There are no guarantees in distance running.

It's a lesson that has hit me over the head time and time again. When I picked up this strange sport in 2011, I had no idea the journey I was about to embark upon. Through the miles, I've learned more about myself than I ever thought possible as well as gained an entire catalog of running knowledge. Running a good marathon is nothing more a massive  science experiment in physiology and psychology. It's a test that requires your body and mind to work together, simultaneously, yet sometimes against each other. Unfortunately, you don't know what will be considered an improvement until it's over.

Build on the success, grow from the mistakes. But above all, never give up.

On Saturday, November 4th, I feel like I finally "got" it. I had just enough pieces of the marathon puzzle to be able to see the final picture. It's taken six years and eight marathons to get to this point. Controllable variables (training, diet, gear) lined up with the uncontrolled ones (weather, pooping before the race) and what resulted was an *almost perfect* race. I only screwed up one thing - one very large item, haha. But that's okay, because now I know. And you better believe I'm not going to make that mistake twice. (more on it later)

It's taken me several days to process everything that happened at the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon. I've started writing six times, scrapping each draft. Nothing sounded right. I wasn't able to conceptualize the essence of what happened on Saturday until Wednesday, four days post-race. On my first run post-marathon, it hit me: I need to run to write. My creative juices stalled along with sore legs. But during my super-relaxed three miler, my brain loosened up along with my quads. Ahhhh...running really is amazing.

****

In November 2013, I ran my first full: Las Vegas Marathon. I legitimately thought I was dying on mile 22. I experienced the worst leg cramps of my life during that race, pain akin only to childbirth. They don't offer epidurals during races so I had no other option than to absorb the misery and lean in. When we crossed the finish line, I was so surprised I had been able to weather the torment that something wondrous cracked open inside of me: the knowledge that I was mentally stronger than I ever dreamed.

That race offered the biggest and most significant part of the marathon puzzle. I'll be forever grateful to Reinier for dragging my sorry butt across that line in all four hours and forty-four minutes. Without him, I know that experience would have had a much different outcome. What could have been a nightmare turned into pivotal moment in my life. That race changed my life.

During the ultra-marathon in 2014, I realized the significance of having friends and family on the course. I planned to run the whole thing by myself but a few weeks before, several kind-hearted friends jumped in, agreeing to crew for me. I don't know if I really needed a friend to offer me the choice between a pickle or a cookie on mile 20 (both looked revolting), but what I did need? The friendly smiles and emotional support of Michelle, Kerry, Nancy, and Stesha at various points of the race. I had no idea just how mentally taxing the race would be; the sight of their sweet faces made a long night so much more bearable. Had it not been for those four, I think I would still be out there running through Rachel, Nevada.

Likewise, seven weeks later, Chicago Marathon clued me in to the insane value of a strong pre-race diet. That was the first time I truly "carbo-loaded" - not just the night before, but the 72 hours prior to race morning. I stocked my carb stores so completely, I never wilted during that race. Sure, it wasn't exactly a land-speed record, but I breezed through that finish line in 4:14, delighted with a shiny new PR, a thirty minute improvement over Las Vegas. Coming on the heels of the ultra, I knew diet saved Chicago and is a critical piece of the puzzle.

The LA Marathon in March 2015 was all about uncontrollable variables, namely weather. In short, HOT MARATHONS SUCK. Dumping heat while you run tires the body faster and leads to dehydration. Your time will suffer and mine did. A five-minute PR at 4:09, but LA was an exercise in humility. It was clear: just because your training cycle goes well, you are not guaranteed to run well on race day. Running the Summerlin half four weeks later  proved that toeing the start line after a disappointing race is the best way to recover. I ran a sub-2 that day and yes, it was on that ghastly route that took us up Far Hills. St. George in October taught me to expect the unexpected; literally anything could happen on race day, including but not limited to terrorist ovaries that blow themselves up on mile 14. But again, I walked (okay, limped) away knowing a) I can run X number of miles at marathon pace even if something in my body is exploding and b) the best way to deal with failure is to keep moving forward. I was surprisingly unemotional after DNF'ing in George. I ate some potato chips, had a few glasses of wine, and rationally assessed the situation. By Monday, less than 48 hours later, I gained admission to the California International Marathon despite its sold-out status, a result of a sympathetic race director who believed in me (after reviewing my ER discharge papers).

2015 was an unbelievably challenging year - LA's agony, George's gut-punch, and who can forget: FenceGate. Interestingly, in retrospect, it was also the year I grew the most. Each time running hit me in the face, I got back on my feet, wiped the blood off, and braced myself for more.

By May 2016, I knew two things: I wanted to BQ more than ever and believed I could do it. I had never prepared for a race with this level of focus and conviction. At times, training felt like a part-time job. It strained relationships, caused me to quit other activities, and consumed almost every moment of every day. It worked. I BQ'd. I hated the Revel race and wanted to quit on mile 12, but knew enough by then to employ Piece of the Puzzle # 2: Station Loved Ones Around the Course. I only kept going because Brian and Scotty were at mile 20. Thankfully, it worked.

This year has been arduous. Boston taught me that if you can't run fast, run happy. Cedar City highlighted the importance of a good pacing strategy. And the triathlon, already an afterthought at this point, simply solidified what I already knew: running is a relationship in my life. It's something I need, something I love, and something I hope to do forever.

What does this lovely historical review have to do with Indy?

Each of these slices came together to create my strongest, best marathon ever. No, it wasn't a PR. But it was darn near perfect.

Of course, I didn't know the outcome as I stood in my corral Saturday morning, gently shaking my legs out. My mom had just wished Johnny and I a good race, at one point clutching her heart and exclaiming, "I'm so nervous!" Johnny and I laughed; we understood. Spectating was hard work.

In those dark minutes, I did  a mental checklist. Gels: check. Custom playlist: check. Awesome shirt Kat designed in the wake of the Vegas shootings: check. I wanted nothing more than to represent my town proudly, to let the world know that we are strong. We rise up. Above all, we believe in love + kindness.

Legs felt good; arms felt great. I had done my very first unsupported chin-up on Thursday morning, an honest-to-goodness real chin-up. Upper strength, as I'm learning, is critical to a strong running economy. In some ways, that glorious chin-up validated every single failed Presidential Fitness Test from middle school. Suck on that, sixth grade. Thirty-nine year old Kim is finally coming into her own.

Speaking of fitness, I felt ready. More than ready. My eight-day carb depletion leaned me out, getting me to racing weight two full days early. It was challenging, yes, and had I donned a witch's hat for Halloween, I don't think anyone in my life would have refuted it. But that depletion opened the door for three days' worth of carbo-loading, which I'll be honest, is really fun. Johnny and I happily noshed on oatmeal flaxseed cookies over coffee and conversation during the entire flight out.

Don't worry, it wasn't an all-out carb-crazy buffet. While eating the same amount of calories per day, I simply readjusted the ratio of carbs to protein to fats. On a regular training day, about 60% of my diet is carbohydrates (*not bread or pasta, but fruits, veggies and grains. Or tasty Honey Stinger waffles). Starting twelve days before race day, I dropped down to 50-60 grams of carbs per day. That's about 200-240 total calories, about 15% on a 1600 cal/day diet. I raised my protein (all plants, mind you - a bit challenging) to 60% (over 200 grams) and fat upped to 25% (around 50 grams.) That is a LOT of vegan protein shakes, fermented tofu and protein bars. I did that for three days until I realized I would be divorced and friendless very, very soon. **Editor's note: lack of carbs makes you very cranky. On day 4, more out of necessity than race strategy, I went up to 80 gram, then 100. I was still running too - gutting out each run with essentially no gas in the tank. There were six rueful runs during this depletion period, including one tempo run and one bout of speed work. While excruciating, it did two things: 1) it further depleted any leftover carbs in the body and 2), it simulated bonking in the later miles. Oddly, this is what I wanted: I needed to know and understand it in order to conquer it.

On November 1st, three days before the race, the equation flipped. Suddenly, carbs dominated 70% to 80% of my diet - between 280 grams, up to 340 grams of delicious, yummy carbs per day. I've never been so happy to eat a banana. And apples! Apples are DELICIOUS! Who wants a Honey Stinger waffle? On Friday, Johnny and I stumbled upon this market place after our shake-out run that offered both veggie crepes AND plant-based bowls that included black beans, brown rice, and sauteed tofu over sauteed spinach. OMG YES!!! Pasta and a kale salad for dinner on Friday rounded out my carbo-loading, and by Saturday's bowl of pre-marathon oatmeal, I knew I was ready. Who has two thumbs and has full glucose storage? This girl!

A little unconventional, but it worked. Really well. I never even saw the wall, let along crashed into it. Not at the famed mile 20 and never after that.

Speaking of food, I knew I was running well - calm, collected, easy. The training cycle that encompassed the previous twelve weeks was one of my favorites. Usually I give up all kinds of stuff - namely alcohol - to prep for a race, but this one, I chose not to. In fact, alcohol became an integral part of recovery. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but after every Saturday long run, Johnny and I would stop to get a Michelada. He's kind of obsessed with the drink, which is ironic because before meeting him, I had no idea what it even was. I actually asked the question, "Is that a restaurant or something?" since he referenced it so frequently. Once the laughter ended, he educated me on the merit of the Michelada - which, by the way, is essentially a Mexican bloody Mary. I enjoy a good Bloody Mary from time to time, but vodka after a long run? Yuck. Thankfully, the Michelada is just beer along with a bunch of other stuff. Surprisingly refreshing post-run, I'm not sure where the miracle recovery properties exist: the carbs from the beer, the salt from the Tajin on the rim of the frozen mug, or the Vitamin C from the lime juice? Perhaps a combination of all three, plus a tiny bit of brujeria?  Regardless, it is tasty. Johnny is so passionate about the Michelada, he thinks of himself as something of a pastor for the potion, spreading the gospel of the Michelada far and wide. I've listened as he's ordered the drink in both English and Spanish, suggested different ingredients to the bartender/waitress, and practically stepped behind the counter to make it himself. He even made me my own Michelada mix, complete with very detailed instructions, when he was out of town for a weekend long run.

(The formula, much like our water drop algorithm, is top secret. Sorry.)

Mind you, all of this drinking usually happened on Saturday morning around 10am. No wonder this was such a fun training cycle. But we were both running so well, we started joking that maybe the Michelada was the missing piece in the Breaking 2 puzzle. Get me a Nike rep on the phone! We've figured out the secret of the two hour marathon! I need to speak with Kip right now!

Running relaxed was important. By the time my wave started at 8:05, I was excited, not scared. The weather couldn't have been better: cloudy, 48, and dry. Rain threatened but the roads remained dry. I couldn't believe our good luck. NO MORE HOT MARATHONS. If you don't believe in climate change, start running. Seriously. One hot marathon and you'll be begging scientists to save our planet. Heat is miserable. If it's bad for us, just think of the poor polar bears.

The full marathoners started with the halfers, which I will admit, it kind of annoying. Running a full isn't twice as much effort as a half; it's 10x as much. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the full is just a completely different animal. As my wave took off, I noted with dismay several runners started walking within the first half mile...why did start you in wave 2? Although irritated, I was more concerned about being around folks that could be a little reckless with their energy than the walkers. Sure, bad pacing in a half is painful, but in a full? That's suicide. Watching some dart off while others slowed, I decided that time spent hating on the halfers was a waste of energy, so I turned my brain off.

Time to concentrate on running.

Indy's course is fairly flat with a few climbs in the middle miles. It took us through the downtown area, into the 'burbs with lovely homes and expansive lawns, and through the White River area. We curved around the large buildings and the Circle Monument, the symbol of the marathon. On mile 2.5, standing exactly where she had promised, was my mom, holding her neon yellow sign, waving like a madwoman. I had removed my gloves by this point to accommodate my rapidly rising body temperature. I gently tossed them to her as I ran by. My first test of the morning ("See mother, remove gloves") had gone off without a hitch. Only 23.7 miles to go!

We gradually wound our way into the quiet neighborhoods, bright with fall colors. Some strip malls but that's okay. Sure, running by a Papa John's and a Pep Boys isn't exactly inspiring, but it's how most road races go. It's a colossal undertaking to find 26.2 miles of roadway in a city; not everything will be squirrels and pretty fall planters. It didn't matter; by mile 4, I had found myself a nice little pack to tuck into, all dudes. Why am I always with the boys? It wasn't windy, but drafting is a great way to conserve energy, especially in the early miles. I'm not sure the lead guy knew he had  an entire tribe of people tightly packed behind him, but we all seemed to have the same idea: let him do the work. So we did.

By mile 8, to my relief, my pack retained its shape as we split from the halfers. The 3:45 pacing group was running a few meters behind us, so I gradually made my way over to the lead pacer. "Are we running a 3:45 right now or going faster?" I asked casually. My watch suggested we were running almost 40 seconds faster than we should be. This might feel fine now, but it could lead to disastrous results in the later miles.

The orange-shirted guy responded exactly how I thought he would. "Yup, we are running about 40 seconds under pace," he panted as we hefted along together. Wow, I called that one. "Are you all planning to split in the later miles?" I asked, nodding at his running partner, hoping my questions weren't annoying him. What I meant by my question was: because there are two of you, will one of you take the runners who still feel good around mile 18 or 19 a bit faster, to get us in under 3:45? This was a concept introduced to me at CIM and I thought it was absolutely brilliant. Of course, by the time I had hit mile 18 in CIM, I was dying a slow death, nowhere close to a 3:45 pace, but two years had passed and I was a much stronger runner. I could taste my 3:41.

"Negative," the pacer informed me. "We are going to hang together the whole time and bring you all in as close to 3:45 as we can."

That's all I needed to hear. I thanked him and sped up, silently saying good-bye to my little tribe of runners. I didn't want a 3:45 finish. I wanted 3:41.

