RVANews

On the Run: I did it!

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 12:14:46 +0000

“How was the marathon?”

It’s a question I’ve heard at least a hundred times since Saturday's Richmond Marathon, but one I’ve rarely answered the same way twice.

Last time we met here, I was about to go out and attempt to run my first marathon. Only three weeks after I had injured myself while training, it was, by all accounts, a foolhardy thing to do. Of course, if you’ve ever read anything else I’ve written, you know that “foolhardy” should be my middle name--or at least be tattooed in Old English on the inside of my bottom lip.

So I arrived at the starting line early to see off the runners of the other two sister races (an 8k and a half marathon), then lined up with all of the other nuts who would attempt to do a thing like run 26.2 miles in a row.

It was cold. Like, down around freezing. Many paced near the starting line to avoid hypothermia, I did it to work out the nerves surrounding the fact that I was about to try something I had no business doing. I mean, my training had been completely derailed, and here I stood, like I was ready, even though there was no way I could be.

“You don’t have to finish, you just have to start” I told myself over and over, as I searched the faces around me for fellow Nervous Nancys. There were some obviously apprehensive faces, but most looked determined, more than anything. I decided to be determined, too. I mean, I was already out there, I might as well try to call on all of the training I had done and make an honest effort.

I stood at the back of the pack, not wanting to get crushed when the starting buzzer went off, and waited. When it sounded, I casually lumbered out of the gate (my injured foot felt fine, by the way, I’m just naturally a lumberer) and down Broad street. I slowly ran the first couple of miles, refusing to turn around, fearing I was in last place. When I turned the first corner, I couldn’t help but notice that, save for a few walkers, some who easily passed me (told you, lumberer), I was.

“No matter,” I told myself, “I’m out here, which is more than I could have imagined a week or two ago.”

My body felt pretty good and, thanks to the wonderful people who lined the race course to cheer, my spirits were high. I passed miles 3-10 with no problem, chatting with fellow runners, volunteers, and police officers who were manning the route. That’s the beauty of running so slowly, there’s plenty of time to visit before you pass someone.

I saw my friends Patience and Maggi who surprised me along the route with hugs and cheers. I felt like a million bucks, but more importantly, I felt loved.

I ran through some scenic parts of our fair city: down Monument, up Grove, across River, then across the actual river on the Huguenot Bridge. I chugged right along, feeling strong. I was even passing a few people.

At one point, I'd been following a man who was maybe in his late 60’s for a few miles. It was just him and I, no one in front or back of us as far as I could see.

“Excuse me,” I said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where the next bathroom stop is, would you?”

He said that he’d brought a map, and could I hold on a second while he took it out and looked.

“You’re nice,” I said, relieved that I’d soon be, well, relieving.

“No, you’re nice,” he said, and I thought for a second that he was making fun of me. But he continued, saying that he’d been listening to me behind him for the last few miles, and noticed how I’d interacted with spectators and volunteers.

“I didn’t want to turn around and say so, but I can tell you are a very nice person. You might be the nicest person I’ve never met.” I smiled and thanked him, as I just happen to see a facility.

“I’ve gotta stop, now. Have a good run.” And he was on his way.

Miles 11, 12, and 13 were a tiny bit tougher, but because they were run on more challenging terrain through a section with many hills and few spectators. I noticed everybody struggled just a bit here. I made it to the halfway point, and my friend Jen ran up out of nowhere with a giant pink sign that said “Speed is not all that inpires...GO JEN 7315”. We hugged, and I said “I made it halfway!” then “Gotta run!” Up popped Patience again, this time armed with a camera, to capture my glory. A stranger handed me a tiny shot glass of orange juice and vodka and I celebrated with a swig.

I crossed back into the city, and someone on the sidelines yelled “TEN MORE MILES!” “TEN MILES?” I yelled back “I CAN RUN TEN MILES IN MY SLEEP!” All systems were go with my body. I was getting tired, but I wasn’t terribly concerned. I had run 16 miles, of course I was feeling it.

I ran down Main to Boulevard and started to cross the bridge over the train tracks, which I was promised by a volunteer to be the last steep incline of the course, when it hit me. I should say “they hit me.” Leg cramps. Big, ugly knots in my calves that felt like someone had lit my lower legs on fire. At mile 20, for the first time, I started to doubt my abilities.

I came across another water stop and hydrated, then decided to use the facilities. I was close to mile 22, and I figured this would be my last time. I squatted to hover (a good idea when you’re at the back of a pack of 6,000 runners who have all jogged out their breakfasts)...and couldn’t get up. I don’t mean it hurt to get up, I mean I couldn’t. My squatting muscles wouldn’t allow it. I lowered myself onto the seat and sat there, contemplating. I mean, it wasn’t at all inconceivable that someday I’d die in a portable toilet, I just didn’t wake that morning thinking it would be today, you know? I wondered how long until someone would find me like that. Where was the last place someone had recognized me? Would they just assume I had bailed for one of the many bars along the route? If so, how many days after the race would those death boxes stand before being hauled away, at which time, presumably, they’d notice the body inside?

After five minutes or so, I found the strength to drag myself out of the poobooth and into the sunlight. Standing up definitely felt better, but both my lower and upper legs were now fully cramped. Cramps so severe you could see them from the outside.

I walk/shuffled another mile, placing me at 22 or so. With every step, I considered sitting down on the curb of whatever Northside street we were on--I had no idea because I was crazy with pain. At one point I passed two women on the sidewalk, one of whom said “Do you think she’s going to make it” to which the other responded “No way.” When I turned to glare at them, there was no one there. Yep, I was cuckoo.

I kept putting one foot in front of the other, at this point not even really lifting them to do so, when a man passed me running the wrong way. “Hey, crazy,” I said to myself, “No one is running the marathon backwards. Snap out of it.”

The man who was possibly a figment of my imagination ran by in the opposite direction of the sane people, then stopped, and ran back up to me.

“What’s your name?”

I tried to answer, but it was lost in a sob. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. I finally choked out “Jennifer,” and he said “Jennifer, I’m Mike. Let’s help you finish this race.”

Mike, who I was now 70% sure was a real person, walked next to me as I shuffled. Mike explained to me that he was a coach for Sports Backers’ marathon training team and asked me a few questions about what was happening with my body.

I told Mike everything, while concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

“First of all,” he said, “no more water. You’ve flushed your system and are running on nothing. Powerade only from here on out, okay?” I nodded and shuffled.

Mike walked next to me for about a mile, which, at this point, took maybe 20 minutes. He talked to me about my training and my body and I don’t know all what. By the time he left me, I was crying for a different reason, and shuffling a tiny bit less.

I crossed back into the city and turned to the nearest runner, who was really a walker, “We’re back in the city! We’re going to make it!” She looked up. She looked doubtful.

I passed mile 24, still walking and still hunched over with cramps, and heard a voice.

“I came to finish this race with you.”

It was my friend, Liz, who had recently discovered that she is a badass runner, too (see how I included myself in that?). She had run the half marathon (her first!), earlier, and had been waiting for me at the finish line, gotten impatient, and trudged back up the final hill (down as you finished, but up if you decided to turn around and save your friend from quitting in the final two miles of her first marathon) to find me. No one could have known I was in trouble, but she did.

