My Teeny Tiny Tri

There's nothing quite like the feeling of saying, "I did a triathlon" even when you preface it heavily by explaining that although it's technically a triathlon it's really the most junior version possible. Called a 20.20.20, it's sponsored by the student rec center and involves twenty minutes of swimming in the pool, twenty minutes on a stationary bike and twenty minutes of running on the indoor track. There's also nothing like the feeling of showing up for a triathlon and realizing that all of the other competitors are fit college students of the traditional age, and some of them actually are triathletes. That feeling? Not as good. I had, however, already paid my entry fee and I really wanted the t-shirt, which was a real "finishers" shirt and not available for simple purchase by a slightly over-weight graduate student mother unless she actually completed an hour of what suddenly seemed to be torturous physical activity.

Fortunately, my partner in crime (husband Aaron) had agreed to join me, so I wasn't the only senior citizen in the group. As is traditional in a tri, we hit the pool first. If I had any residual skepticism that the other competitors were in better shape that I, it was quickly wiped away when I got a look at the chiseled abs of my fellow swimmers. Aaron and I had both taken swimming lessons in order to actually achieve something better than a doggie paddle for this event, but with only a few weeks under our belts, we were far from graceful. I had to stop and pant heavily after each lap and had all kinds of problems keeping my rascally swim goggles from flooding my left eye with water. Our timer was a good sport, especially when I kept asking him if we were done yet (not so I could get in one last lap, but so I could stop the insanity).

Finally our twenty minutes were up and I headed into the locker room to change for the cycling portion. Instead of making rapid transitions, as in a real triathlon, we had ten minutes to change and get to the stationary bikes. Which was a good thing because I think it took me nine and a half minutes to get my damn sports bra on. I always thought getting a wet sports bra off was a pain in the ass. I will never complain about that again, because putting one on when your body is wet is a zillion times more difficult and the situation went from comical to ridiculous to practically suicidal before I finally had the girls properly contained.

Getting that damn bra on did nothing to reduce my heart rate, nor did the two flights of stairs to get to the bikes. I was the last one to arrive and had just enough time to adjust my seat but not enough time to figure out where I was supposed to put my water bottle, which I ended up staring longingly at for twenty minutes since I had failed to notice the clever holder on the bike and left it instead on the floor. Some rockin' '80's music took some of the pain of boredom from the "ride" but none of the pain of the bicycle seat from my sensitive parts. I thought I was doing pretty well on the miles in this portion of the event, little did I know the odometer was set for kilometers. Oh well. I was just happy, if somewhat bow-legged, to be finished.

Wonder Twin powers activate! Form of: Triathletes

The indoor track was on the same floor as the bikes and we didn't have to change for the running portion, so we just milled around waiting to start. Not in that bridled-energy way like an elite athlete--more like that let's-get-this-over-with way of a rueful amateur. Of course, running is my strength so I was actually pretty happy to get started on the track. I didn't account for the fact that this indoor track is less than a quarter of the size of an outdoor track, forcing near-90-degree turns on what is essentially a concrete surface. I am used to getting passed, but on such a small track, I was literally ticking off my distance by how many times a specific runner lapped me (twice for every time I went around).

The best part of this experience was being finished (or possibly walking around afterward with a Sharpied number on my hand, branding me as a triathlete). The worst part is that I finished less than a tenth of a mile behind the amateur winner. This isn't so bad in and of itself, it's bad because now I feel compelled to tri again...

Put a Bird on it: An ugly race shirt, but a beautiful race

Awesome logo not located on shirt

It was the fall of 2009. I was at packet pick-up for Run Like Hell, one of the last races of the season, when I saw it across the room. My eyes drawn to the bright, swirling logo like a tween to a Justin Bieber concert--I knew I had to run the Eugene Marathon right then. Just for the shirt. Seriously.

So, fast forward two years and imagine my dismay when, after years of beautiful, professional, graphic designs and in spite of their fabulous logo, the shirt I get fits like a grocery sack, has a logo seriously lacking in creativity or even a nice font, and is the color of a frozen corpse.Of course, a bitchin' shirt is probably one of the least legitimate reasons for running a marathon. Even so, it did put a damper on the expo before the race. It's a good thing there was a mediocre pasta feed to perk me up afterwords. Okay, so the food didn't do the perking so much as sharing a meal with my husband, my race friends and one random guy who unwittingly sat at our table.

