Permission to Say No

I'm not running today.  I'm tired.  I don't care.

Musings After The Big 2-0

Saturday, I found myself explaining to my husband why I had to wear a short-sleeved T-shirt and shorts in 38-degree weather.  It was my first of two marathon dress rehearsals.  At 20 miles, this--along with my 22-miler in two weeks--will be the closest I'll come to race distance before actually hitting the starting line.  I wanted to use it as a learning experience to figure out what was working and what needed to be tweaked.  Here's what I learned.

What Worked:

• The shorts I bought online.  Perfect.  Not as cute as a pair I'd buy for recreational use, but they were spot on for the run.
• My new shoes.  After about 400 miles in my prior pair, it was time for a replacement.  I'd planned on buying the exact same model to avoid changing things up this far into training, but the running store didn't have my size.  I allowed myself to be talked into a pair of "similar" shoes, just to find that they made my knees hurt after all of my short runs.  Finally trusting myself more, I did what I should've done in the first place:  I went to a different store and bought a new pair of the ones I already owned and loved.  They were cushy and lovely.  This pair is hot pink instead of my previous black, but beggars can't be choosers, so I let it go.
• New running shirt.  Since I now had a store credit from taking the crappy shoes back, I treated myself to a new shirt.  (To be fair, the shoes themselves were not inherently crappy; they just weren't right for my feet.)  I was in need of a short-sleeved shirt anyway for the race, and I found a silky smooth winner from Asics, the Lite-Show Favorite Short Sleeve.  They only had it in one color at the store, which I thoroughly detest.  It's an orangey-pink sherbet color, verging on neon, but it fit so well and felt so good that I bought it and told my ego to shut up.  (For the record, I hate neon.  I understand its uses for night running and all, but really, as an '80s kid, I've already had enough neon to last me a lifetime.)
• Nutrition.  Fueled with a couple of Gu packets, a couple of caffeinated Sport Beans packets (Jelly Belly's creation for athletes), and 16 ounces of coconut water, I was well taken care of.  My coconut water ran out toward the end, but I'll be taking advantage of water stations at the race in addition to my personal coconut water, so I'm not worried.
• Outfit aesthetics.  Rockin'!  With my turquoise visor, sherbet shirt, rainbow socks, and hot pink shoes, I was basically Rainbow Brite's black runner sidekick.  I couldn't help but notice the smiles of drivers and pedestrians alike when they passed me in my upbeat 'fit.  I looked silly but in the best way possible.  The kind of silly that makes me feel like I'm a badass bitch who can get shit done but who also clearly isn't taking herself too seriously.  An ideal combo.  It was also part of my plan to stand out a bit on race day to a) make myself smile and feel good, and b) to elicit a little extra cheering from the crowd when I need it.  Looks like a home run for that.

Not So Hot:

• Scratchy shirt tag.  With all the care manufacturers take to make their products runner-friendly with flat-stitched seams and soft, breathable fabric for chafe prevention, I'm amazed at how they carelessly decide to slap on a huge bulky tag with what feels like the scratchiest thread known to man.  It was like I had tucked a sleepy boar into my shirt and he nestled up next to me for the ride.  That shit's gotta come out for the next rehearsal.
• Sunblock.  I forgot to apply the sunblock before I left the house.  Normally, this is no big deal as there's little to no sun in the winter months, but I got lucky/unlucky with a bright, sunny Saturday.  Between the knee socks, short sleeves and gloves, it made for some crazy tan lines.  The tan lines will be unavoidable during the race, sunblock or no sunblock, as I tan within a minute of sun exposure.  But I plan to at least protect myself, so I'll need to test out my sunblock of choice on the second rehearsal run.
• Sun issue, part two.  My visor was great at protecting my eyes and most of my face from the sun, as I knew it would from our many miles together during California runs.  What I didn't expect was where the sun protection stopped.  Right under my nose apparently, which meant that I had a strange dark tan above my lip that looked suspiciously like a moustache for the rest of the day.  I was not a fan.  Not sure how to deal with that, though, as any sunblock I apply will surely immediately sweat off my face. And like I said, sunblock does not prevent tan lines for me anyway.  I'll have to give it some thought.  Or I suppose I can just suck it up and have a raging post-'thon moustache.  We'll see.