We walked and talked. We walked and laughed. We got to the point of the course where there was less than a half mile left, and it was all downhill. Steep.

“Do you want to run this, or do you want to tuck and roll and I’ll kick you?”

I decided to run it.

We dropped down into Brown’s Island at a slow jog and crossed the finish line. As we did, I fell apart.

I sobbed and got my picture taken. I sobbed and was awarded my finisher’s medal. I sobbed and met Patience and the man in my life, who were waiting for me in the family area. I sobbed and kept walking. I sobbed because it hurt. I sobbed because I was exhausted. I sobbed because I HAD FINISHED A MARATHON.

I learned so much from this experience, including what my struggles are and where I excel. I know what I need to work on and what isn’t as important for me. I learned my limits, which is exciting, because until you know where they are, you can’t push them.

I also learned that I am loved, deeply. I sent up the Bat-Signal to the universe and the universe came through, in spades, by putting the right people in my path to get me through. I don’t know how I called that in, but I’ve no doubt in my mind that I did. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt that so strongly. I was held by something and, without it and those people along the way, I’m sure I would have fallen. I will ever be grateful for that.

So, how was the marathon? It was terrible. It was amazing. It was totally demoralizing. It was completely uplifting. It was an experience I’ll never forget, and I can’t wait to do it again.

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On the Run: Week 12

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 11:00:44 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 1
Miles Run: 334.89
Crazy Runner Chicks: A lot. But just one writing this column.

After starting every run with my iPod’s volume maxed out blaring Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” (cliche, but darn if it isn’t good motivatin’ music!), I settled into a playlist of whatever podcasts looked interesting.

NPR’s offerings are favorites, including, but not limited to, Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me! and This American Life, as well as Nerdist, an interview show featuring celebrity guests that just happen to read like a dream list of people I would want to interview were I to have a podcast.

Now, running feels less like torture, and more like hanging out with smarter, cooler friends.

I’ve mentioned my love affair with podcasts as running partners before, but the reason I bring it up again is that I went out early one morning last week, chomping at the bit to listen to one of the latest Nerdist’s offerings. It was an interview with one of my biggest celebrity crushes, Anthony Edwards, and hoping it would be enough of a distraction to keep me from focusing on my foot injury. While it feels close to fine, I worry...

Anyway, in addition to being handsome, talented, and smart, Anthony is also an avid runner, who raises money through his running for a great cause.

During the interview, host Chris Hardwick brought up the multiple marathons that Anthony has completed and broached the subject of maybe the host training for a marathon himself.

I’m running and listening, listening and running, and, suddenly, Anthony says the very thing that I needed to hear.

I’m paraphrasing because I don’t have the interview transcript, but what he basically said is that training for a marathon is the hard part. Convincing yourself to get up early and hit the streets alone, when you could go back to bed and no one would know the difference. Doing twenty miles and having no finish line and no one to high five you when you finish. Telling yourself it will all be worth it. That, he said, is the hard part. The easy part, he revealed, is the marathon. Running with so many other people who love it. Spectators cheering. Water when you need it. Portapotties.

And he was right. I’ve done the hard part. I’ve set the alarm for 3:00 AM. I’ve iced shins and feet. I’ve peed in yards all over Richmond. I did all of that. TO GET TO THIS.

And, so, I’m heading out to the starting line of the Richmond Marathon tomorrow. I might run, I might walk, I might hobble (though I feel pretty strong), but I’ve worked to run with so many other people who love it. I’ve worked to hear spectators cheering. I’ve worked to have water when I need it. I’ve worked for portapotties. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have to finish, but I do have to start.

So, I’ll be at 8th and Broad an hour early to send the 8k-ers on their way with hugs and cheers, then line up at the back of the marathon pack for my wild ride. My ill-advised, eyebrow-raising, slower-than-ever-before wild ride.

Tomorrow, come out and cheer, come out and jeer, come out and pick me up out of the road, if you want. Or, just follow me here. You can get text or email alerts sent to you for the progress of any runner, or check the pace chart if you plan to plant yourself on the course and wait for someone you like, love, or have an unhealthy obsession with to run by. I’m definitely in the 6:30-6:45 range on that chart.

Wish me luck, Richmond. Whatever happens, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Thank you.

On the Run: Week 11

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 02 Nov 2012 10:44:35 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 8
Miles Run: 319.62

Week 11 of this project. The week where I expected to talk about reducing my mileage and increasing my carb intake in preparation for the upcoming Richmond Marathon. The week where I’d start deciding which of my obnoxiously brightly colored tees I was going to wear in the race and washing both pairs of lucky socks--because you can never be too prepared. The week where I would start to ask you guys to maybe think about possibly, you know, if you were nearby or something, coming out to holler at me as I ran by, triumphantly, mid-26.2 mile journey, preceded by (let’s face it, I’m slow) 18,000 of my closest friends.¹

But that’s not what’s happening--or not exactly, anyway.

As I revealed last week, I’ve got an injured foot. The extent of the injury isn’t known, and I’m waiting to see an Orthopedic Specialist to get a diagnosis beyond what an urgent care doctor told me, which was that my x-rays show multiple problems, and I should see an Orthopedic Specialist. But the Specialist is in high demand, and won’t be able to see me for another two weeks. That’s a full week after the marathon. This? This is a problem.

I’ve had the Richmond Marathon on my radar since May of this year. True, it was a tiny blip. A impossibly tiny blip, as a matter of fact. I had just begun running and was only about halfway through the Couch to 5k program, when a customer said to me “You should do the Richmond Marathon.”

“I’m not really interested in running a marathon,” I replied.

Because I wasn’t. Marathons were for the thin and serious. For people who consumed sports drinks and lost toenails. For folks who were the opposite of silly, pudgy me.

But the more I ran, the more I realized that I was a cut out to be a distance runner. Running for time wasn’t at all fun for me, but running for hours, then checking my pedometer and being surprised and delighted at how far I’d gone, that was my jam.

At some point, a marathon not only piqued my interest, but I was sure I was supposed to run one. And so I’ve been running with this event in mind.

But, it’s not to be. I was feeling better a few days ago and decided to try out the foot with a quick (it’s all relative) six miles. It wasn’t terrible. I realized though, that not terrible for six miles does not equal conquering 26 and change. Not even close.

And, so, I decided that I just can’t risk permanent injury. The thought of never running again depresses me more than the thought of missing one race. Much, much more.

That’s the bad news, and, frankly, that’s quite enough.

The good news is, I’ve decided to run the HCA Virginia 8k. It's part of the same family of races, including the Anthem Richmond Marathon and the American Family Fitness Half Marathon, that take place on the same day. The HCA Virginia 8k is rumored to be five miles of fun and, holy cats, could my running use a fun injection right now.

The better news is that you can totally join me for the 8k. There are still spaces left and five miles is runable, walkable, and cartwheelable (OK, maybe only if you’re McKayla Maroney and completely unimpressed) for more people than, say, a marathon.

I might run this thing with a little bit of a limp but I am running it, and I’d love to see you out there, either on the course or the sidelines. I promise high fives and hugs and an annoyingly peppy cheerleader in the form of a hobbling checkout girl.