Race day itself dawned glorious and sunny, though there was frost on the windshield when we left the hotel. Aaron made sure I took breakfast with me for the bus ride to the starting area, but I couldn't quite stomach everything and ended up searching in vain for a trash can in which to throw my banana. There were plenty of potties, but not a rubbish bin to be seen. I ended up leaving it on top of a parked car between miles one and two. You're welcome, owner of the gray Nissan Sentra.

As usual, I did not scrutinize the race map as much as I should have to be prepared for the run. I didn't think I would have a chance of breaking my  PR, or Personal Record (4:31:19 set last year at Seattle Rock 'n' Roll) so I didn't really have much of a plan beyond my typical start-slow-and-finish-strong strategy. I did spend some time in rush hour traffic the Friday before playing with my new pace calculator app and figured I would try and keep around a 10:40/mile pace, which would put me in about the 4 hr 45 min range.

I had the good fortune of running with a terrific running buddy of mine, Andrea. We started out together with the agreement that there would be no pressure or expectation of running the whole event together. At about mile five, I started looking for a port-a-potty. I hate this about races because I rarely have to stop for a bathroom break on a long training run. I've come to the conclusion that it must be a result of drinking several ounces of water at a time when I go through the aid stations on a supported course verses taking regular tiny sips from my bottle on a training run (because I carry Perpetuem in my bottle for marathons and need to supplement with plain water). Of course I know that now, but by the time I hit mile eight I really, really had to pee. My average pace at this point was 10:22, so on one hand, I was well ahead of my goal, but on the other hand, it was more irksome because I realized a pace like that did but me within striking distance of a new PR. My bladder, of course, didn't care and so I lost about 4 minutes waiting in line.

I spent the next several miles trying to gain back some of that lost time. I caught up with Andrea and we continued to run together. I think around mile 11 or 12 we both commented that we hadn't seen a port-a-potty in a while. This of course made my bladder sit up and take notice and I immediately worried that I would have to make another pit stop. I figured the lines would ease up after the half-marathoners split off, and I was right: the course was like a ghost town. This was great for bathroom lines, and when I finally saw another port-a-potty at mile 15, I went for it like a fat person grabs a cookie on the eve of a new diet plan. I spent considerably less time on this stop because there was barely a line and only lost about a minute. Enough time to realize that not everyone was having such a good race--there was a crumpled up bib number in the urinal that had clearly been treated like Calvin treats the Chevy logo when he is stuck in the back window of a Ford.

I stuck with Andrea for one more mile and we parted ways at mile 16 after verifying that our mutual friend, Christian would be running her in at mile 20. I ran by myself for a few miles, enjoying the beautiful riverside scenery and then paired up with a nice mortgage broker named Eric for a few miles. He was very nice and shared his gel and running stories with me as I started ramping up for the last ten kilometers. Of course, the photographer caught us on a walk break, so we both faked like we were running. I lost my new friend to an aid station around mile 21, but I started gaining speed. I had a nice rhythm going until an emo duo in the park killed my buzz with a slooooooooow love song. I said, "pick up the pace!" perhaps a little too loudly as two girls turned around and glared at me as though I had been talking to them. Oops! My bad.

Me passing two men with a bonus look at the ugly shirt  (rt)

I had arrived at my favorite part of the marathon--the last four or so miles. I usually am slightly giddy with the prospect of finishing and run about a minute per mile faster than my average for the first half of the race. The best part is that I get to pass a lot of people. I was going to make an analogy to sick caribou here, but it would probably be tasteless, so forget I mentioned it.

My husband was there to take photos of me toward the end and then he ran me in to the the start of the stadium. I don't really remember this part except that I was probably bitchy and moaning about how hard it was right before kicking it in to an eight minute pace for the last two tenths of a mile. It was fun running into Hayward Field, though being new to running and a non-native Oregonian, I don't think it carried as much meaning for me as it may have for others. I did purposefully avoid watching myself on the jumbotron, though apparently, this late in the race the photographers had nothing better to do than take a bazillion terrible photos of me crossing the line. My time was 4:32:28. I can't help regretting that first bathroom stop, because it may have made the difference for a PR, but I won't regret running the Eugene Marathon (except every time I wear the shirt).