Splits for the first 10 miles: 8:33, 8:29, 7:52 (whoops), 8:44, 8:36, 8:11, 8:19, 8:24, 8:29 and 8:22.

Best of all: I was barely working. Even without drafting, my legs were just clipping along. I kept repeating to myself, "If it feels like work, you are working too hard." That would reel me back in, settle down, and remind me to concentrate on form and breathing.

After mile 10, I started looking for my friend Jill. We graduated high school together, are Facebook friends, but I hadn't seen in her in person over 20 years. As she told me the day before, "I still look like Jill, just the 38 year old version." That made me laugh. And sure enough, there she was on mile 10.5 with one of her beautiful blonde daughters, holding a sign that said, "YAY KIM!"

Tears instantly. For her to brave the cold with a child in tow - and a sign that had my name on it - was too much. I think she teared up too as I passed by. We high-fived and I felt this enormous boost of energy. I had less than 16 miles to go, felt fresh as a daisy, and just got a giant rush of love. The power of having friends and family out there is just indescribable.

My first half: 1:51:00, or an 8:26 pace. Exactly where I needed to be. 8:26 will bring me in at 3:41.

That's when I started to believe. Prior to the start of the race, the idea of BQing again was in my head, but felt like such a lofty goal. After all, the first one nearly killed me. I hadn't put in nearly as much work as I did for Revel, had been tossing Micheladas back for weeks, and even ran a silly tri two weeks ago. The taste of Lake Mead lingered in my mouth. How audacious could I get? Such a greedy runner.

But something in my brain told me...why not?  Go for it. Dream. Believe. Achieve. Alex told me that right before St. George. It's an old Deena Kastor quote, and I didn't really get it until that moment. If I wanted this, the first step was believing I could do it.

I believed.

By mile 20, the only thing I felt was disbelief when looking at my Garmin. Miles 14-20 were just as carefree as the first half, a breezy 8:26, 8:36, 8:43, 8:32, 8:27, 8:18 and 8:23. Did I really just run an 8:23 mile 20? Not to mention, the course became very hilly around mile 16. We climbed up for two miles, hence the 8:42 and 8:32. But still, under 9 minutes! In my wildest dreams, I did not anticipate that. My legs were starting to tire, but overall, I still felt really strong. Best, I had just finished the hardest part of the course. 

As we made our way through the nature trail, the road changed considerably. Our smooth pavement gave way to cracks and bumps. Potholes galore. I realized I needed to direct my energy to my footing, lest I trip on one of these ridges. My lateral movement was starting to waver, too. It was that time of the race where one wrong footfall could cause a cramp to shoot up the leg. There was nothing I could do about it, it was just general fatigue starting to settle in. But the Hot Shot I had consumed 45 minutes prior to the race, my tiny little miracle in a tube, definitely helped. All the big muscles were still active and working, including my much-needed quads and overworked calves. I don't understand the scientific properties of Hot Shot, but it's batting a thousand for me (2 for 2 in marathon play). I cannot say enough good stuff about the product. (Not sponsored, just a fan, kind of like my love for Honey Stinger waffles. Check it out: teamhotshot.com)

After mile 21 (a solid 8:42), I began to fantasize about my finish time. I was still on my 8:26 pace. If I could just hold on for another five miles, maybe, just maybe, I''ll back in Boston in 2019. Right on Hereford, left on Boyleston. Let's do it again...

Miles 22 - 26: an unreal 8:35, 8:42, 8:42, 8:40 and 8:32. How the hell is my last mile almost the same as my first? Did I really pace myself that well? The 3:45 group was well behind me; I wasn't about to waste precious energy craning my head to find them. Instead, I put everything into running as fast as I could. Two more turns then the finish. Is this really happening? I sprinted. My watch told me it was a 7:40 pace.

...I crossed the finish line as their clock read 3:48, five minutes and thirty seconds off because a wave 2 start. Wait, 3:43?? Huh? Where was 3:41?

How did that happen?  What the...?

When I looked at my watch, I realized my glaring error: I ran long. Yes, I ran an 8:26 pace - but I ran 26.4 miles instead of the prescribed 26.2. It's not uncommon to run extra, especially in a marathon with a lot of turns, but sadly, the official time only counts the 26.2 distance...so my shiny 8:26 suddenly morphed into a shockingly ugly 8:32. What the... Officially: 3:43:25. A BQ technically, but I'll never get in. The qualifying standard this year was over three minutes, meaning that while I met my qualifying time, there will be plenty more faster runners who will be admitted before me. 

Wow. I did not see that coming.

Looking back, I realize the error of my ways. I should have been 3-5 seconds under pace per mile to accommodate for a long course. I was so focused on hitting perfect splits that running farther than 26.2 miles never occurred to me.

But like the seven marathons that came before this, Indy will fall in line as yet another learning experience.

While I'm disappointed about no Boston (I'm not even going to apply with a 1:35 cushion), I am deliriously pleased with my overall performance. I feel like Indy was an accurate display of my current fitness. I paced myself well and came within 85 seconds of even splitting. Ever since BQ'ing at Revel, the nagging doubt of a "downhill course" lingered in my thoughts. I truly believe that there is a give-and-take to downhill courses: sure, you don't use the same aerobic effort, but you usually pay for it in another way. I got my 3:33:33 but was left with Achilles tendinitis and unable to run for five weeks. Indy, however, would be in line with Chicago, just a bit more challenging. Flat with a few hills: this, to me, validated my first Boston. I can run both downhill AND flat and still BQ. Whew! 

The best part of Indy is what I learned after Boston: if you can't run fast, run happy. Somehow, I managed to do both at the same time. I may even offer a third option too - run happy, fast, and strong.

You know, it's funny. Ever since I started running, Boston was my goal. Boston, Boston, Boston. That's all I thought about. And then I got there and the actual race was completely different than I thought it would be. Because of the calf strain, because of my expectations, take your pick.  But now, in my first race post-Boston, I realize Boston was never the goal. It was the beginning. 

And Indy is the start of the second chapter.

I can't wait to see what comes next.

The shocking conclusion!

(Not really. Just sounded a bit more dramatic.)

Nose wiped, I bolted out of T2 like my feet were on fire. I had no idea how many people were in front of me or what time it even was. My dreams of running an 18 minute 5K were dashed only because….I’ve never run an 18 minute 5K, lol. I’ve never even come close to breaking 20. I wonder some days if my enthusiasm for running makes me appear to be better runner than what I actually am. Proud mid-packer here, occasional age-group placer. That’s it. No land-speed records were going to be broken today; I was simply excited to start the run.
 
In a race, 6:50-7:00 min/miles would be my 5K speed. I had already made peace those numbers would not be present today. Tempo is around 7:30; but even that seemed a bit rough, considering how much my lower back hurt. So I adjusted my goals and decided to shoot for marathon pace: 8:30s. My happy pace.
 
Friends warned me the first mile after the bike is tough, very tough. You have to “find” your legs again. I had no problems finding mine – there they are! Hi, legs!  – but that nasty lower back ache literally had me gasping in pain. That along with a dull ache  in my uh, under carriage. I had been wedged on RB for well over an hour, and I don’t think I once changed or shifted positions. Again, my inexperience was showing.
 
It took a solid half mile to work out the kinks, especially in the left glute. I used this time to look around the course and see who was still out there. A ton of folks had already finished (buzzkill) but there were Olympic distance folks were still grinding it out. This time, in this sport, I wasn’t afraid to pass them.
 
As my back settled, so did my mind. Running is so visceral. I turned my head to glance backward. I felt the ground beneath my feet, listened to my competitors’ breathing, even smelled how hard they were working. I never realized how much I rely on my senses during a run, but you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
 
I felt back in my element.
 
But I wasn’t feeling 100%.  I had clearly ingested buckets of water during the swim, which now splashed angrily in my gut with every foot strike. Ugh. Here was I was so thirsty, yet running with a sloshy tummy. The irony. Plus, it was Lake Mead water. Gross. Where was Johnny to hold my ponytail?
 
Thankfully, experience kicked in and that inner voice began extinguishing the flames of negative thought. First, It was only 3 miles. Second, I will not be running for four hours. Third, my discomfort was moderate at best. And when my watch clicked an 8:36 for mile one, I forceably exhaled with relief. Only two more to go and I’m moving easily. Everything was going to be just fine.
 
And it was. Miles 2 and 3 were also in the 8:30s. Before I knew it, my little leggies powered up the hill to the finish line. I caught sight of my cheer squad right before the end and raised two hands in victory. They screamed. I screamed. Done! 

After crossing the finish line, I looked around in confusion. I felt...fine. That's it? I’m not sure what I expected. Exhaustion? Elation? Neither hit me. I had a ton more gas in the tank -- perhaps my first clue that I had paced myself poorly. Whoops. But in looking back, I think part of my bewilderment was a result of how I tend to finish full marathons: legs buckling, ready to collapse, the word “Medic!” on the tip of my tongue.
 
This time? Not so much. Two hours and fifteen minutes worth of work. Not quite as taxing as a long run. Just…wetter. And more booty pain.
 
Final times:

 Am I happy about it? I have no idea. What is considered good in the “tri” world? Fifth in my age group sounds nice, but that only depends on who shows up that day.
 
What did I learn?

• This experience was humbling. Starting in the very last wave, I feared I was one of the last to exit the water. This is something I had never experienced before. It makes me think about those back—of-the-pack runners trying to get in before the mile cut-offs. That’s a different kind of stress than meeting a time goal. It gives me a renewed appreciation for those folks.
• Open water swimming is no joke. The experts were right: you need to practice, practice, practice. No wonder during my training swims in the pool, everyone else seemed to be swimming so much harder. I leisurely floated by while they are churned like diesel-fueled paddle boats. Clearly they knew open water brings a completely new dynamic to forward movement. I was just having fun staring at the green line and practicing flip turns. Lesson learned.
• It’s possible to “race” without becoming a puddle of stress. I put very little pressure on myself to go fast (hi! Beginner blue cap over here!) and that made a huge difference. There were a few hairy moments during training and on Friday night, but overall, I felt pretty chill about the whole experience. I called it more of an experiment than a race. Obviously, I can’t use this for every situation (…goal-setting is good…) but I’m slowly learning there is a way to aim high without melting down.
• I’m a minimalist. I don’t like gear. Cycling and swimming are extremely challenging and require an enormous amount of training and practice, along with being very technique-heavy and gear-dominant. There are far more things that can go wrong on a bike than on two feet. Like halfway through the ride and I looked down and realized I should have added air to my tires. Whoops. I don’t like having more variables to contend with. Maybe it gets easier with time, but it is a lot to juggle. A very experienced tri told me, “You get used to doing nothing well.” That does not settle well with me. Kind of like my triplet analogy; I don’t like feeling like I’m constantly working yet still deficient. Give me one thing and let me do it well.  
  
• We are who we are. And I am a runner. What I lack in talent, I make up for in effort and exuberance. I’m never going to run elite, win a marathon, or do anything truly noteworthy for the sport. And that is totally okay. If 2017 has taught me anything — from being injured for 8 weeks to skipping runs because my other other babies were crying — it is that I value running and need it in my life. It’s less of a sport and more like a relationship. Running, thanks for being you. To many more happy miles together.
  

 
The most common question I’ve gotten since Saturday is “…will you do another triathlon?”
 
I have no idea. At least I have the gear now - including my wet suit, which has been lying in our bathtub since Saturday night.

However, I definitely am interested.

But do I have to wear an ankle monitor?

Stay tuned.
 
P.S - Indy Monumental Marathon in 8 days!

I am not a trainer or a fitness expert, but here’s a tip: do not train for a full marathon and a triathlon at the same time. Unless you have copious amounts of free time on your hands, are working towards an Ironman, AND are married to a chiropractor, it’s not worth it.
 
I tried. I really did. (I “tri’d” haha). For five weeks, I did my runs (easy, speed, tempo) at 4am, then cycled or swam later. On one Sunday, I did all three to see what it was like. Obviously, the swimming took place in a pool, which I now understand is the equivalent of splashing around in a bath tub as compared to the brutality of open water swimming. But some days called for no running, which made me feel slightly panicky. My mileage dropped from 40+ a week to mid 30s then the high 20s. Friends reassured me that all the cross training would help my running but in my head, I had trouble putting the two together. Knowing from experience I perform significantly better at higher mileage (+40 miles/week = good results, 39 miles or less = no bueno), I held my breath as those miles dropped. At least I knew how to get into my big chain.
 
The light bulb came on after Cedar City. Sure, the lackluster performance made me cringe, but it was how I felt at the end of that race that scared me the most. I refocused my attention on running completely. Not because I want a good time in Indy (I do, trust me), but more because I know the exquisite pain that is the last 10K of a marathon. If a half can hurt that badly, a full will eat me alive. There was no way I was going to sacrifice time on my feet for a sprint tri; I figured I had enough aerobic endurance to pull it off with just run training. I could wing the the other two sports on race day.
 
If you read yesterday’s entry, you are probably thinking how short-sighted my plan was. Well, let’s just say the bike was also a serious learning experience.
 
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try on race day. On Tuesday, I called a last-minute Hail Mary and switched to clip-in pedals.  The course was primarily uphill and clipping in gave me 50% more power to climb. The gain of additional momentum far outweighed the risk of falling over in the transition area. So I did it. With trepidation, fear, and a little bit of bluster. Because…why not?

Despite my best intentions of doing at least two clipped-in rides the week before the race, I had to settle for less then 20 minutes of practicing next to my front lawn. The first time, I clipped and took off without a problem. Beginner luck! The second time, I missed the right clip and fell over. We have really soft grass.
 
Okay, plenty of practice.
 
