I should be dead.

I aged up last Saturday. That's not why I should be dead though. The reason I mention the aging up is that the birthday brought with it a brand-spanking-new Garmin 405 with heart rate monitor. I've only recently become interested in the whole heart rate thing. In fact, until last Saturday I didn't know didley squat about it. Since then I've found out about the "220 minus your age" equation and target heart rate zones and aerobic vs. anaerobic exercise and resting heart rate and yadda yadda yadda enough to bore most people to tears.

Here's why I should be dead: I went for a run yesterday with my trusty new heart rate monitor. The run was hot, humid, and hilly. My pace was slow, as it has been for months now (don't even get me started on that rant). When I came home and uploaded the data from my watch to the GarminConnect website, it showed my maximum heart rate was higher than the actual maximum heart rate calculated by that 220 bit mentioned above. Did you get that? My heart rate while running reached a value HIGHER than my maximum heart rate! Uh, is it me, or is that totally whack?!?

Apparently I'm now either a zombie or a pathetically out of shape blob who has no business doing cardio and should take up a daytime television/tub of ice cream addiction because each run holds the potential for a massive coronary.

Great.

Swoosh!

I love Nike. I mean, I reallllly love Nike. In fact, I just might be a Nike whore. Few things get me as jazzed as finding new Nike running gear. There's just something about the fit, the fabric, the style...I really love Nike. I recently got these and they promptly moved to the top of my list of favorite running gear. This is more momentous than you realize because, see, I've eschewed running shorts in favor of running skirts for a good two years now. I guess I thought I was hiding extra jiggle with the skirt. Or that I could pretend I just happened to go for a run when I was coincidently dressed cute. Or maybe I was overcompensating with femininity after marathon training stole my boobs. Whatever. Anyway, when this crazy, insane heat wave came, it made me want to wear as little as possible while out there trailing through the asphalt jungle. Skirts have an extra layer that I just don't need when we're looking at code red temps for the fourth consecutive day. So I got some shorts. Know what? The shorts are definitely cooler--in more ways than one, if you ask me. Hmmm, I guess I'm a convert.

Hope everyone is staying cool!

Stella in her doggie dreams.

A Running Resentment

This is Stella. Yup, she's cute, playful, precious, snuggly, and full of puppy goodness. She also wakes up before 6 a.m. every day. A few weeks ago, when I was relishing the summer opportunity to sleep in as only a teacher can, that early wake up would have bothered me. Since then, however, I've made a renewed commitment to log my runs in the early a.m. and Stella now serves as the world's cutest alarm clock to make sure I get out the door at a decent time.

Except on the days that it's my husband's turn to run.

See, we've made a new agreement. He runs Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, and I run Tuesday and Thursday. (We flip-flop from week to week so it's fair.) Yesterday was the first day in way too long that the temperature was in the 60's at 6 a.m. Not to mention there was no humidity. I woke up, with windows wide open, breathed in the cool autumn-like breeze and felt a surge of excitement to don my running shoes. Then I remembered it wasn't "my day" to run. Grrrrrr. I probably could have handled it better if my husband was really into running and had logged as many miles as I have in the soul-sapping heat. But he hasn't. In fact, he was supposed to run that 10-mile race with me two weeks ago and bailed at the last minute because he never actually trained for it. Yet there he was, running the open road, in the best running weather we've had in months. I was pissed!

When he got back, I expressed my resentment by banging cabinet doors, huffing in response to his conversational attempts, and rolling my eyes as much as possible. When he asked what was wrong, I replied "Nothing!" I was staring at the gaping abyss of a ruined day when it dawned on me that his car was still in the shop, forcing him to leave later for work that day. I asked if he'd be around for another hour or so. The affirmative response was barely out of his mouth before I had my running clothes on and was out the door.

I felt the tension start to fade immediately. I was smiling by the first quarter mile and on cloud nine by the time I came home.

Ruined day? Saved. Marriage? Still good.

"Yeah."

This past Sunday, some of our neighbors organized a kindergarten mixer for all the kids starting kindergarten in the fall. It was a great opportunity for my middle runlet to meet some new friends and for Runner Boy and I to mingle with their parents. When I was talking to one of the moms, she asked where we live. I told her the street name and she asked me to describe my house. She said the street is on most of her running routes (!) and she probably has passed our place many times. Of course I jumped on the running topic immediately.

Me: So you're a runner?!?

Her: Not really. I'm trying to become one though. I trained for a half marathon while my husband was training for a full marathon last fall.

Me (to her husband): What marathon did you run?

Him: Memphis.

Me: Ooh, that sounds flat. Was it?

Him: Yup, it was pretty flat. So you must be a runner?

Me: Yeah.

Yadda, yadda, yadda from there. But, and this is huge, I had just nonchalantly confirmed that I'm a runner! When I first started this blog almost two years ago, I remember feeling like a poser and hoping that one day I could actually consider myself a "real" runner. I guess all those miles in between have changed me more than I realize. Yeah, I AM a runner.

Back in the saddle...

