the trots. they happen

If you haven’t read this yet, you should. Just sayin.

As for our Thanksgiving # 2…

It started with Turkey Trot # 2. They had chip timing and everything…or something like that. We’re still not entirely sure if we were being timed or were on probation…

The race course went down country roads and through neighborhoods. Where, exactly? Shit…I couldn’t even tell you how we got there if I wanted to…it’s all roads and trees and random houses to me. Ask Evelyn, the GPS.

In the neighborhood section we were almost run right the hell over by an irate woman in a minivan. Apparently, she had somewhere she needed to go and apparently some runner dude decided that wasn’t happening. He ran right along beside her, yelling into her drivers side window all, “Stop your car, asshole! This is a race…which means you need to park your fat fucking self on the curb and WAIT.”

True story.

Anyway, after the police (yes, the police) stopped her at the end of the neighborhood, everyone was fairly complacent until we hit the end of the race where the course squeezes down into a 2 foot wide muddy, downhill, root infested track where Tim and I almost ended up on our asses about 17 times in the span of 30 seconds – it was THAT bad.

(notice how I said *almost* which means: it didn’t happen)

We finished without going the wrong direction (yay us!), ate a cookie and an apple (well, Tim had a banana, but, whatever) and then drove back to his parents house to participate in the gluttony that was to be spread out over the remainder of the day.

This is us, post-race and pre-feast.

We totally went the right way. And we burned calories, which means more food. Yay! We're pretty sure we're awesome.

We have nothing post-feast…blame it on the food-induced coma. Or the pies.

Pie? No, this is not pie. This is ridiculous.

Today brings another tradition: Croissant sandwiches with leftover turkey, cranberry sauce and stuffing.

Yah…I thought it was disgusting too when Tim first told me about it.

But it’s actually a mouth-gasm and I’m recommending you try it.

Today.

Oh, and tonight, if you’re an East Coaster, wave!

Our asses will be flying home.

what do we do? we fuck it all up.

Today was actually going to be an all nicey-nicey warm and fuzzy post…cause I was going to talk about last night…our 5-year-the-day-we-met-in-person-a-versary.

Fuck that.

Guess what the hell happened to us this morning? Because, I mean, when does anything in our lives EVER GO AS PLANNED?

That’d be too easy.

So, what happened? Well…………

We’ve run in the same damn Turkey Trot the past three years…two of those with no issues…

This year?

We manage to fuck it all up and run the wrong direction, thus not *technically* running the requisite 3.1 miles.

Now, before you’re all, “you are so stupid…can’t even run a race the right way” - we weren’t the only one…it was a group of us not sure which direction to go, only knowing that the way we were headed was dead ass wrong. So, apparently, we were among a collective gaggle of idiots.

And instead of using our own brains, Tim and I played follow-the-leader like dumbasses when we should have broken from the pack and ran back to figure out where we went wrong.

If you’ve never run a race, well, this probably won’t make any sense to you but: WE WERE WE ARE PISSED.

Finishing a race that you didn’t exactly complete sucks big, fat unicorn balls.

Finishing a race where you had a shot at WINNING in your respective age group? Well, we still aren’t able to talk about that without wanting to destroy something very large and very fucking expensive.

After we ran through the finishers area, I decided to turn around and run back down the trail to figure out where we went wrong…because it would drive me crazy NOT. FINISHING.

I found it.

A sharp ass, 90 degree right turn that wasn’t clearly marked.  Next year, they need to put up a massive, talking sign or stick someone at the turn wearing a sandwich board. Either way, the message needs to be clearly stated: “THIS WAY. FUCKTARDS”

Then…maybe we’ll pay attention…because after slumming through dirt and mud and dodging trees and random, rubber ducks tied to low-hanging branches (aka “duck” ….)? You just want to run…without thinking. You don’t want to have to be all McGuyver-like, looking for the path to lead us to the promised land.

