This is not enough. This will never be enough.

Crutching around town with a cumbersome brace attached to my right hip causes a lot of attention.  I've never had so many random strangers approach me before.  Multiple times a day people ask, "What did you do to yourself?"  Everyone has an opinion and most people are kind, offering me prayers for a swift recovery, or words of encouragement. 

Sleeping in this thing is rough.

At the gym this Saturday an older gentleman pulled me aside.  "Can I ask how this happened?"  I joked it was a hang gliding accident, but finally came out with the truth.

"Genetics mixed with overuse left my labrum crab meat."  He wanted more information on my hip joints and I told him the bones were shaped funny in the socket, combined with a nasty bone spur, and my tendons were rendered worthless. 

"You are a runner?"

"Yeah.  How can you tell?" 

"I don't know, you look like a runner.  I watched you ride the bike.  I could tell it really hurt but you pushed through that pain.  What really amazed me was when you were done, I could see it all over your face how disappointed you were when that ride was over.  You longed for more even though it hurt like hell.  You are one strong woman.  I don't know you, but I do know that you are going to be stronger than ever when this is done.  You'll get back out there and you will enjoy it so much more this time around."

He shook my hand and walked away as my husband helped me to the exercise mats where I finished up my physical therapy exercises. 

A few days earlier, a guy following me into a restaurant called from 20 feet back, "Labral tear?" 

"Yeah, are you a doctor?  How'd ya know?"

"Been there.  I did the surgery on both of my hips when it was still experimental about 20 years ago."  He laughed.

"Did it work?  Are you good now?  Any arthritis?" I didn't want to pry but it isn't often you meet people who have gone through the exact same thing and are decades down the road.

"Sweetheart, I'm old.  Age will always catch up with you, so in that, yes.  I have osteoarthritis in my hips and knees.  But I believe the surgery worked.  It bought me time that I otherwise didn't have."

"So you went back to exercising afterwards?"

"Yeah, and most people told me I was stupid.  Why continue doing the things that put you in that brace in the first place, right?  But they were stupid.  The surgery fixed my imperfections and I rode a bike pain free for a long time.  I could have hunkered down and given up like so many people told me to do.  But I'll tell you one thing, that's a waste of your life.  Take your time healing from this.  Get strong and be really patient.  When your body is ready, get back out there and run like mad."

I've been pondering this dilemma for a long time.  I won't lie, I am afraid to run again.  Is it the running that did this to me or genetic bony bumps?  If I run another marathon, will I re-tear my right labrum, or worse yet, tear the left one?  I do not want to go through this again.  My surgeon said I have a congenital defect in both hips.  Therefore, my chances of tearing my left labrum are 50%.  He fixed the bone abnormalities in my right hip and promised falling down the stairs was the only way it would tear again.  My left hip is a different story.  Those defects will be there until they are surgically fixed.  Could it tear from running?  "Yes."  Could it tear from tripping on a curb?  "Yes."  Could overuse be considered walking my boys to and from school everyday for a half mile?  "Yes."  Can strength training build up the muscles around the joint enough so that it stays healthy?  "Absolutely."

Riding the stationary bike for 20 minutes this weekend, all I could think was, "This is not enough.  This will never be enough."  I need to get back out there.  We are all running on borrowed time.  At some point or another age will catch us.  You can't defy the clock.  The day will come where I can't do what I once could and I don't want to stand on that mountain regretting missed opportunities wrought with fear.  Not exercising, not running, has a whole host of much more dangerous repercussions. 
 

For one, since I haven't been able to exercise like usual, I feel depressed. Those endorphins and mind clearing hours are good for my mental state.  Second, dying of heart disease, a stroke, obesity, alcoholism, etc... caused from lack of exercise would be a grim way to age.  I refuse to make decisions based on a what if.  There is a strong chance that my left hip will degenerate whether I run another marathon or not.  When I was told I couldn't run for at least 6 months I cried.  My doctor said he didn't know the chances of me running again period until he went in there.  The idea of never being able to run endurance events again was a blow to my stomach that I wasn't ready to accept.  Post operation I've been informed that my hip is healthy and will handle the impact.  I have unfinished business. 