Neither Here nor There:

• As I near the race, I find myself spending more and more time reflecting on the past 13 weeks.  Now entering the peak of training, I'm struck by how intimidated I've always been by marathons and, considering my expectations, how comparatively easy it has been.  (Comparatively being the operative word.)  I've built up these long runs in my head--especially the 20-miler--to be these monsters that, in reality, have been remarkably achievable.  I've always heard that the hardest part of the marathon is the last 20-26 miles.  Oh, excuse me, I mean 20-26.2 miles.  (Don't forget the 0.2.)  That's where people hit the wall physically and/or mentally, and it's freaking scary.  And I'm not sure if the ease of my training so far is making it more or less scary to me.  The practical part of me says that I'm prepared as well as I can be, so how much worse can the race be than training?  But the paranoid part of me is saying, "Well, if it's been this good up until now, it's going to feel that much worse when you actually reach your breaking point."  I can't help but question if this relatively untroubled training is luring me into a sense of false security.  Has my training built up a sense of false confidence?

How to Make Long Runs Feel Shorter

As I ready myself for a first and epic 20-miler this weekend, I thought I'd compile some thoughts on how to make runs seem shorter than they are.  I feel like I've become quite good at it over the past 12 weeks, so here are just a few of my current strategies.

• Podcasts - Preferably hour-long podcasts with a variety of different stories.  (Articles?  Vignettes?  What do you call one section of a podcast?)  My personal faves are Snap Judgment, The Moth, This American Life, and Radiolab.  NPR geek much?  Over the past few years I have pretty much listened to the whole archive of each.  My listening hours have gone way up particularly over the past six months or so, so unfortunately I have to ration my podcast listening during weekday runs so I can save up the new episodes for Saturdays.  My sister also just suggested How Did This Get Made? in which comedians dish about "movies that are so bad that [they're] amazing."  Sounds promising.  Adding that to my playlist tonight.

• Music - An obvious choice, I know.  But my approach is very deliberate.  Unless I'm doing speedwork, which I can't really say this training plan includes much of, I save my music for when I really need it.  At the end of long runs when I need an energy boost, for instance.  That means podcasts first, then a transition to music.  Races are times for music, too--no podcasts.  I've listened strictly to music for the entire duration of all of my half marathons.  I know some people say music prevents them from tuning in to their surroundings or the sound of their own breathing or footsteps.  To that I say:  nothing.  I can't hear them anyway because I'm listening to my music!  But really, I agree with them in theory, yet I still prefer music.  It makes me run faster and enhances my mood.  (Sidenote:  I went to a party a few days ago, and a friend told me he often catches me running around my neighborhood with a "shit-eating grin on my face."  Yup, that's the music--and podcasts.  It's really hard to imagine smiling nearly as often during runs without that audio.)

• Add Mileage to the Start of the Route - My long runs generally follow the same basic route.  I prefer big loops to out-and-back routes, so as my Saturday runs get longer, I just stretch the loop so that it gets bigger and bigger.  I've discovered that when adding miles like this, it's better to stretch that loop more in the first half of the run than the second.  That means that when I'm coming up on the last few miles, my brain recognizes that I'm almost finished (and is thankful).  If I were to add miles to the end of the loop, my brain would recognize those familiar landmarks as the end of my run, but I'd still have to trudge through an additional two or three miles.  Not cool.

• Count Other Runners - Maybe this is a little obsessive of me.  I can't remember when I started doing this, but on every run, I count how many other runners I see.  As with some other parts of my life, this comes with strict rules.  To be counted, people must be "real" runners, those who have explicitly set out with the intention of going for a run.  Meaning the following don't count:  people running to cross the street or catch a bus; people playing soccer; kids playing tag at the park; people chasing their dogs; etc.  On occasion, I come across groups of people doing laps around the block, and I believe they're probably part of a fitness class or something, and I've struggled with whether to include them.  I've decided yes.  But I have to admit the trickiest people to figure out are those who run in strange clothes.  Not costume strange, more like cargo pants or jeans kind of strange.  Shoes are usually the tip-off, but sometimes they can be deceiving.  There are lots of Portlanders out there in capris and running shoes, and lemme tell ya:  they ain't out for a run.  It's always disappointing for me to include someone in my count only to find that she's just trying to catch up to a meter maid to avoid getting a ticket.  (By the way, do people still say meter maid?  It just seems so cumbersome to say parking enforcement officer.)  Lastly, and this is an important rule, I'm unable to count someone unless I myself have started my run.  So for the first few blocks when I'm warming up with a walk before I get to my starting location, I can't count anyone.  Sometimes this kills me, but rules are rules, right?  Even if they're completely arbitrary and fabricated by me.