Running for Bacon

The real reason I run is so I can eat bacon. It's true, I'll do anything for pork products (okay, not anything, but things most people wouldn't do, like run a marathon). I've been struggling with weight more or less since Junior High, though not on an extreme scale. Right now, I'd like to lose the fifteen pounds I put on pretty much the moment I was (mis)diagnosed with a stress fracture at the end of last summer. Wishing and hoping haven't been doing the trick, so I decided to go back to the tried and true method of counting calories.

The first time I did this was back in 2006 the first (and only unless you count my final weeks of pregnancy) time I hit 200 pounds. I used a site called MyFoodDiary.com and lost 16 lbs just by paying attention to what I was putting in my mouth.  MyFoodDiary was great for giving feedback on the quality of calories I was consuming. The first time I realized that most yogurt is actually sugar disguised as a health food was because MyFoodDiary gave me a frowny face. It was also the first time I realized exactly how out of control the sodium content is in most processed foods.  It doesn't hurt that this was also around the same time that I read Omnivore's Dilemma and In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan, a food genius whose manifesto, "Eat food, not too much, mostly plants" has been life changing. The information I gleaned from those books and tracking my calories has served me well, not just in forever weaning me from frozen pizza, but also in watching my sugar and sodium intake, and more importantly, guiding my decisions about my daughter's diet.

This time around, after increasing my running back up to pre-injury levels but still holding fast to my extra pounds like a looter to a TV set, I decided to go back to counting calories to see if that was the problem (as opposed to hormones or a vengeful God). Though I am using a different site (LoseIt.com) which was recommended by a friend and happens to be FREE, it has basically pointed out the same thing: I have let crap creep back into my diet for the sake of convenience. I was also eating as much on my running days as on my rest days, which is why I was unable to shed the pounds. In addition, through the use of a heart rate monitor, I have discovered that I burn far fewer calories than I thought I was while running. The 100 calories per mile rule-of-thumb does not apply to me, most likely because I don't have a lot of muscle mass. On a recent 5.2 mile run, I burned 402 calories, about 120 fewer calories than I would have previously estimated. That translates into four squares of chocolate, which I would have eaten in ignorant bliss using the standard formula, resulting in a pound of weight gain over the course of a month if I were to do that every day. 

One tricky thing about counting calories is that it can have a deleterious effect if you aren't careful because it is so much easier to record the calories conveniently displayed on the back of a package than it is to figure out how many calories are in your homemade pasta sauce and fresh salad. Nearly all calorie-counting  sites (certainly the ones I have used) allow you to build recipes to help this process, but it is still far more time consuming than just searching a list of brand-name items. The rub of course is that homemade is so much better for you health-wise than most packaged products. It's nearly impossible to accurately count calories at a restaurant, but hey, maybe it's a good time to go on a money diet too.

The other thing I have done to lose weight is add weight training to my fitness regimen. I joined a group class at Twist, which has a weight lifting component and also use kettle bells for a short routine I can do at home. Muscle burns more calories than fat, so adding muscle is a natural way to lose weight. Plus, I feel pretty bitchin' when I swing that kettle bell around, which almost cancels out the anxiety I feel about the possibility that one of these days it will slip and smash through the sliding glass door.

So far I have lost four pounds even with the depressive eating binge I went on when I thought I had gained back the first two pounds I lost because I forgot to account for my menstrual cycle. It's probably not enough to give me a good shot at a PR for the Eugene marathon I am running on Sunday (fat = slow) but it's enough to get me back into my favorite jeans, and for that (and for bacon) I will stick with the program.

I Heart Trail Races!

This past weekend, my husband and I ran the Spokane River Run 25k. We hadn't planned to run this race, but I accidentally signed up for both Bloomsday (a 12k in Spokane) and the Eugene Marathon, which turned out to be on the same day (a fact I probably could have figured out in a 5 second Google search). Anyway, after I figured out my ridiculous error, I went searching for another race we could do in Spokane because I really did want to make a trip over there to see my family. The River Run was the big winner, based on date and course route (no double loops!).

