Guns, Beer, Bacon-On-A-Stick

I feel like I need to prove to my readers (yes, all 6 of you) that I have a life beyond training for the marathon. My blog has been a bit consumed by that endeavor, as has my life, so I think it's time to discuss something other than mileage and toe issues.

This week I shot my first gun. Yup. I should qualify that statement as my dad reminded me that I did pull the trigger on his shotgun when I was younger (I have somewhat vague memories of being in a field, not really aiming at anything, on some squirrel hunting trip...if it's the same trip/memory, I believe the people we were with shot a deer and I was somewhat traumatized by seeing it, dead and bloody, in the back of their truck). But this was definitely the first time I'd held, much less fired, a handgun.

I'm very anti-handgun, honestly. I think the Second Amendment, as currently interpreted, is a far cry from its original intentions. I don't question that the right to bear arms has been established to include the current ownership and usage of handguns, I just think that interpretation is wrong. I don't deny the right, I just wish it didn't exist in the way it does today. But I will concede that the "right", while irrevocably flawed, is also irrevocably established. It's not going anywhere. So, I wasn't a big fan of the idea of shooting my boyfriend's gun. I don't have a problem with him having one, I just don't really feel the need to be reminded of it. I decided to do it largely because he doesn't complain when I drag him to ethnic restaurants that require him to eat strange globs of food with his hands.

All that being said, I had a blast! I like to shoot guns. I especially like to shoot guns in places next to bars with bingo games. Who knew that bingo was fun?? For all my handgun hatred, I know I want to shoot one again. Possibly often. And next time I want to use a target that's shaped like a human instead of a bull's eye. Very, very odd.

In keeping with my lets-do-things-I-usually-don't-do theme, I celebrated an 18 mile run yesterday with a trip to the state fair and the requisite gorging on fried foods. I usually eat very clean, healthy, often organic foods. I go days without eating meat sometimes. I don't drink often. I'm a big fan of barley. Wheatberries. Fresh spinach. You get the picture. Last night I ate a corndog, a mini hamburger (on a stick), a couple bites of bacon (on a stick), half a deep fried Snickers (on a stick), potatoes with swiss cheese deep fried and covered in ranch, a couple jalapeno poppers, and some grape leaves (on a stick), all washed down with a bit of beer. I don't think there is room left in an artery today for any amount of fat. I plan on having lettuce, maybe an egg, for dinner. But it felt good to eat junk for a change. Makes me appreciate how much better I feel when I'm eating healthily. The human body simply runs better on cleaner fuel. Period. But, every once in awhile, it's good remind oneself of that fact by a respectable deep fried hurrah.

It all comes back to the running. This week was one of my best running-wise. I ran the farthest I ever have (18 miles!!) and enjoyed some longer mid-week jaunts. And I think part of that success was wrapped up in living a bit outside the mileage. It's easy for me to get wrapped up in the stress of training, working, fitting in runs, trying to be a decent friend/sister/daughter, etc. I feel very compressed for time on most days. It was nice to escape a bit and worry about shooting a gun (noisy! scary! I'm going to look stupid!), debate the merits of deep fried Snickers vs. deep fried Milky Way, and just enjoy hours not spent with my feet pounding the pavement. Makes the running feel doable, like a slice of my life, and not the stick by which my days are measured

So This is "Low"

I expected a low point somewhere along the way. Nobody can maintain enthusiasm forever. But, officially, I'm going to state right now that I think marathon training is ridiculous. I told someone today that I feel like I'm the most boring human on earth. I think it's worse than that. I feel like the antithesis of fun. I am a fun vacuum.

I run. I get hungry. I eat. I run. I sleep. I worry about my knees. I worry about my toes. I run. I get hungry. I eat. I weigh myself. I worry that I'm too slow. I run. I sleep. I can't sleep. I take Tylenol PM. I sleep. I run. I get hungry. I get hungry again. I run. I eat. I weigh myself. I get hungry. I sleep. I worry about my toes.

I don't know why ANYONE is hanging out with me right now. I'd like to give a high five to the following people: Dad, Mom, Caroline, Jason, Sharon, Julie, Chris. What exactly are you getting out of this relationship right now other than constant reminders that I am 1) tired 2) hungry 3) and/or unable to hang out with you because I have to go run?