• Judge Everyone - Yup, I said it.  As a self-proclaimed people-watcher, I admit it.  I judge people.  I've got to keep myself fascinated by the snippets of people's lives that I encounter.  If I saw you on my Saturday run, I probably judged you too.  This doesn't always need to be negative.  I've often passed a woman on the street and reflected upon how beautiful she was and proceeded to spend the next few minutes trying to dissect exactly what it was that made her so striking.  Or once I saw what looked to be a six-year-old taking his teeny tiny puppy for a walk.  And I marveled at how much cuteness could be packed into such small creatures.  But yes, it's also true that I judge negatively.  I wonder why that douchebag thinks he's so cool.  Or why that woman obviously spent so much money on such an ugly purse.  And I especially judge people who mock me with that fake running/arm-pumping movement.  You'd be amazed at how many people do this.  Most often it's good-natured, which I accept, sometimes a little grudgingly.  I understand that some people just are confused about how to cheer on strangers.  But every so often, it's clearly a petty and kind of bitter gesture.  Then I judge. Hard.  I know it would be better for my soul to be empathetic, recognize that something in their lives is going so badly that they need to be mean to strangers, but not during a run.  So I allow myself to judge everyone silently.  It's one time I permit myself to feel a little superior.  On any given Saturday, I'm running 10+ miles, so fuck it, I'm gonna be a little pompous and keep myself busy by judging all the peons.  And when I get home, I get to be sore and humble again.  It all works out.

The Shorts Dilemma

I've recently made the most important decision for my race:  calf attire.  Rainbow-striped knee-high compression socks.  They might be the raddest socks I've ever worn.  While running or not.  Actually, I wore them around the house all weekend because they're just so cute.  That's right, Saturday and Sunday.

The problem now lies in what the hell to wear with them.  Planning knee-highs means I'll have to wear shorts instead of my current winter full-length or capri pants.  Or a skort.  Whatever, same thing.  So I've resumed a search for the best running shorts.  My problem is a slightly frivolous one, that I want them to be short enough to be cute, combined with a real running concern, that they be long enough to prevent chafing.

And this is where I digress for a moment.  Notice that I talked about chafing but did not use the phrase, "chub rub."  I HATE that phrase.  With a passion.  And it seems to be ubiquitous these days.  If you want to use it, by all means, feel free.  But I hate that it's linked to the idea of women's legs chafing.  I'll tell you a secret.  Okay, it's not a secret.  The tops of my thighs touch.  That's not an imperfection.  I'm not ashamed or apologetic.  I've got awesome legs.  And it also just so happens that my thighs touch.  It's how I'm made, as are millions of others, and it's not because I'm chubby.

It's taken me 31 years to get this comfortable with my body, and I love it more every day.  This is not to say that I don't have bad days.  Or bad months for that matter.  Because that happens.  And I haven't really suffered from any serious body issues, just ya know, the usual.  But that's kind of the point too.  I know that with the ups and downs, it's still me in here, and the more I treat it well, the more it responds with strength, flexibility, and bad-assness.  Dude, it just let me run 18 miles this weekend!  And my thighs still touch.  So suck it.

Okay, mini-rant over.  I need some freaking shorts.  I'd say about 65% of running shorts are basically crotch-height boy shorts, which makes me angry.  I wouldn't mind this for a different type of activity.  Modesty has never been my problem.  But with 26 miles, that would mean some red, angry thighs.  No fun.  And another 25% are ugly knee-length nastiness that won't work either.  If I'm wearing long socks, I've gotta show a little leg.  Come on.  So I'm essentially looking for the Goldilocks marathon shorts.  Oh yeah, and no camel toe.  But that's another story altogether.  So I've ordered two options online that should arrive within the next week or so.