On Saturday while snapping on my brand-new bike shoes, I seriously questioned this decision. Maybe I should have tried just a few more times to get that muscle memory working. I wasn’t concerned about the  embarrassment or pain of falling; anyone who has ever attended boot camp with me will attest I fell once a quarter. No, I was concerned about injury; I didn’t want to bloody a knee or worse. I need two high-functioning legs and all of their adjoining parts for the marathon, just 14 days away. Race day worst case scenario: I never clip in and instead jog up the hill with Rainbow Brite tucked under my arm. It was only 12.2 miles…
 
I had to go for it. The Lord hates a coward.
 
It took three tries. Johnny, naturally, has video of all of this. On the first two attempts, I waver slightly before getting both feet on the ground safely. It looks awkward and unsightly. How it felt:  .3 seconds of sheer terror. A nice volunteer patiently stood next to me, listening to me swear under my breath. Don’t let me pitch over, don’t let me pitch over…and then third time’s the charm. Both feet safely locked in. I took off.
 
Now, how do you stop?
 
I’ll figure that out later.
 
After twenty seconds of remaining upright, I began to contemplate the twelve miles ahead of me. I had no idea how to pace myself. My watch was set to running but had switched screens various times during the swim. It was on a screen I had never seen before. I could barely itch my nose on the bike, let alone play with my watch, so both hands remained firmly on the handlebars. I would just have to guess speed and distance.
 
I climbed out of Boulder Beach slowly and methodically. There was a tight 180-degree turn at the sprint turnaround and I wondered how to pull that one off. I pedaled and worried, pedaled and worried. Lynn’s voice echoed in my brain: keep cadence high; shift gears to adjust. Anticipate elevation. It’s like reading sheet music. I focused on hills, dropped gears, added gears. I decided to stay in my small chain the whole time; yes, I was being a baby but this was not a time for heroics.
 
After a few miles, I got a little antsy. This was...boring. I sped up, passing a few people. That was fun.  Then it got boring again. I wondered briefly if I had somehow missed the sprint turnaround. Nope – it was directly ahead. Eek, okay, let’s turn around without falling off. Slowing my speed to barely a crawl, I turned the handlebars, grimaced, yet remained upright. First solid victory of the morning!
 
Now the path took us out of the recreation area and up the hill to Boulder City. In single file, we silently crawled up, like a trail of helmeted ants. I wasn’t working particularly hard; even without my heart rate monitor and a functioning Garmin, I knew I wasn’t using much effort. I wanted to go faster but wasn’t bold enough to pass others because of the narrow road. Plus, the Olympic distance folks were still on the course. Many of them zipped by in a flash, some so quickly I didn’t know they were there until they were next to me. Each one scared the hell out of me. The last thing I wanted was to cause a wreck so I stayed put.  We climbed. Slowly.
 
Slowly.
 
Despacito…I sang in my head, attempting to entertain myself.

So bored.
 
But I had no other choice. Is this the way cycling works?
 
There were no mile markers showing how far we’d gone which was downright maddening. the only hint of our location came at the aid station at mile 6 passing out *full-size* bottles of Gatorade. What?? Full-size bottles? That doesn’t happen at in a run. Yet those bottles contained a twinge of irony too -  despite my burning thirst and the nasty taste of Lake Mead that lingered in the back of my throat, I couldn’t manage a quick sip of any liquid…because I couldn’t reach them. I had never practiced drinking and riding. Drinking and registering, yes. But water while cycling? Nope.  The two bottles strapped to my bike held gloriously cool water and tasty cherry Nuun…but I couldn’t get to them. The thought of removing a hand from the handlebars filled me with such fear, it felt better to suffer extreme thirst then potentially crash.
 
It was as though I simply chosen to take my water bottles out for a nice ride. I hope they enjoyed themselves, because they reached T2 completely untouched.
 
I, on the other hand, was a hot mess. Not having had a drop of water in over an hour, my mouth felt like it was full of dry sand. My nose ran like a leaky faucet but I couldn’t get a hand up there to wipe it. So boogers plastered the sides of my face and my tongue tasted like paper.
 
Post-aid station, I must have asked three different people how much course was left. The climb was tedious, the wind annoying. Legs felt fine, but my lower back burned as though someone had stabbed it with hot pokers. My left elbow hurt. My right knee ached. When was this going to end?
 
Oh wait, one last punch, right in the gut. My group of fellow cyclist ants and I were probably near mile 10 when I noticed other riders coming at us…riders coasting downhill, smiling…wearing medals…
 
Finishers.
 
There is really nothing worse than seeing fellow athletes who are already done when you are still out there working. It just takes the wind out of your sails. One moment, I was telling myself to hang in there, keep pushing, and the next, I saw medals and felt totally deflated. They had an hour head start, I reasoned…they probably know how to swim. They can reach for their water bottles and pedal simultaneously.
 
Jerks.
 
I dragged myself up the last hill. T2 shimmered in the distance like a beautiful mirage. After twelve of the longest miles of my life, the ride was permanently and decidedly over. I just had to unclip…
 
Per Lynn’s instructions, I removed my right foot well the stopping area as not to crash. I noted the gentlemen in front of me not only unclipped, but actually swung his leg over his bike, so both legs were on the same side. He slid to a perfect, graceful stop. I had a feeling he wasn’t thirsty. 

It wasn’t quite so smooth for me. A bit turbulent but I managed to remain vertical.  I got my foot out but hit the brakes too quickly and shifted forward. Thankfully, my left foot slid out and everything found solid ground. Wobbling,  I hauled Rainbow Brite over to my area, keeping my eyes peeled on the ground for the red lulu bag. It was there! I HAVE SHOES! It’s a tri miracle!
 
Brian, Scotty and Johnny were all screaming next to the fence. I noticed Scott waving what appeared to be a letter-sized piece of white paper. He made me a sign! What a good boy. He was asking if I saw fish during the swim. Glycogen-deprived and still unsteady, I lied and shouted yes. The kid is obsessed with fish and I didn’t want to disappoint him. But now, post-race, he’s asked me a million question about the alleged fish and I don’t have the heart to tell him Mom mislead to him. Maybe one day he’ll read this.
 
I’m sorry, Scott. There were no fish. But it made you happy in the moment and I didn’t have any more time to explain.

New socks on, feet dry, shoes tied, water bottle in hand. I felt good. Let's put this puppy to bed.
 
But there was one more pit-stop to make.
 
In reviewing the rules pre-race, it clearly stated athletes could not accept help from spectators. Any “aid” would result in various time penalties, even a full disqualification. This really surprised me. I mean, at every marathon I’ve ever run, including Boston, the spectators are as much a part of the race as the runners are. Especially Boston. When I read this, the only thing I could think was, “…so...no Otter Pops?” That’s cruel, man. I dutifully relayed this info to Johnny pre-race, telling him sternly, “I don’t care if I can’t get out of my wetsuit and I’m flopping around in T1 like a dying fish; DO NOT HELP ME!” He nodded his head in full agreement. No help. Got it.
 
After seeing the finishers on the course, I gave up on the rules. I’m not racing for money here and I was almost certain I'd be one of the last to cross the finish line. But Johnny didn’t know that. So when I ran up to him and asked for a Kleenex, the expression on his face was downright priceless. I saw two thoughts flicker across simultaneously: “she needs help” and “…but am I allowed to help???” Thankfully, common sense beat out the strict interpretation of the rule. He immediately began fishing around in his pockets and handed over the goods.
 
Blowing my nose has never felt so amazing.
 
Now it was time to run. Hooray! Unbeknownst to me but caught on video, my Boston song, my favorite song, my theme song came on over the loud speakers. “Try Everything” by Shakira. Feel free to laugh but that song speaks to me. I won’t give up, I won’t give in, till I reach the end and then I’ll start again. I mean, isn’t that how my whole year has gone?

I wanna try everything,
I wanna try everything even though I could fail.
 
Fail, disqualify, finish last. Does it matter? Heck no! Like one of my favorite sayings, “Fall down seven times, get up eight,” you can turtle-swim, flounder at clipping in and fizzle out when it comes to reaching for a water bottle. The end isn't what matters, it's the effort. It's putting yourself out there to do new things. The whole point is to try! TRI! The name is literally in the title. It's been there the whole time. I just didn't know it.

I see it now. I get it.

The Universe was essentially saying, “Hey, Buttercup: you are fine. Shut up and start running. ”
 
So I did.

Part III tomorrow.

The story of PumpkinMan will be a three-part series…a TRI-ology. How could it not?
 
A triathlon consists of a swim, a bike ride, and a run. The distances vary but the structure is the same – swim, bike, run. On Saturday, I completed a sprint triathlon, the shortest distance of all tri events. It started with a 750 meter swim in Lake Mead, a 12.2 mile ride on a road that wound its way from Boulder Beach into the hills, then culminated with a 3.1 mile run through the streets of Boulder City. 
 
There is a surprise fourth part of the tri that starts well before you ever get to the course. They don’t tell you about this part. It’s called “packing.” And it took me far longer than any other part of the race did. 

By late Friday night, I looked around my garage, expecting someone to place a race medal around my neck for my Olympic level of organization. Working off of three separate lists, I took great delight in checking items off as they were placed in the car. Crammed to the gills with gear, it now encased all of the red lululemon bags I owned, several gym bags, and one very colorful road bike - I call her “Rainbow Brite.” Amid the packages of Honey Stinger waffles, I had my Transition 1 (T1) bag, a wetsuit, the baby blue swim cap that denoted my beginner status, goggles, another pair of goggles, gels, socks, extra socks, more socks (I hate wet feet), towels in case my feet were somehow still wet despite three sock changes, water bottles, Nuun, a change of clothes, extra contacts, moisturizer, lip balm, bandaids, Neosporine, and a prescription for antibiotics to consume immediately upon exiting the murky, parasite-filled waters of Lake Mead*.
 
The only thing not packed were my running shoes; they had been dropped off in a random parking lot in the heart of Boulder City earlier that day. “Transition 2 area,” the nice volunteer lady assured me. I looked at her with skepticism.  I didn’t realize leaving the shoes to my beloved sport would cause so much internal conflict. I struggled to walk out of that parking lot as my Adidas Boston Boosts stayed behind, looking abandoned and helpless. The race promised overnight security. Really? Running was the one part of this whole adventure that I could actually do; without shoes, I was screwed on that aspect, too.

Kim of Little Faith. I crammed an extra pair of shoes into yet another lulu bag and tucked it into the car. Better safe than sorry. Sadly, I was out of extra socks.
 
Once the gear was secure, I focused on the players. Our plan was simple and we all knew our parts. I was picking Johnny up at 5:10. We would head to the beach for the swim. After I got on my bike, he would drive my car to T2. Brian and Scott would meet him there to watch the transition and the start of the run. The start was also the finish, so *hopefully* 25 short minutes later, I would round the corner and complete my first – and possibly last - triathlon. Medal, hugs, photos, maybe breakfast. Just your average Saturday morning.
 
For the record, you know you have a great training partner when he unflinchingly agrees to not only postpone his long run to Sunday to aid in your quest to finish your first tri, but also when he casually mentions he’s getting up at 3am to “get a quick run in” before heading out. When I pulled up at 5:13am, Johnny was cheerful and ready to go, miles already done. I offered him coffee; he offered to act as my gear sherpa, race cheerleader, personal photographer and official ponytail-holder when the vomiting started.
 
That’s a REALLY good training partner.
 
I knew we were a good team – we had spent the better part of the last few weeks coordinating several “Ghost Runs” sponsored by the Downtown Summerlin lululemon store. Throughout our training, we're almost always on the same page and have an easy ability to communicate, sometimes without even having to speak. But what I didn’t anticipate was how important his presence would be once we finally arrived at the beach. Sitting in the car, staring at the dark, choppy waters, I could not bring myself to open the car door and face the day. Just as the tears welled up and that choking-crying thing started, Johnny launched into a subject completely unrelated to swimming, drowning or contracting a flesh-eating virus. His happy post-run chatter completely eclipsed my growing fears and provided the necessary distraction. The tears disappeared as quickly as they came on. Crisis 1: averted. Thank goodness for good running partners!

We spent the rest of the morning taking silly pictures, watching other athletes, eating waffles and running to and from the port-a-potties. It was a brilliant morning; the temperature rose as the sun came over the mountains, making it cool but comfortable. Southern Nevada is really a lovely place to live and I have to pinch myself occasionally to remind myself these dazzling sunrises and colorful, desert landscapes are real.

I stared closely at how people arranged their gear in T1 and tried to mimic their organization. I dutifully held out both arms, a hand, and the back of my calf to be body-marked. I obtained a timing chip – not a small metal square on the back of a bib, but this bulky device that straps around your ankle. I kept referring to it as “my ankle monitor” until someone corrected me and said that’s what paroles wear. Whoops. I’m a beginner, okay?

Eventually, I realized it was time to get swim-ready. Armed with two bottles of TriGlide and a wetsuit that has never actually been wet, I wriggled into the thick material as Johnny held one arm to keep me from pitching over into the rocks. That TriGlide stuff really works! I had no idea where to spray it, so it went everywhere. Legs, stomach, back, underarms. Was this sunscreen? Deodorant? Who knows. Who cares? We were just having fun by this point. I donned my extremely unattractive light blue cap, my goggles and said a silent prayer that my contacts did not pop out mid-swim, lest I be blind until T1.

Seasoned tri friends had advised me to “warm up in the water” before my wave went out. I honestly had no idea what that meant. In running, it means you run a few miles, stretch, do some plyometrics and get all "nimbly-bimbly" (Alex’s word and one of my favorites). In swimming, warming up meant…you actually get in the water? Like, now? But what if you get cold? My wave was the very last one – the baby blues started almost an hour after everyone else. I guess they wanted to keep tabs on us, since we the ones who most likely registered for this event while drinking**. Everything sounds like a good idea when sitting at your kitchen counter with a glass of wine. I looked around at the sea of purple, orange, and green caps. No blue in the water. Where were my people?
 
The DJ/announcer gave very clear directions as each wave of swimmers lined up: sprint athletes were simply swimming in a large rectangle – green bouy, green bouy, orange bouy, shore. Seemed easy enough.