As I was walking back to the trail, Tim (who sat at the finishers area and watched, fuming over our mistake) overheard a lady who just finished, talking about me and pointing as I walked by all, “SHE’S ONE THAT WENT STRAIGHT!!! CHEATER FACE.”

I wanted to whip around and be all, “I’m going back to find where I went wrong and I didn’t even put my name and my time in as a finisher, asshole. So technically, I don’t even EXIST. Which probably means you should sleep with one eye open.”

It has not been a pleasant post-Turkey Trot morning in the Bold household.

I told Tim that one day we’d laugh about this.

He didn’t think that was very funny.

The good news? We’re about to stuff our faces with lots of food…yay Thanksgiving # 1!

I did have Tim take a picture, though. This is me, post-race.

I'm only smiling because there's a camera. And I'm about to fart. You're welcome.

And my dirty feet.

I swear. It's mud. I think?

*updated* i think i just threw up. a little.

Update # 1: I forgot to mention that I actually enjoy pain. Hence my participation in yet another run-until-your-body-says-STOP-or-I-quit. And instead of listening, you keep going.

Update # 2: I mean pain in the normal, body-beating sense.

Update # 3: SELF body beating. No one is *technically* beating me. And yes, this is probably a completely normal activity…for crazy people.

 

I don’t know how much you actually WANT to know about our mediocre little life here in East bumblefuck…but I mean, hell.  November is proving to be milestone month.

Not only am I somehow supposed to be writing a book in 30 days…a major event happened in this household a few weeks ago. I’ve been keeping it a secret until I was sure it was actually going to come to fruition.

And after 3 days in a row of running plus a laminated training schedule posted on the refrigerator, it sure as shit is.

(Yes. I’m for serious. Laminated. Can we all guess who did that? I’ll give you a hint: not me.)

I, along with the man who said he’d never run a mile…would never run any distance unless it involved some sort of “ball” like basketball or soccer…ball…(it works…or something)…yes, this non-runner-in-denial and I will be running a marathon.

A MARATHON.

26.2 miles.

All together. Mile 1 and Mile 26.2 all happening in one, successive bout.

HOLY. SHIT.

I’ve run a marathon before, but this is all I really remember from that experience:

Pain…and some dude saying at the pre-race packet pickup that his buddy wasn’t running because he had “the pneumonia.” (Swear it. His words. THE PNEUMONIA. It’s probably way scary…the pneumonia)

Oh, did I mention the pain? Lots and lots and LOTS of pain…pain during training (especially that one time I ran out of water on a 22 mile training run and then realized I locked myself out of the house. That was a shitty day)….pain during the race…and pain afterwards.

If you’ve never run a marathon before, I’ll save you the guesstimation on ”how sore will I be the next day?”

I was so damn sore the morning after, it took me 15 minutes just to open my eyes. I think my brain was trying to keep me in a comatose state until the pain went away all, “It’s for your own good. You don’t want to do that…open that eye…Trust me.”

And the bastard was totally right. I should have just kept my ass in bed. Unmoving. Trying to sit to pee? I’d rather wear a diaper. Showering? Hell, I skipped that after almost falling off the toilet. EVERYTHING hurts.  Legs? Stupid question. Back? Lower, middle and upper. Arms? Yes. Neck? YES.

Wheelchair, please.

I made Tim a pre-training celebration meal on Friday…to remember the day before his life became running for months on end.

I even made 26.2 cookies.

The “point” is that half-melted red m&m that looks like it’s about to fall off. And I have to say…those m&m people…I’ve decided they must make some poor little old man count out green m&m’s for every single fun-size bag. There were exactly FOUR green m&m’s in every damn packet. And I opened like 10. If I were that little man, I’d totally revolt and start stuffing those fun-size bags with ALL GREEN m&m’s, no red or shitty brown or yellow. Just green. Giggling the entire time all, “Surprise!”

Anyway, I’m actually really, really proud of him. I mean, even after he ran a half marathon he declared he’d never do a full one. EVER. Hell would have to do more than freeze over. The moon would have to split in two, animals would wear little tutus and satin pants and you could lose weight by eating a diet of chocolate and pizza.