Here comes the next issue.  I'm of the opinion that, duh, you don't try out anything new on race day.  So for my upcoming 20- and 22-mile runs, I want to have as close to a dress rehearsal as possible.  Wear all the gear I plan to use for the race.  Head to toe, accessories included.  And since I'm doing the L.A. Marathon, the shorts situation will be perfect for race day.  But in the meantime, I live in the Pacific Northwest.  My runs are done in 35-degree foggy, rainy weather.  I want no part of shorts in that shit.

So I'm at a loss as to how to make this experiment happen.  I'm stumped for now.

Eat Sleep Run

After months of considering this, I finally experimented with the idea of waking up early to eat breakfast, going back to sleep to digest, and popping back up again for the run itself.  Since my schedule yesterday was packed with a 3.5-hour run and an afternoon conference, I tried this strategy really out of desperation and necessity, but I'm a new convert.  With all of my poop scares, I've been fed up with having to stop during runs and have been slowly realizing I just need to eat a lot earlier than I have been to allow more time for digestion before heading out.

I set my alarm for 5:45, ate my oatmeal, had some coffee, and got dressed.  Then I promptly got right back in bed for another hour (to hour and a half) of sleep.  I thought it might fill me with pre-dawn rage to have to get up any earlier than I needed to, but knowing that food and more sleep were in my immediate future, it really wasn't so bad.

I was also a bit concerned about my cup of coffee keeping me from falling back asleep, but the caffeine really didn't have enough time to be problematic.  And I wanted to make sure that I had a nice coating of it in my stomach to activate the poop flow while I was asleep.  And lo and behold, upon waking, I was a-ready for the poopin', handled my biz, slipped on my shoes, and was out the door.  No stomach troubles.  No pit stops.

Why has it taken me so long to do this?!  I'll now be using the eat-sleep-run strategy every Saturday until the race.  Or maybe that should be the eat-sleep-poop-run.  (ESPooR?  I'm into acronyms.)

Strong

There comes a point every so often during a training regimen when my body says, "Don't worry.  I got this."  It's easy to forget about those moments because they're almost always overshadowed by the millions of other runs during which my body says either:  "Another run?  Ugh, I guess . . ." or, "Sure, I suppose we can try . . ." or just flat out, "Screw you, this sucks."

On yesterday's 18-miler, however, I had the great fortune of cashing in on weeks of hard work with what felt like an easy run.  If you had asked me a year ago, or even a few months ago, if I would have ever characterized an 18-mile run as easy, I would've laughed.  And laughed.  And then maybe passed out from the laughter-induced lack of oxygen.  Nevertheless, it really happened.  It felt so easy, in fact, I was tempted to re-check my route since it seemed like I couldn't have possibly run that far.  Days like yesterday leave me feeling strong (and slightly superhero-y).

What's funny about running, though, is that that "easy" word presents a bit of trouble.  Easy didn't mean that it was without any pain.  There was no surprise as I ran through my classic checklist of aches, greeting each one by one as it appeared:  knees at 10 miles, hips at 12, ankles at 13, lower back at 15.  Hey there, howdy, nice to see you again!  But it was easy in that I felt like I could just keep going.  What I'm coming to understand with these longer distances is that "easy" for me means not that I'm not hurting but that I can sustain my level of discomfort.  That I can take it and even have enough balls to ask for more.

Holiday Trail Run . . . Belatedly

Browsing through my computer in an effort to avoid doing some work, I came across some photos I took over the holidays.  During the week of Christmas, I was fortunate enough to get a little nature fix.  We stayed at Odell Lake, which is about 3.5 hours southeast of Portland, and it's a gorgeous drive into the mountains--minus the dense fog and glaze of ice that made the highway lanes mere suggestions.

Sadly, a tiny cabin is often insufficient for eight adults, but that made it that much more motivating to go out and take advantage of a nice trail run.  My phone's GPS flipped out and had no idea where I was or how far I had run, but it didn't matter so much anyway because I stopped often to take quick photos or poke the frozen edges of the lake with sticks.  Yup, I'm nine years old.