I stared at each of the colored bouys, bobbing frantically in the wind. Sure, the water was rough but it didn’t look overwhelming. I watched as the first group, the Olympic males 39 and under, cut through the water like neon orange-capped mako sharks. So aggressive and fierce; very cool. I could do this. Pssh. Swimming is easy.

Wave after wave of athletes lined up and dove in. They were all making it look easy. This gave me courage to put a foot in the water. Okay, not as cold as I thought. I gingerly made my way over the rocks in the shallow water, feeling hopelessly slow and heavy. These rocks were sharp! Ow, ow, ow. Please, no cut feet. I need my feet to run. Once I was in knee-deep water, I threw the rest of my body in like a bloated manatee to avoid further foot worry. Oh! Cold but not too cold. My feet floated as I let the water come up to my chin. My wetsuit was so…warm. It was like swimming in a thick, buoyant sweater. Mmm. Again, I reflected on the ease of this sport. Only a few more steps: next, put face in water. Then,  swim. Finally, win race.
 
I continued to splash around in the shallow water like a toddler, convinced I was “warming up.” Am I warming myself up temperature-wise, or like, warming up in terms of swimming? I still had no idea. I  Googled “how to swim in open water” the night before and the main point in all the articles came back to the same thing: practice in open water. Darn it. Talk about a day late, a dollar short.
 
More and more baby blue swim caps approached the water and my wave finally lined up; at the same time, the faster swimmers exited the water to get to their bikes.  There were less and less spectators on the beach as folks peeled off to follow their friends and family members. As I glanced back, I could still make out the Johnny’s tall frame. He was filming everything and grinning from ear to ear. Well, I reasoned, at least he’ll be available to identity my body if I go under.
 
Strangely, despite my morbid thoughts, I had very little fear. I was more amused than anything. And curious. Very curious. I just wanted to get started to see how it all played out. Once again, anticipation was the worst part of this whole experience.
 
My fellow blue cappers and I all bobbed quietly near our buoy. The announcer went over the swim route again.  If my Boston wave was all similar-looking lean, mean, PTA moms, this group was the opposite. It was rather eclectic.  Men, women, all shapes and sizes. There was no commonality except the color of our swim caps. I looked around, trying to ascertain who was going to be the first person to kick me in the face.

The announcer finally, blissfully shouted “Go!” and that was it; we all dove forward like sleek dolphins. Well, I felt like a sleek dolphin in my wetsuit-sweater. This is fun!  I kept my distance from other swimmers as avoid their rapidly moving feet. Four strokes in, I felt amazing. I concentrated on using my lats, not my shoulders. Wide arms, pull, kick. This was going perfectly! I turned to the side to take my first breath...
 
...and promptly got hit with a huge wave of water. Right in the face.
 
Coughing and spurting, my gorgeous swim ended in less than four seconds. I pulled my head up, went vertical and blinked. What the hell? Waves? I had not anticipated this. Heck, I was annoyed when the water slides were on at the outdoor pool at Lifetime, creating a slight push in the water of the lap lanes. Perhaps I should have swam a bit more in that gentle push…because this was a real current and I actually had to make forward movement. Um…how?
 
For about three minutes, I continued to swim freestyle. And each time, it went the same: stroke, stroke, breath, massive wave in the face. Cough, choke, go vertical. I glanced around and realized: I’ve made no progress. How the hell do you do this? Perhaps this is why they said to practice a lot. Damn those experts and their helpful advice. 
 
Then it dawned on me: not only was I not moving forward, the current was actually pushing me backwards. As in, back to shore. Gah! I swore a bit while treading water, assessing my options. Kayaks and boats circled nearby, but I wasn’t in trouble. With my vast amount of adipose tissue and my super awesome wetsuit-sweater, I could float forever. Drowning was not a concern. I just had to figure out how to maneuver through this water.
 
So I did the only thing I could think of: the breast-stroke. With my head completely out of the water,  I kicked my way to the first buoy. I kept my eyes on the green balloon, never losing sight of it. People all around me were flailing and grabbing on to kayaks. Sleek doliphins? We were totally the beginner group. This was more like a blooper reel of how not to do an open water swim. I felt like a hulking blue-eared sea turtle swimming slowly past the watery chaos. I felt like an idiot, but at least it was working.
 
Making the first turn, I had convinced myself the current would be better going in another direction. Nope. It felt worse. How is that possible?! My breast-stroke turned into a side stroke. Again, I felt no panic – thankfully – just annoyance and mild amusement. This would be much easier with no wind and no current. Also, no waves. And if possible, please paint large lines on the bottom of the lake so we can all stay in a lane. Just some suggestions, thanks.
 
By the time I hit the second buoy, I was sick of the side stroke. Now, headed into shore, I tried freestyle again. Nope, more waves in the face. Gah! This was impossible. Keeping my face out of the water, I flipped over on my back. Just a nice flutter kick while doing elementary backstroke arms. If that didn't work, I had only one tool left in my swimming arsenal: the doggy paddle. I had sunk lower than I ever dreamed in the last twenty minutes, but wasn’t sure I was ready to break out a doggy paddle. So I breathed, stared at the sky, and willed myself back to land.
 
My hybrid backstroke was going quite well until I kicked some unsuspecting fellow blue-capper right in the head. “Sorry!” I shouted at her. She never looked up. Once I was certain she was still conscious, I flipped back over. To my horror, I realized  I gone in a giant squiggly line.  

I was actually farther away from the shore now.

More swearing.

I returned to my sea turtle roots. Pride be damned, I had to get to back. I could see all kinds of blue-caps rushing out of the water. Was anyone behind me? Was I going to be the last one out? I knew there was a swim cut-off, but I couldn’t operate my watch to see the time. Wow – not in my worst nightmares did I think I would be dead last in the swim. This was not going well at all.
 
Channeling my inner Dory, I just kept swimming. Again, because I was a technically a beginner, I really had no expectations about the race. I wanted to finish and to have fun. I wouldn’t call my turtle-swimming fun, but I wasn’t drowning either. Both contacts appeared to be in place. I gave myself a bit of room to not excel and continued frog-kicking my way to freedom.
 
Finally, finally, finally, I hit solid ground. Two feet on very sharp rocks – ouch! Getting out of the water, I moved literally as fast as I could. The rocks and my now-heavy not-quite-so-awesome wetsuit-sweater didn’t help matters, but I hustled as fast as my sea legs would let me. Johnny, ever handy with his phone, caught the whole thing on video. In my mind, I felt like a lithe, powerful competitor muscling her way to dry land. Upon viewing the actual video, I look more like Godzilla emerging from the depths of the ocean, ready to sack Tokyo. There was nothing graceful, quick or even athletic about my shore entry. The only good thing is I’m smiling – out of sheer relief to be back on dry land and because of the total ridiculousness of it all. I mean, I could be eating pancakes with my family. Instead, I was doing my best impression of a prehistoric radio-active monster wearing an ankle monitor.  
 
I was smiling but discouraged by the time I found Johnny and my shoes. Johnny pointed out my flip flops and I scooped them up as fast I could. Then he said the best possible thing anyone could say in that moment: “You look much better than certain people that have come out! They've come out crying.”
 
Wait, what? Other people are...crying? I'm not crying...I'm just wiping the boogers off my face and trying to shake the water out of my ears. Are you telling me other people thought that was hard, too?  Not like I want to springboard off of their misery but…I want to springboard off of their misery. That’s how racing works.
 
Reenergized and emboldened that not all was lost, I ran as fast as I could up to T1. My wetsuit slipped off easily, a result of the copious amount of TriGlide applied earlier. You could use that stuff to fry eggs, fix a squeaky door, anything. It’s amazing. I poured two bottles of water over my feet, wiping them carefully to ensure no loose rocks got caught in my socks. I accidentally put my right sock on while my foot was still wet, but that was okay; I knew I had another pair waiting for me at T2. (At least, I had to believe I did). I wiped more snot off my face, sucked down a gel, and took a long swallow of water. Okay, bike time.

Part II tomorrow!I

* just kidding. I'm sure the water in Lake Mead is perfectly safe. I only saw one three-eyed fish during my swim.

** don't drink and register for races. Very dangerous behavior. You'll end up on a beach at sunrise, spraying yourself down with the athletic equivalent of cooking oil.

PumpkinMan is this Saturday. My first triathlon.
 
It’s been an interesting experiment.
 
I say “experiment” because I wasn’t sure what would stick – would I fall in love with cycling? Is swimming my thing? Am I a runner at heart? Or would the combination of all three make me the happiest?
 
Let’s say this: making the decision to run a tri is akin to birthing triplets (*on a much, much smaller scale. No offense to the triplet moms out there.) It was downright overwhelming. Despite having almost no downtime, I felt like nothing was going well. Someone was constantly being neglected. Cycling, my colicky, stubborn baby, demanded the most attention and stole my patience. Swimming suffered silently; it never uttered a peep, even when I ignored it for weeks. And running, my darling, perfect and favorite child, began to deteriorate from lack of care and attention. I think Cedar City was the best example of what happens when you disrespect running.

::sigh::
 
I wish I could wrap cycling in a fuzzy blanket and drop it off at a fire station in the early morning hours. That’s how much I loathe it. I tried – I really did. But it’s just not a fit. The first week I had a bike, I couldn’t even look at the damn thing while wearing my heart monitor; my little heart would shoot up to 165+ bpm at the mere sight of two wheels. On Day 1 of the Great Experiment, I spent an entire morning with a friend, just riding circles in her safe, flat cul-de-sac, trying to get used to the brakes and gears. I must have repeated “small chain, big hill” about a million times to myself. Apparently, graduating from a 10-speed bike means you suddenly have 28 gears to use. This is 27 more gears than I need. I clicked, I shuffled, I peddled. I tried to get into my big chain.

I tried very hard to not fall.
 
During that first week, I forced myself to ride everyday, thinking practice makes perfect. Wrong. Practice only leads to an extremely sore jaw due to the long amounts of time I spent clenching it. Three full days of soft foods and protein shakes encouraged me to chill the f*** out, lest this ridiculousness continue. Kim may suck at biking, but she is hungry.

Eventually, I got to the point where my friend deemed me not a risk on the roads, so we started traversing her neighborhood. Slowly. Well, I thought we were flying – 12 mph! – but she just gently laughed at me. You mean we have to go faster?! OMG. But I don't want to...
 
On a bike, there is no music. No jamming out to a song, getting lost in your thoughts. No Despacito. I mean, I can’t tell you how many runs I’ve been on where I actually forgot I was running. Or better yet, I’ll forget I even ran that day. This is especially true for early morning runs. I zone out and by 10am that day, I have to look at my Garmin to remind myself I did, in fact, run that morning. Not on a bike, though. You are aware of your surroundings, your balance, speed, elevation, gear position, tire pressure, traffic, weather, barometric pressure, wind speed, cloud formation, and if that dog is coming for you or just out for a little jog. Is that glass in the road? Pebbles? Water? Avoid all of this! Does that car see you? Who is behind you? Why did that cyclist just zoom past? Why is this considered fun?
 
The week I got my bike, I forgot how to swim. No joke. It took me a solid 400 yards to remember how to move my arms over my head. Kick, too? Geez, this is complicated. I must have looked like I was drowning during one rather unfortunate flip-turn because the 17-year old lifeguard actually woke up from his nap and came over to ask me if I was okay. “I got a bike,” was the only thing I could spit out, along with a copious amount of pool water. Stupid bike.
 
“Runners never look happy,” an avid cyclist (and non-runner) told me. Huh? I thought, looking at him. Not happy? We are deliriously joyful.  Filled to the brim with elation. We are elves of merriment. Okay, our faces may be grimacing, but inside, we are thoughtfully working through the problems of our lives and this world, one mile at a time. We are thinking about how good it feels to move across the Earth. What an amazing sense of accomplishment we will feel when the run is over. How running is our greatest, truest, and last form of freedom.
 
“Maybe they are just thirsty,” I offered instead.
 
But my friend does bring up a good point; as I straddle the fence between worlds, I’ve noticed some key differences. Namely, cyclists seem to like other cyclists. A lot. This pack mentality is definitely safer; riding in a peloton is a simple equation: the bigger the group, the more visible you are to cars. This phenomenon lends itself to the social nature of the sport; cyclists seem really…friendly. Agreeable. Outgoing. They do these crazy things called “fun rides” that involve riding 100+ miles and eating things like sandwiches and spare ribs at refueling stations. Plus – get this! – it’s not even a race. It’s a “ride.” They aren't competing for anything!
 
I know, I’m just as confused as you are.
 
Runners…we, well, we don’t eat spare ribs at mile 10. Just Honey Stinger waffles pre-run. (Mmm, waffles). Runners don’t travel in packs. We move in highly-concentrated little groups that have been carefully established and crafted over many years and miles. And better yet - most of us are content to log solo miles. In fact, we love our alone time. We relish it. We may know each others’ paces and routes, but constantly running in a group can be exhausting. Who can talk that much? Likewise, who needs space? Hamster-ing around the same oval for hours at a time is so fun! Keep a careful eye on those splits since a few seconds make a difference. Neurotic, yes, but remember, we are used to slurping pure glucose out of foil packets because our digestive systems are shutting down. No ribs for us, thanks.  It's hard to not go a tad bit nutso when your daily sustenance isn't even a food group.

Not to mention - let's talk about cost. Running is so much cheaper. You buy some non-cotton socks, a pair of shoes, maybe a watch if you're feeling crazy, and you are off. Cycling: not so much. There is the cost of the bike, helmet, shoes, padded shorts, and several shirts with 300 pockets each. I actually have my own bike mechanic at this point. Because - get this - you have to rely on other people. ::shudders:: I'm at the cycling shop three times a week for various gear and tune-ups. Pedal changes, tire kits, bike fittings, lights, water bottles. So. Much. Stuff. So. Much. Conversation.
 