THEN he’d consider it.

The catalyst? The squirrel down the street started speaking French, which totally freaked Tim out all, “He just SAID manger mes noix, jerkface!”

And I’m all, “What did you do for him to call you a jerkface?”

Tim: Incase you missed it, he said EAT MY NUTS…I didn’t DO anything to that little shit.

Me: Wait, HE TALKS?…You know, I’ll bet it was probably just an invitation to dinner or something.

Tim: The hell? So why the jerkface? Is that supposed to be some kind of compliment in squirrel? 

Me: Probably. Or he just didn’t know how to say “sir” in French, so he improvised with jerkface….and how do you know it was a he?

Tim: Because HE was wearing silk pants.

So, obviously, the universe decided Tim is supposed to run a marathon.

It’s either that or he’s turning 40.

I’ll let you decide.

no. i’m pretty sure i’m awesome.

I can count the number of times Tim and I have gotten lost on one fifteen hands. It’s pretty much every time we go somewhere.

Sometimes, it’s not even lost. It’s just stupidity.

Like, the one time we decided to go on a “run” on a paved nature trail (I know…paved and nature. It’s like putting “snot boogers” and “casserole” together and then expect a positive response).

And instead of running half the distance on the trail and then turning around, we decided to run the whole distance in one shot. Point A to Point B.

We don’t even like repeating a simple sentence when the other person didn’t hear us (because he wasn’t listening). Repeating the same four miles, just backwards? I’d rather rake my own fingernails down a chalk board while someone holds a rubber band on the back of my legs, pulls it as far as it can stretch and then releases the tension on my bare skin.

We looked at a map (and since when has a map ever helped us? Never. That’s when) and scoped out the ending point – a park. Perfect. So, we found the address to said park, drove my car there, parked it, and then drove Tim’s car over to the start of the trail.

Our plan? Eight miles, right to my car, located so conveniently at the designated ending point.

Did we think to bring anything, like water or a cell phone or an emergency whistle in case we took a wrong turn and ended up out in the wilderness for ten days?

No.

It was only eight miles.

So, we start our run, already looking forward to the end. 

Just to clear the air: the only reason we run is to get medals and eat. I guess that’s two reasons…but whatever. We don’t run just for the hell of it. We’re greedy. We need some kind of tangible reward.

Anyhow, eight miles later, we get to the end of the trail…except…it isn’t the same end where we parked my car.

This END was a place we didn’t even know existed but, conveniently enough, had the SAME DAMN NAME as the park where my car was sitting.

By the time we realized we were in the wrong place, it was noon. And hot. And we were who the hell knows how many miles from my car and eight shitty miles from Tim’s car or any type of liquid sustenance.

I tried to convince Tim that the water in a retaining pond was safe.  He just looked at me all, “Shut up and start walking.”

After backtracking two miles (or, TEN miles if you’re doing the math…I wasn’t), we starting falsely remembering places…a gas station…but we had no money…that’s a huge disappointm…no, wait…there was a church! With a fall festival and a fifty foot high waterfall…I’m sure they’ll be generous…shit…no church…OH! What about that roaming pack of fairies riding unicorns, handing out watersicles?

It became a battle of wills not to jump in front of the three hundred people we saw riding bikes and demand they get the hell off and give up their ride to someone (ME) more in need of the transportation. I almost shot out my hand and ripped a camelback off one unsuspecting victim…but Tim grabbed my outstretched arm at the last second all, WHAT THE HELL? YOU WANT TO GET US ARRESTED?

If it means we get to sit in the backseat of an air conditioned car with water, why the fuck not?

Yeah…he had to ponder that one for a minute.

Then about a mile later, we start seeing these sporadically placed water bottles…FULL OF GATORADE.

I went to grab one and Tim yanks my hand away like, “What are you? Five?”

No. I’m thirsty. I’m dehydrated. I’m about to start lapping up puddles.

