000 retainer for his services.)

(I politely declined.)

I’m not sharing this news to elicit sympathy; I’m saying this to be honest. I want to be transparent with the situation in my life so I can be free of it. I need to be free so I can move on and heal. I need to be free of the fear that people will judge us for a failed marriage. I have felt like I’ve been hiding this news - lying by omission - for months now, out of shame and guilt. And I do feel like a failure. Brian and I failed. Even though we both know and accept that we are making the right decision in the long term, it's that social acceptance piece that kills me. People use a term like “broken home” and my blood boils. My home is not broken; my home is just fine. It may have less furniture in it, but it is certainly not broken. But use of that kind of language that makes me want to hide, to avoid situations, to avoid people. It feels so damaging and hurtful.

I have to remind myself: being divorced is not a recipe for unhappiness, just as happiness is not guaranteed in marriage.

I am a firm believer that the truth will set you free. Just like Labor Day 2011, I made the conscious decision to work through my grief by unknowingly making the decision to become a runner, today I’m using my run-I-versary to course-correct once more. Acceptance is very powerful and for me, I need to get this out there so I can begin to accept the new path my life is about to take yet again.

After all, I turn 40 in just under two weeks. Two days after my birthday, I will run one of the biggest marathons in the world - on (what feels like) the other side of the world. After going through a number of challenging months of doubt and anguish, I realized - it’s all about perspective.

I could see the Berlin Marathon and this milestone birthday as being far away from family and friends, being sad and feeling old.

- OR -

I could refocus my sights and declare all of these upcoming events to be a rebirth. A new beginning. A chance to own my current situation in my own words, just like I'm doing right now, in this blog. I have the chance that very few people do: I can recreate my life on my terms. Today. Now.

How...amazing, really.

If there is any silver lining to this year, I will say this: while it’s challenges have been crushing, I have gotten an unwelcome-though-needed education on mental fortitude. I’m older, a little more wrinkled, a lot slower running-wise, but dammit if I’m not wiser. There have been many days when I thought, “I am not strong enough to get through this. There’s no way,” only to find an answer or solution in the most unlikely of places.

Each day I tell myself, “Get through it and do your best.” So far, it seems to be working. To the friends and family who have been amazingly supportive and listened to me cry, vent and panic - thank you. You have my eternal gratitude. To the people who I never saw coming, but offered their own stories of support and became new, close friends - thank God for people like you. Thank you for your candor and vulnerability; it has helped me begin the process of healing.

So now you know. Now it is no longer a secret - it never was, really. Our greatest concern, naturally, was Scott. We wanted to take our time to ensure that the right steps were in place so he would have the best and most seamless transition to this new part of his life. Scotty was informed of the decision in mid-May. While initially upset, I think he too now is relieved. He’s adjusting well to two houses and 5 pets (Guilt walks you straight to the pet store). Brian lives three minutes away. We are in daily communication with one another and have pledged to do the best we can by setting our differences aside to make sure Scott has the most stable upbringing possible. Scott sees both of us on a near-daily basis. As we told him, the only thing that changed is that he went from one house to two. Our love for him remains the same and while we are not a "traditional" family any longer, we will always be a family. Families come in all shapes, sizes and arrangements. And sometimes families even involved bearded dragons and hedgehogs.

Labor means work, and in 2011, I had no idea my Labor Day was going to morph into my life’s work, running. Labor Day 2018 is poised for a fresh start. Lots of hard work ahead, yes, but because of running, I know I’m a hard worker. I know that I can gut through tough situations. Hey - if I can run the Boston Marathon with a Grade I calf strain, I can get through a measly little divorce, right? Effort counts twice.

In light of the last 9 months, especially in the darkest moments, we always have a choice. Do you choose to remain hopeful, or let go of that hope? Some days, I'll be honest - it felt like it could go either way. But as a good friend likes to remind me, “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies.”

I will get through this because I am hopeful. If you are going through something painful and personal, please, hold on. Remain hopeful. Some days it may feel like all you have but I promise: it’s enough.

Happy Labor Day, and cheers to new beginnings.

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Glitter and Grit: The Trials and Tribulations of a First Time Marathoner in NYC

11/20/2017

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Editor's note: One of the best things about writing this blog is hearing from other runners about their experiences. When my college friend Amy reached out and told me she was running the New York City Marathon, I practically clicked my heels together with glee. We chatted a few days post-race and her adventure had me wiping away tears of laughter. I begged her to please write it down. She did! And now you all can enjoy the ups, downs, and all-out awesomeness of a first-time marathoner. Thank you, Amy!!

