Brynn Malone! Eric Heisserer! Merrill and Anne Whatley!
They are all awesome and are helping me get to my final goal of $1,600!
Thank you thank you thank you guys!
Jim Hubbard and Mike & Mary Hubbard donated! Because of them, I’m *that* much closer to achieving my goal of $1,600! Thanks Dad! Thanks Uncle Mike and Aunt Mary!
Love you guys!
So the past two weekends have been six-milers. I’ve gotten through them. They actually weren’t too bad. Being neurotic, I was worried. Not nearly as worried as I was for yesterday. The fourteen miler.
I’d spoken to the coach last weekend about the fourteen miles, given that the last long run I’d done prior to injuring my foot was eight miles. He advised me that I should do half of the long runs until I was more up to speed. Sounds like sound advice to me.
Except, way back when, when they did the ten-miler, I was really bummed that I couldn’t break double-digits with them. So, yesterday, when I was supposed to be doing seven miles while everyone else did fourteen, I decided to do ten.
Well, I decided that in mile one. By mile two, I was like, “seven ain’t bad.” By mile three I was bored to tears. Week by week, our group has dwindled. It’s one of the slower groups, and this kind of mileage is hard. So, I guess, if you’re not fully committed it can really suck. So, now, we’re down to three people. And two of the three people were sick yesterday. So, I was on my own. Which would have been fine, but…
A while back some idiot stepped out in front of a car while training for (or maybe during) a marathon. The Powers That Be decided that the reason she must have done that is because she was listening to music and couldn’t hear the car. What I wonder is, did the music blind her as well? Like, why didn’t she, I don’t know, SEE the car?
Anyway, as with many things in our fair country, that idiot ruined it for the rest of us, because headphones/music/talking books are not allowed.
Look, I’m sorry that chick got hit by a car. But why do the rest of us have to suffer?
In my boredom, I joined a much much faster group. I was able to keep up for about a mile (which is awesome!). But, I think doing that tired my body out even more, so I lagged behind after that mile. And was back to being with myself.
I tried everything to distract myself from the pain (when I used to do long walks by myself, I’d always listen to a talking book — note: I never got hit by a car), rewriting a scene in my head, counting my steps, coming up with new script ideas, thinking about what delicious recipes I’d like to try out. It all got drowned out by the pain.
I got to mile seven, where they’d set up a watering station. I grabbed a banana and got ready to head back to the meeting area. Thinking I was done. I sat down for a moment. Giving my legs a much-needed rest. And, truth be told, my foot was acting up a bit. Millions of voices were swimming in my head: “Seven’s respectable.” “Do half of the fourteen.” “You’ve now done half of the fourteen.” “If you don’t do ten miles, you’re going to hate yourself all weekend.” “It’s your first long run!”
The voice that won out: “Just get to mile eight.”
And that’s what I did. I took it mile-to-mile from there. Sadly, these mile were all uphill. Literally. I got to eight and was like, “only two to go.” So, I headed to the mile nine marker. It took forever. My legs were burning, my chest was burning, even my fingernails hurt. And I swear, mile eight to nine was the longest mile I’ve ever experienced. I checked my watch, I didn’t think I’d slowed down my pace, but it was definitely taking longer. And just when I was ready to give up, I saw that yellow marker, indicating I’d gone nine miles. It was easy to convince myself to do that final mile. It was a hell mile, but not as hellish as the mile previous.
So, I call the coach and get picked up. I didn’t really want to do that, but I’d achieved my personal goal, and I’d gone further than he thought I should. I can’t help but feel a tad disappointed, I would have loved to have completed fourteen miles. In fact, when I got back, they tried to hand me a certificate that said I’d completed the day’s run. I couldn’t, in good conscience, take it. I asked if, when I actually got to fourteen, if I could come pick it up from their offices. They thought I was being silly. I probably was.
Anyhoo. On the way to my car, I decided to reread the instructions on where we were to run. Turns out, the mile between eight and nine wasn’t actually a mile. It was a mile and a half. I’m assuming they don’t have any “half” markers, otherwise they’d have used that. But, it turns out I went even further than my goal! Not just ten miles, but ten and a half!
Today: I hurt everywhere. But I don’t hate myself in the slightest.
It’s been really hard getting back into running. I’m finally back to it. Sort of. I do these lame-ass two-milers three times a week. And because I was out of commission for a month (!!!) I gained some more weight, which was frustrating. The frustration made me cranky. And the husband got the brunt, sadly.