My long run on Saturday went (objectively) fine. 17 miles, two of which were walked. I'm not chastising myself too sharply for those two walked miles because Saturday's weather was awful. Hot, humid. Awful. My pace was dismal but, again, I'm faulting the weather. This was really the first long run I had to force myself to finish. I've had very tough runs before (one resulting in a good cry under a bridge) but this one was the first one that actually made me somewhat angry. It was the first time I questioned the logic of my decision to sign up for a marathon. And it was the first time I had to call upon that old devil, Pride, to carry me through to the end. You see, too many people know about this race now. Too many people would have to be told about my failure, and the thought of that gives me hives. Too many people have said they'll be there, cheering me on. And if they're going to wait for my butt to cross the finish line at 5 hours and 30 minutes (fingers crossed), I better cross it alive, intact, at a stride that resembles "running".

Saturday was the first day I hated this. And I just need to say that outloud so I can walk away from it. The weather is supposed to perk up this weekend. Not quite so hot, not quite so humid. Pretty days. Gentle days to remind me, maybe, that my toes will probably not fall off (going to the doctor Friday to confirm that), that I will probably cross the line with time to spare, and that after all this is over, I will be grateful I stood at the bottom and looked up.

Flowers and Indian Food and Such

I bought myself flowers today at the farmer's market in downtown St. Paul. Flowers and fresh radishes and peppers (including a purple bell pepper...I did not know they come in purple). After work I raced home to trim the flowers, plop them in a too-short vase, change clothes, and hurry to meet a dear friend for Indian food a few blocks from my place.

I met this friend through this blog. He found my blog and noticed I was a transplant, originally from Arkansas, and having spent a good deal of time himself in Little Rock, was pleased to find an Arkansan braving a Minnesota winter. We eventually met for breakfast and have been friends ever since. He's my running coach/cheerleader, although I'm sure he doesn't think of himself as such. He reassures me that my toes won't actually fall off, running downhill sucks for everyone, and I can, in fact, do this. And all while being humble and kind and encouraging, despite my incessant insecurity and occassional whining.

I say all this because at dinner I was struck by how bizarre and serendipitous life can be. I find friends in such odd, spectacular ways, I can only attribute such blessings to God. How gentle and brilliant of God to know that running would be important, that training would be important, and that I'd need a new friend to hold my hand, so to speak, when mile 13 seemed impossible. I honestly don't know if I would have signed up for the half-marathon had I not met Chris. We actually talked about it the first time we met, I mentioned running, that I enjoyed it, and then, out of nowhere, I said I'd thought about a half-marathon in the spring. Really? I'd thought about that? When? Where on earth did that come from? But Chris jumped right in, encouraged me, and within weeks I was signing up for Stillwater. Which isn't to say that Chris hasn't been important in other ways, or that I value him only for his marathon training prowess and constant support, but pursuing this goal is very new, and sometimes scary, for me. Chris has made committing easier, made it seem less daunting.

I'm always impacted when people are not surprised. The last time I saw my Grandfather Welch alive he asked me what I wanted to do or be after college. I told him I wasn't sure, but maybe an actress, or a writer. He smiled and said, "that wouldn't surprise me." It sounds like nothing, I realize. But sometimes having someone support you and not be surprised by the challenges you place before you or the goals you set for yourself is a powerful, powerful thing. My Grandfather didn't say anything typical regarding how tough it is to be an actress or how being a writer really wouldn't be financially viable. He just smiled, loving and kind, and I knew he expected what I wanted to expect of myself. And that was a great gift. Chris has the same influence on my running, which has become a very important slice of my life. Despite my doubts and hesitance, Chris is not surprised by my goal, and his assurance that I'm capable of success fuels me well when mile 15 hurts.

There are many people who influence my training and who keep me going. My dad is incredibly important in this as his encouragement (beyond just your basic daddy-daughter stuff) is born of a similar drive to run, some similar struggles, similar obsession with competing more with oneself than with the World. My dad gets It, and that's key. My dad is the one who taught me to run by daily, diligent example.

But Chris was the first one that inspired me to race. Not against anyone or anything. Just race. And his lack of surprise at my progress makes me feel like maybe someday I won't be surprised either when I succeed.