Dedicated to my husband Charlie for agreeing to go on this crazy journey with me and for continually pushing me. To my wonderful coach, Coach Suzy Cerra, who made the perfect plan for me to be able to run confidently and succeed in my first marathon. To my Mom for her unwavering love and support. And to two special friends – Elizabeth Gerlach for always being there for me (including physically in NYC!) and Kim Boschee for being my virtual sounding board through this whole process. I love you all so much and could not have done this without you!

Expectations. They can make or break how you feel at the end of an event. In my case, perhaps I OVER-prepared; I read too many blogs about how NYC Marathon is life-changing. I read too many blogs about overwhelming emotions, surreal moments, and the jaw-dropping moments that are symbolic of the NYC Marathon.

My career is in program/project management; as such I just can't help but try to plan and control as much as possible. But anyone who has done a marathon will tell you, there is a great deal that just can't be planned for. I tried my hardest to plan every minute of my marathon day, starting with "shirt preparation"….

The few people I know who have run the NYC marathon before me all told me to be sure I had my name on my shirt; that the strangers of New York would cheer for me and the adrenaline rush I would receive from that would carry me effortlessly through the streets of New York. (OK maybe not effortlessly…) So, with great excitement, I found a store on Etsy who made gorgeous iron-on names in glitter. I was going to SPARKLE as I ran!

While I waited for my iron-on to arrive, I broached the name on the shirt subject with my husband Charlie. Charlie was running the NYC marathon with me. Well, we have very different personalities; Charlie is much more introverted, and doesn't typically like attention drawn to him. He thought the idea of having his name on his shirt was the most ridiculous thing ever and couldn't believe I would suggest such a thing. I told him he had no choice, I was putting his name on his shirt, that he would be thankful to have the support from the crowd come race day. (I had no idea at the time what an understatement this was) I found some "manly" letters on Amazon - black block letters with a white outline, and managed to successfully iron on both of our names onto our race day shirts.

Fast forward to race day. I felt pretty prepared the morning of (thanks Coach Suzy!). Got up early, ate my standard pre-run breakfast, and was donning my glitter-shirt with pride. I felt ready. Off we went to the Team for Kids (TFK) bus, where we had a police escort to the starting area. We had 3 hours to wait, but it wasn't too bad, as we were in a heated TFK tent, with food and drinks, and our very own TFK porta-potties. I was even happier to see they had separate pink porta-potties for the ladies, which (no offense men) tend to be in better shape than the ones men have been in… The TFK coaches and mentors were phenomenal, giving tips and advice while we waited. My favorite was Coach Sid, who gave Charlie strict instructions to let me run my race and that he should follow whatever I did. Charlie followed Coach Sid's instructions, which I definitely appreciated! Here are some before pictures….waiting for our Uber to the TFK busses, and me and Charlie in the TFK tent!

Before we knew it, we were lining up in our Corral….Wave 4, Orange, Corral A. So. Many. People. While I felt pretty calm in the tent, now I was starting to feel a little anxious, but in a positive way. I just didn't really know what to expect, and hoped that I had trained enough. All of a sudden, national anthem, then BOOM! The cannon went off and there we were on the Verrazano Bridge, with "New York, New York" playing loudly. I have to say, the first two miles over that bridge were super cool. It was a surreal experience just thinking WOW, I am in NYC, running the NYC marathon, and this is AMAZING! Once I got over that initial feeling of awe and disbelief, I realized I was a little short on breath. Everyone claimed you don't feel the first hill (which is the steepest on the course and lasts an entire mile), but oh did we feel it. I had promised Coach Suzy that I wouldn't go out too fast. I asked Charlie to slow down, and he complied.

We settled into a 9:30 - 10:00 pace, which was right where we wanted to be. In hindsight, I probably should have slowed down a bit more in the early miles, I may have been a bit faster at the end had I done that. (Yes, Coach Suzy, you told me so…) J It is really hard with the adrenaline and the crowds to pull it back as much as you should.