It’s as simple as the difference between dogs and cats. Neither is better than the other; they are just different. Most dogs are pretty happy-go-lucky animals, social and pack-minded. Rule-followers because when you live in a pack, you need order. Cats…not so much. We like what we like. We are finicky, particular, sensitive, independent. We enjoy a nice nap in the sunshine. Don’t tell us to fetch, ever. You can pet me and tell me I'm pretty when I'm ready, thanks.
 
It’s good to know who you are – and in this case, I am happily feline. I will anxiously be looking forward to finishing the swim on Saturday,  getting on and off my bike without dying, and finally and gloriously putting both feet on the ground for the run. Do I have any goals? Only to raise money for Girls on the Run Las Vegas. (insert shameless plea for money here)

Will I do another tri? I honestly have no idea – I’m keeping an open mind, but as I make list after list of all the gear I need, I can only think that stuffing a bunch of gels into your short pockets and running 26.2 miles is far easier than tri-prep.

Besides, I'm ready for a nap. In the sunshine. Pet me behind the ears. No, not there. Oh, better.

Meow.
 
Full blog report next week!
 
PS – what is my swimmer-animal analogy? A fish, of course!
PPS – and what do I call triathletes? OVERACHIEVERS.
 

A few weeks ago, I happen to catch a video on Facebook featuring Mo Gawdat, a Google exec, called "The Algorithm of Happiness." The following resonated deeply with me:

"If  life meets your expectations, you are happy. Happiness is how you think about what the world gives you. Happiness is equal to, or greater, than the difference between the way you see the events of your life and your expectation of how life should behave. If life meets your expectations, then you are happy."

In four simple sentences, he managed to summarize how I feel: when expectations are met, happiness is likely the result. From the running perspective, it couldn't be more straightforward. When you are running well, you expect to run a strong race. When those two events do not line up, it's hard to be happy.

When I toed the line in Cedar City this past Saturday, running a strong race was my only expectation. I had breezed through the course two years ago with a shiny new PR of 1:39:42, shocking the heck out of me. I didn't know it at the time, but 2015 marked the beginning of what would become my BQ cycle; I was strong and getting stronger. This year, however, all bets were off. 2017 has been one frustrating set-back after another. I feel my patience wearing thin. But the last few weeks showed a serious and legit uptick. My track times were good and getting better, my long runs were solid. I was ready. Why not?

I had set three goals for this half marathon, a tradition for all races. My must-hit goal was 1:44, my "good job" goal was 1:40, and my "pie-in-the-sky" goal was 1:37 or under. 1:37 was magical for two reasons: it got me into the elusive NYC marathon for 2018 as well as offered me better corral placement in the rapidly approaching Indianapolis Marathon in November. Running a 1:37 in my first half back from injury was audacious. It was bold, ostentatious, a bit cheeky. But I had several variables working in my favor: I knew the course. It was decidedly downhill. And it was a smaller race, which I tend to do better in.

On Saturday, those expectations, minus my "must-hit" went unmet. I finished in (spoiler alert!) a very disappointing 1:42:08. I completely fell apart in the last four miles.  The bitterness wasn't about my time - technically, that's the second fastest half I've ever run. The lemon is the manner in which I finished, how I felt at the end.  That is what concerns me most.

The race did not begin in ideal conditions. When my alarm went off at 4:30am, the first thing I did was peer out my hotel window. Pouring rain. The thunderstorms that had pelted Las Vegas the night before found their way north to Utah. I wasn't concerned about getting wet; I was concerned about constantly braking down a slippery road. I knew from my rainy CIM experience to wear as little clothing as possible during the actual race (wet clothes = heavy clothes) but stay dry for as long as possible beforehand. I threw on my shorts and tank, but wore two coats and carried an extra pair of socks to change into right before the start.

While I stayed dry on top, my feet did not. We had to clomp through a giant field just to get on the buses. I never had a chance to slip into the fresh socks because of general pre-race chaos. This was the first race where Johnny and I were actually running together and I'll admit, it was nice to have a buddy. While we stayed at the start line together, we agreed to go our separate ways as the race unfolded. But it was really nice to have a friendly face nearby.

A few minutes after 7am, we were off. I watched his blue tank dart out in front of me and planned to keep him in my sights for as long as possible. My mind briefly flitted to the nasty head cold that bugged me the entire week prior; I had not run in five days, save a quick 20-minute shake out run the day before. Apparently, second grade germs are new to my immune system and rather robust. Regardless, I refused to give life to the illness because what else could I do? It was like worrying about the weather: ultimately, it's just wasted energy. Instead, I focused my thoughts on Ann Transon who ran an ultramarathon with the flu, and Meb's performance while under the weather at the Rio Olympics.

I started the first three miles conservatively, 7:23, 7:28, 7:28. Totally perfect and on pace with my sub-7:30 race plan. The weather cleared up too; while the roads were slick, the rain stopped promptly after the first mile. On mile 4, there's a hill then a huge drop; I accidentally hit a 6:47. I also found myself within ten feet of Johnny. I didn't want to pass him this early in the race because I knew he would speed up to catch me. In training, we have a very friendly rivalry. We are both insanely competitive people by nature - he refuses to "get chicked" and I hate losing. Just last weekend, we found ourselves locked in this unspoken grudge match of eight miles, literally running as fast we could from the Overlook to Downtown Summerlin. If anyone saw us, it probably looked like we were fleeing a wild fire. In reality, we were just trying to beat the other to the car. This is what makes us such good partners; we push each other. Plus, it's fun.

I let him unknowingly do most of the heavy lifting for the next two miles. 7:14, 7:38...I was feeling good. My 10K split was an insane 45:10, helped mainly by the steep canyon road. Cedar City is a great half to run because the first part is so pretty; to my left, large rocks jutted into the sky and to my right, a creek burbled past. I had chosen to not wear music so I could literally hear it burbling.

Johnny was clearly feeling great because I watched as his outline grew smaller and smaller in the distance. I reasoned I would catch up with him in the last few miles so I tucked in behind a few other runners and attempted to maintain pace. The next two miles were closer to a 7:40 pace, but I reasoned I had banked enough time to be okay. After all, we were more than half way done. Half marathons are so easy...

Disaster struck right after mile 8. My attempt to drink from a paper cup resulted in an accidental waterboarding. Water sloshed up my nose, down my throat, and I started to choke. You know when someone takes a sip of water and it goes down the wrong pipe and they start choking for like, two minutes, while you politely stare in the opposite direction because you know a) they aren't dying but they need time to recover and b) they are horrifically uncomfortable because they can't stop coughing and are super embarrassed? Yeah, that was me at the mile 8. I gasped for air, coughed, and wheezed. All of the boogers in my nose came out. Just when I thought there were no boogers left to cough up, more materialized. I actually thought I was going to vomit water. Despite this, I never stopped running; I just slowed down. Must hit 7:30 miles, people! Keep those legs moving!

I never quite recovered. Despite my attempts to ingest large gulps of oxygen, I felt the energy draining from my body. Mile 9 was 8:02. I started to panic. Mile 10: 8:09. This race was slipping away from me.

The more I tried to run faster, the slower I went. I could feel the sobs rising in my chest. I had two voices screaming in my head. One was telling me to calm down, you can't run if you are crying. The other voice took great pleasure in beating me down, reminding me how worthless I am, what a terrible runner I am, how I can't do anything right and what a loser I am. Mile 11: 8:24.

The nasty voice was winning.

I was also essentially anaerobic at this point. I couldn't get a clean breath. I felt as though I was choking. My left leg began to cramp as though it was mile 22. My inner left foot, which had been hurting since mile 3, throbbed. I knew I had a BFB (bottom-foot blister), my first ever, because of the wet socks. Everything felt off. So, so off.

Just when I thought the mean voice couldn't get any worse, it did. Out of nowhere, it changed its tone. Now, in a silky, seductive manner, it offered, "...hey...why don't you just walk?  You know you want to. It would feel so good to walk. Just for a few minutes..."

All I wanted to do was stop. I didn't just want to walk, I wanted to quit.I wanted to take a bus to the finish, I was so done. I HATED this race. It was the exact opposite of my expectations. I thought I was going to fly down that hill happily and without much effort. Instead, this felt like a monumental undertaking, the longest full marathon I'd ever run. And it was only mile 11 of a half. Why was this so hard?

Somehow, I managed to ignore that horrible, disgusting modulation echoing in my head. The responsible, kind-hearted Kim appeared out of nowhere and wrestled that infection for control of my brain. The tone transferred quickly. The maliciousness was replaced with "It's never as bad as you think!"  "Just keep going" and "Two more miles! You can do it!" I bargained with myself that even if they were 10-minute miles, I could stop running in less 20 minutes. Anyone can survive 20 minutes of running.

So that's what I did. With quads now cramping along with my left foot and calf, I hobbled, limped, and shuffled my way to the finish. It was ugly. At times, I'm not even sure I was moving forward. Tons of runners passed me. A friend at the finish line shouted my name encouragingly, but I couldn't even muster a smile. When I finally, finally, finally crossed that line, the man who handle me my medal chided me for not smiling. I rolled my eyes. I would have sneered but was too tired.

I ran the first 8 miles of that race in 58:30. It took me almost 44 minutes to run the next five. That is an epic fade.

I managed to keep it together for the post-race pics. Some friends had a great day - lots of new PRs, goals met. Johnny had an amazing race, finishing almost seven minutes ahead of me with a phenomenal 1:35. I ended up placing 93rd overall (top 10%), 36th in my gender (top 5%), and 15th in my age group (top 7%). These are not bad numbers. Plus, it was my first race post-injury. I ran with a head cold in the rain on slick pavement in 90% humidity.

I should have been happy.

But I wasn't.

I was devastated. Life did not meet my expectations.

As we broke off from the group to begin the long walk back to the car through this giant field, I did something rather uncharacteristic. Overwhelmed by the day's events, I bent down, found the biggest rock I could, and chucked it into the distance with as much force as I could muster. To my shock, it went soaring. Guess my arms weren't that tired.

It hit a metal storage container with a resounding "BONG!"

The boom surprised me - and everyone around us. It sounded more like a gunshot in the quiet of that morning. The woman in front of us apparently turned around and looked at me with concern. I honestly couldn't believe how far the rock had sailed, let alone hitting something in the distance. I'm glad it didn't hit a kid or elderly person.

Johnny seemed equally concerned. He put his arm around me, perhaps to console me. Or perhaps to prevent me from throwing more rocks, I don't know. But that's when the torrent of tears I'd been holding back came flooding out.

I'm not proud of throwing that rock or scaring the good people of Southern Utah. But in all honesty,  it felt damn good. That rock held more than just my disappointment about the race; it held the events of this whole damn year.
 
Having had the chance to review Cedar City in my head for the past three days, my frustration does not come down to numbers, places or percentages. It comes down to how I felt during those last four miles and quite frankly, I felt awful.I could not imagine running another 13.1 miles; I couldn't imagine even another mile. Yet a full marathon looms on the horizon in just 7.5 weeks. And a triathlon in 5.5 weeks. How the hell am I going to do this?

It's time to take a hard, honest look at all facets of my life. Diet, lifestyle, recovery are important, but I think it boils down to expectations. Are they too high? Am I being unrealistic? This is not my first rodeo; I know the work involved. I keep reminding myself I've been through worse: FenceGate 2015, DNF'ing at St. George, CalfGate 2017. I've managed to crawl out of those holes. I can crawl out of this one, too. 

Part of me knows I refuse to settle; I think we all are far more capable of what we realize. At the same time, I hate disappointment and the feeling of failing. Lower my expectations to be happy? Train harder? I don't know.

I will say this - once we were safely back in Vegas, we laughed about the rock incident. Almost unknowingly, Johnny summed it up best: "I mean, if you are going to throw a rock, you better throw it well. Typical Kim."

Hmmm. Expectations and standards, indeed. 

This is going to be an interesting problem to resolve.

PS - Johnny's been doing a bit of soul-searching of his own. He writes a blog and recently jotted down his thoughts about Cedar City. Read about that, this past year, and running in general at gojohnnyrun.com.

PPS - We at the BedRestBookClub.com do not condone the throwing of any objects ever. If this entry inspires you to throw stuff, well, that's on you. #legaldisclaimer

It's officially September. Three months have passed since I last wrote. How did that happen?

My apologies.

Summer highlights:

I got the official “all clear” to start running again from my doctor on May 31st after successfully completing four weeks of physical therapy. Needless to say, before the sunrise on June 1, I was on the road. It seemed fitting; the injury happened on April 1. Two very long months sans running will do a number on anyone. Technically, there was one marathon wedged in those eight weeks, but who's counting. That morning as I trotted down a familiar route, I felt both gratitude as well as strong sense of urgency to make up for time lost.

It was a slow comeback. I knew it would be; swimming and indoor cycling are awesome but nothing compares to pounding the pavement one sneaker at a time. My endurance seemed to still be intact, but speed? Gone.

I was starting all over again…again.

The only way out is through.

I must have repeated that to myself a few hundred times over the course of the hot summer months. I was so frustrated with the direction everything had taken – the gastroc strain, Boston, and now, starting again. But…that’s running. Two steps forward, one step back.

As June and July ticked by, I lumbering through those early miles, paying more attention to effort than pace. My only goal was to build mileage slowly and safely. Had I been actually trying to hit certain times, I would have quit. I wasn’t just slow, I was unbearably slow. I couldn't muster any acceleration. My miles were a full minute to 90 seconds slower than what I was clocking in late March, during peak training. It was like living in 2014 again, post-ultra, when every mile was a labored 10+ minute effort. No matter what my brain screamed at my body, the legs simply continued at their own sluggish speed.

I kicked a lot of rocks in June and July.