So, who’s in?

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

Props to Richmond Marathon for breaking their entry record 13 times in 14 years. Runner’s World magazine declared it “America’s Friendliest Marathon,” and I have to think that they’re onto something. ↩

On the Run: Week 10

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 11:01:08 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 14
Miles Run: 312.78
Hopes Dashed: Reply hazy, try again

You know how in movies and on television they show life-altering accidents in slow motion, and you, as the audience, are caught in this drawn-out moment of OH MY GOSH THIS IS HAPPENING?

Well, I’ve witnessed a life-altering accident (a pedestrian being hit by a car) and can tell you that, for me, it was just like that. It slowed down, it was drawn out, and it was OH MY GOSH THIS IS HAPPENING.

This, though, this was not that.

It happened in an instant. One moment I was running down Semmes Avenue on the back side of a twenty mile run. It was the last long run before I began to reduce my mileage in preparation for the Richmond Marathon, which takes place in a little less than two weeks. The next moment, well, I was still running, but something was not right.

I had twisted my ankle--just a little, just for a moment. I’d certainly twisted it more severely and at much worse angles before, but something about this twist caused severe pain in my foot. Pain that I tried to run through, because most of my hurts work themselves out as I warm up or adjust my gait. But this pain didn’t. At first, it felt like someone was simultaneously pinching the bottom of my left foot and left ankle. Then, like someone were punching them both. Then, like someone were driving a nail up through one into the other.

I made it five more miles on that tortured foot and ankle. I mean, I was parked ten miles away and couldn’t come up with a solution, beyond “Get to where you’re going”, so I kept running until I couldn’t anymore. I was halfway down Monument, just to where it crosses over 195 (I was headed to The Village, where I had left my vehicle) when my run turned into a walk and the moisture on my face morphed from sweat into tears.

I then made it one additional mile before giving up the walk and settling my sobbing self onto the curb and calling for help.

My teen daughter, who’s not been driving for terribly long, was charged with finding me sitting on the sidewalk between cars, because, at this point, I couldn’t even stand. She slowly creeped up and down Monument until I caught sight of her and waved both hands and my good foot in the air, the international symbol for “Jogger Down.”

I didn’t go to the doctor, right away. After all, it was Sunday, which limited my medical choices. Besides, it was the tiniest twist, really. Instead, I went home to ice and elevate, a routine to which I’d grown accustomed, as it was the same one I’d been employing for shin splints.

After a good little while of that, though, I started getting peckish, and decided to head to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat. I stood, and immediately howled from the pain. I knew I had to see someone, right away.

I went to my local urgent care that almost never closes but doesn’t charge an ER copayment, you know the one, and got the full workup. The doctor pronounced me sprained. She also informed me that the x-rays were alarming, showing that the problem foot was arthritic, rife with bone spurs, and, even more sexily, had a major bunion which was knocking my toes out of alignment. The other foot was likely also full of janks, but couldn’t be x-rayed, because it wasn’t the problem I’d gone in for.

The doctor laughed when I delicately said “So...how long until I can run again, because I’ve kind of got this marathon thingy coming up.” Laughed. Actually laughed.

Now, I’ve got a referral to a bone specialist. “The best,” the doctor said, “My personal doctor, in fact.” I’ve been instructed to not do anything until I see this guy. You know, the best. So best, in fact, that he can’t see me for a full three weeks and even that was because he had a cancellation.

But not doing anything is depressing. You thought shin splints had me down? They were a natural high, compared to Mr. Sprained Foot. Every day that passes, and sees me limping around, is one day farther I get from my marathon dream. The tears shed on Monument Avenue were just the beginning. I’ve cried eleventy jillion since then and I don’t see my face drying, any time soon.

All I want is to run.

On the Run: Week 9

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 10:49:57 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 21
Miles Run: 286.05
Selfish Jerks: 1 (with more to follow)

I was chatting with a friend, recently, about depression.

“I wrote about this in my column, have you read it?”

“No,” she answered, truthfully, “I’m not interested in running.”

I wasn’t hurt or upset. After all, not everyone I know is into hearing me blather on about running. If they were, I wouldn’t have to write this column.

But, even though I write about running, I like to think that the lessons I’m learning are applicable even in lives where no one is foolish enough to set their alarm for 3:00 AM so that they can get in a good 15 miles before they head off to a job where they stand on a concrete floor for the next eight hours.

My running is your novel. Or accordion. Or unicycle. Or whatever that thing is that’s been nagging you, and you know that you could conquer it, but, please, who has the time for conquering when everybody needs something from you, like, all the time?

Because, you know what? Running, writing a novel, playing the accordion, or riding a unicycle is not something that would benefit anybody but you. To dedicate time and energy to that those things means you have to be OK with dedicating time and energy to yourself. Time that could be spent fulfilling others but you decide is totally for you, selfishly.

In the beginning, that was my biggest struggle with running: the time I spent doing it. Being a slow runner means that a training run can last four hours or more. Like I said, I get up early to get some longer runs in but can’t start in the middle of the night like I’d need to to spend four hours on the road. That means my long runs are saved for days I don’t work--days I could be cooking, cleaning, running errands, or writing columns. Those are things I should be doing, things I have to be OK with completely eschewing for the better part of the day (after the four hour run, there’s the requisite shower which, when coupled with a blow dry, puts me well into the latter part of six hours) in order to do nothing that is in the interest of anyone but me.

But I got over the guilt about being selfish with my time. You see, in addition to my bod troubles bringing me down, my workplace has gone through a shakeup, and I’ve been doing two jobs for the pay of one. The extra workload made me too tired to get out of bed and some runs fell by the wayside. After about a week and a half of that nonsense, my lovely teen daughter interrupted me, in the middle of a completely uncalled-for rant, and said “Mom! Will you please go running? You’re driving me nuts!”

And just like that, I realized that my me time was benefitting those who loved me. True, it wasn’t a home cooked meal, an unmoldy shower, or a roll of toilet paper (because we’d been using paper towels on our bums for three days), but it made me bearable, which, depending on how disagreeable you tend to be under pressure, could be just as valuable. With my level of disagreeability, perhaps even more so.

So for about ten hours a week, I’d love to help you, but I can’t. And you shouldn’t help me, either. You should be conquering your thing. Because the world needs more novel-writing, accordion-playing, unicycle riders. And the world needs more you.

As always, if you see me on the road, high fives and hugs are welcome. Because, even though it’s my me time, I don’t mind sharing it with you.

On the Run: Week 8

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 10:39:21 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 28
Miles Run: 295.29
Sads: A lot

I’m depressed.

I’ve always been the kind of person whose body and emotions are closely connected. I will frequently go through a low period, confused because nothing is really wrong, only to end up with a cold or, winter forbid, the flu. “Oh, right,” I’ll say to myself, because my blues suddenly make sense, “I was getting sick.”

So, it should come as no surprise that my recent physical challenge of shin splints has me under a little black rain cloud, Eeyore-style.