As we came off the Bridge, we found ourselves in Brooklyn. I just loved this part of the race! Maybe that is because I still felt fresh, but mostly it was the people. There were so many live bands, and throngs of fans cheering for the runners. It was here that I experienced the first of hundreds (thousands) of chants of my name. It was incredible, just like everyone said it would be! Oh wait, that wasn't me. That was CHARLIE! It was drizzling and cloudy, and the light blue glitter did not pop at all on my shirt. No one could read it. But CHARLIE, oh his name was visible to every spectator. I was surrounded by chants of "CHARLIE! CHARLIE! CHARLIE! Come on Charlie! You can do it Charlie!" For four hours and thirty-five minutes and fifty-six seconds. Non-stop. This included a group of students chanting into a megaphone, and yes, an actual gospel choir singing his name. It was truly ridiculous. Other than from my own mother and friends, I literally heard my name ONE TIME. I know this shouldn't be a big deal, but knowing someone is specifically watching and cheering for me does give me an adrenaline boost. Instead of an adrenaline boost, I found myself getting immensely frustrated. I mean…he didn't even want his name on his shirt! Meanwhile, Charlie was grinning ear to ear and high fiving people, surging ahead with each cheer, then looking back to make sure he didn't lose me…

There were only 2 times I ran in front of Charlie, and that is when we got to our agreed upon cheer points where I knew my Mom and my friend Elizabeth would be. Much to Charlie's dismay, I had giant Fatheads made of our kids. While they look a little creepy, they sure did the trick. I could see the blue Cubs hat on Nathan's giant head from 2 blocks away! And when I saw it, off I went.

I told Charlie I would be stopping for hugs, and I did at the first stop, mile 8 in Brooklyn. My Mom and Elizabeth executed my cheer plan to a tee. I had given them details including satellite images of where to stand and how to get there, and they made sure they were there. The three times I saw them were definitely three of the best moments of the marathon. I will NEVER forget the feeling of seeing them and knowing that they were there supporting me. And while Charlie didn't understand why we would need support crew there cheering, in the end he admitted it was really nice and a big help. I had them at Mile 8, 17.5, and in the Grandstands at the finish (east side, by the letter "G" haha). It really broke the race down into nice chunks for me mentally. When we were at Mile 15, Charlie turned to me and said "Let's go find your Mom," and that propelled me forward. :)

A couple of other course highlights…first, the Queensborough Bridge. After 15 fairly pleasant miles comes "The Evil Queen" as many runners call the famous bridge. I thought it was going to be just terrible, but honestly other than dodging sudden walkers it was no big deal. I think the incline must be the same as the incline from the Fox River back up to my house, a route we ran more than any other during training. My body quickly adjusted to the grade and it went well. When you come down off of the Queensborough is another iconic section of the NYC Marathon. People talk about the "Wave of Sound" from the cheering as you come off the silence of the bridge and enter Manhattan. Well that didn't happen. I think by the time the Wave 4 people were coming through the cheerers at the bottom of the bridge must have been worn out. There go those expectations getting in the way again….

The good news is, not far down 1st avenue I had a pleasant surprise. Tina, one of my sorority sisters from college, works right on the course and tracked me. She came down to 1st Avenue to watch, and managed to spot us. It was super cool to see her, and it gave me a boost right when I needed it. I was so happy to have her support! Tina took this picture on 1st Avenue in Manhattan…Hi Tina!

Around Mile 18, things started to get tough. My legs started cramping for one. Another issue I was having was around nutrition. I had some unfortunate incidents with gels and gu's during training, let's just say this sign resonated with me:

Because of previous "challenges" I consulted with Experience Triathlon Nutritionist Laurie Shubert and came up with a plan. I opted to drink only water, and eat Bonk Breaker protein bars broken into chunks. I had successfully completed a 14-mile run with that method with no issues. Unfortunately because of a sprained ankle (4 weeks before the marathon running in the moonlight at 4:30 AM, sprained my ankle on a walnut…), I couldn't do an appropriate job testing out better nutrition options. By Mile 18, the thought of chewing up any more of those bars made me feel like I was going to hurl. I actually started with nutrition issues right out of the gate. At Mile 4 I tried to eat my first baggie, which was 2/3 of a bar. I could only eat 1/3 of the bag. It just took so darn long to chew! I was supposed to do 2/3 of a bar every 3 miles. I made a quick adjustment and decided I would just eat every mile, but do 1/3 of a baggie each mile. Well that meant I was almost always chewing, which was sending my heart rate up. And then there were the miles where I started to get in a zone and forgot to eat them. That happened 2 or 3 times.