It had been raining for nearly two months straight in Portland, so the thing I was most looking forward to about the trip was some sunshine and I was not disappointed; race day dawned sunny and beautiful. This was of course, terrific, but it did put me in a quandary about what to wear: a short-sleeved shirt with arm sleeves or a long-sleeved, mid-weight, quarterzip? Should I add a tank top to layer under either option? I didn't want to be cold, but I really didn't want to overheat. I chose the tank and the quarterzip,  but ended up taking off the tank top when we got there and it was already starting to warm up. Of course, I spent much of the race blessing and cursing my choice: Brrrrr, it sure is chilly standing here (bless) wow, I'm really starting to warm up now that I'm running (curse) boy, it's cold up here on the ridge (bless) cripes, this sun is hot (curse). In the end, it turned out to be exactly the right choice--I never did get too hot or too cold.

Looking at the elevation map didn't really give me too much information about the course. I figured there would be hills, and sure enough, there were. I was delighted to find that most of the course was single-track, which means that the trail is only wide enough for runners to go single-file. This is my favorite kind of trail because even though it may be frustrating to be stuck behind someone (or have someone stuck behind you) the mental energy it takes to strategize how to overtake a runner or runners at the next wide spot in the trail makes the time fly by. I mainly passed people on the downhill portions because I have been doing a new training program at Twist that has really improved my lateral stability. I was able to sail past others who were picking their way down the rocky trail because I had confidence that my strength and agility would keep me safe. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite as satisfying as passing a dozen other runners at a time. The only way this ever happens to me in a road race is if I skip an aid station.

Me obstructing a view of the Spokane River

It was such a beautiful day that I stopped to take pictures twice, at which point all of the runners I had recently passed got to pass me. I figured I could get them again at the next downhill. Unfortunately, there were no more good downhills (mental note: pay more attention to the course map). I really wasn't too disappointed though, as this was really a fun run for me, not something I have been training for over a long period of time and the Eugene Marathon is just two weeks away anyway, so I didn't want to push too hard. As the race progressed, I found myself further and further from other runners (both ahead and behind me). Although the course was very well marked, I did have a moment of anxiety in the last mile when I though for sure I had taken a wrong turn somewhere because there were no more arrows. The path was straight, and normal people would not have needed "confirmation" markers, but I could get lost in a room with one door and thus need more reassurance than normal people when it comes to directions. I ended up finishing with a time of 2:48:32, which is not that fast, but I was perfectly satisfied with it because I had such a wonderful time running. I didn't know it, but my husband was only a few minutes ahead of me at the end and ran straight to a port-a-potty*. I believe he may have scared the shit (literally) out of the guy in the one next door when he shouted with glee when my name was called out as I finished.
**I just took advantage of the fact that I was basically alone on the course and peed behind a tree. Another key advantage of the trail race.

The thing about trail running that I find most contradictory is that I dislike training on trails, but I love running trail races**. The reason for this is that in a race, all the fast people are already ahead of me because it's a race and we all start in a group with the fast people out front. During training, I usually run with my husband, which is great, but I constantly feel as though I am slowing him down, or I'm by myself (which is fine). But either way, I am constantly getting passed by other trail runners who are all going at least five minutes per mile faster than I am and who squash my ego a little further with each fleet footfall of their Five Fingers.
**Hagg Lake is the exception.

However, I know I can attribute the slow conquering of my hill-loathing to running trail races (when I am more apt to force myself to run up those hills) and that running trails makes me a better road racer. I also feel that trail running is gentler on my body by virtue of the fact that real trails contain neither asphalt nor concrete. The scenery is generally gorgeous, the post race support of a trail race usually exceeds that of a road race, and I get to wear my bitchin' trail shoes.What's not to love?

Humble Pie

Soon-to-be-crushed optimism.

My first 50k didn't turn out too well; in fact, it turned out to be a 25k.

I could tell you it was due to the crazy course conditions, but the real reason is that I was over-confident and under-prepared.

It seemed like a good idea in November—a 50k in February would be just the thing to help keep me motivated over the winter. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. I had taken six weeks off in September and October to deal with an injury, and my busy life reclaimed the time I had carved out for running. Instead of motivating me, my first 50k loomed on the horizon like impending doom. There always seemed to be a good reason why I couldn’t fit in my weekly runs and in the back of my mind, I knew I wasn’t training enough.