By the time we passed the sixth Gatorade bottle, we had both decided (in our heads) that we were taking the next one. Screw moral codes. So, we started playing mental games with each other, trying to distract the other’s attention so we could scope out the trail ahead and then get to the bottle first.  Share it? Hell no. Winner takes all.

It all started with Tim faking trying to jog to “get back faster” and then pointing behind us saying, HEY! LOOK! IT’S THE SNOWCONE TRUCK!”

My head jerks around, looking for the truck…memories from my childhood flooding back of that nice old man making the best snowcones in the entire universe…perfect amounts of syrup with the shaved ice…I cannot resist a snowcone (which Tim used to his full advantage…ass).

And as I’m searching in vain for the truck, Tim took off.

I caught on to his coy little attempt at stealing the Gatorade from me when my last shred of sanity finally yelled loud enough all, “HE’S LYING! HE’S LYING!”

I whipped back around, saw Tim running like he was being chased by a pack of rabid wolves, and sprinted down the trail after him, catching up and shoving him from behind, sending him flying into the bushes as he was bending down to pick up the bottle. He somehow managed to grab my ankle and pull me down with him.  Then, as he was yanking my pony tail while I was holding his earlobe, a dude in tiny running shorts breezed past us, swiping up the bottle.

Tim and I look up, covered in dirt, watching him open the top and begin to drink…

Tim half whines, half whispers, “If I wasn’t so damn thirsty I would CHASE HIM.”

Really? So thirst puts the brakes on your ability to react? Shouldn’t have said THAT, buddy.  Now I know how to render you helpless.

That little runner in the tiny shorts downed his drink in about ten seconds and kept right on going.

DAMN HIM.

DAMN HIS GENIUS PLANNING.

Once the item that caused our momentary lapse in civilized behavior was gone, we had no option but to start walking again, now thoroughly pissed off because there were no more Gatorade bottles.

Tim: “I thought you KNEW WHERE THE END OF THE TRAIL WAS!”

Me: “It’s not MY FAULT THE NAME OF BOTH PLACES ARE EXACTLY THE SAME!”

Tim: “You should have looked at the map. You would have NOTICED SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT!”

Me: “I did. SO. DID. YOU. Why didn’t you pipe up then, MacGyver?”

Tim: “You are SO DIRECTIONALLY CHALLENGED. You know that, right?”

Me: “No.  I’m pretty sure I’m awesome.”

Tim: “… that doesn’t even make sense.”

Me: “Yup…I’m am totally awesome.”

Tim: “Just keep walking.”

Me: “I AM WALKING. SEE?”

And I start marching like a toy solider, exaggerating every single step.

Tim: “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Tim: “Seriously, stop walking like that.”

Me: “Like what? Like this?”

And I start circling him, doing the chicken dance.

Tim: “What. the. hell. I’m done.”

Me: “No, actually…we’ve still got like, five more miles.”

Tim: ” I was being sarcastic.”

Me: “FIIIVE MOOORE MIIILES!”

Tim: “How about we play the silent game?”

We eventually DID  make it back to the car.  Barely. We stopped at a Walgreens (a pharmacy) and I was forced to go in and buy Gatorade while Tim hyper ventilated in the car, all, “WE ALMOST DIED!”

Whatever, dude. You’re just thirsty.

I think that was the closest I’ve ever been to delusional…not counting the time I woke up from anesthesia and started yelling at everyone.

Nurse lady: “Everything ok? You need to like, wake up now.”

Me: “I’M COLD.”

Nurse lady: “No, sweetie. Wake up.”

Me: “HELLLO….I AM FREEZING MY ASS OFF.”

Nurse lady: “Jessica. WAKE UP.”

Me: “I SAID I WAS COLD. COLD AS IN GET ME A DAMN BLANKET.”

Then I felt a warm sensation on my arm. At first, I was all, FINALLY!…and then the sensation kept moving down my body.

I thought I was dying. I was all, seriously? Is this really happening right now?