However, just like with colds and flus, I was surprised by this bout of depression. I blamed my recent romantic troubles. I blamed my birthday. I blamed the change of seasons. While all of those things probably are legitimately pieces of the puzzle, I’m realizing that I can’t underestimate the impact of the fact that my legs hurt constantly, and I’m running far fewer miles these days in an effort to heal just a little before I get out there and go full-tilt boogie again.

I’ve tried other physical activities. I really have. But I never liked an exercise before I found running, and that hasn’t changed. I thought “Gee, if I like running, a fact which took me by complete surprise, maybe I’ll like (insert sport, class, activity here).” Nope. No dice. Nothing comes close.

Running is my anti-depressant. It works for me the way that no prescription drug ever has. Believe me, I’ve tried plenty. Some were ineffective. Some made me sadder. Some left me fat and unable to get a boner. I finally gave up because having my Rx constantly switched in an effort to find the right one was wreaking havoc on my body. When the side effects outweigh the original symptoms, you know it’s time to try something else.

So, I tried some things that were a little less traditional, including massage, meditation, aromatherapy, and herbs. And they worked...ish. I mean, they weren’t magical, or anything, but I think there’s really something to self-care and the methods I used were a little more time/self-love intensive than popping a pill. As a single mom, “me time” was scarce for a while--try, like, 15 years. So, was it the actual massage that worked or the 30 minutes I spent without another person demanding my attention? It doesn’t matter. What mattered was that I felt better. Or less bad. Because sometimes you take what you can get.

But the first time I ran and grinned, it was a revelation, because I hadn’t smiled like that in a long time. That smile, and the feeling of well-being I experienced, have kept me coming back to running for the better part of a year like an addict. That’s right, I admit it--I’m addicted to not being sad.

And not running is like going off of my meds, cold turkey. I’ve brought back some of my alternative methods, but the “fine” they make me feel is nothing compared to the “great” I felt when running more frequently.

But all I can do is be patient and try to keep my head above water. Bodies don’t heal at our convenience, and I’m just thankful I’m seeing any improvement, at all. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel and, though it’s a pin prick, I can see it. Or a hint of it. OK, well, I have the promise of a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s keeping me moving.

In a little less than a month, I might be crawling across that finish line, but I’m crossing it, come hell, high water, or little black rain cloud. If you see me on the road, this week, high fives and hugs are not only welcome, but desperately needed. Come let your smile be my umbrella.

On the Run: Week 7

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 10:42:10 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 36
Miles Run: 272.38
Fears Realized: The Big 1

One of the questions I’m most frequently asked by those interested in my running adventures is “Don’t you get scared?”

Now, typically, the people who ask that question are referring to the fact that I run alone at the pre-pre-pre-dawn hour of 4am, when the sky is pitch and the witnesses to any danger, whether it be self-inflicted or thrust upon me by someone else, would be few.

While I have had one pretty gnarly fall, it was in broad daylight and the single witness to it, who happened to be a perfect stranger, preferred to mock rather than assist me. And, when it comes to stranger danger, I keep my head up, my iPod volume down, my pepper spray on my hip, and then I just trust the universe.

But there is something of which I am afraid but rarely talk about: that my body, which sat nearly dormant for 40 years, will give out.

Though I’ve carefully followed a meticulously constructed marathon training plan, including the 10 Percent Rule (never increase your weekly mileage by more than 10 percent over the previous week) to avoid overuse, I’ve wound up with the dreaded shin splints.

For those not familiar with this horror that plagues athletes from all different sports but is most common in runners, shin splints is also known as tibial stress syndrome, which pretty much sums it up. Running puts stress on your tibia, aka the shinbone. To simplify: Too much pounding on leg make much pain for Jennifer.

From WebMD, my current primary care provider:

Shin splints aren't really a single medical condition. Instead, they're just a symptom of an underlying problem. They might be caused by:
Irritated and swollen muscles, often caused by overuse
Stress fractures, which are tiny, hairline breaks in the lower leg bones
Overpronation or ''flat feet" -- when the impact of a step causes the arch of your foot to collapse, stretching the muscles and tendons

I’m not flat footed. The opposite, as a matter of fact. I’ve got overachieving arches, and I’m not afraid to brag about it. However, either of the other two could be accurate for me. No matter, the “cure” is the same, regardless of the cause.

WebMD, again:

Although shin splints may be caused by different problems, treatment is usually the same: Rest your body so the underlying issue heals. Here are some other things to try:
Icing the shin to reduce pain and swelling. Do it for 20-30 minutes every three to four hours for two to three days, or until the pain is gone.
Anti-inflammatory painkillers. Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs), like ibuprofen, naproxen, or aspirin, will help with pain and swelling. However, these drugs can have side effects, like an increased risk of bleeding and ulcers. They should be used only occasionally unless your doctor specifically says otherwise.
Arch supports for your shoes. These orthotics -- which can be custom-made or bought off the shelf -- may help with flat feet.
Range of motion exercises, if your doctor recommends them.
Neoprene sleeve to support and warm the leg.
Physical therapy to strengthen the muscles in your shins.
In rare cases, surgery is needed for severe stress fractures and other problems that can cause shin splints.

Notice that second line, “Rest your body so the underlying issue heals”.

I just threw up in my mouth a little. Because, if there’s one thing I’ve got going for me, it’s momentum.

So, I’ve cut back on my miles this week, opting instead for some bike riding (cycling sounds so pretentious when your “cycle” is a one speed beach cruiser made by Schwinn) and a little bit of work with weights (I’ve lost 80 lbs, the state of the under side of my arms is absolutely appalling). And some running. Because it makes me happy. In fact, if I go too long, I’ll get depressed enough that one of my teens will say “Will you please go for a run?”

On top of cutting back, I’ve made an appointment with a doctor who isn’t just the internet and intend to visit a local running store to make sure I’m wearing the right shoes (besides overuse, this is another common cause of shin splints).

In other words, I’m being fairly proactive. But I’m scared. If you take a peeksie at the top of the column, you’ll notice that I have only a little over a month until the Richmond Marathon, and I really, really want to do this thing. That being said, permanent damage to my body that results in my inability to ever run again sounds like a fate worse than death--I love it that much.

Rest assured that, whatever happens, I’ll be sharing it here. Because you guys are my team, and I couldn’t feel luckier for that. As always, if you see me on the streets, high fives and hugs are welcome. Just make them gentle, because this girl is healing.

On the Run: Week 6

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 10:46:05 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 42
Miles Run: 235.41
Gross Outs: Too many to count

Nike commercials that make you reach for the Kleenex, Olympic victories complete with national anthems and tearful athletes, fancy West End ladies in lululemon skirts. There are so many different ways to be inspired to run.

But inspiration can be falsely glamourous. Heck, even blood and sweat look good on rippling muscles and long stretches of sinew.

I, however, began running as a 215 pound 40-year-old who hadn’t done anything more taxing than getting off the couch in a long, long time. So while I didn’t expect a gold medal, I also didn’t exactly expect the things that I do go through on my runs. Because what commercials and Olympians and spandex don’t tell you is that running can be gross.

For instance, stories of pooping while jogging, aka the “runner’s trots” (classy name, no?), abound, but I’m more frequently a victim of the runner’s drips, or, just plain peeing my pants.