I think one of my biggest mistakes was not making a secondary adjustment. I should have just tried the Gatorade or accepted a banana at the banana stations. I was so scared of "don't try anything new on race day" that I think it ended up hurting me. Instead, I ended up with not enough fuel. I will definitely be reviewing my experience with Laurie so we can learn from this race and tweak for next time!

By mile 20-21-22 I was really starting to feel it. The worst bridge of all was around Mile 20 as we headed into the Bronx. And then one last bridge back out. That one had one of my favorite signs: Last. Damn. Bridge:

Once we got over the Willis Avenue Bridge (which for future reference for those running NYC has TWO inclines inexplicably), the energy in the Bronx was pretty awesome. I really enjoyed that section. Just past the Bronx, somewhere around Mile 20-21, Charlie turned to me and told me our current cumulative time of 3:13 and declared that we could still beat Oprah! I glared at him, told him not to talk to me, and trudged on at my now significantly slower pace.

Those last miles were excruciating, I'm not going to sugar coat it. My brain was telling my legs to go faster, but they were not complying. I was mentally trying to get to Mile 22, where we expected to see a particularly motivating TFK coach. Unfortunately, he must have been off motivating another team member because he wasn't there. I trudged on, trying to make it to Mile 24, where one of the TFK cheer crew was supposed to be with pretzel rods. I briefly thought I might try one of those, but I think I was on the wrong side, and never saw the pretzel rod spot. Both "misses" were little blows to my overall psyche. But at this point, I had only a couple of miles to go. I could feel myself mentally turning inward, it was a really strange sensation. Then I began my little pep talks to myself. It went something like this:

"Imagine yourself breaking through the wall Amy…there is a brick wall, and you are like Mario, busting through the wall! Break through the damn wall!" I actually envisioned the wall crumbling.

"Great you are through the Wall. Now imagine you are running like an elite Kenyan! Run like a Kenyan Amy! Sh!t, I am NOT running like an elite Kenyan…"

"OK, not an elite Kenyan….float like a butterfly. Imagine Grandma is here with you. Butterflies! Butterflies! Float like a butterfly! Not working…"

Then I started mumbling to myself out loud:

"One step at a time"
"You will not walk"
"You can do this!"
"Come on, a little faster, almost there"
"Why do I do this? I run because I can…"
"I run because I can"
"I run because I can"
"I run because I can"

Suddenly the beginning of the finish shoot was there. The Grandstand lettering started. I was at C! C is pretty close to G (where Mom and E were)! Only C wasn't close to G. That stretch of C to G, probably no more than 200 yards, seemed like F-O-R-E-V-E-R.

A few more slow steps and we were…done. 4:35:56. We didn't beat Oprah, but we didn't walk other than grabbing water, and we made it through. I thought I would be over the moon elated and have this big moment. Shockingly, I didn't. I felt kind of empty, it was super weird. I think I was so mentally and emotionally drained from the whole experience I had nothing left with which to feel. I gladly accepted my medal and made Charlie take a picture.

The most elation I felt was when Terrence, our TFK "catcher" put on my poncho, opened a protein drink for me, and guided us carefully to the TFK tent. Then I was sick. For 5 hours. Am I making you want to run a marathon?

I posted on Facebook that night (when still feeling poorly) that I wasn't sure if I would ever do another marathon. By the next morning I was saying I am absolutely going to do another marathon. I am proud of my accomplishment of going from non-runner to NYC marathon finisher in a little over a year. I am proud of hitting my goal of not giving in and walking. I am proud to set an example for my kids of working hard, never giving up, and valuing fitness. I am proud of making it 20 miles with pretty even pacing. And despite the painful last miles, all in all it was a super cool experience!

By Day 3 post-marathon, I had signed up to run with TFK for Chicago Marathon in 2018. Why? Simple: I run because I can. And I can do better. Who is in for Chicago? All you need is a little grit and some (red, bold font, no calligraphy) glitter! :)

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The GRANDEST of Adventures: Conclusion

The GRANDEST of Adventures, Part 2

The GRANDEST of Adventures, Part 1

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The Next Big Thing

Adventures in Running

Looking Ahead

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New Beginnings

Glitter and Grit: The Trials and Tribulations of a First Time Marathoner in NYC

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