~Roadburner

Doggy Pains

Tucker has tendonitis in his left paw.  He's never shown the smallest amount of soreness over the years, no matter how far he's gone.  And even with a sore paw, he refuses to stop running.  He just limps around looking at everyone like, "What the heck is your problem, I could easily have run further!"

He thinks I hate him all of the sudden.  Dogs are that self serving.  He watches me leave the house, while glaring at me through the windows.  "I could have gone," his pathetic little eyes plead.  "Bitchy human's been planning this betrayal all along."  When I return home from an hour plus run, he smells where I have been, tosses his nose up in the air and refuses to sit in the same room with a traitor.  I join him in the kitchen but he leaves and watches from afar, nosing my steamy perfumes from a distance.

There is nothing you can do for a tendonitis ridden dog, but let him rest.  Obviously this is cruel.  When I have pains in my legs, I roll the crap out of them, I ice them, take a ton of Motrin, use compression socks, and purposely limp in front of my husband to milk his compassion.  Within 24-48 hours I am back running again, but Tucker remains sore after a week of no exercise.

Tendonitis or not, Tucker is 8 years old and sprightly.  According to a doggy year conversion calculator, he is only 45.  Within a few more days he will be pulling me along the trails as always.  He isn't old yet, not like me.  I am a 133 year old dog!  I'm the one with reasons to complain. 


~Roadburner

Running date

For the second time in 6 years, my husband and I finally had the house all to ourselves.  What did we do?  Like any other exhausted parents, we went to bed before 9:30!  Instead of sleeping in, we jumped out of bed at 6:30 and quickly headed out for a run.

I prefer running dates over going to the movies.  Movies suck.  First of all, I finally get rid of my kids just to feel another lady's brat kick my chair repeatedly for 90 minutes or scream out inappropriately.  Why is that 5 year old in an adult movie anyway?  Furthermore, I've never understood why people bring their newborn babies to shows.  "Yes, thank you ma'am, I wanted to hear your baby cry for the entire movie because I desperately missed the cry of my two boys, whom I appropriately left at home." 

Running allows Randall and I to have quality time together.  We talk, grunt, laugh, compete, defend the lead...  It's fun.  He used to be remarkably faster than me.  Of course he enjoyed the lead, he is a man.  What hunter man doesn't enjoy being able to demonstrate his ability to chase down prey, or a car, to his slower nut gathering wife?  But in the last year, I've taken the lead as Randall has suffered with injury.  He could probably still beat me in the mile, hands down.  But I have endurance, and in my world, that means everything.  I just need to tire him out.

"How far we going?"

"Only 7-8 miles.  The schedule says 8, so..."  I looked at the path ahead and smirked.

"There is no way we are going 8 miles, Jen.  We are already 5 miles from home and I know we are running on your 11 mile course.  I helped you map the damn thing a few nights ago.  Oh, and didn't you say we were going to take it slow?  This isn't slow.  This is one minute per mile faster than you promised."

I love spending time with him.

~Roadburner

Denver Rock 'n Roll 2013

After every race, I have a myriad of mixed feelings.  Did I go hard enough?  Did I start too fast?  Should I have stayed with a pace group?  Overall, I am happy with my new PR at the Denver Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon yesterday.  I earned a 1:52:06.  Compared to last year's time of 2:01:49, I'd say that's a worthy improvement. 

Before the race. It was actually a pleasantly warm morning!

Monica, my husband Randall, and I all stayed ahead of the 1:50 pace group for the first 10 miles.  Somehow at mile 10, there was a crowded water station that forced people single file and the next time I looked up, not only were the 1:50 pacers ahead of me, but I'd lost my friend and husband in the crowd. 

My husband photo-bombed me at mile 4.  I love running with my husband and friends.  They keep it light and fun!

I didn't start the race wanting a specific time.  Start strong, finish fast.  That's it.  I wanted to improve on last year's 2 hour finish and I knew I could accomplish that goal.  If I felt good I would maintain between an 8:20-8:40 pace, averaging right at 8:30 miles.  Every time I looked at my watch it read right at 8:30.  Seeing the reality of that goal, mile-after-mile, boosted my spirits and kept me feeling strong right to mile 10.  I knew the 1:50 pace group was right at our heals starting at mile 8 and if I wanted to stay ahead of them we'd need to speed up for the finish. 

The 10th mile was at the top of a long but not very steep hill.  People were tiring out and the water station was extremely crowded.  I saw Monica slip behind me, as did Randall and I assumed they were grabbing a drink.  Then the dreaded pace flag bounced along in front of me and I became really mad at myself.  How can I hold them off for 10 freaking miles, and let them go just like that?  I surged forward as fast as my tired legs could run, but those 15 people kept pulling away slowly and I couldn't keep up. 

A man at the back of the pack kept belching out weird support-driven tirades, "Don't fade now!"  "Keep going!"  "PUSH! PUSH! You are stronger than that weakness in your knees!" "Finish strong and speed up, even if you might pass out!"  To be honest, he provided the demotivation I needed to slow down a bit.  I didn't want to hear him screaming at the top of his lungs for 3.1 more miles about how good he felt and how crappy I was suddenly feeling.  It is funny how one moment I can feel unstoppable but the second someone screams at me not to be tired, my legs feel instantly wrecked and I need  to find a cold place to cuddle up in the grass with a Tangerine Gu.

From the Oatmeal.

I put headphones in my ears to drown out the sounds of my heavy breathing and suddenly exhausted thoughts and pushed towards the finish.  Last year I felt like a complete rock star when I crossed the finish line.  Crowds were screaming, lights were flashing, music was playing, and I was smiling at cameras left and right.  This year, I am sure all that stuff was equally as thrilling, but I was focused on a ruthless lady in green.

She was wearing a long sleeved, green pullover and her blonde hair bounced in unison with our steps.  I felt boxed in and tried to move around her.  I surged forward but I was in no way racing her to the finish until she suddenly sped up and wouldn't let me by her for anything.  I found that insulting and made it my life's goal to pass her.  No success was more important at that moment.  We raced each other those final 200 yards to the finish in an all out sprint.  Why?  I don't know.  If I had that in me still, why didn't I use it to catch the Oatmeal's Blerch in that damn pace group?  Where was my fire 20 minutes ago? 
 

My husband Randall, me, and Monica

I crossed the finish line excited about my new PR and felt suddenly remorseful for engaging with that green lady.  I walked over to her and patted her on the shoulder to make amends.  After gathering a banquet of Gatorade, water, chocolate milk, bagels, and granola bars, we headed back to the car to nurse my chafed legs and enjoy some nicely stocked warm sweats and Irish hot cocoa.    

My precious Irish hot cocoa post race listening to Atlas Genius.

Mama Penguin

It is 2 days after the Highlands Ranch Half Marathon and I still couldn't run if a bear chased me!  It was a point-to-point downhill race.  With 1,000 feet of total elevation loss, I banked time in the first 6 miles, letting gravity push me down the hill at 7:30-8:00 miles.  Using gravity to push me down those steep grades felt like flying at the time, but getting up the next day made me feel like I jumped off a 10 story building and let gravity do its worst.  My legs, butt, back, arms, shoulders, and stomach all feel like I was hit by a city bus. 

My kids have aptly named me "Mama Penguin," over the last 48 hours.  I waddle like an Emperor Penguin and take nice slow steps wherever I go.

Stairs are my nemesis and I've been reduced to crawling up them slowly, belly down, grunting like an angry bird.  If I could install a slip 'n slide inside my house, I would slam the floor, belly down cruising from room to room, avoiding all contact with my legs for a week!

The idea of an ice bath has never looked so appealing!  I've never had to ice my legs this much after a race.

 
The race itself was a blast.  It was the inaugural year and of course there were some kinks that will need to be worked out: excessive waiting lines at the packet pick up, limited or no water for post two hour finishers, and a 10 minute delayed start, but overall it was very well managed.

I ran with 5 great friends.  We each ran our own race and met at the end for a good beer and constant laughs.

 

If you've never run a race with a group of friends, I highly recommend it!  Monica, my training partner, shopped for all of our race day throwaways at the local Savers and she found some treasures.  The race start alone, made everything worth it.  I haven't laughed that hard before a race, EVER!

Thank you Caitlin, who played volley ball in '05. 

I am not sure why any Grandma would have thrown out this invaluable purple valour jumper, but this women's medium sacrifice made my husband look great on race morning!

Throughout the race, we passed each other, cheered one another on, and took bets on who would bomb out first.  My husband finished first of our group in 1:46:43.

We waited for all 6 of us to cross the finish and each complained equally the next day about our unmatched sore muscles and nasty feet. 

While the race "hangover" left me swearing I would never run that hard again, I woke this morning proud of my new PR (1:53:40), and desperately trying to figure out how I can run the Denver Rock 'n Roll faster than my 8:40 average pace.

Sick Pup

Tucker runs with me every morning.  He pulls me up the hills and is relentless when I beg for a slower pace.  He hasn't run with me in over a week.  Every dog needs dental work now and then, but somehow his dental procedure ended up far more complicated.  He was sedated for over 7 hours and had 6 teeth pulled.  Afterwards, I was instructed he would be okay to run again in a day or two and expect normal behavior within 24 hours.

Sadly, he was severely allergic to every medicine they administered.  The night after the surgery I sat with him outside for hours as he laid in the rain, ill beyond belief, and unwilling to come inside.  I finally wrapped him in a warm towel and held him on his bed until he fell asleep.  We've been in and out of his veterinary clinic every evening and while I know he hates me every time I bring him in for more examinations, I see his unconditional loyalty.

When I got up on Sunday for my long run, I looked at him laying fitfully in his bed.  I expected him to jump out the door and demand his leash, but he rolled over and let me leave without incident.

Obviously, he will be fine in a few days.  It is five days post operation and he is finally able to eat rice and chicken broth.  He is only 7 years old and Brittney Spaniels live a long time, but it made me think how lucky I am that my dog is the type that can run 14 miles without hesitation.  He can outlast me in almost every distance and can maintain a 7:00 per mile pace for 10K.  Tucker is amazing.  I know someday he will loose his ability to run.  That happens to all of us.  But for now, I love the look in his eyes when he sees my running clothes.  He doesn't love to run.  He loves the run.  Yes, there is a difference.


Who is your favorite running partner?  Do you like running with your pets, or without?  What is the one thing about running that you can't live without?

~Roadburner

Colfax Marathon Mission Accomplished!

I ran 460 miles between January 1, and May 19; all those miles spent preparing for one 26.2 mile race.  Throughout the first 10 miles I smiled at the cameras, glowing ear to ear.  I earned this moment and I wanted to enjoy it. 

Sporting my $3.99 Goodwill "throwaways," which I didn't have the heart to throw away...

For months before the race, everyone asked me whether I had a goal time.  My answer was always simple.  NO.  I wanted to finish upright.  I didn't want to wallow in self-inflicted pain for weeks after the race.  I thought it plausible to finish under 4:30, based on all my training runs, but there would be no regret if that ideal was not reached.
 

My husband, Randall, and me 30 minutes before the start.

Race morning arrived much quicker than I anticipated and while I spent a whole week plagued with fear, questioning if my training would prove me ready, I woke rested.  I didn't want to start too fast, but we were tightly trapped within so many runners on narrow streets.  Adrenaline rushed through my body and I was euphoric. 

After running through the stadium.

By eight miles in, my spirits remained high.  We ran through the middle of Sports Authority Field at Mile High and came out one minute per mile faster than we started.  The energy of that empty stadium was ironic. 

Heading uphill after the stadium.

Two miles later, my knees started to ache and I felt a horrible cramp forming in my calf.  I knew it was from salt depletion and luckily my training partner, Monica, had a salt packet at the ready.  Salt helped, but I knew my knees were going to be sore and I couldn't maintain at the pace Monica wanted.  We were headed uphill and while the overall elevation gain was slight, nothing during a marathon feels slight.

We reached the halfway point and Monica tried to surge ahead.  A man behind me yelled out, "Hey Orange Team!  You guys are going too fast!"  He was obviously joking, but my legs agreed.  I was going too fast to be able to finish strong.  I needed to regroup. 

Ethan drew the two of us at the finish, then told his dad what to write.

Monica and I said all along we would train together and finish together.  At mile 10, I knew that wasn't realistic.  At mile 13, I knew it was impossible.  I pulled back reducing my speed to a 9:50 pace and felt tears welling in my eyes. I felt defeated.  We promised we would run together the entire way but I knew staying with her would only lead to regrets later as I couldn't continue at a 9:00 pace for the next 13.1 miles.  I would end up hurting myself, or holding back my friend's finishing potential.  Either way, I wouldn't be happy. 

At that moment, I learned a powerful lesson.  This was a journey I had to complete independently.  I couldn't worry about other people's pace or goals.  I had to be selfish.  I stopped running, pulled out my phone, sent my husband a Glympse (GPS tracking so he knew where I was on the course), strapped on my headphones and turned on my favorite running music.  I watched runners pass me around a corner and I waited until I couldn't see Monica's bright orange.  Knowing she would be great, I took a few moments to regroup and I started off again. 

By mile 15, we were headed back downhill and my legs felt strong.  Working at a comfortable 10:00 pace, I returned to nose breathing and enjoyed watching the buildings pass by.  Spectators read my name off my green bib and I was so grateful for their energy. 

My kids said our orange shirts and hats looked like tigers. 

I passed the 20 mile marker feeling good.  My legs were tired, but not finished.  I smiled as I ran through the next mile knowing I was actually going to make it.  I ran back through the football stadium and again, my energy was restored.  Miles 21 and 22 were solid.  I wasn't moving fast, but I was moving and proud of every step. 

Somewhere around 21 miles, another marathoner, wearing a bright yellow shirt stopped, looking destitute.  I patted her on the back softly, "Come on, we can do this!  I feel your pain!"  She smiled at me, and we ran together for the next mile and a half. 

As I rounded my way back up 17th Street and headed into the depths of Denver, the hills sadistically reappeared.  Relay runners, who divided the 26.2 mile stretch between 4-5 runners had fresh legs every few miles.  They charged up those hills, passing my exhausted limbs without mercy.  I glared at their gait and gave myself permission to walk up the remainder of the steep hill, about a quarter mile.

Again, spectators cheered me on, "Yes!  Keep moving!  You are doing it!  Go Jennifer, GO!"  I smiled, mouthed a breathy, "Thanks..." and began to run at the summit. 

Transitioning from running to walking and back again hurt.  I felt like my calves were going to explode and bleed out for the first few steps after each transition.  At mile 23, I walked through the water station and when I resumed running, I swore I was riding a bike.  Delirium took over as my arms moved ahead of me, steering my makeshift bicycle.  My legs pedaled in circles, close under my hips and I wondered who graced me with this beautiful machine. 

"HOLY CRAP!  Pull it together!  You are finishing, not loosing your mind!"  I quickly grabbed another Gu from my bag, sucked it back and decided to not walk another step.  If I walked, I wouldn't finish.  "Run, just run. Don't stop. Just run."  My legs were in "go" mode and walking confused them. 

First sight of my husband at the finish line.  All the feelings of pain and exhaustion vanished.

26 miles down, and I could hear the finish line.  I couldn't see it.  But I heard it.  I wanted to stop but that would be pointless.  Once the actual finish line came into view, I charged forward.  My pace increased and I saw Randall and Mark, Monica's husband, standing there smiling and cheering.  Pride ran through my veins.  I threw my arms up in victory and crossed the line in 4:25:17.

"I did it!  I freaking did it!" played through my head like a broken record.

A firefighter put my medal around my neck and I waddled to food.  Monica intercepted me there and the sight of her brought all the emotions that welled inside me for the last 10 miles to the front. 

I was so tired, I forgot to pick up food at the stations along the way.

Relief and exhaustion.  Well earned!

I cried in relief, pain, happiness, and pride.  From mile 17, every spectator that called my name and every time I thought about finishing, my eyes blurred with faint tears.  "Hold it together, Jen.  Hold it together."  Once I finished, I had nothing left.  The race stripped me bare and all that was left was raw emotion. 

Emotions welled at the finish. 

Monica and I hugged for a long time.  I was so proud of us.  We each ran our own race, but worked together to get there.  I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. 

I never drink soda.  But throughout training, I dreamed of an ice cold Pepsi after a long run.  Randall had one waiting for me at the finish line, along with his flannel.

Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon

I got back from Vegas twelve hours ago, and I am still overstimulated!  That was the loudest, flashiest, and most interesting race I've run to date, and I thoroughly enjoyed it!  I was lucky enough to have a friend go with me for the weekend, and while we didn't party afterwards like planned, it is a race that I will forever treasure. 

We attended the Fitness Expo first thing on Saturday.  The energy level was through the 200+ foot roof and everywhere we looked people were excited, friendly, helpful, and proud to call themselves runners.  Knowing we had a full weekend ahead, and having bought the merchandise we came for, we didn't go row by row through the expo.  We chose an ally, walked down it, made a turn and headed for the exit. 

On our way out, I saw a sign sitting next to an expo table, "Scott Jurek, Author of Eat and Run, here today at 4:00."  A volunteer was pulling the sign down and I mumbled to my friend, "Scott Jurek?  Holy cow!  He is amazing!"  While continuing to move forward, I glanced behind me to see where he probably once sat.  Like a star struck 12 year old girl, my heart raced.  "WAIT!  There he is!"  I ran over, waited a few seconds in line, talked to him for a few minutes, got a great picture, and had him sign my racing bib.  I am sure I looked like a crazy person because I was so excited to meet him, but that was by far one of the biggest surprises of the whole trip.  For hours, I couldn't stop smiling. 

That night, we got dressed, saw Le Reve and took it easy - Sunday was bound to be exhausting.

Neither of us knew exactly how to eat for a night race.  We knew we had the entire day to make decisions that would impact our run directly and we were careful not to mess it up.  Each of us had a large but healthy breakfast, but opted to snack for lunch.  I didn't want to repeat the cramping nightmare that ensued during the Boulder Half Marathon.  Figuring it was better to run on a emptier stomach, we had Cliff Bars and fruit salad a few hours before the race.

When we toed the line, I heard my stomach rumble violently.  "That's not a good way to start!"  I told Monica.  But the crowds were enthusiastic and the lights from the strip were flashing beautifully.  No matter how hungry I felt, I wasn't going to let anything take that moment away. 

Before the gun, we reminded each other one more time that this was wasn't about a PR, it was about the experience and sticking together.  We were out to have fun.  Each corral was separated by about 90 seconds.  This provided enough time to spread out.  I only felt boxed in a few times during the race and it didn't last long.  When we started, I was pleasantly surprised how much open space each runner had between them.  We took off at a good speed and I felt the lower altitude working towards my advantage immediately.  We ran for 4-5 miles at a 8:26 pace, faster than I usually start.

By mile 3, we were heading down the newest part of the strip.  The hotels, live shows, flashing lights, thousands of spectators, horns, whistles, music, and smiles were more than I could have imagined and I couldn't help think, "Man this is GREAT!"  My muscles, lungs, and heart all felt okay.  We had a nice 20mph wind right behind us which gave a nice push to our speed every few feet.  But I worried about the near future when that wind was going to meet us head-on as it was an out and back race.

 
The last time I went to Vegas, we stayed at Circus Circus as I was only 10 years old.  Various movies have brought the city to life, but running the strip at night gave me a tangible understanding of the most vibrant and lucious city in America.  We ran past all the major landmark hotels, drive through wedding chapels, statues, and Elvis impersonators.  Nothing that screams Vegas was left from the run and I was in awe throughout the experience.

While my mind revelled in all the excitement, my body wasn't so happy.  I was starving by mile 5, and my knees, ankles, hips, and toes regretted the treadmill stress tests I completed only days before we left for the race.  I started too fast and I didn't taper properly.  Between September 22 and December 2, I ran 4 half marathons and 1 duathlon.  I desperately wanted to PR in my final race of the season, and while I missed it, I am proud of my accomplishment.  Monica and I wanted to run together and we did.  When my legs felt like they were literally on fire, Monica looked at me and asked, "You okay? Want to walk a few?"  Because she was there, I didn't walk.  I wanted to finish strong.  She kept me going through that awful wind and I while I am sure sticking with me slowed her down significantly, it meant the world that she stayed.  As we said from the beginning, it wasn't to beat any personal records.