Maybe it’s a lady thing. Maybe it’s a 40-year-old lady thing. Maybe it’s a 40-year-old lady who comes from a long line of sagging bladders tacked up with transvaginal mesh and hope thing. All I know is, I get up in the morning, stick around the house until I’ve urinated at least three times, then, as soon as I hit the street, I’ve gotta go. Again.

And I do. Sometimes, before I’m ready, meaning I’m innocently running along and the urge to pee hits at the same time as the relieving starts. Sometimes, I have a little bit of warning and can pick a lawn, sit down on it, and pretend to tie my shoes while simultaneously undoing the hard work the homeowner has done all summer to keep the grass from turning brown. Sorry Monument Avenue, I owe you some Miracle-Gro.

Oh, and running also brings out the worst in my nostrils. Literally. For some reason, when the running starts, well, the running starts. My nose leaks like a faucet in a cheap motel, and I have to desperately search for a place to wipe it before I get a mouthful. Runner’s websites suggest shooting “snot rockets,” which basically involve pressing one nostril shut and blowing hard, expelling the offending mucus. Those websites are also careful to mention that you should blow back and away, to avoid hitting your own shoe. But, I just can’t do that. Instead, I classily pull the front of my shirt up to my face and give it a good wipe, exposing both my belly and my poor upbringing (not really--sorry, mom!).

Another unglamorous side effect of running is what I lovingly refer to as “death breath.” Being a total mouthbreather when I run,¹ I carry a tube of ChapStick on every outing, because panting between parted lips brings dryness and cracking. But on top of the dryness, it also brings these weird, white strings of, well, something that decorate my lips like fat spider webs and a taste that can only be described as “rot-like.” I’ve read up on this condition, and dehydration seems to be the culprit. I carry a small, handheld water bottle on each run and sip it as I go, but am careful not to over do it because, well, please see: runners drips.

But, it’s a trade off. For all of the disgusting things that running has revealed about my body, it’s also helped me discover some really beautiful things about my physical self. I love the way the muscles in my legs are developing; the way I’m flexible enough to stretch and bend in ways I never could before; and the energy I have, every single day.

So, if you see me on the street, and I’m wiping like mad; can’t speak for having my lips webbed together; or am sitting on a lawn, concentrating hard on my shoelaces, well, now you know. Running is gross.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

Are there people who aren’t? Well, I hate them. ↩

On the Run: Week 5

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 11:04:33 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 49
Miles Run: 195.51
Eyes on the Prize: 2

“Running a marathon is hard.”

I can’t tell you how many times, since I started this project, that I’ve heard that phrase.

Oh sure, plenty of people are supportive--some are even excited. Quite a few are ambivalent, which is cool, too.

But I’m surprised by how many people I’ve run into who seem to think I’ve no idea what I’m getting myself into. I guess because I write so often about the emotional journey I’m on and rarely touch on the physical one that’s also involved.

But trust me when I say I know that running a marathon is no small feat and finishing one is an even bigger accomplishment.

I’m not working with a marathon training team. I’ve heard nothing but good things about them and wouldn’t hesitate to go that route, if I thought it were right for me. But my work schedule is such that I can’t commit to meeting up with a group, weekly, without worrying myself and my boss half to death. I’m frequently scheduled one or both weekend days, and that schedule changes every week. This is a good thing if you like variety, a bad thing if you like having a life, or, you know, scheduling doctor’s appointments.

I’m also not a social runner. I’ve done runs with others, but having company distracts me. When the going gets tough and my legs begin to feel like they’re made of freshly-poured concrete, I need to focus. I’ve gotta take time to recognize that I’m headed in that direction, gel up, take a sip of my patented sports drink and water blend, or just give myself a little, old fashioned pep talk. When I’m chatting, I’m less likely to see the signs until it’s too late and the concrete in my legs has fully hardened. Once that happens, forget about it.

No, instead, I’ve cobbled together my own training plan, based on three different plans, all of which featured things I loved and things I wasn’t crazy about, that I found online.

For those of you who aren’t runners or who are running for fun, rather than training for something specific, a typical training plan is split into weekly segments, each consisting of a few short runs, a few rest days, and one long run. Some plans convert rest days into cross-training days, so you stay active but are using different muscles than you would to run. My own training doesn’t specifically include cross-training, but if walking my dog or working inside a grocery store every day counts, I’m golden.

And I’m right on schedule. As of tomorrow, we are seven weeks out from the Richmond Marathon. That means I did a 16-mile long run earlier in the week. Next week, I’m up to 17 miles, then 18, then 20, then tapering off to 9 and 8 for the last two weeks to save energy for the 26.2 mile haul to the finish line. I’m also doing lots of 8s in between, because that’s my favorite run, and some 10s and 5s thrown in for good measure.

As I’ve learned the hard way, no one can predict exactly how a race will go. I’m not guaranteed success, no matter how hard I train. However, I’m almost certainly guaranteed failure if I don’t train properly, and I know that. I’ve worked too hard to go down without a fight, so I’m training and resting and pep talking, vigorously, until November.

After all, running a marathon is hard.

On the Run: Week 4

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 10:41:25 +0000

Days until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 57
Miles run: 150.52
Doubt and determination: 1 + 1

Self: “Just one more day. I’m still too tired.”

Other Self: “You’re not tired, you’re scared. Scared you’ll hate it. Well, you’d better get out there and see.”

Self: “Ugh. We are the worst.”

This was the scene at 4:00 AM, three days after I ran the Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon.

As I described last week, the half marathon was, shall we say, “heck”? It was hot, it was humid, it was spiritless, it was dry as a bone.

I finished and thought “I can’t wait to run again,” sort of the same way you might think “I can’t wait to rinse this poop out of my mouth from that poop sandwich I accidentally ate, and surely any sandwich I were to consume after this would taste like heaven.”

So, the day after the half marathon, I thought I might go for a short run. You know, just to stretch out my muscles. But, morning came and went, and I didn’t go for that run--telling myself that I had done a hard thing just the day before, and I should treat myself kindly by resting.

Then the next morning came, and I remembered hearing from a friend about the day after the day after soreness, so I decided, again, to get out there for a bit. For real, this time. “Just two or three miles” I told myself sleepily, “right after I hit the snooze button for the third time.” Needless to say, that run didn’t happen, because I finally turned the alarm off altogether. I rationalized that I was still recovering, physically and emotionally, from the trauma of having my half marathon dreams pretty well dashed.

But day three arrived and, again, I found myself making excuses. Yes, the excuses were perfectly reasonable, but they weren’t the truth.

The truth was, I was scared. Scared that running was ruined for me by the short-term suffering I’d endured. Scared I’d broken my brain with dehydration and stress. Scared to get back on the horse that had bucked me off, violently, because only a fool would do such a thing.

Other Self was right, though, I had to get out there and see. I charged up the iPod, which was still loaded with the podcasts I’d saved for the race, sucked down a gel for a quick hit of sugar and caffeine, laced up my sneakers, and hit the road.

