Running Hot

Today, I ran in Phoenix, AZ. It was quite possibly one of the dumbest things I've ever done (well, okay I have done much dumber things, but we're just talking about running here...).

I brought all my gear with two glaring exceptions - my hydration pack and sunscreen. This was almost enough (and would have been, given a smarter person) to derail my plans, but I missed my run yesterday in favor of Thai food, and tomorrow isn't looking so great. It was 90 degrees when we landed and fairly humid. No problem. HA!

I quickly threw my running togs on and got started. My plan was to run until I realized the futility of the endeavor, or to the shopping center across the highway, whichever came first. There's not a lot out in this direction, so I was hoping to get to the shopping center and rehydrate before I headed back. On that note, I stuffed a five dollar bill in my bra (wearing the stupid skort with an upside down pocket). I figured my cell phone would short out under those conditions, so I left it behind.

The first half of the run was fine. I did notice that empty cigarette packets were far more prevalent on the sidewalks than dog turds. I guess dogs are smarter than smokers and stay in out of the heat. I was going to turn around at the big curve in the road with the creepy bird art, but I could see the shopping center rising up out of the desert and I really did need some water. Then I remembered that there was a Chick-fil-a in that shopping center, and suddenly I had all the incentive I needed. I got hooked on their tasty sandwiches, and then suddenly all the Portland area locations closed and left me with an addiction I had no way to feed (except by making trips to Phoenix, which is almost worth the trip). Anyway, it's possible that a handbreaded chicken breast cooked in 100% peanut oil on a whole grain bun isn't the smartest option for a mid-run snack, but if Chipotle, Jamba Juice and PF Chang's can sponsor marathons and Tours de France, surely I can have one chicken sandwich. I got to the restaurant and retrieved my money, which I helpfully dried off with a napkin, much to the delight of Jackie the cashier. I ate my original on whole grain (after picking off the pickles, of course) and drank an enourmous cup of water. As I headed back, the change in my bra (Chick-fil-a really needs to get a tip jar...) was jangling, making me laugh, but the coins quickly became sweat-welded to my breasts and weren't an issue for long.

It was noticably hotter (by 10 degrees, it turns out) when I headed back. I did fairly okay until I realized the building I had been aiming for that I thought was ours was in fact not the one I was looking for. Fortunately, I knew I wasn't lost, just disoreinted enough to have no idea how much further I needed to go. By this point I had taken off my shirt and the shuffling I was doing barely qualified as a run. I knew I was close to the terminal, maybe half a mile at the most, but I also knew I was headed quickly toward dehydration, so I started thumbing for rides. Apparantly, people in Arizona suck, because no one stopped. I did have one guy I corralled in a parking lot ready to give me a ride, but then he remembered some "corporate policy" about giving strange, panting, half-naked women rides and reconsidered. I finally dragged myself in the door of the building, vowing never, ever, ever to venture out to run in triple digits again. Those were quite possibly the longest six miles of my life (well, the last two anyway). PS. I'd like to give a shout out to the fine people at Body Glide.

Running Out Front

It's possible that running out front and being directionally challenged aren't such synergistic qualities. I'm just saying it's possible. Today, during the group run I more or less accidentally ended up leading my color group through our eight-mile run. The red group is significantly smaller now that the Helvetia Half Marathon has come and gone. Not too many Clydesdales left (or whatever lady Clydesdales are called - Shetlands?). Fortunately, I planned ahead this time and grabbed a map off the water table before taking off.

Pete, the coach, told us "It's the same route we've done a dozen times." Well, I could have done it a thousand times, and I still would have no idea where to go. I seem to by lacking an important gene that governs sense of direction. I could get lost in a room with one door; I believe I may have mentioned that before.

When I passed the last coach, I asked him where to turn.
"The Safeway."
"Oh, the one on Chakalov?"
"No, that's a Fred Meyer, the one on Andresen."
"Oh, okay. And I turn left?"
"No, turn right."
"And then to Brandt?"
"No, we already ran on Brandt, you're looking for MacArther. - you have a map, right?"
"Yeah, I guess I should use it..." and off I ran, clutching my map, and consulting it every 30 seconds to make sure I was still going the right way.

This is why I like races. Because unless the event is sponsored by say, the Buffalo Wing Association, I am definitely not going to be out front, and in any case, they have those nice, clear directional signs and mile markers. What I really need, of course, are affirmation signs. After I make a turn, I want to see some kind of validation that I have gone the right way. Not just in running, but driving too. Would it be too much to ask for a sign that says, "Congratulations! you are still heading toward the airport..."

I had worn a loaner heart rate monitor that morning, and when Coach Eric brought up the information and was analyzing it, he asked me if the little spikes were stoplights. "Yes" I replied thinking (in a manner of speaking...) I spiked every time I had to make a turn because I was sure I was going to go the wrong direction.

Running for Form

This week, I ran 10 miles for the first time, and I did it at my best pace ever - 9:36 / mile. I have discovered a new technique that has been working quite well for me - I pass anyone who I can't stand to see run. To be fair, I have no idea if I have good running form or not. For all I know, I run like Elaine dances. I do know that I can't stand to run behind someone who just doesn't look like they are propelling themselves forward with any sort of efficiency or even any sort of muscle control at all. Here are some examples:

1) The Arm Flailer: There are really two sub-sets to this category. The people who hold their arms up like they are doing the doggy paddle or their arms are just useless like those little nubbins on a t-rex; and the ones who's arms hang down at their sides as though they are completely useless. Those people look like chickens, leading with their heads and their ass's are at least a foot behind. I keep expecting them to cluck.

2) The Sweet Valley High. These girls are gorgeous and lithe and look great in their tiny running shorts and bra tops, but they run like they have yet to refine any of their motor skills. Their legs are all over the place, as is the rest of them, like a noodle being flung against a wall to check for doneness. I am afraid one of these types is going to trip over her own feet (or maybe even her own arm) right in front of me and I will fall ass over tea kettle on top of her.Of course, if anyone stops, guess who is going to get the sympathy first? Maybe I should get a tiny bra top...

4) The Gossip Girls. Granted, it's fun to eavesdrop on the latest slutty thing Debbie did, or how successful the surgery went on poor Cindy's teacup poodle, but these girls are usually running triple-wide and are too absorbed in their riviting converstions to scoot over, even with my repeated (polite!) notifications that I am "ON YOUR LEFT". I am a huge running safety advocate, and I hate watching someone basically put themselves in the path of cars, bikes and wild cayotes from sheer inattentiveness.

3) The Lumbering Clydesdale. Nothing against Clydesdales, I've seen some big guys run very gracefully. Mainly, I can't stand think I am slower than someone who easily outweighs me by 200 lbs, so I am compelled to pass them. The hell of this type is that inevitably, they pass me three miles down the road. But then I have a new goal - to pass them again - so I guess it works itself out.

Well, that covers my pet peeves for today. Not bad for someone who is basically a virgin runner. I am sure I will refine my list of irritations once I have a marathon or two under my belt. Stay tuned.