In an effort to maintain running sanity, I tried some new stuff. Trail running was a bit of a bust because there are mountains in Southern Nevada and I have a pathological fear of heights. I ran in the evenings in the blistering heat, working on my heat acclimatization. That was a giant sufferfest. Johnny and I did a couple runs on Mt. Charleston, but the real highlight was post-run eating “fancy” oatmeal out of his trunk, enjoying the cooler temps and smell of pine trees.

I swam and swam and swam. My back is really tan.

Perhaps one of the hardest things about coming back after an injury is the fear that it will happen again. During our last appointment, my doc casually commented the strain may have been more of a Grade II because the “grittiness” was still present. Again, no MRI was performed because the injury was already four weeks old by the time I finally sought help. We will never know, and quite frankly, I don't think it's important. All the matters is that I stay on my feet.  Doc warned me the “brain-body connection” is strong and to “start slow, go slow.” (No worries there, doc). He mentioned that while I may feel twinges and pulls, the spot is not being re-injured. The challenge now is reassuring my brain that the calf muscle is okay and doing what it should be. This was interesting news, mainly because I don’t consider my mental game to be the strongest. I mean, during that first full marathon,  I literally thought I was dying. Lowering my running anxiety felt like a monumental task. Remember when running was a way to lessen worry? Now running is all I worry about.

I decided to transition this concern into action. Time to get stronger.

I did a bit of research and decided to do a function movement assessment at Anthem Fitness under close professional observation. Not surprisingly, it highlighted a significant weakness in my hips, particularly the right one. We all know hips don’t lie; most running injuries are because of weak or insufficient hip rotation and activation. It seemed as though I had gotten as far as I could in running by just winging it; now was the time to get serious and train smart. Under Max's guidance, I incorporated three days of strength training in addition to running, swimming and Pilates.

FYI: if you ever see me on the playground at school, this is why I’m constantly in workout clothes.

The Anthem training was completely different than anything I’ve ever done. It wasn’t cardio and it wasn’t high impact. The movements were slow; they started gradual with lots of stretching and foam rolling. Then we moved on to exercises  that “activated” various muscle groups, followed by series of explosive movements designed to get everything firing. Then finally, weights. Heavy weights. I walked out of the gym on the first day dripping with sweat, having no idea what had just happened. It was confusing, fun, and *OMG* painful. That night, my hips ached as I slept. Extremely effective, to say the least.

And it has been. Strength training, combined with a whole bunch of fartleks, hills, and long runs, has brought me back. I’m *almost* there. Each track day, my turnover gets a bit faster. I fatigue less quickly. I finally hit a sub-8 minute mile and practically clicked my heels together in sheer joy. Speed IS a tricky thing. It’s so easy to lose, so hard to find. If you are struggling with trying to get faster, stay the course! It’s a terribly slow process and it doesn’t happen overnight. But it does happen. Keep the faith.

This exciting and encouraging progress was completely derailed by an adults-only trip to NYC in late July. Brian and I dropped the Bear off with Indiana Grandma to fish and hunt turtles while we explored the Big Apple. While there, we ate and drank our way through the city. I didn’t run a single step. Despite the fact we could see Central Park from our hotel and I had packed no less than eight pairs of running shorts, I never laced up. It was kind of a “thank you” to Brian for being so patient with me on countless other family vacations when my running schedule delayed many days. Instead, we slept until noon. We sipped Campari cocktails with orange slices from a fountain in Little Italy. We went to the top of the Empire States Building at midnight and drank champagne at the Plaza Hotel. We saw old friends. We drank craft beer and my absolute favorite wine in upstate New York. I made it my mission to visit at least one fancy bakery per day.

It was an amazing trip.

Over the span of ten days, I gained ten pounds.

Insane, right?

When the number on the scale popped up, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. But now we know the answer to: “If Kim stops running and eats whatever she’d like, what will happen?”

When you are trying to improve your speed, any weight gain is completely detrimental. I am trying to get back down to racing weight and just set myself back a full month. Whoops. But it’s okay; I own my behavior. I don’t regret one single cupcake. Weight comes and weight goes; if you have the chance to visit your namesake bakery, go!

Happy to report, everything is back on track. Great, in fact – so good, that after one particularly satisfying long swim, I found myself sitting in front of the computer, clicking through various triathlon websites. I mean, all this swimming can’t go to waste.  I’m practically growing gills. Before I knew it, I had entered in my credit card info and clicked “submit” – thus signing up for my first triathlon. Because I’m more of a “foot in the door” kind of gal, I picked the shortest distance possible – a sprint tri. It’s an 800 meter swim followed by a 12 mile bike ride, and then a quick 5K to top it off. Easy peasy! What a fun little diversion while I train for a full marathon in November.

I was feeling rather smug until I sat on the bike last week. I realized  - I haven’t been on a bike since the summer of 2000. Mountain biking in the hills of Wisconsin was such a horrible experience, the memory is still seared into my brain. (I can tell you what I had for breakfast that day). Sitting on the road bike made me realize I have NO CLUE what I’m doing. As a friend suggested, is it possible to RUN the 12 miles instead of bike them?

My fledging cycling career deserves a blog entry of its own, but here’s a preview: did you know there are TWENTY-EIGHT gears to chose from? And if you pick the wrong one at the wrong elevation, your chain will fall off. WHAT?! My shoes have never fallen off during a run. The idea of my equipment turning on me because of user error just made my anxiety spike all over again.

But what’s the fun in life if you aren’t pushing yourself or trying something new? So jump on board, it’s going to be an interesting ride.  I mean, just the other day, I realized I had a bike in the back of my car, swim goggles in my purse and running shoes on my feet. How did that happen?

Here goes nothing!

It's been four weeks since Boston and I still cannot run. 
 
A week after the race, I attempted three miles on the treadmill. I got through two and the "balling-up" sensation returned.  I hit the stop button immediately. At the track that Wednesday, three easy miles felt great. The softness of the track made for an ideal running surface. But as I walked to my car, that awful feeling returned: a hot poker stabbing into the back of my calf muscle.

This is not normal. This is not healthy. Time to call in the experts.
 
A week later, I found myself perched on the exam table of one of the most respected sports med doctors in town, wearing the ugliest pair of blue shorts I'd ever seen. I had a sundress on, but they insisted I wear these shorts "for everyone's comfort."

Sure, whatever. Just fix my leg.

The doctor was awesome and extremely thorough. He and the PA listened patiently as I regurgitated the whole story, yet again.

"...and then, on mile 9 of my last long run..."

No MRI needed since the injury was already four weeks old. Instead, he bent my leg into as many awkward positions as he could, asking over and over again, "Does this hurt? What about now?...and now?" He measured both calves; the right had already atrophied a half inch. He rubbed his hands over the back of both calves and then had the PA do it as well. They murmured in agreement.  "Gritty," he muttered. She nodded, taking notes.
 
Gritty?

Once the ugly shorts were off, they came back with the official diagnosis: Grade 1 strain of the gastrocnemius muscle, the fleshiest part of the calf. The grittiness he noted was scar tissue. It was in exactly the area I had felt the pop.

I was so relieved. I finally knew what was wrong (no ruptured plantaris, it definitely wasn't a "cramp"), and Grade 1 is the best kind of strain to have; it's the most minor. Only about 25% of the muscle fibers tore. It usually takes three weeks or less to yield a full recovery. But as we all know, that little thing called the Boston Marathon loomed only 16 days away from date of injury.  It was the timing of that pop on April 1st that made this so problematic. This was no April Fool's joke, sadly.
 
But now? There are no races, nothing on the horizon. So I gratefully accepted this information, as well as the doctor's Rx for four weeks of physical therapy.
 
I was pretty excited at the idea of physical therapy. When I had gone back in 2013, it ended up being a wonderful experience. I took all of their suggestions to help my back pain and it did wonders for my running. Back then, I couldn't get past mile 7 without significant lower back pain. With the prescribed exercises, all tiny little movements, I learned how to strengthen that area of my back to take the pressure off the degenerative disk. Even now, when I feel a twinge back there, I jump right into the workouts they taught me.

I felt a bit like Judy Hopps walking into my first appointment. I was going to be the BEST PT patient they had ever seen! Write 100 traffic tickets? I'll write 200...before noon! Aside from the strain, I knew there was something seriously off with my right leg - I had felt it since the middle of March. But I had no idea what the heck was going on. The idea of working with professionals for four solid weeks felt a bit like spring cleaning for the leg. Sweep out the dirt, usher in  new solutions...let's' run stronger, better miles.

Because man, do I miss running.

::sigh::

During my first appointment, the therapist asked questions. So many questions. She asked me if I had experienced additional issues with my right leg. Well that was perceptive. You mean ole rightie, my problem child? I mentioned the sore Achillles that required icing several times a week and that bizarre issue with my adductor. I chalked the soreness up to high mileage and bad timing.

She felt my leg and then asked me to walk across the room. I hadn't gone more than three steps when she "tsk'd" loudly. I turned my head to look at her but she was staring at my right foot. I had barely sat down when she opened her mouth and launched into the issue.

She didn't mince words. A "significant weakness in my right posterior tibial tendon" ruined the month of April for me, as well as my marathon.  The tendon runs from the mid-foot up the back of the leg, and apparently, it's kind of a big deal. Any weakness in this area will shoot problems straight up the leg. Just like a house of cards, if the foundation isn't solid, the structure won't be either. Complications from the foot to ankle to hip result.

Why is my post tib so weak? Apparently, I "sickle" my foot, putting weight on the outer edge while curving the foot inward. This motion prevents the tendon from engaging. This was her "tsk" during the evaluation. Based on what she said,  my post-tib has been laying pretty low for quite some time. I've been walking on the side of my right foot for as long as I can remember.  It's an unconscious thing I've been doing for well...years.

When you don't walk correctly, running is even more challenging. "Not a big deal if you weren't a runner," she told me kindly. "But because you are, the more "load" you put on your leg, the harder your other leg muscles must work." Kind of like the co-worker that never pulls their own weight at the office; everyone else has to do their share PLUS his. Not surprisingly, the other muscles get burnt out, pissed off, and quit. It was all starting to make sense:the Achilles pain was actually post-tib soreness and the adductor discomfort resulted from my knee dropping inward. My gastroc got so mad at being overworked, he put in his notice on Mile 9 of that last long run.

When she asked me to raise up on my toes using just my right foot, I couldn't. If I transferred my weight to the outer edge of the foot, sure, no problem. But raise up with my big toe on the ground? Wasn't happening. The way my foot curved in, the ball/big toe area never touches the ground, making it impossible to get any height. Unless using deliberate effort, my right toe does not touch the ground. I have to push it down  consciously, and even then, I can only pull my heel off the ground less than an inch.

During that first session, I stared at my right foot like I had just seen it for the first time. How had I missed this...for years?!  My big toe did not want to touch the ground. At all. Like a defiant toddler, like a little princess. Too pretty to get dirty, too good to touch the ground. Always with the toenail in the air, like she's at High Tea. What the hell?

I've now spent over a week working on the various exercises and cannot stop laughing. The weakness is so obvious, so pronounced. How did I not see this before? Princess Toe literally never touches the ground, whether I'm at rest or walking. Even when I'm sitting on the couch at night, totally relaxed with my feet up on the ottoman, my left foot points forward and the right one sickles in, like a backwards "C."  Well, too bad. This toe is no Kate Middleton. This pampered life is officially over. Princess Toe is getting smushed into everything now: exercise balls, balance boards, the yucky, yucky ground. Time to get with the program to allow the post tib to actually do its job.

In many ways, understanding "the why" has given me something more valuable than any race medal: peace of mind. I spent a great deal of time mentally beating myself up, getting hurt so close to the race. We all know the cardinal rule of marathon running: Get to the Starting Line Uninjured. I felt like Icarus; I flew too close to the sun and got burned. I just *had* to do that 5K before my 20-miler. I *had* to ramp up my mileage. I just *had* to push it.

Typical Kim, always pushing, pushing, pushing.

But now, this experience is a bit of a blessing.  Instead simply treating the injury, I have a chance to tackle the underlying disorder. Princess Toe, no more!

Plus, this could have happened at any time, at any speed or mileage. My leg could only handle so much. It was a ticking time bomb. I'm lucky it was *just* a strain. I'm glad I went in to get answers, since as my PT pointed out, the next body part to go would be the knee - an area that usually requires far more aggressive treatment and rehab. I'll take a soft tissue tear any day of the week.

All of the new exercises must be working because my leg is so sore. Like, burning-sore during PT, and achy-sore the rest of the day. This tendon is probably thinking, "What the heck? Years of inactivity and now she wants me to work?"

Yup. Suck it up, Buttercup.

Not running is awful, I'll be honest. I'm tempted to start a group counseling program for injured runners; we could to commiserate with each other because this sucks and no one else quite gets it. I am a runner at heart. I want to run. Anyone who runs understands this feeling. So mentally, I'm trying to stay strong, but...yeah. No bueno.

Plus, fitness-wise, simply put, pound for pound, there is no better exercise than running.  While cycling and swimming are great for endurance, I am terrified of my eventual return will be like an astronaut returning to Earth. With all of these no and low-impact exercises, running is going to be painful. Very painful. It's already painful enough; why must I continue to get hit by the pain train?

I'm trying to come to grips with this. In my low moments, I get really pissed off. After all, I worked so hard this year. Big miles. A 5K PR. And yet...and still...pain. Loss.  Frustration.

But isn't that kind of life in a nutshell? There are no guarantees. We can work as hard as we can, yet the outcome hinges on stuff far out of our control. Like, the fact I've had an undiagnosed Princess Toe my whole life. Who knew?

The only difference: running lets me control that pain, loss, and frustration on my time. So, I'm going to continue, because that's what you do.

No looking back, right? That's not the direction we are headed.

So, let's fix this and move on.

*Hopefully I'll be cleared to run on May 31, my next appointment. In the meantime, I *may or may not* cheat occasionally by running up and down the street, five to seven minutes at a time. Just don't tell my doctor.