One mile in, I teared up. My legs were made of cement, and I couldn’t find my groove. My breathing was labored. I was hating life. Two miles in, and I began mentally composing an email to my editor here at RVANews to explain why I wouldn’t be continuing this project. Three miles in, though, something happened. Every breath stopped feeling like work, and every step no longer seemed like torture. I wouldn’t say it was great, but it wasn’t terrible. So I kept going. Mile four, mile five, mile six. My pace picked up and that familiar smile came across my face and heart. I squeezed out nine miles before taking quick shower and heading off to work. On my way in, I texted several friends, elated, “I DON’T HATE IT!” I capslocked some very sleepy people who were confused about what I didn't hate, because I hadn’t told any of them how scared I was.

It’s been a week and a half since that first post-race run, and I’ve had a few stellar and a couple average runs in that time. I’ve also over slept quite a few times, waking up too late to make it out at all. In other words, everything is back to normal.

I’m also giving myself a break and gaining a little bit of perspective on what I went through. Of course it makes sense that I was down after I prepared for something for six months and then ran into a wall of disappointment. And of course I was tired after that. And of course I was scared after that. Yes, I’m an extremely determined person, but that’s not a magic spell. There’s room for doubt in determination, and as long as determination wins out over doubt, I’m okay with them sharing space, sometimes.

I’m back on the road for another week of figuring this stuff out. I haven’t had a longer run than ten miles since the race, and it’s time to get back to it. 26.2 isn’t going to just wrap itself up in a pretty bow and present itself to me, I’m going to have to reach for it. Goodbye, Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon, I’m moving on. As for you, my friends, I’ll see you on the road.

On the Run: Week 3

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 11:05:17 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 63
Miles Run: 118.91
Tears Shed: 20,442

Well, I did it. I ran a half marathon. And it was hard.

Now, I know a lot of you are probably thinking “Of course it was hard, it was a mother loving HALF MARATHON!”, and you are right. But remember that “lovely naiveté” that I referred to, just last week? I already miss it with the regret that some girls feel after prom night--if you know what I mean.

I shifted from my previous excitement/medal lust/butterfly tummy to full fledged terror/self-doubt/can’t hold anything down sometime around 7:00 PM the night before the Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon, when I realized that I had set my alarm for 1:00 AM and wasn’t yet asleep. I watched first the minutes, then the hours, tick by on the cable box in my bedroom and did that insomnia math of “OK, if I fall asleep right this minute, I’ll get five hours of sleep” then “OK, if I fall asleep right this minute, I’ll get four hours of sleep.” Finally, I got down to “...two and a half hours of sleep” and drifted off.

1:00 AM came early, but so did a pretty good adrenaline rush when I realized that THIS. WAS. IT. The day that I had spent six months preparing for with healthy food, lots of water, many early wake-up calls, and 490 miles pounded out on the streets of Richmond. I told myself that the energy of all of that would carry me through to victory. I strapped on my race bib, number 20442, and thought “Well, it’s now or never.”

Then, I stepped outside.

The heat and humidity I felt when leaving my apartment were like a punch in the face. I turned to my daughter, who had volunteered to help out at the race along with her best friend and my boyfriend, and teared up.

“Tell me that the beach is two hours away from here so the weather is not necessarily going to be like this there. Please tell me that, because this is a problem.” She smiled weakly, because teenagers shouldn’t be up at 1:00 AM unless they are still up at 1:00 AM, and I knew I was in trouble.

I caffeinated, heavily, while I made the middle of the night drive, eastward, and said silent prayers to Mother Nature to just let go of her heavy, damp anger for a few hours while we did this thing. By the time we got to the beach, the temperature was in the low 80’s and the humidity was near 100%.

But I forgot about the oppressive weather for just a little bit, and got caught up in the excitement of being with other runners. There’s something about finding other people who share the same insane obsession--it doesn’t make it seem less insane, necessarily, but like the insanity is somehow justified. “Oh, sure, it’s crazy, but this many crazy people can’t be wrong!” This is probably why people join cults.

I was mostly too nervous to speak to anyone else, flying totally solo after having been dropped off by my crew, but I soaked up the energy of the event. Volunteers tried to talk me into bagels and bananas, while I just hoped I could keep down the caffeine I had consumed on the ride over. Besides, all anyone was talking about was the heat, and I was trying to think of other things.

Then, the sun came up, and it was time to enter our corrals. I thanked the powers that be that had made me frowny-faced just a few days before by placing me in the last corral, because I was already sweating buckets, and we were only just lining up. “At least this way,” I thought, “I won’t have to be passed by too many people.” I talked to a few of my fellow Corral 20-ers and even tried to get a wave and some cheers going, but the street was covered in sweat and energy gels, and there were murmurs of “I don’t know, man” and “This might be harder than I thought.” The “rockin’” radio DJ-like emcee played music over the loudspeakers and laughed about how hot it was, and then very solemnly urged us to have our hydration plans in place. I wasn’t worried, as I had spent hours planning mine. The countdown started and we runners looked at each other. It was like 16,000 deer caught in the headlights.

The race began, and I quickly realized that I wouldn’t be using my iPod on this run. I had spent more than a month saving some really choice podcasts to get me through, but had sort of forgotten that part of this marathon was a local band playing every mile or so. Plus, I wanted to be in the moment--soak up the experience instead of being off in my own little world. We were suffering, but damn if we weren’t going to suffer together! I tucked the iPod away and tried, again, to connect with my fellow Corral 20-ians, who were now mixed with several other corrals. I cracked jokes, gave pep talks, sang along with the music, and fell somewhere between pink-haired cheerleader and fool. Very few were having any of what I was selling. In fact, not falling over seemed to be the highest priority on most everybody’s list.

I got to the first hydration stop and promptly snorted a dixie cup full of water up my nose,high fiving myself mentally, excited that I had gone through this rite of passage. I chugged along, slow running among legions and legions of walkers, sometimes passing them, sometimes just keeping pace, and asked the universe to send some trees or clouds or something to break up the oppressive heat, which had now climbed into the 90’s without a break in humidity.

Like a man dressed in tatters, crawling the desert, I looked for the next water stop as a local band with an adorable girl singer played “Beat It”. I could see far, far ahead, the flat elevation of this course being both a blessing and a curse because, boy, did things look closer than they actually were, but no cluster of parched looking people, anywhere. Holy cow, where was this thing? Hadn’t it been miles since the last one? Then, I saw it. The tables, a few volunteers, but no cluster of runners. As I got closer, I noticed that the tables were empty, and the volunteers were not handing out cups of delicious, refreshing agua but apologizing. Apparently, they had run out of cups. They had a few pitchers of water and offered to pour it into our hands, if we’d cup them.

I was dumbfounded. How the heck does this happen? Sure, I wasn’t near the front of the pack, but there were, I found out later, more than a thousand people behind me. There wasn’t water for us? I soldiered on.

By the time I got to the next station, I was, shall we say, cranky. They, too, were out of water but had some sports drink. Since my well-crafted hydration plan was a complete loss at this point, I gulped down two cups of the warm, yellow liquid, just happy to be snatched from the clutches of certain death for a while. A local country band played a song called “Collards From A Can”, and I cursed the day my mother birthed me.