My eyes shot wide open, trying to focus and figure out why my brain was screaming, “EMERGENCY! WAKE UP! SOMETHING IS WRONG! SNAP OUT OF IT!

My eyes finally fall on the nurse lady at the side of my bed. She was staring at me with this diabolical smile across her lips.

Nurse lady: “So, are you warm enough to wake up, now?”

Morphine.

That’s what caused my body to freak out. It had never had something that magically made ALL THE PAIN IN THE ENTIRE GALAXY DISAPPEAR.

She thought her little you’re-not-really-dying-but-I’m-going-to-scare-the-shit-out-of-you-for-being-a-bitchy-patient joke was hysterical.

I didn’t.

She better be glad I get all woozy with needles and blood.

But I’m damn good at blackmail…and I hear karma calling….

improvement is the goal…not the reality

Tim and I are slow runners.

We know that.  We’re ok with that.

But we still like races.

For the past two years we’ve run in a local Turkey Trot – an early morning,  3.1 mile run through the woods in FREEZING COLD November weather.

Last year, it was in the TEENS.  And for Georgia – that’s cold.

As you finish, you are handed a card to write down your name, age and time.  There’s a big clock at the finish, so as long as you’re paying attention, you know how long it took to get from point A to point B (Tim is usually the one paying attention…I’m just there to finish).

The first year, we stuck around for the awards.  The race takes place on an old campus and the awards are presented in an old-wooden-floor-low-hanging-beams-with-red-four-square-balls-wedged-in-the-rafters type of gymnasium.  The gym is where the everyone goes to get out of the cold and indulge in the post-race snacks, use the two, single bathrooms and wait to see if they won an award.

Because with ten thousand awards and two hundred people, there’s a high likelihood you’re going home with something. 

They’ve created awards for most family members, longest participation streak, best turkey gobble…best turkey costume…cutest kid…youngest runner…oldest runner….most feathers coming out of their ass…(so I’m exaggerating…but only on that last one)…plus all the age group awards.

First, second AND third place are announced AND receive a trophy. 

FOR EVERY. SINGLE. AGE. GROUP.

The first year we ran, I won first place in my age group.

I was shocked.  I looked at Tim like, “they must be kidding, right?” 

I have NEVER WON ANYTHING in running.

EVER.

So the next year… of COURSE there was SOME pressure…

But, how to do TOP FIRST PLACE?

You don’t. 

You allow some chubby girl with serious fist pumping action get ahead of you and wind up with third place instead so there is something to shoot for the next year.

They didn’t even put the year ornament on the dinky little third place one.

Whatever.

the peachtree from time group 6

We woke up to this sunrise from our hotel room, abnormally cool temperatures and low humidity (49% – which for Atlanta is LOW).

All very good signs.

And we needed good signs.

Because we did not train for this race, save one 3 mile run about four weeks ago.

Tim said he wanted to finish faster than last year (last year was painfully slow… 1:07:something).  I just looked at him all, “was it just me…or did we actually TRAIN before the race last year?  How about this time we just work on the finish part?”

It really didn’t matter what I said.  Once he had that goal in his brain – it wasn’t going anywhere – and if we didn’t achieve it…disappointment would be abound.

We took our time getting ready and making our way out to the streets buzzing with activity.  There is no stress.  We know what to expect and what to do and where to go.  We refuse to take Marta the morning of race day.  We learned the hard way the first year I ran it by myself.  You have to get up ridiculously early, pack yourself into a tin can with thousands of people, try to give yourself enough space just to breathe while more and more people clamor on…and when you finally arrive at your final destination, everyone is so sweaty and hot you may as well have already run.

So we stay at the race’s host hotel…where all it takes is a short walk to our start corral.  Thank you, Intercontinental.  We love you and your pasta with chicken and broccoli.  However, if you’re going to put someone in a “Club Level” room – a simple heads-up to let them know they need to insert their room card into the hard-to-find slot below the number buttons in the elevator would be GREAT. 

