A Day at the Races

If you were to see me today, you might notice that something is a little odd. "Why is she walking like a brain-damaged penguin?" You might wonder. If you had some free time, you might even ask me, "Hey, what's wrong with you? Did you lose a fight with a thigh-high bulldozer? Is it even possible to win that fight?"

"Actually," I would say, "I ran a half marathon yesterday. Do you want to hear about it?"

"No," you would reply.

"I'll take it from the beginning," I would go on.

5:30 am: Alarm goes off. Briefly consider throwing it across the room, but decide against because it's also my iPod. Stagger out of bed wondering why I ever thought this was a good idea. Dress in the running clothes I had laid out the night before (magenta quick-dry shirt, gray cullotes w/ yellow knee ties, plain but functional sneakers, blister-preventing socks, clips to keep my hair out of my eyes). Figured out (with help from Cameron) how to use the "lap" function on my watch. Ate a granola bar, drank some sports beverage. Wondered who I was and what I had done with Daisy.

5:52 am: Relayed the critical information that I was about to run a half-marathon via Facebook and Twitter.

6:15 am: Left for San Jose. We knew the way, and besides, the freeway signs are well-marked. I don't know what the big deal is about that.

7ish: Parked at HP Pavilion. Marveled at the percentage of females in the crowd. Apparently, if you think you never see women in the South Bay it's because they're all out distance-running. Walked over to the start area, decided to use the porta-potties before they got too nasty. Checked in gear, stretched, did a warm-up jog, realized we needed to use the porta-potties again. They had gotten nasty.

7:55 am: Ate a packet of mint chocolate gu. Not entirely disgusting. Said temporary goodbye to Cameron as we split off into our respective start groups.

8:00 am: Race starts!

Mini-Whinesday: Some of Us Are Here To Run 7 Miles Edition

Listen, if you are in the gym, and all of the good treadmills, the ones with the fans built into them that are very handy for people who are running long distances, happen to be in use, and you happen to notice that someone who is on one of the other treadmills (of which there are many, unoccupied) is very clearly watching to see when one of the good ones becomes available, and so you stand behind the one person who is finishing up his workout so you can snake that good treadmill before the other person who wants it can get it, all so you can do fifteen minutes of mostly walking, well, all I'm saying is there are aspects of your personality that you might want to examine more closely.

Whinesday: The Embarrassment of the Short-Distance Swimmer

As you may recall, I have been trying some new things in the exercise realm recently. That last one went fairly well, in the sense that I survived it and (I think) became a bit stronger, and got to feel unduly pleased with myself for getting up so early in the morning, but not so much in the sense that I wore too-old shoes to the first day and did something unfavorable to my Achilles tendon. Which means, if I want to have any chance of finishing the San Jose Half Marathon on the first weekend of October, I need to stay off it now and let it heal. But I still need to do my exercise, and there isn't a heck of a lot you can do in the way of cardio without putting strain on your feet.

Except swimming.

I've always considered myself a passable swimmer. I learned when I was very small, in my grandparents pool and continued my education at the very summer camps of my youth, but I've never really gotten past the "pretty sure I won't drown" stage of ability. But I thought I knew a couple of strokes (breaststroke and crawl*) and it seemed like a good interim exercise. There's even a pool in our building!

(We will not talk about the part where I buy a swimsuit, except that I would like to share my theory that sport suit manufacturers make them extra unflattering on purpose, so that you will think you need to work out more, and therefore buy more swimsuits.)