This particular race runs along the beach, but then takes runners out to the country and through a military base, of which I didn’t get the name because, you know, I was busy outrunning death. The route to and from the base is heavily wooded and, on a day like that, thick with insects. I run so slowly that the bugs had no problem landing on me and hitching a ride. There was no breeze to be had, and I sure wasn’t creating one. I swatted as I ran, working up even more of a sweat, convincing myself that I had invented some kind of crazy crossfit workout (I have no idea what crossfit is, but in my mind it looks like the thing I just described). There was swatting, there was running, there was grumbling.

Then, I saw the halfway mark. And I almost gave up.

You gotta be kidding me! This is halfway? This thing is only halfway over? I turned to the girl who had been slow jogging next to me for the last twenty minutes, and she looked straight at me and said “Don’t.” So I didn’t.

Even though more than one of the hydration stations was dry, I ended up needing to relieve myself during the run anyway. As I stood in line for the much talked about race course portapotties, another rite of passage, I jogged in place. I was the only one. A man turned to me, irritated, and suggested I might take this opportunity for a little break. I told him that if I stopped, I’d never get started again. He shook his head and made a big motion of turning up his mp3 player.

Then something happened. It wasn’t magical, or anything, but I just got determined. I mean, this whole experience has been about determination, and I just decided I wasn’t going to give up all that I’d worked for quite so easily. I got to the 10 mile mark and remembered how effortlessly I’d turned out ten miles back home, and how three miles, the remaining distance, was a walk in the park for me. I turned up the juice and started passing people, encouraging them along the way, noticing and complementing their running attire, telling them they were close to home, promising that the beach was just around the corner and so was that supercool medal. I told myself that this was like giving birth and the baby was almost here and coming whether I liked it or not so I’d better get with the program. I did crazy poses for the official photo guys, I gave high fives to those who would accept them.

I finished the race one minute and forty-two seconds off of my predicted time and eleven minutes off of my secretly hoped-for time. Neither mattered much, because it all counted as my personal best. That’s the beauty of a first race: it’s a record for you. I crossed that finish line having called up the reserves and pulling out the stops, and placed 9,395 out of 10,958 runners.

I learned so much from my experience. Like I said, I’ll miss that naiveté, but now I know that I have both reserves and stops to be called up and pulled out. I also know that I should run with my own water bottle and wear a hat or visor because yikes sunburned cheeks. I’ve shed some tears about the fact that this wasn’t the gloriously triumphant experience that I had built it up to be, but I’ve also toughened up a little, having learned the score.

Am I glad I ran this race? Yes. Am I glad I ran this race in another city where you all couldn’t see me go through it? Darn straight. But I’ll see all of you here, at the Richmond Marathon in November, and on the streets of RVA until then. Oh, and if we do run into each other out there, please high five me. This girl could really use some high fives.

On the Run: Week 2

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 11:21:44 +0000

Days until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 70
Miles run: 78.51
Stress poops: Numerous

While it’s true that I’m still nearly three months out from the Richmond Marathon, I am but days away from my first big race.

I’ll be running in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Virginia Beach Half Marathon this weekend, and I am terrified. So terrified, in fact, that my digestive system has declined to behave in any sort of civilized manner for the past week or so. Just ask my boss, who has all but stopped inquiring “Again?” when I excuse myself from my cash register for “One quick sec.”

It’s not really the mileage that frightens me. Yes, 13.1 miles is a whole lot, but I’ve run that many times. While it wasn’t easy, necessarily, it was far from terrible. Typically, once I get past mile four or so, I’m golden: settling into a comfortable pace and losing myself in a combination of the day’s iPod selection and a hyperawareness of what’s going on with my body, paying close attention and running checks from the toes up to make sure that everything feels okay. I guess what I’m saying is that barring some big, unforeseen circumstance, 13.1 miles is something I know I can run.

There’s just so much I don’t know about running a race. I mean, I’ve read every single runner’s guide ever published and have seen people running races in movies and on television a time or two, but what really happens? What about things like portapotties and little cups of water and sports drinks and all those other runners?

I mean, look at this picture from their Facebook:

That is the starting line for this race. Overwhelming, right? Well, consider this: that photo only shows half of the runners. That’s right, there are more than twice this many people, they just wouldn’t all fit in the picture. Isn’t that nuts?

Thankfully, I got an email with everything I need to know about the race, except how to not freak out. There were maps, which I carefully memorized so as to eliminate worry about bladder and tummy issues. There was info on the official sports drink and energy gel of the race, both of which I immediately purchased and used on a few runs, for the same reason as above. There were very detailed instructions on parking and meeting your loved ones after the victory, because most of those people pictured above come with both vehicles and cheerleaders and, understandably, it can become a bit of a cluster if people don’t follow the rules.

Now, this race, like many races with thousands of participants, uses start corrals which are assigned based on previous race times or predicted times. This kind of organization of people is supposed to facilitate a smoother flow of traffic creating a faster and safer environment for participants. The everything-I-need-to-know email included the fact that I have been assigned to Corral 20, the very last group to start. Yes, it turns out that the powers that be in the Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon offices, which very well may be computers or robots or something, saw my predicted finish time and placed me with the walkers. In other words, I’m not terribly likely to get run over by anyone, which, being a slow runner who runs slowly is a big fear of mine, but it’s a tiny blow to my ego.

A customer maybe twenty years older than I came through my line a few days ago and was wearing a shirt from the same event, dated 2006. I asked him about it and he let me know that he and his wife had participated every year since 2002. He said that they like it because it’s a pretty walk and they get to hear a lot of good music. He also let me know that they too were starting in Corral 20. “BUT!” I wanted to shout “I’VE ONLY JUST CONVINCED MYSELF THAT I’M A RUNNER!”

However, unless a sinkhole opens up and swallows 20,000 other people, and I'm spared because I was the only one moving so slowly that I had time to go around it, the odds are that I’m not going to win this race, or any race, really, so what does it matter where I start?

And there’s not a lot of room for ego in running, anyway. I mean, making an exception for those who log their miles on treadmills in the comfort of their own homes, running is probably the most disheveled you’ll ever look in front of other people. Or at least let’s hope so. For me, I roll out of bed, teeth unbrushed, bed head in full effect, makeup askew from a full night of dreaming I’m Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and also full-blooded Puerto Rican, don spandex, and step out in public. And public is that place where I proceed to sweat buckets and huff and puff like a human version of The Little Engine That Could. In fact, every once in a while, I’ll catch sight of my red-faced self in a window as I run past and think that if I saw me I’d call 911.

Much of what I’ve learned from my running experience so far is about letting go. At this point in my journey, I’d rather be surrounded by the people who are there to have fun, meet others, and perhaps take this sort of thing a little less seriously, and I suspect that those are the people who’d prefer to be around me, as well.

So, I’m looking forward to gaining experience, not to mention the super cool medal I will be awarded upon finishing, which, I’m not going to lie, was a big motivator in me getting into races in the first place. “Wait, there are medals? I’m in.” Mostly, though, I’m excited to revel in the experience of running my first race. Never again will I possess the lovely naiveté that I have now, and I will miss it. What I won’t miss, however, will be paging my boss, repeatedly, to cover my post while I jog to the ladies room. At least not for another three months, or so.

On the Run: Week 1

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 12:14:44 +0000

Days Until Anthem Richmond Marathon: 78
Miles Run: 41.22
Heroes Discovered: 1

“Did you see that girl?” I asked, excitedly, on one of my morning runs.