Getting injured two weeks before your race is a terrible feeling.

But - silver lining here - finding another workout option that improves fitness and allows healing: extraordinary.

Really, it should be "xtraordinary."

Behold...XCycle Indoor Cycling Studio.

The kind folks at XCycle reached out to me almost immediately after I got hurt.  Gabi, a good friend as well as XCycle's studio manager/GM, suggested I try one of their classes before Boston. She assured me the workout was low-impact, high-energy, and would torched a ton of calories. Pre-race weight gain is always a concern; I worried as my miles went down, the weight would go up. She generously set me up with a five-pack of classes and before I knew, I was making online reservations. Yes, me. Kim: She Who Hates Cycling. My legs are too long; my torso is too short. I don't know how to clip in. Pedaling to nowhere sounds decidedly boring.

But I didn't have a lot of time or options. My challenge was simple: maintain endurance without exacerbating the calf strain.  Sure, swimming was wonderful, but it didn't raise my heart rate the way running did. (...perhaps I'm doing something wrong?...) Plus, lap after lap in the pool was relaxing, not exhilarating. I missed my runner's high.

Also, I kinda missed...people. The pool is a lonely place at 5am.

Quite honestly, anyone that can get me on a bike deserves heaps of praise.  For me to actually enjoy it? That's essentially a miracle.

But XCycle is different. They succeeded -- "xceptionally" well.

The studio's white, clean lines lean more towards an exclusive spa and not a gym. Lockers, towels on each bike, spin shoes; all very nice and needed touches. I was a bit nervous, yes, but before each class, the instructor took extra time to help me set up my bike, get it to the right height ("Ooooh! This feels much better!") and in the correct handlebar position ("My back doesn't hurt anymore!"). They offered helpful suggestions and modifications on every ride to ensure my calf experienced no discomfort or endanger it to additional damage.

Even better, gone was the harsh glare of indoor lighting and that awkward feeling of riders checking each other out. I have no rhythm; I know that. I don't need anyone watching me bob my head on the wrong beat. XCycle, however, had thought of that - instead of the unforgiving, bleaching affect of white lights, the studio was lit only by colored beams and soft candle light. It just so happen the lights pulsated with the rhythm of the music, making the room feel like a warm, inviting cocoon of motion and sound. I loved the low lighting; it made me focus on the instructor and the music, removing any feelings of self-consciousness. We all cycle the beat of our drum, okay? Mine just happens to be a half-count behind yours.

Each instructor encouraged riders to "go their own pace," a direction I appreciated. I knew I wouldn't be able to be out of the saddle as much as others but didn't want to call attention to it. The intervals varied, both in time and intensity, causing my heart rate to finally - finally! - hit that lovely high. The "sprinting" - pedaling all-out with little resistance - recruited all those fast twitch muscle fibers that went dormant since my last speed work session. We all know hills are just speed work in disguise...who knew cycling was, too? With music pumping and the lights dancing, for the first time in weeks, exercise felt fun again. I couldn't believe it when 45 minutes was over. I was just getting warmed up.

I left each class dripping in sweat. Peaceful and upbeat.

Endorphins aside, want to hear the best part?

Immediately following class, each rider is presented with a chilled eucalyptus-scented towel at the door.

Heavenly.

Dude, running? Who wants to run? This was way more fun. I don't remember ever being handed a scented towel on the track. It was just me and a bunch of stinky high school boys. No eucalyptus anything. Just stinky boy smell.
 
Ultimately, I learned many important lessons in this training cycle. The first: sh*t happens. The second lesson: diversify.

Thank you, XCycle, for reinforcing the second lesson. I walked out of the studio that first day feeling euphoric - and without pain in my leg. I needed that sense of accomplishment to stave off taper madness, truthfully. It never occurred to me that I could taper via cross-training; I believe now XCycle was a critical aspect to maintaining my sanity amid the stress. Tapering is hard enough. But XCycle is intense enough to continue that lovely sweat-drenched, endorphin production, and low-impact enough to allow facilitate recovery pre-race. Win-win.

As challenging as this injury was and continues to be, I feel so fortunate I stumbled into this new, beautifully lit world of spin. I plan to use XCycle consistently in the future for additional cross-training, low-impact fitness. The best part? XCycle supplements any running program: you can cycle as many days a week as you'd like without the additional strain of running.
 
An injury is a depressing, disgusting event in an athlete's life. But it doesn't have to be a prison sentence. Whether you are injured or looking to add another layer to your workout routine, the care, thought and detail put into XCycle's classes are top-notch. I spoke of gratitude when I wrote about running in Boston; now, I feel nothing but gratitude when I think of cycling in Las Vegas.

Thank you Gabi, Jen, and the whole XCycle family for taking me under your wings during my time of need. I will be at the XCycle booth at the Revel Mt. Charleston expo this Friday from 10am-2pm. Come say hi!

XCycle Indoor Cycling Studio is located at 750 S. Rampart Blvd, Ste 6, in the Boca Park shopping complex. Classes are available multiple times per day, seven days a week. Check them out: www.xcyclelv.com, Facebook (XCycle Las Vegas), and Instagram (@xcyclelv).

Happy riding!

Thanks for getting through that first part yesterday. Yes, the days leading up to the race were difficult. I wish I could sugarcoat it and say it was daisies and rainbows, but...it wasn't. That would be lying. Just like with life, we have a choice: a) tell everyone it's fine, or b) be honest with the struggle. I seem to consistently chose the latter.

But I am happy to say - it has a happy ending. Really. And just like everything in this training cycle, the ending was far different than what I imagined.

Race Day

Miraculously, I slept well the night before the race. A solid 8 hours - from 10pm until 6am. I can't remember this ever happening before.

It felt wonderful.

I got ready quietly, sipping on coffee and munching on yet another Honey Stinger waffle. Those things are incredible. It's like a giant soft cookie. So tasty. If you are looking to carbo-load the easy way, I highly recommend these. I have a hard time not eating them for breakfast on regular, non-racing days. Dip it in your coffee...mmm...

I knew 75% of my race prep involved priming my leg. Much thought had been put into how exactly I was going to get through all 26.2 miles. For all my hope and prayers, my PT strongly advised me to not get too ahead of myself: this was not a tendon or ligament. This is a muscle, a very important one, and prone to fatigue. Running with a calf strain would only get harder as the miles ticked off. I was well-aware of what a full marathon does to the body on a good day. He, along with the masses, said it was best to go out as slowly as possible. I briefly wondered if I could just borrow a scooter, but realized any kind of wheels were not allowed (for obvious reasons). What about crutches? A walking stick?

I had been using KT tape in the days before to give the muscle structure, but on race day, I busted out the good stuff: Spider-Tech tape. This stuff is amazing. Four "legs" stretched up my calf, giving it twice as much support. I was so excited about this bad boy I drew a bad ass spider right on the heel. Power up, leg!

You know how they say don't try anything new on race day? Considering NOTHING was going according to plan, I decided to throw out the playbook and try a whole bunch of new stuff. Look out world, Kim's goin' rogue...

I donned a brand-new pair of Zensah compression sleeves, mainly because I wanted them as tight as possible. Then I put on my brand new Lululemon speed shorts, never worn a day in their life. I shunned my usual French braid-race-day-hair and just opted for a regular ponytail. And then - probably most surprising - I added some waterproof mascara and a bit of lip gloss. I almost never wear makeup when running, but today was different. If I was going to flame out spectacularly, well, I wanted to look good doing it.

I should have gotten a spray tan, too. I mean, why not?

I gave Brian and Judy a quick kiss before I left, and with that, my Boston Marathon experience had officially begun.

There's a lot about the Boston Marathon that I did not know/understand until I got there. I'd watched it on TV for years, but actually experiencing was a whole 'nother story.
 
First, the entire lot of runners, all 27,00 of us, are divided into waves and corrals. There are a total of four waves, around 7,000 people each,  and eight corrals per wave, about 1,000 people. You know what wave you are in based on your bib color. It starts with red, then white, blue, and yellow.  With seeding based on qualifying times, red bibs are the first wave - the fastest runners. If you are a red bib, there's a good chance you have cheetah DNA and/or ran a sub 3 qualifier.  Fun fact: both Alex and Reinier were red bibs!

Picture a marathon where the first 8,000 people are running 5:30 - 6:30 minute miles. It's like the best runners from every state and country, the people who usually win their local races, all in one place. That's insane.

That's Boston, my friends.

I imagine the Boston Marathon is a lot like being a freshman at Harvard University; you feel pretty good about yourself until you get there. Then you are like, "Holy sh*t...these people are legit."

I don't think anyone would have been impressed with my 21:18 5K.

(I stayed very quiet.)

More interestingly, every red bib I saw, I thought, "I don't look anything like him/her." (It's okay, this actually made me laugh). They were all lean ecto-morph dudes like Alex, or super-muscly guys like Reinier. The red-bibbed women appeared to be either tiny bird-like creatures or professional beach volleyball players.

Of note: on race day, I did not see a single red bib eating waffles. Maybe I should revise my fueling strategy next time around.

Next, Boston is a late morning marathon. This is the complete opposite of everything I've experienced; usually the alarm clock goes off at 3:30am and you are done well before lunchtime. Not in Boston. Each wave had a different loading and start time, with the elite women starting first at 9:30am. My Wave/Corral loaded at 10:05am with a start time of 10:50. That's CRAZY late. Many people ate a full breakfast at 7am, knowing it would digest by the time they toed the start line. I had not practiced a full breakfast, so I just kept eating waffles. I threw in a half of a banana around 9:45 and called it good. Depending on my leg, I reasoned a finish time sometime around late afternoon.
 
It was a process just to get to the starting line. Lululemon graciously rented luxury buses for us that would take us to a drop stop in Hopkinton. From there, we boarded another bus (sadly, a school bus, not nearly as nice) to the Athlete's Village. Once there, it was a long walk to the starting line...but before all of that, I made sure to find my favorite seatmate for the trip from the city into the country.

And there he was, red bib and all. Standing outside the hotel as we waited to board the first bus, Reinier whispered to me that he had forgotten his running shoes. I immediately looked down at his feet. He was wearing racing flats - good for about seven miles, but not a lot of cushion after that. There was a shared look of mutual horror, and we burst into giggles. I mean, what could you do other than laugh?

He leaned over and continued, "You know what I am really worried about?" I shook my head, having no idea what he was about to say. I leaned closer.

"Tonight at the party, how am I going to dance the robot if my feet are hurting me?" 
 
Oh RG. You will always have a special place in my heart. 
 
The bus out was full of humor, waffles and water. A quick transition on South Street and the journey continued. As we finally approached thge the Athlete's Village, a hush fell over the group. All of us were looking at the same spot on the roof of the high school directly in front of us. Clearly visible: two men in full military garb with what appeared to be very long rifles. Snipers. It suddenly hit home that bad people may want to...hurt us. And the good people of Boston were not going to let this happen.

Sh*t just got very real.
 
We made our way into the Village. Interestingly, there is no gear check at the starting line. Whatever you take with you to Hopkinton, you either leave there or run with it. Everyone clutched little clear baggies full of snacks (read: all the waffles I could pack), water, gels, sunscreen. Most people had throw-away clothing with them but very few were actually wearing them. It was too warm. In fact, by the time we arrived in the Village, most people were already stripped down to just their running clothes. Most made a bee-line for the large tents to stake a claim for some precious shaded real estate, away from the unforgiving glare of the relentless sun. 
 
Let's talk about the weather for a second...it was hot. And getting hotter. All the weather forecasters had issued dire warnings on Easter Sunday. We also had received an email from the BAA warning of us "unseasonably warm weather," urging us to go slowly and listen to our bodies.  Yeah, yeah, this was like LA 2015 all over again. I was so preoccupied with my leg, I gave very little credence to any heat warning. I knew the drill - salt capsules early, taking one every 4-5 miles, and water on is better than water in.  It was going to be hot, wet one out there, especially with the humidity. 

Temps at 9am were already hovering around 65 degrees, with a high of 75 expected. Doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. For running, always add 15 degrees. I's not the actual temperature that matters, it how it feels.  A high of 75 feels like 90 degrees. Add some sun and you have very challenging racing conditions. (This is why most world records are set when the temp hovers around 50-55 degrees under cloudy skies). When I ran LA in 2015, it was 88 at that finish. And let me tell you, it felt all of 103 degrees by the time I completed that course.

**helpful runner tip: this is how to determine your running gear. Look at the predicted temperature, add 15, and then dress accordingly.

But before we grabbed a piece of shaded goodness, I used the bathroom. Like, 5 times. So. Much. Water.

Time crept slowly by. They began calling wave and corral numbers. The Village gradually emptied.  I had just ditched my clear sack when they called Wave 3...and thus began the longest walk of my life.

...and long it was. By the time we got to the next staging area, my Garmin told me I had walked approximately 1.7 miles. Wait, what? Panic, cry, or laugh? Again, I just laughed. It was going to be a long, hot day with a lot of miles - might as well laugh about it, right?  My mind briefly flashed to Reinier in his running flats. Ouch.

At this staging area, people fluttered about like butterflies. More potty breaks. A Sharpie was passed around. When it came to me, I grabbed it and wrote my name on both arms. Probably one of the best decisions I made all day. I drank my Hot Shot nervously, swishing it around in my mouth like the directions said. Had I ever practiced with this before? Nah. Does it matter this point? Nope!

Another walk commenced, this time, to the starting line. I looked around and realized, gone were the ectomorphs and pro volleyball players. Everyone here looked like me: mostly women, mid 20s to late 30s. Most likely, they were moms of elementary school-aged children. Yesssss. But not your typical playground fare: this was one serious group of mother runners. Visors pulled low, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.  They looked like lean, mean moms, ones who handle tired husbands, piles of laundry, naughty pets and overscheduled children on a daily basis. These are my people. I imagine we honed our mental toughness out on the road and at school pickup. Let's do this, ladies.