About two weeks before the race, I finally headed out to Forest Grove to check out the route (and to claim my superstar parking pass for attending an official training run). The course, which circles Hagg Lake twice with a small out-and-back to get the mileage up, was fairly dry when I ran it that day. It was somewhat muddy and challenging, but when I finished most of the first loop, I felt more than able to run it again. The thing is, the weather had been fair for almost a month prior to that run, but (of course) it started raining later that day and didn't let up for two weeks—just in time for the race. Words cannot adequately convey what all that precipitation did for the trail conditions.

Pure awesome. (But not for running.)

It started out innocently enough with the 1.5 mile out-and-back up a gravel road. There was snow on the ground, but it was a beautiful sunny day. My husband and I started out at the back of the pack and took our time, pacing ourselves for the longest distance either of us had ever run. My strategy was to walk the steeper hills and whenever the mud was too deep to run in without maximum effort. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the majority of the course. I had wanted to run the whole race with Aaron, but I was clearly holding him back and frustrating us both. He really tried to get my level of motivation up and actually got me to run a sub-10:00 minute pace for about a half mile on the highway between trails, but we ended up making an amicable decision to part ways for the remainder of the race.

So I watched my husband streak off and I resumed my run-walk-slide-hop progression through the mud. It was a pretty frustrating way to run really—I’d just find a rhythm and then the course would degenerate into a soupy pit, only to dry out just in time for a steep incline. Or worse, the steep incline and the soup would merge and I had to pull myself up the hill with brush, nearby tree branches and the occasional blackberry vine. The only thing that saved the run from being entirely soul-sucking was that the conditions were far too terrible to take seriously (I actually laughed when I saw the washed-out bridge and the creek I’d have to ford). I mulled over the decision to complete the second loop or not for the next eight or so miles, which I covered at a snail-ish 17:00 minute pace (plenty of time to mull). When I broke through some trees and saw the finish line on the far side of the lake, I was so demoralized that I seriously thought about going for an icy swim (hey, it would wash the mud off!).

Shortly after the last aid station, I crested a hill and saw Aaron waiting for me. I have never been so relieved than when he told me he was too wrecked for loop two. We ran the last bit together and both refused the finisher socks (since we didn’t really finish). It took me four hours and sixteen minutes to run the 25k; that's only slightly less time than it takes for me to run a marathon, even though the distance is over ten miles shorter.

Like this all the way up to my hips. (And this is after I scraped my shoes!)

I took two lessons away from this experience. First, I will never under-train for a race again. I had gotten over-confident after beating my course record by over 30 minutes during the Portland marathon after six weeks of complete rest due to injury. Reading several stories about professional ultra-marathoners didn’t help—I always paid attention to what I wanted to hear, like a woman whose longest training run for a 100-miler only is 20 miles (the rest is mental) or a man who decided to run 30 miles on his 30^th birthday, half drunk and barely dressed after twelve years away from the sport (he ran with his heart). While sitting on my ass reading about these athletes’ heads and hearts, I blithely ignored the most important thing—to prepare my body. It takes a lot of time and effort to adequately train for a race, and I wasn’t putting in the miles. It’s as simple as that.

Second, I will never run a double-loop race again. It is far too easy to quit in the middle when you’re fifty feet from your car and you know exactly how grueling the second half is going to be. In a point-to-point or even an out-and-back, the desire to finish the race for emotional reasons and the need to finish the race for logistical reasons merge and become greater than each reason on its own. As the mileage increases, the debate rages between my heart (I really want to finish this race!) my head (My ride is at the finish line; I have to get there somehow, so it might as well be running!) and my body (I’m so tired! I’m in so much pain!). When your car and your family are right there at the mid-point and it’s so easy to just quit and go home, the body latches onto the logic of stopping and all other arguments pale in comparison. So this race, my aching legs, bruised hip (I fell) and scratched and swollen hands convinced my head that the sane choice was to bail out. What I forgot to consult was my heart; it’s not so comfortable with the fact that I quite. And so, Hagg Lake won’t be my last 50k, it will just be my last failed attempt.