“Yes,” my friend and sometimes run partner answered, “What about her?”

“She was so normal.”

I apparently live in the hilliest neighborhood in the suburbs of Richmond. Five years I’ve lived here without ever noticing that the Alps have nothing on my little part of the world. Once I started running though, it took less than five seconds for me to realize I needed to get some lederhosen and to practice my yodel if I was going to survive a slow jog down my street. So necessity (not to mention my glutes) dictates that I either join the Von Trapp Family Singers or head to another part of town for my long runs.

Typically, I drive a few minutes into the loving arms and flat, wide streets of the city. The good news is, not only are the streets flatter but they are better lit and probably safer, because there are more people in the city. The bad news is, there are more people in the city.

It’s not unusual for me to encounter fifty other runners during the course of a three or four hour workout. And the thing is, they’re so, well, runner-y.

Now, when I said “runner-y”, the first thing you probably thought was “I hope they aren’t actually paying this girl to write” but the second thing you probably thought was “Ah, runner-y” We all have these preconceived notions in our heads about runners. Runners are long and lean and fit and serious-looking. Picture the people you see crossing the finish line at the Boston marathon. Runner-y, right?

Well, most of my runs are spent looking at either the magnificent fronts or breathtaking backs of people just like that. But me? I’m chubby, with short legs and pink hair and, most of the time, anyway, a big smile. I am decidedly unrunner-y. Most of the time, I don’t think about it. I mean, I’m out there like everybody else, right? Sometimes, though, I feel like someone has let a Shar Pei onto the Greyhound track.

That’s why I was so enthused when she ran past.

She was wearing only very practical nylon running shorts, a sports bra, and had plenty of jiggly bits coming out the tops, bottoms, and sides of everything. She was so imperfect that it was perfection.

“She’s my hero,” I finally concluded, out loud.

I looked down at myself in my big shirt, chosen for its body camouflaging abilities rather than its functionality or comfort, which I carefully readjusted every block or so lest someone see the vulnerable parts that I was trying to camouflage. I looked at the black pants I was wearing in the oppressive heat of summer that I’d rationalized by telling myself that black is slimming and pants hide a multitude of cupcakes. And, finally, I thought “No more.”

You know what? Shar Peis are cool, fun, and they sure as heck don’t wear oversize collars to cover up their superfly wrinkles because they feel bad about them.

I get up at 3:45am, four days a week, and hit the streets; sweating when most people are sleeping. I don’t stay out late at night or wear high heels or put too much salt on my food or any number of things I feel might keep me from being the best runner I can be.

In other words, I am runner-y.

Introducing On the Run with The Checkout Girl

The Checkout Girl — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 11:03:21 +0000

You know how in elementary school there’s that chubby, slow kid who’s always picked last for every team sport and is always beaned out first when that sport is dodgeball and you feel bad for him because of course you do, after all you’re not a monster and you even give canned goods to the food drive that aren’t just the disgusting things you want to keep your mom from forcing you to eat because, well, because you care about your fellow human beings just that much?

Well, I’m that kid’s larger, less-coordinated sister. At least, I had always considered myself to be. Then, earlier this year, I took up running. Slowly, at first. And slowly, still, for that matter.

When I ran my first 5k last month, I was nervously waiting at the starting line next to a really lovely woman, with whom I was having a wonderful conversation. The gun sounded, and I explained to her that she didn’t have to run with me, as I was really slow. She told me that, due to a knee injury, she also needed an easy pace, and it wouldn’t bother her at all. Well, cut to halfway through the run and the woman was still next to me, keeping perfect pace, BY WALKING. “It’s a power walk,” she assured me, kindly. But it didn’t bother me one bit. I laughed and told her that it was alright, my tortoise-like pace was the key to the fact that I could run for practically ever.

For practically ever. That thought stuck with me. And as I was slow running up a big hill, which was inexplicably located smack dab in the middle of a 3.1 mile “fun run,” the still really lovely woman, still walking next to me, exclaimed “Look! You’re the only one running up this thing! Good for you!” I looked around, noticing that I wasn’t passing anyone, including the woman with the stroller who was, well, strolling in front of me, but that, indeed, I was the only one running. I smiled and told myself that, hey man, pace wasn’t my thing. You don’t rush an amazing journey just so you can get to the end. And that’s what every run is for me--an amazing journey. But that also lead me to wonder what, exactly, “for practically ever” entailed.

Well, I’m going to find out. It may not be “for practically ever,” but I have decided to train for this year’s Richmond Marathon. As of today, the little countdown widget on their website says I have about 84 days to figure out how to run 26.2 miles without instantly dropping dead from exhaustion like the very first marathoner, who was one heck of a dedicated messenger.

And I’m taking you with me. From now until the race on November 10th, while I work out how to safely and sanely run farther in one day than I commute to work in a month, I’ll be keeping a weekly running journal, here on RVANews. I’ll share the trials, tribulations, and black toenails of a regular person training to run a distance, heretofore only conquered by Olympic athlete, superheroes, and, you know, runners.

Now, I should say that I’ve been running like a mad woman, one who needs to put a few miles between herself and her problems, four days a week since March. So I’m a noob, but not so much of a noob that I don’t realize this will be a challenge. Up to this point, my longest long run, which I do once a week, has been just shy of 15 miles. So, while me and my badass 14-minute miles, of which I’m exceedingly proud, are more than halfway there, I’m totally aware that there’s a humongo difference between running for nearly three and a half hours and running for nearly seven hours.

I guess it makes sense, then, that I’m a little scared. As a girl who had only experienced athletic activities through a lens of abject humiliation, including a brief stint as a chubby, bumbling softball shortstop; a failed, embarrassing cheerleader tryout;¹ or entire shifts spent on the Stairmaster because good enough was never good enough; I want to conquer this thing. But I’m determined to do it without all of that baggage weighing me down--there’s no way I can carry that load for nearly seven hours.

I have, more than once in my life, been referred to as tenacious, and I’m counting on that tenacity. I really, really believe I can do this thing, which has been on my life list since 2010 but never shared with anyone except the people I am very closest to and, even then, in a joking manner. While failure is embarrassing, what’s worse is never trying at all, and I’m willing to try in front of the whole internet to prove that you can do the secret things on your life list. The things you hold close to your heart so as not to accidentally reveal them to another. Yes, you can. And so can I.

So, I hope you’ll join me on my quest to transform from regular old boring me, to regular old boring me who talks entirely too much about running² and entirely not enough about important things like Real Housewives, because who can stay up that late when you have to be up at 4:00am. FOR RUNNING.

And, you know what? I can’t do this alone. I’m going to need some cheerleaders. So, are you with me? I promise not to show you my toenails--not unless you ask, I mean. After all, I’m not a monster.

Now, let’s do this thing.

— ∮∮∮ —

Footnotes

11 out of 12 girls were chosen, and I recevied an insincere apology from the coach claiming “Sorry, we need an odd number of girls. Um, for stunts. Or whatever.” ↩
I’ve created a facebook page about my running exploits and how you can join me. Like Slow Running Revolution for more info. ↩