Last year, we must have gone up and down the elevator fifteen times, tried holding button #22 the entire way up, got off on floor 19 and hiked the stairs from the nineteenth floor and found there WAS NO DOOR for floor 22, walked back to the elevator in utter confusion, out of ideas (ASKING someone was out of the question at this point), until someone well versed in Club Level rooms happened to walk into our elevator from the Lobby – we had resigned ourselves that the elevator would be our room because getting to floor #22 was just an illusion – slid his card in a little slot, punched #22.

And the button STAYED LIT and took us all. the. way. up.

This year, we walked into the elevator and saw a guy that looked like he had spent more than a little time in there, pushing #23 to no avail.  We gave him our little secret and saved him from going insane.  You’re welcome, guy going to floor #23.

So this morning.  We got downstairs and joined the people traffic along the sidewalks to get to the start corrals, found the corral for numbers 60,000 – 69,999 and waited.

You do a lot of waiting.  Which is hard for my non-patient personality.

You also do a lot of people watching – which helps with the waiting.  Within our corral we had Super Woman, a guy in a big, patriotic Mad Hatter hat and LOTS of people in later time groups that decided time group 6 was where THEY should be.

I can’t help it.  That REALLY BOTHERS ME.

We all get numbers for a reason.  If it was a free-for-all then ok – I get it.  Jump in wherever you find a spot.

But the race organizers even TELL YOU IN THE DIRECTIONS not to do that.  If you’re in time group 4 and want to run with a friend who is in time group 6 – that’s fine.  But if your race number starts with a 7 and you decide you want to sit with all the people whose race numbers start with is 3…

THAT’S A PROBLEM.

Oh?  You forgot to read the directions?  So you’re exempt?

We had to move away from all those people…because it was making me mad.  I would shout out “Cheater Face!” as we walked by them to a different spot.  Tim looked at me all, “SHHH! They’ll hear you!” And I was all, “I KNOW. That’s the point.”

Once we go to the start – about an hour after we initially got there – and began the race, my legs started screaming at me like, “what do you think you’re doing?”  Thankfully it only lasted for about a mile or so…then they went to their usual numb state and stopped protesting.

The route and its shenanigans are the same every year…and I will never understand why one stops for beer and doughnuts.  Even if I was only there to walk…eating and aerobics are two activities I do not do at the same time.  And beer at 8am is just…how do you even DO that?  I guess I should have asked the drunk guy we passed, offering up beers from his own stash and calling us all “sissies” because we didn’t take one.

It got hot.  We ran through mist sprayers. Chugged up Cardiac Hill, watched a small child pass us, listened to church bells, guitars and drums, made the turn on 10th street, watched another small child breeze by, held up our hands at the spot where they take your picture and then raced across the finish into Piedmont Park.

In 1:06.

Faster than last year.

With no training.

As we were walking to pick up our t-shirts, Tim looked at me and said, “I saw on my watch at mile 6 that we could beat our time.”  And those last few tenths…we were RUNNING.  No jogging, no slow pace..it was an all out sprint to the finish.

After we gathered up the post race stuff, including a few mini-Larabars I had to fight for…those were like the hot new item or something…everyone HAD TO HAVE ALL SEVEN FLAVORS and would not leave until all seven were secured in their bag or bra or wherever they would fit…we walked about another mile to Marta, remembered to get off at the correct station, showered and then went to eat at the usual post-race place – as our Peachtree tradition is now four years old.  We stay at the Intercontinental, go to the race expo in the hotel’s meeting rooms, order room service spaghetti for our pre-race dinner, run the Peachtree, shower at the hotel, check-out and then drive less than a mile down the street to Maggiano’s for lunch.

It’s the same every year…but we love it.

the 2009 peachtree-walk-i-mean-run race

The Peachtree 10k  is in two weeks and the farthest distance Tim and I have run together is 3 miles.

Which isn’t even HALFWAY.