Course Matters

My favorite thing about a race course (and the only thing I thought mattered) used to be that there are so many people running on it that I couldn't possibly get lost. That's still my favorite thing, but I have found there are other things that can be good or bad about a course. Here are two examples:

The Seattle Rock and Roll Marathon. It barely occurred to me to look up the course before I ran this race. It certainly wasn't a consideration when I chose to sign up, nor did I factor it into my training regimen. My thinking was, "I liked the half last year, so I should love the full, right?" WRONG.

The first half of the course is beautiful: full of pretty scenery, residential neighborhoods and tree-lined streets. After mile nine, the courses diverge and the full-marathoners head out across a floating bridge and back. Pay attention here, because the out-and-back component is a major feature of this race. The bridge wasn't horrible; it was flat and the day was somewhat overcast so the lack of shade wasn't that big of a deal. After heading back off the bridge, we met up with the half course again for a few miles, staying with them until we could smell the finish line and then out past the jubilation for another out-and-back, turning around at mile 18.5. The only good part of this is that I knew exactly how envious the runners were who had yet to make the u-turn as they stared glassy-eyed and longingly in my direction--because I was one of them a few short miles ago.

Meanwhile, I am pounding away on concrete, bermed (is that a word) freeway. I guess one good thing about the out-and-back model is that I screwed up my hips equally on both sides from the curvature of the road.

The course passes the finish once again at mile 23, close enough that I could hear the cheers and continues on for a final (you guessed it!) out-and-back. I'm normally a fan of this model, but it doesn't hold nearly the same charm when you double back so many times. For the last 3.2 miles I got to run near the wharf. As if running a marathon wasn't vomit-inducing enough, the course adds some nice dead-fish tang to the equation.

There was one good thing about this last bit of the course--half of it was downhill. The only problem was it was the first half. As every runner on an out-and-back knows, if it's downhill on the way down, it's uphill on the way back. Son of a bitch. The last .2 miles was the same as every other marathon I've ever run (okay, so there have only been two, but it made an impression). In fact, I think I will save my rant on the demoralizing quality of the .2 in another post, possibly entitled, "Point-F*#!ing-Two." To neatly tie up this story, despite the atrocious nature of the last half of the course, I was able to PR by nearly 45 minutes. I was 28 seconds off my goal of 4:30:59 (see Point-F*#!ing-Two).

The second race that made me question the wisdom of signing up for a race without scrutinizing the course was the Fueled by Fine Wine half marathon. Oddly enough, this is a good story. Before I signed up, I had a look at the course and even read a blogged description of it online. "Sure," they said, "there are some hills. You won't clock your best time, but you'll have the best time!" I bet they said it with a smirk on their face and a false, jocular tone. Having learned my lesson about knowing what to expect, I looked at elevation maps and practically memorized the blog post. I was expecting a big hill from mile 6 to 8, but then the worst would be over and it would be more or less downhill from there. And so it seemed until I turned the corner at around mile 11 and was confronted with a hill so steep that every single person on the course was walking. Even the guy with the Ironman logo tattooed on his calf and the old chicken-legged master that could run laps around me up and down Leaf Erickson (and probably does). The crazy thing about this is that it was so preposterous, instead of feeling demoralized, there was this collective sense of unfettered joy. Suddenly everyone had permission not to worry about their time or to be ashamed of walking; everyone was walking. I am sure that the beautiful day and stunning scenery of vineyards added to this phenomenon. The fabulous and plentiful wine at the end didn't hurt either.

In general, I think I will be more careful about selecting which courses to run. The problem with this new found wisdom is that I have yet to complete two more marathons that I have already committed to, and which I signed up for prior to realizing how much a the course really does matter. I am sure I will be back complaining about the Nike Women's Marathon and the Columbia Gorge Marathon in October.

Running Late

Sometimes Mother Nature conspires against  you, and sometimes you just screw things up all by yourself.

Mental note: do not share a pitcher of PBR the night before a race. Maybe it's just me, but carbo-loading with beer (though delicious and fun) inevitably means I will have to carbo un-load in the morning.