HIM: What do you want for dinner?
ME: You think I can eat when I’m not running?
HIM: You’ve gotta eat something.
HIM (to himself): Because I’m about to commit murder.
So, the poor guy’s putting up with a lot. And I’m sneaking cigarettes because I’m convinced I’ll lose the quitting smoking weight by smoking (having lost two pounds in the three days I’ve been doing this isn’t helping). And quitting was the whole damned reason I signed up for the marathon. And now my lungs hurt when I run. And…
I’m full of complaints.
As my boss told me, January is do-over time.
So that’s when I’ll stop complaining (allegedly).
Broke down and went to see doctor. Was worried I had stress fracture. Thankfully, not broken! Sadly, do have sprain. Am out of training for a week or two.
Okay. So, you know how I mentioned that I hurt my foot? Well, I did. Pretty badly. Like, I’m hobbling around like a, well, hurt person. I was downplaying it, and downplaying the fact that I was really freaked out that the marathon is three months away, and there really was no time for injuries. At all. And I’m gonna run this frickin’ marathon, dammit.
So, in my email box today I find an email. Unsurprising, right? It is, after all, my email box. So, this email informs me that the Powers That Be have changed the date for the marathon. It’s now on Memorial Day. And Simon and I have a wedding to attend in Hawaii that weekend. Thankfully, the wedding’s on Friday. So, I think we’ll fly back that Saturday, I’ll rest on Sunday and run on Monday. Or something.
I can’t believe I’m considering leaving paradise so that I can run 26.2 miles. Apparently I’m pretty serious about this marathon.
I barely recognize this new me. But, I like her enough to keep her around.
Yup. Ran south on the beach for half a mile. Ran north for half a mile. Then ran north for three more miles up to Temescal canyon. Then ran south for three. Then ran east for one.
I gotta say, I was very confused by the directions. And considering that the weirdest thing happened, I probably should have kept the directions. But, I didn’t, because I recognized my confusion.
Last week we did seven miles. I’d had a rough week, between drinking all the alcohol ever created and slipping up and having a smoke, and eating crap (it was my birthday, y’all!), my body was pretty fucked. So, last week, it was a lot of huffing and even more puffing with complaining in between. And that was the week I’d gotten bumped up to the next fastest group. So, it was my first time in that group. And we were going a full two minutes faster than what our pace group was supposed to be paced at.
So, this week, I figured I’d drop back down to the other group. Because, frankly, if I wanted to be going two minutes faster per mile, I’d join that group. I just wanted to go one minute faster per mile. So, I was really really cranky last week. But, I got there this week and the slowest member of the group I WAS in was going on and on about how slow and sluggish she was feeling that day. Which, you know, I understand as that was me last week. But if she was feeling slower than normal that meant I could potentially crawl half the time and still get there ahead of her.
So, I stayed in the faster group and decided to suck it up. And here’s where the weird thing happened. I was fast. Faster than any member of the group. I was the one egging us on. I was the one saying, “Ladies, we’ve got to hurry it up here.” I even would end up running ahead because I was finding a good groove in running a bit faster, and then I’d turn around and head back to the last person in the group and cheer them on. So, “officially” I did eight miles. Reality? I probably tacked on an extra mile from the back and forth of it.
And I feel great.
Except for my foot. Which hurts a lot. Am waiting till tomorrow to make decisions regarding whether or not I should get someone to look at it. I think it’s my shoes. The ones I complained about before. I need to get over my pride about the fact that the shoes that are truly best for me are the hip shoes that aren’t really great for running. And the fact that I don’t want people to judge me on my choice of cool shoes.
Perhaps I need a podiatrist. Or a therapist to help me with the pride thing. Or…
All I know is that yesterday I was like the wind. Whoosh!
I am sick about the prop 8 result. And I wanted to say I’m sorry. I know how much more it meant to you than to me. I can’t offer words of solace or make any of it better. How can I tell you it will be better when the people of California have voted that it’s illegal for you to get married?
These very generous and amazing folks donated. Some of them because they’re related to me and were required to by law. Some because they’re fabulous friends. Either way, it’s greatly appreciated! Loads of love to you guys!
Aiden Maxey, Hanna Hubbard, Sherry Kruckeberg, John Butler, James Kuwahara and Jennifer Joo!
Thank you guys!
If you, gentle reader, would like to donate, please visit the APLA website here: