catheroominations

I ran 10 miles for the second time yesterday. This time I hardly walked at all, except for the 1-minute walk portion of my 5-mile run, 1-minute walk interval. I ran with a TNT teammate, we took it very slow, and we took a LONG time. I run like a snail, I really do. This concerns me because only the first 6,000 finishers receive medals at the half marathon I am running IN TWO WEEKS. They allow 10,000 to register. That means, I have to run faster than FOUR THOUSAND PEOPLE. Not going to happen, nope.

It should be noted that I have never won a medal, trophy, or ribbon in anything, except for a First Place prize that everyone in my 5th grade class got who submitted a book for the elementary school young author’s book fair. And that ribbon was a piece of blue “ditto” paper, cut into the shape of a ribbon, pasted to the inside front cover of The True Story of Smokey, my cat. Around that time there were several unauthorized autobiographies about him, but I wrote the truth.

Now where was I? Oh. Yeah. I want a freaking medal for running 13.1 miles, dammit. Just knowing that I completed such an event should be validation enough for me, but it isn’t. I want concrete, material evidence of my efforts! Bragging rights! So I can be all, “Look what I did! I have a medal! Do you have any half marathon medals? No? I must be better than you then!” I would then huff hot air on it and polish it on my shirt for effect. Also, if I get a medal, it means I did not come in last, which is something that is unacceptable to me. I hate don’t mind that I’m slow, or that I am the last person to finish a timed trial at our workouts. There are just 40 or so people there, and most of them have done this whole running thing for years. But out of thousands of people, surely there should be a few slower than I, right? I mean, I have to be faster than the walkers, don’t I? Please, can 4,000 people be walking that day?

Maybe I should look into buying those shoes with skates on the bottom. Heelies? Is that what they’re called? Maybe then I’ll gain some speed on these people.

Maybe Barry Bonds can juice me up before, since I will be in San Francisco and all.

I know! Have Taye Diggs running ahead of me in nothing but black boxer briefs, and Dexter chasing after me with a hypodermic needle and cranial saw. Then, maybe I can run faster. Maybe.

Ooh! I could put Ex-Lax in the water at the hydration stations. Scratch that. It’s just mean. Plus, it could backfire because I would probably need the facilities at some point, and the lines would be insane, thus extending my time even more.

Le sigh.

Perhaps I should hail a cab and ride to near the end of the course, and then sprint across the finish line, all fresh and lovely like Katie Holmes did in New York. (NOTE: I’m saying she finished looking lovely, not accusing her of taking a cab or being transported by Xenu-led aliens or anything.)

Did you know that the winning team in the Super Bowl gets a trophy AND each player gets a big, huge, gaudy ring, even those who DID NOT PLAY in the game? And some of the players already have a ring or two. Award hogs! Can’t there be a rule at this half marathon where those who already have medals wait until medals are presented to all who have never received one? That seems totally fair to me. Were I one of those people with piles of medals, I would surely offer mine to a poor soul who ran too slowly in her first half marathon to beat four thousand other runners. Because I’m nice like that.

I was up before 6 am today to prepare for my run. Yes, I know it’s Saturday. I’m still new at the running thing, so any run I go to is an event. I have to make sure I have all the warm clothes I need, the hydration belt, the snacks. It’s quite an ordeal and still unnatural for me so it takes a while to prepare. I also get butterflies before each run. I also need to eat a real breakfast before I go, which is not something I really care to do just after waking up. But I need fuel, and will be miserable without it, so I do it, and the oatmeal battles the monarchs in my gut.

I met the gang at the carpool location at 6:45, although I would be driving myself because I needed to be back early for a wine tasting party this afternoon. Our last carpooler was late (I DETEST lateness), which meant we’d have to hustle to make our 8 am start time. According to Google Maps, it would take over an hour to get there, but with Last Minute Sally showing up tardy, we barely had an hour before the run would start.

As we hit the road, I knew I’d have trouble keeping up with the car I was following. At one point, I yelled to the driver that she was going to get us pulled over. Of course, I was yelling this in my enclosed and fabulously heated car and she was about 10 car lengths ahead of me, so my warning fell upon deaf ears. This was when I was following at 85 mph. Shortly after we merged onto Hwy 17, I saw a CHP car, and immediately slowed down. The car I was following did not slow down too much, but she did tap her brakes.

Guess what happened next.

I got pulled over for speeding.

Surprise!

Apparently the speed limit where I was clocked was a mere 50 mph, and I was going 65. Since I saw this ticket coming, I didn’t protest. I didn’t play dumb, I just handed over the required documentation and took my punishment. In hindsight, I should have pulled the “I’m running to cure cancer! I need to follow that girl up there!” card, but I did not. Surprisingly, it didn’t take too long for him to write my ticket, and I was back on the highway in less than 5 minutes. Still, this setback made me want to turn around and go back to bed. I would surely be late for my 8 am start. What was the point? The lead car had sped off on her way, unkowingly leaving me in the dust. AND! She did not get tagged for speeding. Perhaps his radar gun didn’t go as high as her mph.

But I went anyway. I had to. It was a 10-mile run, and my last chance for a long run until the new year, since I will be traveling when they hold the other runs.

Hey! Did you know that it is cold as @#$% near the ocean at 8 am? It is. And was. During the run, frost formed on my gloves. My teeth chattered. The five miles out part was actually OK, despite the mud and rocks and roots from the redwoods. The scenery was lovely and distracted me from remembering I was running. FAR. I kept a pretty good pace. I was thrilled to reach the 5-mile point which meant I was halfway done and I could turn around and head back. YAY! And I was good, for the first two miles back. And then, my legs decided they didn’t want to move anymore. They suddenly hurt like hell. I think it was my hamstrings, but really, my entire leg (both of them) just felt stiff and painful. I stretched, but it didn’t help, so I pretty much walked the rest of the way. And I arrived at the finish 25 minutes later than I should have (according to the goal I had set for myself). If people hadn’t stopped to chat with me on their way to the finish, I’d probably have been in tears. Because I could not run. I did not want to run. I hated running.

When I came home, too late to attend the wine tasting outing, I did the ice bath. Fortunately, I have found a way to take my mind of the frigidity of the water. Cry. I let it all out and cried like a pansy-ass baby until the last cube was melted.

As I type this, my body is still trying to thaw out. I’m cold. I’m miserable. And I hurt. For me, this day has sucked more ass than Oprah’s liposuction technician.

I ran eight miles today along the coast of Half Moon Bay. It was gorgeous. And damn hard, let me tell you. Even with the five-minute run, 1 minute walk, it was still hard. And far. And the friggin’ wind made it seem like I was running in place for about 3 of those miles.

Since Half Moon Bay isn’t near my house, I needed to find a way to ice myself other than my usual post-run ice bath. Sitting in a car for an hour sort of lessens the benefit of the ice bath, since you’re supposed to do it soon after the run. So I rolled up my pant legs as far as I could and walked into the ocean. We stood there for 10 minutes, my TNT teammates and I, our teeth chattering. It was freezing, but if I didn’t do it, I’d be so much more sore than I will already be when I try to get out of bed tomorrow.

And I officially changed the event I’m training for. I’m doing the Napa FULL marathon. That means I only need to run just over three times further than I did today. Uhm…yeah.

…would it be THAT much harder to do twice that? Really?

It seems I have some very generous donors and I have surpassed my $1,800 minimum fund raising goal in less than two weeks. You know who you are, and I thank you from the bottom of my bottom (which is so much larger than my heart). Honestly, every dollar you donated proves to me that you have faith that I can complete the half marathon. I am ever grateful for that support. And your motivating comments will help me push through the miles. And thank you for joining in my endeavor to tell cancer to SUCK IT.

So since I’m almost to the minimum fund raising goal required to participate in a different, bigger, crazier event, I might do it. Sure, it’s a full marathon, but why not go all the way? Oh, and did I mention the name of this marathon? The Napa Valley Marathon. I like running. I like wine. It’s the perfect combination, yes? Well, except for the whole 26.2 miles thing. My ultra-supportive and fabulous mentors think I should go for it. I’m not yet convinced. I still cannot fathom running THIRTEEN MILES in one day, let alone double that. Running a half would be symbolic of kicking cancer in the ass. But going 26.2 would flip cancer the bird. With both hands. That is tempting.

Matte and I got a Nintendo Wii last week, and ever since, he is kicking my ass all over the living room playing tennis. I always considered myself a coordinated person until we got this little white box with the wireless controllers. I canNOT for the life of me beat these computerized people on the other side of the court. And if I decide to clone myself and play both players on my doubles team, I flail about and miss nearly every ball. Because, hello! I am ONE person. I can’t be two places at once. But Matte can, and now he has reached PRO status while I remain in the ranks of spastic, haphazard players who appear to be swatting at a swarm of bees.

Oh goodie! Another thing he is better than me at. (Wow. Check out that grammar!)

I am better at refraining from the Wii playing than Matte is. Which might also be to blame for my poor performance. Or is it the other way around? Do I not partake of the Wii as often as Matte does because of the extreme suckage I display? Or mayhaps it is my tennis elbow keeping me away? I think I should at least win “Most likely to look like a person really playing tennis” or something because I hit that ball SO hard (although it lobs every time). And I use my backhand when necessary, which I guess is not really necessary with the smart remote, but makes me feel so much cooler when I do it. Especially when I use two hands. Sometimes an involuntary Monica Seles-esque grunt will emit from my throat. And I even yell at the judge’s calls like John McEnroe used to. Matte just nonchalantly flicks his wrist this way and that and wins match after match, as I lay on the couch, post-match, huffing and puffing, wiping my brow with a towel and drinking Gatorade.

Oh, and my Mii (the animated character I created as me in Wii land) is so much cuter than Matte’s. She has freckles and braids, and a vacant look in her eyes like she doesn’t know what her name is. But his has devil horns. They’re actually eyebrows that he nudged up his forehead until they reached the top of his head. And he has a goatee. He looks like a satanic Backstreet Boy.

But if Nintendo comes out with a game where you clean the house? I could obliterate Matte at that one. Not that he doesn’t clean. He does. But he’s the first to admit that I clean better, faster, and more thoroughly than he does. (I have been known to dust the swords belonging to the action figures.) I just hope he never opens that one closet where I’ve hidden everything.

This morning I got up at o’dark thirty to do a trial workout with Team in Training. I haven’t had any flare-ups of my psoriatic arthritis for a couple of years, and I think I am done with ingrown toenails so now I really want to try and do a half marathon. Joining Team in Training (abbreviated as TNT, rather than tea-eye-tea for obvious reasons) will allow me to train correctly for a race, while raising money for Leukemia and Lymphoma research. Today was the first long run of the winter season, so I thought I’d check it out.

The captains separated everyone into groups and we had our choice of how far we wanted to run and what interval we wanted to do. I chose to run three miles, doing the run two minutes, walk one minute interval since I’m just getting back into the running thing. I aligned myself with some women who also looked new, and would hopefully not smoke me on the trail. I was able to keep an even pace, and talk during the running portions. When the three miles were over, I thought “that wasn’t so bad.” So, my race on Thanksgiving should be a piece of cake, since it’s just a 5K.

While we were on our run, one of the mentors was telling me how to avoid that second day soreness. She recommended ice baths. GAH! To me, a soak in the tub should be relaxing, warm, and comforting. But I will try anything if it means I can avoid the inability to sit down like a normal person. So when I got home, I put on my bathing suit, a sweatshirt and a scarf and ran the cold water into the bathtub. I went to the freezer and pulled out the tray of cubes from the ice maker. Daphne came into the bathroom, as she usually does int he mornings, when I am getting ready. She was sniffing around, looking for spiders to kill, and thought there might be one hiding the the bathtub. So, just like every other day, she jumped into the tub to investigate.

Poor Daph instantly tried to jump back out, but unable to grasp hold to anything with her claws, she was slipping and sliding and splashing water everywhere. She managed to fling herself out of the chilly water and make spastic puddles on the bathroom floor while making her tasmanian devilesque exit. I was howling with laughter and Matte could hear it, but didn’t know what had me going, until he saw the rabid and pissed off kitty fly into the living room.

The ice bath wasn’t so bad, actually. Yes, it was freezing, but it was also hilarious. Me in the tub bundled up in a sweatshirt, drinking a cup of hot cinnamon tea, while shivering and reading the Johnny-Depp-as-Sweeney-Todd cover story inEntertainment Weekly.

I think the frigid dip in the tub was less traumatic for me than it was for Daphne. But at least her muscles won’t be sore either.