Actually, I know what’s going on here.  You see, the first year Tim ran the Peachtree with me, we trained like wild banshees.  We didn’t miss a single scheduled run.  Not one.  Tim had not run any “distance” since high school….which was a long time ago….and we had a few mental hurdles to overcome…mostly just ”six-miles-is-a-ridiculous-distance-there-is-NO-WAY-hell-will-freeze-over-first.”  But we got over that and made it though the whole race - running all 6.2 miles.  The second year, we wanted to beat our time, still had the go get ‘em attitude and finished in under an hour (which, by the way, is GOOD for us.  We’re slow. So don’t go knocking down our accomplishment you sub-eight-minute-ers.  Let us be happy).

Last year…training was a little slack and we ended up finishing slower than the first year (Tim was none too pleased).

This year…Training?…What?

And it’s all because mentally, we both know we CAN run 6.2 miles…I mean, we JUST ran a half marathon in April!….But we have forgotten one tiny detail.  Our bodies aren’t exactly ready for that…but our brain believes otherwise.

Runners Amnesia or something…

Tim calls me today on his way to work and says, “I think we may be WALKING the Peachtree this year.”

Me: “What? Nooo….We’re not walking!”

Tim: “Walk breaks, then?”

I had no response for that….because I cannot WALK any race.  Its a RACE.  YOU DON’T WALK.  I didn’t walk the last few miles of the full marathon I ran – even though my entire lower half was revolting and I had to keep telling myself that laying in a pile of leaves was NOT better than finishing.

I can’t walk.  We’re not walking.

Go big or go home. 

And no crying.

five weeks, you say?

I realized this weekend that there are only five weeks before the Peachtree Road Race.  Somewhere between going to London and being sick and work and doing laundry and whatever else…it just slipped my mind.

It’s only the biggest 10k in the world.

And we haven’t even started training for it.

Which means we’ll be huffing and puffing the entire 6.2 miles if we don’t get a move on…

Which also means we have to shamefully watch eight-year-olds pass us…

Maybe this weekend?

This was us in 2007.  We didn’t order pictures from 2008…

We did run it though… here’s the proof…if you believe that the watch and shirt belong to Tim…

2:16:36

I’m sitting in the hotel laundry room…waiting on a load.  It seems I can’t escape the chore no matter where we go…

In other, more interesting  news…WE DID IT!  We just finished the SLC Half Marathon in 2:16:36.  The winner of the marathon passed us with about a half a mile to go…yes, he looked Kenyan and no, there was no way we could match him, stride for stride, not even for 100 yards.  We all cheered for him as he passed and then kept running our race.  What else can you do?

Our finish was almost eight minutes faster than our time in last year’s Georgia ING Half Marathon - and we are happy ecstatic with that.  We averaged around a 10:25 minute per mile pace.  Mile 11 was the pits – all uphill and in the sun.  Mile 13 was the fastest…around a 9:35.  At mile 6 we wondered if we should slow our pace…but the temperature was great – mid 40s – and we felt good, so we figured why not?

So we did.  We kept our pace through the streets of Salt Lake, passing lots of babies, lots of dogs and a lady playing the flute.  Before we knew it we were running through the streets of The Gateway, spectators crowded on both sides, cheering us on to the finish line.  We went under the banner, heard the dinging as we stepped on the chip timing mat and were awarded our medals.

I discovered something new and delicious that I’ve never experienced before after we crossed the finish line.  Creamies ice cream bars.  WOW.   Someone from that amazing company handed me a chocolate flavored one as I was moving through the finishers area and I was instantly in a blissful, amnesic heaven.  13.1 miles?  I have no idea what you’re talking about.  THIS is a Creamies ice cream bar.  That’s all you need to know. 

It is the smoothest, creamiest ice cream bar I’ve ever had…I’d move out to Utah just for Creamies.  Well, Creamies and the mountains.  Tim and I have been relishing the snowy peaks since we flew over them on Thursday.  All we keep saying to each other is, “We have GOT to find a way to get out here!”