I found it appropriate the finish line was the Mirage Hotel and Casino.  In Vegas, distances are much farther than they appear.  Monica said, "See there it is!  Almost done!"  I laughed and thought the hotels were moving away from us with every step we ran.  We finished in 2:02:05.  Bands filled the air with live music, strobe lights flashed, and fans screamed passionately.  We were immediately handed water, Gatorade, and warming space blankets.  The walk to the food was a bit longer than expected, but there was an ample supply of bagels, smoothies, apples, Marathon bars, and pretzels. 

The after party didn't start until 11:00 that night so runners had ample time to go back to their hotels, shower, and dress properly for a night of drinking and dancing...in theory.  In our case, we returned to the hotel, showered, snacked, got dressed, did our hair and makeup, and somehow ended up lying down "just for a few minutes."  One and a half hours later we woke up, debated heading to the after party and decided it would be better to sleep.  Both of us planned for weeks on dancing and enjoying the post race festivities, but we knew we would regret it the next day if we rallied. 

The race was very well organized and more fun than I can describe.  Getting the chance to vacation and run with one of my friends was amazing.  Together we had a lot of fun and we enjoyed the views.  Monica kept me centered at the finish and reminded me we weren't out for a win. 

I need to take each race as a new opportunity.  You can't compare one race time to the next because each has very different circumstances.  I can't think of a better race to take it easy and admire the views.  Furthermore, Vegas taught me a lot about racing at night and planning pre-race food more appropriately.  It also reminded me how important it is to spread out races.  My body took a beating this year.  I ran 10 races, only 2 of which were less than 10K.  I am proud of my racing season and Vegas was the best way to solute 2012. 

We were both excited to return to our kids, but sad our ladies vacation came to an end so quickly.  On our trip back home, we agreed one race away from home a year is a must!

Love and Hate

My six-year-old Brittany Spaniel has more stamina after 8 miles than I will ever comprehend.  According to my husband, I need Tucker on my early morning runs.  Randall is afraid a bad man might snatch me at dawn.  Or, because we live amongst endless miles of open space, a coyote might find my calves a tasty snack.  Whether I agree with these theories doesn't matter.  I bring Tucker because every day he guilts me into it. 

Before our kids were born, we ran Tucker over twenty miles a week and walked him every night for at least 2-3 miles.  He was ripped.  Our veterinarian questioned how it was possible for a city dog to be so muscular and we always responded cautiously, "Um, exercise."  Now that our two boys ruined his comfortable workout plan, Tucker has filled out, as a middle-aged man often does.  He spies on us suspiciously whenever we get dressed or approach the door wearing any form of running attire.

Tucker always gets to go, because on the few occasions that he's been left behind, I return to a helpless animal that refuses to look in my eyes.  He lays right by the front door, waiting for my return, and when I finally burst through once more, he won't budge from that spot for hours.  I crushed his soul.

I love my dog, but I hate running with him.  No matter the weather or trail conditions, Tucker forces me tackle personal records.  There is no excuse for slow speeds, so-called taper or recovery runs, or a hill too large.  My Brittany prefers speeds faster than eight minutes per mile and grunts back at me when I request a comfortable nine minute pace.  He helps push my limits, but sometimes I do not want my limits tested.  While I love the extra help going up hills, I hate being pulled down again, face first, arms reeling for balance.  He doesn't get tired.  While I am ready for my ten mile run to come to an end, he displays only thirst.  It isn't fair. 

This morning, I ate way too much breakfast.  I knew better but the waffles were far too tempting.  I planned on finishing 8 miles, but by mile 4, I regretted my breakfast and couldn't escape the thoughts of vomiting half-digested Belgian goo all over the trail.  I felt debilitated with cramps so deep in my stomach I questioned how I would make it home.  I thought about calling Randall to drive me the rest of the way, but Tucker wanted to finish.  After a few rest breaks, aiming to keep my cramps at bay, I allowed Tucker to pull me up and down the hills, taking some of the effort from my stride for 2.5 additional miles.  It didn't ease the pain entirely, but I made it home.  

Tucker will remain my running companion.  Not because I am afraid of a rabid coyote or stray psychopath, but because he brought me home again.  He knew I didn't feel good.  Even after years of my tirades begging him to slow down and stop pulling, he didn't hold it against me.  Instead, he allowed the burden of my weight, and pulled me cautiously homeward.  My dog is the most obnoxious running coach, but I couldn't keep stride without him.