On this particular morning, I was assigned a 16 mile run. I'd already registered for the Earthday 10k, so I thought I'd be clever and combine the runs by parking five miles from the starting line--compelling me to finish all 16 miles or hitchhike home. I scouted Google maps and consulted a Portland expert to find a likely spot for my car. I set out for Lake Oswego, having taken care of business ;) before I left bright and early.

I got to the school parking lot and started getting my gear ready. I was wearing a hydration pack without the bladder so that I would have a place to carry my dry clothes, gels, and the inevitable race swag. I carried my Nuun electrolyte drink in a hand-held water bottle and I'd already swiped my important bits with Body Glide. The only thing I didn't have were my carefully written, turn-by-turn directions. Apparently, they had somehow missed the transition from kitchen table gear pile to tightly packed bag.

Bitchcakes! I am so directionally challenged, I practically qualify for ADA status. I knew the general direction I was supposed to be heading, but decided to bring along some insurance in the form of my Garmin Nuvi, a navigational device for cars (not, as it turns out, runners).

This little hiccup in my plan set me behind somewhat, and I would have to run sub 10-minute miles to get to the race on time. The second and bigger hiccup arrived in the form of G.I. distress about a mile into the run. Cheap beer, like cheap hookers may offer instant gratification, but tends to have regrettable consequences. If Google ever asks me how I like their walking map beta, I'm going to tell them that they need to add public restrooms to the list of menu items that can be incorporated into the route. The particular path I was on was full of industrial parks, significantly lacking in public restrooms; and sparse brush, significantly lacking in both camouflage and make-shift toilet-paper options. I'm sure my chiropractor would be appalled at the biomechanics of my gait: trying to run with a tightly clinched ass and a rigid, mincing stride was probably not doing my joints any favors. Things were not looking good for an on-time arrival.

At last, like an oasis in the desert, I saw a gas station up ahead, approximately .2 miles from the race, where tent peaks were sprawled across the parking lot like a Bedouin camp. I ran into the station and made a bee line for the restroom... which was locked. I practically lapped the inside of the convenience store before I found the clerk crouched down in the chip aisle restocking the Funions. I asked her for the key, and she informed me that someone was already in there, so I stalked back to the bathroom door and crossed my arms (and my legs) to wait... and wait... and wait... Every time I heard the paper towel dispenser thump,  I would get my hopes up that this person would soon be vacating the premises I so desperately wanted to occupy, but that door never did open, and time was ticking. It was about five minutes before the start of the race when I decided to give up on the obsessive-compulsive hand-washer in the gas station john and try my luck at the event port-a-potties.

This turned out to be almost as bad of a decision as drinking beer the night before. There were only four toilets for all 200+ participants and however many spectators and volunteers. Not four banks of toilets--four toilets, TOTAL. A fifth grader could have told the organizers that this was a serious oversight. But, having no choice, I joined the line of people snaked in front of the honey buckets.

Over the loudspeaker, I heard them announce that the 10k would start about ten minutes late. "Thank goodness for small favors" I thought, as I hopped from foot to foot. Then they announced the imminent start time....and then the gun went off. Without me. Because surely, anyone who orders only four johns for more than 300 people did not consider for a moment the need for toilets on the course. I had no choice. I continued to wait in line. and wait. and wait.

Finally, much relieved, I trotted over to the start line to make sure I could start with the 5k'ers. Not so, they said. I would have to start immediately for my chip to work properly. The head honcho hopped on his walkie talkie and announced that there was some chick who was in the bathroom for a really long time ("long line, I said long line!") and still wanted to do the 10k. So, traffic was stopped and I ran off down a completely empty course, crossing my fingers that I would make the right turns.

I didn't see a soul for the first mile. Convinced that I had gotten off track, I had just decided to run three miles and turn around so that I could at least make my training goal when I finally saw a little yellow sign marked "runners." About a half mile later, I passed a race volunteer, who despite the extra perky, "way to go!" couldn't quite disguise her look of utter confusion over whether I was an elite 5k runner or just a really fucking slow 10k runner. I passed some walkers at mile two, and despite having over a ten minute delay on my start time, managed to catch up with some actual runners at about mile three and a half.

I did finish the race and set a new personal record of 58:43, though I did not stick around to partake of the free beer (consider that lesson learned).