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Though the Army did its best to whip me into shape, my broken thyroid, emotional eating, and mommy job very quickly erased that hard earned body. So after a conversation with my college roomy, I decided this was the year of the half marathon. I didn’t care if I CRAWLED over the line, my goal was just to finish. I have a thing for happy faces (yes husband takes the plate off if he has to *gasp* drive the trash mobile for any reason) and in the past few years I’ve developed a thing for pigs with wings. So as I searched for a race that would motivate me to run farther than any sane person should, I found a clear winner: The Flying Pig Half Marathon in Cincinnati, Ohio. It was almost like a direct sign was telling me to do this race. I knew it would be an entertaining run. In January I began my couch to half marathon training plan. In February, my college roomy's hubby flew me out to Colorado as a surprise Valentines gift to her (what a guy), and then he forced me to participate in a “Freeze Your Buns Off” 5K in their thin air (grrr).
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That’s when I got a little worried about my upcoming May race. You see, I ABHOR sweating while I’m cold. As a Texan I’d never experienced that sensation before the Army made me. It’s just NOT RIGHT. This race taught me I better get my act together. You see, I’ve been transplanted to the frozen Tundra of Michigan and this year we had snow on the ground from October-April, so either I was going to have to fall in love with my treadmill (never gonna happen) or learn to run outside.
In preparation for the frozen-buns torture (race), my college roomy took me shopping and helped me find some amazing cold weather training gear. She also introduced me to running with tunes in my ears. You young folk may laugh at this, but seriously I remember carrying a DISC MAN as I ran. These newfangled technologies make running a breeze. The Army told me what to wear and that the only music I’d “hear” was cadences, that I had to yell back as I ran; neither were comfortable nor fun. So with my new found clothes and this thing called a “playlist” I eagerly attacked my training plan - for a month. And then I got worn out balancing work/mom duties/all this running and I cut a couple days off of the plan. This is what I ended up with: intervals on Mondays, medium runs on Wednesdays, and long runs on Saturdays. I’m just being real with you. The real world gets in the way of “mom-time.”
In preparation for the frozen-buns torture (race), my college roomy took me shopping and helped me find some amazing cold weather training gear. She also introduced me to running with tunes in my ears. You young folk may laugh at this, but seriously I remember carrying a DISC MAN as I ran. These newfangled technologies make running a breeze. The Army told me what to wear and that the only music I’d “hear” was cadences, that I had to yell back as I ran; neither were comfortable nor fun. So with my new found clothes and this thing called a “playlist” I eagerly attacked my training plan - for a month. And then I got worn out balancing work/mom duties/all this running and I cut a couple days off of the plan. This is what I ended up with: intervals on Mondays, medium runs on Wednesdays, and long runs on Saturdays. I’m just being real with you. The real world gets in the way of “mom-time.”
![Picture](/uploads/3/7/0/6/3706202/6507789.jpg)
My body slowly adapted to the training regimen, but my mind took a little longer. If you’re a runner you may understand that statement. In my 20s I did 12 mile road marches and jumped out of perfectly good airplanes and helicopters, but almost two decades later, the thought of running 12 miles was overwhelming.
Two Saturdays before the race I hosted an insane slumber party for my oldest daughter's 12th birthday and then Sunday one week before the actual race I only had to run 9 miles. No big deal I told myself, after all the week prior I’d made the 12 miles in record time. It didn’t go exactly as planned. I had a complete and utter melt down. I was wearing my newer shoes and my feet hurt. The BEST advice I received in training for this race was from Leslie Stein. She said, “the first two miles of every run suck.” I embraced that quote. At the beginning of every run I’d hear her saying those words to me and I’d ignore my body... For some reason I couldn’t shake the pain that day. It was so bad I called my husband at the 1.5 mile mark (don’t even get me started on how awesome it is to have one device that sings to you, records where you’re running, allows you to take photos, and send SOS signals when needed).
Me: I need you to bring me my white running shoes.
Hubby: What?
Me: I NEED you to get my white shoes and bring them to me at the park NOW.
Hubby: Are you kidding me?
Me: I’m CRYING AND HATING LIFE AND NEED YOU TO FIX IT RIGHT THIS SECOND OR I WILL HAVE A FREAKOUT FIT IN THE MIDDLE OF TOWN.
Hubby: OK. I’ll be there in 5 minutes.
I sat on the ground and stretched (in my socks). Hero arrived 10 minutes later, handed me my shoes, took one look at the sobbing mess I’d become and told me to get in the car, I could run tomorrow.
As we drove home, the old demons began to haunt me:
“You’re a failure”
“You’ll never be able to do the race next week”
“It’s all because you ate crap at the birthday party, why aren’t you more disciplined”
(and on and on….)
Then I YELLED: “STOP THE CAR!!! My husband was wondering if I’d gone all the way to Crazyville, and I explained to him "I can’t quit". I know I won’t run tomorrow and if I don’t do this now, I will have no confidence come race day. So I finished my run. It took almost twice as long as I’d allowed. I walked more than I planned to. But. I. Didn’t. Quit.
The week before my race, my mind finally accepted what I was attempting to do = run like a pig with wings. And that my friends, makes me only HALF crazy.
(to be continued next week)
Two Saturdays before the race I hosted an insane slumber party for my oldest daughter's 12th birthday and then Sunday one week before the actual race I only had to run 9 miles. No big deal I told myself, after all the week prior I’d made the 12 miles in record time. It didn’t go exactly as planned. I had a complete and utter melt down. I was wearing my newer shoes and my feet hurt. The BEST advice I received in training for this race was from Leslie Stein. She said, “the first two miles of every run suck.” I embraced that quote. At the beginning of every run I’d hear her saying those words to me and I’d ignore my body... For some reason I couldn’t shake the pain that day. It was so bad I called my husband at the 1.5 mile mark (don’t even get me started on how awesome it is to have one device that sings to you, records where you’re running, allows you to take photos, and send SOS signals when needed).
Me: I need you to bring me my white running shoes.
Hubby: What?
Me: I NEED you to get my white shoes and bring them to me at the park NOW.
Hubby: Are you kidding me?
Me: I’m CRYING AND HATING LIFE AND NEED YOU TO FIX IT RIGHT THIS SECOND OR I WILL HAVE A FREAKOUT FIT IN THE MIDDLE OF TOWN.
Hubby: OK. I’ll be there in 5 minutes.
I sat on the ground and stretched (in my socks). Hero arrived 10 minutes later, handed me my shoes, took one look at the sobbing mess I’d become and told me to get in the car, I could run tomorrow.
As we drove home, the old demons began to haunt me:
“You’re a failure”
“You’ll never be able to do the race next week”
“It’s all because you ate crap at the birthday party, why aren’t you more disciplined”
(and on and on….)
Then I YELLED: “STOP THE CAR!!! My husband was wondering if I’d gone all the way to Crazyville, and I explained to him "I can’t quit". I know I won’t run tomorrow and if I don’t do this now, I will have no confidence come race day. So I finished my run. It took almost twice as long as I’d allowed. I walked more than I planned to. But. I. Didn’t. Quit.
The week before my race, my mind finally accepted what I was attempting to do = run like a pig with wings. And that my friends, makes me only HALF crazy.
(to be continued next week)