As I stood there, I wish I could say the enormity of the situation hit me, but really, I just said a silent prayer for everyone out there. Heat was dangerous; I just wanted everyone to be okay. I happened to look to my left and saw two guys in uniform watching me. More security, yikes. I waved hi. They waved back. I gave them the thumbs up sign. They signaled back. I bowed, in kind of a "thank you for keeping us safe" manner. I don't know if they understood, but they bowed back. We were all grinning.

This was all so silly and weird. I have no idea why I was miming things; they were only 4 ft away. Yet the power of speech eluded me so I just made hand gestures. Yeah, I wasn't nervous at all.

::coughs uncomfortably::

And with that, we started.

A guy shouted, the crowd jumped, and the next time I knew, I had crossed the starting line. I was doing this! I actually made it to the start line of the Boston Marathon. This was crazy.

Next goal: get to the finish line.

My race strategy: run as many miles on two legs before resorting to walking, hopping, limping, or crawling. Seriously. I wish I could say the plan was more sophisticated, but I was in complete survival mode. I wanted to finish, period. And I had exactly seven hours and ten minutes to make it happen.

The first five miles breezed by. The only thing I could think was, "I AM RUNNING THE BOSTON MARATHON! This is IT!" 

The leg felt fine - completely and totally fine. Not a twinge, peep, or even a tiny "eek." My spider-wrap and compression sleeve were working. That 800mg of Advil I downed 20 minutes before the start was working, too. Had I ever practiced with that? No way, haha. I was throwing ALL caution to the wind.

First five splits: 8:34, 8:39, 8:41, 8:33, and 8:59.

Mind you, these miles are mostly downhill. I was pleased to take them so slowly. Hundreds of people passed me. Word on the street referenced going out too fast in the first half of Boston is what destroys most people's race plan. I wasn't "breaking" on the downhill, but I certainly wasn't pushing myself. I simply set the legs to cruise control and high-fived every child I saw.

On mile 6, I noticed something not related to my leg or small children: the sun. It was out in full force now. It was in that mile that I could feel energy draining from me in a way that only heat can do. I've run enough in the desert to know and appreciate the power of the sun: it zaps your life force quickly and without warning. I started grabbing two cups of water at every station. As I poured that first cup on my ponytail, I felt the cool water on my scalp...and then warm water sloshing down my back. Oh gross. That warmth was the sweat I had just sluiced off. Uuuuugh. Cold on, warm down. This pattern would repeat itself for the next 20 miles.

Miles 6-11: 8:50, 8:50, 9:05, 9:05, 9:09, and 9:22. Definitely not marathon pace, but my leg was holding strong. I can do this! Eleven miles in, fifteen to go. Anyone can crawl fifteen miles, right? I had only been running for about an hour and thirty-seven minutes. A bit of marathon math put me at just over 12:15 EST, which meant I still had close to six hours to finish the course before it closed.

Miles 12 and 13 were fun: it was the famed Wellesley Scream Tunnel. Those girls are nuts.  The course was lined with the signs they had made and many of them held signs of their own. They were literally screaming. I mean, screaming-screaming. How they kept this up for hours on end, I have no idea. I have never laughed so hard while running. It was just all so bizarre and funny and uplifting. I watched guys stop and kiss the co-eds, which made me laugh harder. Earlier this year, when Johnny found out about this part of the race, his raging case BQ-itis only intensified. "I get to kiss college girls?" he exclaimed happily.

Yes, yes you do.

I opted to not kiss anyone, just more high-fives. Miles 12-13: 9:03 and 9:21.

I was cruising along and just enjoying myself. This was going to be the easiest marathon I'd ever run. Fuel-wise, I felt perfect. The sun was annoying, yes, and I felt drained, but the full extent of the heat had yet to hit me. I felt like I could run forever at this point. My leg was holding up nicely with this relaxed pace. I had plenty left in the tank. Halfway there! 1:58 with no problems. This is fantastic! I've got this!

I hit mile 15 and thought..hmm...it is a bit toasty. Uncomfortably so. It was well above 70 degrees with humidity cresting around 70%. A look at other runners told me they were feeling it too. Lots of sweat and red faces. My pack's pace seemed to slow. A lot of people started walking.

And right at that moment, sadly, the downhill/flat portion of the course ended abruptly. The real work had just started. An even worse realization hit: my leg was holding up because I was not pushing off it. The downhill gave me enough of a boost to allow less weight on the right leg. On mile 15, the course curved up and that awful feeling in my leg returned.

You may remember an older entry when I said, "There is no 'easy' way to run hills. It forces you to concentrate on good form, drive forward, and use your arms." This is a very true statement. I had no idea it would come back to haunt me in this way. Hills are challenging on two good legs. But on one leg? No bueno. 

I pushed forward. The leg screamed. By mile 16, it - and I - were in agony. This was not going to work.

Time to revise the race plan, yet again.  I was close to 17 miles in and had been running for two hours and twenty-five minutes. I had approximately four miles of hills coming up. I could accelerate on the hills, ignore the pain, and pray nothing pops. Or, I could scamper up the hills using the heel of my right foot, take the pressure off my calf, and shuffle down in an attempt to make up lost time.

Time for more marathon math. It was a high-risk, high-reward situation: if nothing popped and I continued to push, I could probably come in under four hours. If it did pop...well, I'm looking at six hours or more. If I employed the second idea, the walk/run approach, I was probably closer to a 4:30 finish.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

I took the safer option.

And it made all the difference.

For four miles, I power-walked the hills, hopping at times, to keep the pressure off my leg. I swung my arms as much as possible for added momentum. I called upon every single ab muscle I could recruit, pulling the weight off of my leg. As soon as I hit the top of each hill, I shuffled down, kicking my right leg out.

It wasn't pretty - but my plan appeared to be working.  It pained me to think of my time. Gahh...I couldn't look at my watch. I just couldn't. I didn't want to see those numbers. All that work...the early mornings, the fight to get my diet on track, the bloodwork, overheating... Everything I had done and sacrificed for two and a half years only to be walking  the Boston Marathon. Gahhhhhh...

As frustrated as I was, the crowd was not going to let me fight alone. Remember how I had written my name on my arms? Well, for the next forty-some minutes of my life, all I heard were encouraging shouts and cheers in that fantastic, famous accent. "Pow-AH Hou-AH! Kim from Pow-AH Hou-AH! You got this hill, Kim! Pow-AH up!"

It was the weirdest feeling - I was so mad but couldn't stop laughing. I was in so much pain but having the time of my life. These people were crazy! Just like the Wellesley girls, the crowds around Newton were just nutty. The whole course was, really. The spectators are just as much a part of the Boston Marathon as the runners are, and their support was incredible. The signs, the screaming, the cups of ice and orange slices - it never stopped. I've never taken anything from a spectator before - I've never even interacted with the crowd, really, but since I was going so slowly, now seemed like the perfect time. I laughed, talked, and high-fived with reckless abandon. Screw my time - I had mourned a good marathon time weeks ago. So instead, I accepted a cups of ice and crunched merrily on it. A lady behind me took an Otter pop and I whirled around, bummed I didn't get one too. Man, that sounded delicious. Anyone who yelled my name, I flashed them a very grateful thumbs up.

Right around the Boston College area, past Heartbreak Hill (which in reality, would not be very much to traverse with two working legs on a cooler day), I started the search for my family. Looking...looking...trying to ignore the very prevalent smell of marijuana in the air...oh wait, maybe that would help with pain management. I took large gulps of oxygen. I don't think it worked. But! I did manage to find Brian's head poking out of an impossible thick crowd of people.  MY FAMILY!

And for the upteenth time that weekend, despite the fatigue, dehydration, heat, pain in my leg, and overall exhaustion, I started crying. Like, big hiccuping sobs. My mom frantically shook her sign that said, "Run Buttercup Run" and screamed my name. Did she really glue fake flowers to it? Now I was laughing and crying. This was incredible. I love my family.

The crowd parted so I could give everyone a quick hug and kiss. "Do you need anything?" Brian asked. I know they were all looking at me, trying to access the damage. "Mile 17," I told them. I shook my head. "Not good. I'm just trying to get to the finish line at this point." They were now screaming for me to run again, so I gave Scotty another kiss on the head and started up again.

Splits for miles 15-22: 9:51, 9:42, 10:40, 11:33, 9:54, 10:35 and 11:52.

I haven't clocked a mile over 11 minutes since the ultra in the summer of 2014. Whoops. But again, it could always be worse.

Time to concentrate on the last part of the race, which was yet another gradual downhill. Miles 22 and 23 flew by - 9:41 and 9:37. I could just barely make out the famed Citgo sign in the distance. The only thing I could think was "You are so close! You are SO CLOSE!"

This is the part of the story where I start crying (again). It's hard to think back to those last few miles of the Boston Marathon without feeling incredibly grateful. Yeah, everything hurt. Yes, I wanted to be done. I was OVER running at that point, so over it. But the people of Boston...the roar of the crowd...it was insane. It felt like an out of body experience. Like, who was I to deserve this? What did I do to justify this kind of reception? I felt big and small at the same time. For a few minutes, I knew my exact place in this giant universe. I was someone and nobody all at once.

I was exactly where I needed to be and exactly where I wanted to be.

That, friends, is a beautiful feeling.

The roar was so loud that I was having trouble concentrating. I found Hereford. In the last ten minutes, my leg had completely detached from my body. People say all the time, adrenaline has its benefits...and it's true. I felt nothing. No pain. I couldn't feel any below the waist. I only felt pure exhilaration and joy. I could see Boyleston...I could see it...

I made the most famous left turn in the history of marathons. Then I saw it: the finish line. Oh my god, this is really happening. I sprinted - or at least, tried to. It felt like I was running through peanut butter - very thick, gooey peanut butter. I have no idea what I looked like, slogging along, soaking wet, legs buckling with every step.

But I know how I felt. I felt invincible.

I AM GOING TO FINISH THE BOSTON MARATHON.

And I did - in exactly 4 hours and 12 minutes.

Short of childbirth, that four hours and twelve minutes was the hardest physical endeavor of my life. But also like childbirth - and this didn't occur to me until well after the race - was at no point did I ever think about giving up. Not once. 

And that is the real success.

If running is our purest form of freedom, then injury is a prison sentence. In the weeks leading up to the race, I was held captive by my body, to my negative thoughts. It was awful, a punishment I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. But regardless of what is happening to our physical bodies, we can still maintain control over our thoughts. I have learned: this is a skill, an important one, and one that does not come easily.

April 2017 will always go down as one of the hardest and best months of my life, right behind August 2009 and June 2011.

Boston was not my best marathon...but it was truly my greatest mental win.

Whew.

I finally figured it out...if you can't run fast, than run happy.

So I did.

I also now understand why everyone wants to "run Boston." I have never seen a city turn out with such enthusiasm, excitement, true interest in runners, and genuine sportsmanship. Boston is truly the Superbowl of running events. The energy was electric, and even as we walked (or limped, pick your poison) back to the hotel, I lost count of the strangers walking by that shouted, "Congrats!" Maybe they noticed my mylar blanket and salty, crusty face. Maybe it was the bib and compression socks that gave it away, I don't know. Either way, their continued support was awesome. Everyone should have a chance to experience their own personal parade; mine was held on April 17, 2017.

Thank you, Boston. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I get it now. I will be one of your most ardent supporters. For such a little city, you have the biggest heart.

Want to hear the most ironic part of all of this? As frustrating as that calf injury was...I think it saved my race. Seriously. It held me back. In that kind of heat, the only way to run a marathon is to go out slowly. I can't tell you how many people I spoke with after the race who said they just blew up in the last half because of the soaring temps. A friend sent this article, which describes the affect of heat on runners perfectly. So many people had a tough day out there on Monday, and yes, mine was less than ideal. But when I finished, not only did I have plenty of gas still in the tank, but all it took was two bottles of water and a half a bottle of warm Coke to get me up and running (metaphorically speaking) again.  Without the calf injury...who knows. Maybe I would have burst out of my corral faster than marathon pace and really blown up...

...I don't remember what mile it was on, but I saw a guy on the side of the road. Red bib. He was in agony. I have no idea what was going on, but I took note of his number. I can't believe I remembered the number, in my marathon stupor, but when I looked it up, it said he finished in six hours and fifty-two minutes. A red bib. 6:52. Ouch. I don't know that guy, but that takes guts. Seriously guts.  My hat goes off to him. That heat was killer.

As for me, I am doing okay. I probably shouldn't have two glasses of wine on the plane the next day. Marathons + wine = challenging to remain upright.

Overall, I am humbled. I am grateful. I am deliriously happy. I still cannot run (dammit!). But I'm working on it. An MRI is scheduled for next week.

My mom said it best. She wrote this to me in a card she gave me on Sunday night, but I think it applies to all of us:

"You are braver than you believe,
Stronger than you seem,
Smarter than you think,
And more loved than you'll ever know. "

(A.A. Milne, from Winne the Pooh)

Thanks Mom.

On Monday night, amid the revelry and raw oysters, she and I offered a quiet cheers to my dad with a little 'tink' of our champagne glasses. Without him, we wouldn't be here. I know that, I recognize it. We both miss him and always will. But when life hands you lemons, consider running the Boston Marathon dressed in a lemon suit. If that doesn't work, do the best you can.

Six years ago, I had no idea that the worst thing in my life was going to lead to one of the best things. Like the quote Johnny posted on one of our first runs together - "Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain." So very true.

Boston 2017 taught me 1) I cannot control everything, 2) there is power in acceptance and 3) for crying out loud, slow down, Kim! Enjoy the journey for once.

Easy words to say, hard ones to practice. 

Thank you, Boston.

Now go out there and slay your own dragons; I'll be eating cookie butter in the whirlpool.