Currently, we are racing the checkout clock at the hotel.  I decided I didn’t want to have stinky, sweaty running clothes in the car with us for the five hour drive to Moab…hence the laundry room blogging.

The next week or so we’ll be hiking in Arches, Canyondlands and Zion…taking in all of the “red rock.”  We’re debating on climbing Angel’s Landing.  I’m not sure I can handle thousand-foot drop-offs on either side of me.  I don’t feel like having my body not respond to when my brain is screaming directives in the midst of a life or death decision.

As I left the hotel room with my load of disgusting  clothes, Tim yelled out from the shower, “Now our vacation REALLY begins!”

He couldn’t be more right.  And, the laundry is done…

the (half) marathon is coming

One week from Saturday we’ll be huffing and puffing it 13.1 miles…elevation: outer space compared to our may-as-well-be-at-sea-level location.  Our training is…ahem…going well.  We managed to run six miles (AT sea level, no less) in Savannah last weekend…we did much better with the whole training thing early on…it seems we fall off the wagon right before the race… which is when you would think one would be the most focused.  Tim’s mindset is: I can run 11.5 miles a few weeks before then I’m good.  I know he’ll want to beat our last half marathon time of around 2 hours, 25 minutes (or around a s-l-o-w , leisurely11 minutes 30 seconds per mile).

We’ll see.  The last half marathon we ran was local so our lungs actually had enough oxygen to sustain our bodily functions…like supply oxygen.

Life is unfortunately “happening” right now which has caused training take a backseat.  I almost wanted to write a “Dear Blog, I miss you” post because even the blog has gone to the wayside the last few days.  I wanted to post yesterday…but my brain was so fried after being at work for 14 hours that I could barely string a sentence together.  I decided to save you the agony.  You’re welcome. 

I digress.

This is our marathon route.  We’re the purple line (which kinda melts into the blue line…).  We start at 7:00 am and have until 1:00 pm to finish before they open the streets up to cars.  If we don’t finish by 1:00 pm…we probably won’t be finishing and someone may need to come and scrape us up off the course.

We’ll finish.  If there is one thing Tim and I share so closely in common it is our dogged determination.

We’ve mistaken the end location of an eight mile run on a paved trail and had to walk every single one of those eight miles back without any food or water in the middle of the summer.  Every time someone on a bike passed us we wanted to get on our hands and knees and beg them to let us ride on the handlebars.  A (smart) runner left various mini Gatorade bottles and bags of  sliced oranges along the route.  I don’t know how many times Tim and I spotted one and wanted to take a tiny sip or take just one slice of that orange.  ANYTHING for liquid.  I almost subverted to drinking from standing water.  When we finally reached the car, we were mostly crawling, speaking in tongues and watching little green men riding seahorses parade across the horizon. 

But we made it.

We’ve misread a map while hiking and ended up walking through the woods for five hours…we had water but we had no idea where we were going.  We had a pretty good idea of where we were going when we started but either we got turned around or we turned the map around.  I just kept telling Tim, “all roads lead to somewhere.”  The faithful roads did – right before it got dark and we lost all hope.  At that point, our delirum had us measuring things in kabobs.  Like… we figured it would be about ten bazillion kabobs to the moon and a cat’s tail is about one kabob.  Perfect measuring stick, really.  We may have been on to something there.

Seems like we get into trouble whenever maps or directions are involved.  No matter how much we plan…the map was upside-down or the wrong one or we just didn’t look at it and tried to go at it alone.  Now, whenever we ARE lost we just say “all roads lead to somewhere” because they do – it just may not be the somewhere you were expecting…and it may take you quite a long time to get to your destination…

Thankfully, there will be helpers and signs and other people running with us during the half marathon.  So if we get lost and we end up out in the middle of a field with no roads or civilization for miles…its our own damn fault.  Save a personal guide through the race course, I think the race organizers have done all they can to avoid such a situation.

Oh, wait, they do have guides.  They’re called pacers.