Woah--I've just spent some time catching up with all the ol' running blogs I used to read. It's a new world out there! I guess I have to figure out the whole giveaway thing. That seems like the "it" trend.

A quick update for anyone interested: Cleveland screwed up my foot bad enough that I ended up taking eight loooong months off from running. The upside is that I discovered I actually like weightlifting. And my gym membership got more action in those months than it did in the past eight years.

I got the official green light to start running again this past January. Like any good runner, I promptly signed up for a race as soon as I got home from the podiatrist's office. I figured a little 10-miler would be doable and I had six months to train. Long story short...I ran the 10 miler last weekend and a 5k yesterday.

There are still lingering foot issues that the good doc and I are working diligently to resolve, but boy does it feel good to be back!

From the gimp files...

Since I can't actually run (thank you, Mr. Stress Fracture), I can at least still write about running.

Here's something I found recently. They're all true for me, how 'bout you?

You know you're a runner if:

Your entire iPod is devoted to running songs
You give directions in tenths of a mile increments
You try to convince others to run a 5k because its only 3 miles
You consider pasta and sports drink a food group
You can easily convert kilometers into miles
You have more running apparel than regular apparel

What's missing?

Cleveland Marathon--Race Report

A few weeks ago, when I wrote about taper madness, I mentioned that one of my toes had been hurting. I mentioned it casually and had been downplaying it as much as possible leading up to the marathon. Only Runner Boy, who watched me pop vitamin I like it was Smartees and ice my foot with frozen peas at every opportunity, knew how much it was really hurting. I figured if I didn't draw any attention to it, it would be okay for the big race. I even toyed with the idea of aiming for a sub 4:00 marathon.

Fast forward to Saturday, the day before race day, when my dad and I took an extended walking tour of Cleveland. (Btw, I could write paragraphs about Cleveland, but my grandmother always told me "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." I'll leave it at that. Oooh, except I can't help but mention the cops outside the sushi restaurant on Friday night who told us "Don't worry, it's safe now." Nice.) So, as Runner Daddy and I were walking, and walking, and walking, and walking, my toe began to feel not so great. I told him I wanted to veg out for a while--not mentioning the toe because of that whole "don't draw attention to it" thing--and I managed to sneakily ice my foot while RD napped.

We had dinner Saturday night with about twelve people from my running group. It was wonderful to see familiar faces in a strange city and I got a last-minute adrenaline boost for the race. By the time I saw them again the next morning, I was pumped and my foot issue was honestly in the recesses of my mind. I lined up between the 4:00 and 4:15 pacers and decided to see how I could do.

The first five miles were great. I was maintaining just under a 9:00 min/mile pace and was feeling really strong. The weather was in the mid-40's and the sun wasn't blazing. I was coasting, taking it easy, and my cardio was excellent. Then the shit hit the fan. Suddenly, out of the blue, my foot started screaming. I mean, it was blinding pain. I think I even started crying. Unfortunately, I was surrounded by a gazillion half marathoners and they were counting down the miles and high-fiving at each mile marker. I could only focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

At mile 12, I saw the split for the half marathoners. I considered taking it. And I'm not just saying that. I really almost veered off at the split. At that point, not only was my toe hurting, but I was obviously compensating somehow with my ankle and that was now screaming too. I decided to stay on the marathon course with the idea that if it got to the point I literally couldn't run anymore, I would turn around and walk back to the half mary finish. When I reached my own half marker, my time was 2:03. I was still running strong despite the pain.

At each mile marker I did the mental math, it was x miles back to the half and y miles to the finish. I just kept focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. I refused to walk because I knew it would just take that much longer to finish. I reached the point of no return at mile 20. I felt a rush when I saw the marker because, despite the pain, I knew I was going to finish.

The rest of the race was one foot in front of the other. Don't think, just run. I hit my lowest point at mile 24. I threw up and didn't' know if it was from pain, exhaustion, or a combination. I walked for about a quarter mile until I realized that was taking too long and I just wanted the race over. Even if I ran at 13:00 min/mile pace, I was still running. So I went for it.

At mile 25, a lady on the sidelines was handing out chunks of fresh orange. I debated taking one, worried how it might affect me, then I realized it really couldn't get much worse. I bit into the orange and it was the most amazing, delicious, refreshing food I've ever had. As I slurped down the juice, I realized I was crazy thirsty. I quickly drained two entire bottles from my Fuel Belt and pushed on.

As I approached the finish, I realized I might actually have a chance of breaking 4:20. That had become my pie in the sky goal somewhere around mile 16 or so. I dug deep into whatever reserves I had and sprinted to the line. The clock time was off from my chip time and I was running too fast to look at my watch. I automatically hit "stop" on my Garmin after crossing the finish and didn't look at the time until I had my medal. When I glanced down, I noticed I had missed my goal. Oh well, I thought, at least I finished. Then my dad came running over, hooting and hollering. My official chip time had been texted to him: 4:18:59. I did it!

And I have an appointment with the podiatrist today at 1:30. :)

Cleveland did have some nice hardware:

UPDATE: Yep, it's broken. The doctor said I have at least one stress fracture. This is my new designer footwear...