Rain Running

Today I ran in the rain for the first time in my training. I've run in little sprinkles before, some snow flurries, but not all-out RAIN. It felt wonderful, honestly. I think it's probably a mood thing, sometimes I could see rain being a frustration. But today the humidity was disgusting and a brief downpour was welcome to cut the curtain of moisture in the air.

For fear of shorting out my iPod, the rain also forced me to run musicless for much of my long run. I'm amazed at how much I can process and reprocess, obsess and regress over while I'm pushing through miles. I've been stressed over a few things recently and each got their moment of over-analyzation, each question and answer pounded home (emphatically) with footfalls.

The heaviest bit of the storm occurred while I was rounding Lake Calhoun, the Minneapolis skyline in the distance. The rain was heavy enough to blur the buildings, make the city a mirage with fuzzy sailboat gliding to and fro.

I'm running the Twin Cities Marathon 8 weeks from tomorrow. It's funny, the things that stick in your head, or rather, the things that upon experiencing them you know they will be stuck in your head. I was running and anxiously counting the number of weeks to the race, wondering if I was training hard enough, wondering if I should worry about the occassionally twinge in my left knee, wondering if my toenail is supposed to look like that, wondering if my friends and family would be disappointed in me if I failed, when the rain started to really, really pound. I looked out at Lake Calhoun right as it picked up, when the tiny pinpricks of rain on the water surface became huge, crowded splashes, like pebbles thrown from a million happy children. I'll remember that little moment, that pace and that hot, summer rain, that crescendo of Rain on Lake. I was running. I was soaked. I was happy. I am not worried.

Pride Before the Fall

This picture does not do justice to the damage I've done to my feet. The bandaids are hiding one toenail that is begging to fall off and one that just really loves to form blisters around the nailbed. I didn't want anyone to be too disturbed by my photography.

I've been getting cocky about my mileage.

Two weeks ago I did seventeen miles, the longest I'd ever done. At the end of the run I was exhausted, emotional, and hurting, but I also had the feeling there was more in me. I didn't feel defeated.

Yesterday I planned on an 18 mile run. I told my boyfriend I was shooting for 18. I told people at work I was shooting for 20. I really was psyching myself up for 18, and 20 if I had the wind behind me and enough juice to do an extra lap around Lake Harriet. At no point gearing up for the training run did I wonder if I could do it, if it was possible, if I was ready. Pshaw, I did 17 two weeks ago! I can totally do 18...

Hell. No. I hit the wall at the end of SIXTEEN. I don't know what happened. My shoes were too old. I ate too much the night before. I started too fast. The wind was against me. My right foot ached. I woke up with a weird ornery feeling in my left shoulder. I disintegrated under the bridge between Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles, with a measly 2 miles left in my minimum goal for the run. I burst into tears, in public, under that bridge, kinda like a sad, sweaty troll.

I walked the last two miles, very gingerly, and after pulling myself together I could pinpoint everything I did wrong. I'd done two-a-days (two runs in one day) twice that week, plus weight training, plus normal runs on two other days. I'd run hard two days after the 10 mile race, even though my shins were still screaming from those stupid downhills. I'd eaten poorly Thursday and Friday, lots of fats that I normally don't eat, and not enough healthy run-fueling carbohydrates. I slept poorly the night before. My body gave out because I gave it no choice.

I am no good at rest or asking for help. I could psychoanalyze myself and say that this is true in MANY situations but I'll keep that observation in the running context for now. I knew my shoes were old and probably ill-fitting but I didn't want to man up and go somewhere and ask someone to watch me walk and tell what I'd be doing wrong for the last year. Sure enough, I went today and the guy at The Running Room watched me walk for less than 3 minutes and was shocked to hear the shoe I'd been running in, given my tendency to overpronate and my flat-footedness. As soon as I slipped on my new Asics Gel Foundation 8s, the heavens opened and birds sang. That is a SHOE! The guy was very nice and gave me some ideas on where I can do hill training. I could have saved my feet some scars and myself some foot aches if I'd just asked someone these questions earlier.

So, note to self, 1) don't get arrogant about how far you've come, there's still a long way to go 2) stock up on bandaids 3) ask for help and 4) embrace that hot pink shoe.