My Favorite Wisconsin Marathon Moments

1. The anticipation in the car on the drive to the start line in the dark. It's the moment anything is possible.
   
2. The Mayfly orgy on the picnic table before the race started. (Thankfully, the breeze picked up and the swarming Mayflies were history by the time the race officially started.)
   
   
   
3. The conversation overheard at the start line about Mittens. Even in May in Wisconsin you have to think about mittens? No. The Mitten Challenge is a two races in two states in two days event shared by the Wisconsin Marathon and the Kalamazoo MI Marathon. You could run the half (called Half & Half Challenge) or the full (the Mittens Challenge) and get a cool medal for doing it. More power to 'em, but I'm pretty sure that's not me.
   
4. The thinking how nice it would be to live on the race course itself. At one point, a guy and girl behind me were discussing pulling over at his house so he could swap out his running tights for shorts and so she could use the bathroom.
   
5. The guy with the green trombone that first appeared between Miles 1 and 2, then again between Miles 3 and 4 ... and finally on Mile 10-ish. He was playing the "Go Big Red" jingle from Badger games in the beginning and some slow, sad, New Orleans-sounding thing at the end. I often wonder what possesses people to participate in an event like that.
   
6. Which brings me to my two favorite spectators. The first I'll call FrankenShe. She was a very tall (as in sideshow tall) woman and had gray hair, glasses, and that "giantess" look about her. She must have been walking on the beach because she was sporting two walking poles. I passed by her just after Mile 5. She was cheering from the sidelines ... her hands raised up in the air, fists pumping. "You are all amazing! I am so proud of each and every one of you! You did the work! You trained so hard! You are doing it! Good job! You look strong!" She was yelling at the top of her voice, and she kept on yelling as everyone passed.
   
7. The second, Coach Clapper. He was mid to late 50s, I'd guess. Fit, tidy, shorts and a windbreaker.  His voice was HUGE and he was stationed on the downtown stretch, around Mile 3. I heard him before I saw him, pacing the "sidelines" like a coach at the Final Four, clapping and shouting. "Looking good. Looking strong. Good job! That's it!" He was still standing in that spot ... which become Mile 11 on the out-and-back route ... when I had just wrapped up a miserably slow Mile 10. The woman in front of me was walking. I was, too. "NO ONE WALKS IN FRONT OF ME!" he said. "NO ONE! You've got this. You can do this! You've got something left in the tank, I can see it!" And she started running. So did I. Miserable or not, I wanted to please him because he genuinely seemed to care. He showed up again at the 26-mile mark ... or .2 from the finish line for me. There he was, clapping and cheering, like the best high school coach you ever had. "Only .2 to go, kick it in! You got this! Finish strong! Good job! Good job!" By now we were old friends, or so it seemed, and I kind of wanted to hug him because I needed to hear those words at that moment. I couldn't tell if he had someone in the race, if he was part of the volunteer race crew or just a guy who liked cheering people on.
   
8. The signs made by spectators, designed to inspire runners. Or make them giggle:
   "Run faster ... I just farted!"
   "Pain is temporary. Internet results are forever."
   
9. The Polkaholics. Yes, that's right a rock/polka band. They were pretty amazing. I imagine it's weird to play a gig at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. They were wearing purple sequined vests ... I mean, what else would you expect?
   
10. The guy who said, "Lisa Sympson! Looking good!" I was just approaching Mile 6 and he had already hit the turn around, so he was a good 3 or 4 miles ahead of me. I turned to look to see who it was, responded with a "HEY!" and a smile. But I have no earthly idea who it was. I searched the race results for someone from Janesville or Beloit or Fort Atkinson and found no one I knew. It's a mystery.
    
11. The soft-spoken runner in the yellow and white striped running skirt who came up behind me at Mile 10 and barely whispered, "You're doing great. Keep going." She caught me off guard. "I'm pissed at myself," I blurted out before I could edit ... as if she wanted to hear my internal dialogue. "We're almost there," she said. "Only a 5K to go. You can do it." And off she went. It was nice of her. And it reminded me that that's the person on the course I want to be.
    
12. The sun coming up over the lake and this patient, kind, brave, strong, handsome man there with me to watch it. (His favorite part of the day was not this one. It was watching a guy take off his shoe at the finish line to reveal a completely bloody soaked sock. Which, honestly, makes me love him even more. 

Half ... Fast! Or Half-Assed?

I considered so many titles for this post. Among the contenders:

A Bad Day to Have a Bad Day
A Beautiful Day for a Jog
Here's My List of Excuses Justifications
The Training 101 Lesson I Forgot
Get Over Yourself
13.1 is 13.1, No Matter How You Look At It

I waited until today to write this, hoping something poetic would come over me and I could find a way to put into words what I was feeling about my run yesterday.

The day had a beautiful and promising start. They all do, right? 

Since divine intervention has not come, I'm just going to give you a quick rundown of the facts first:

1. The weather was picture perfect. Sunny enough. Cool enough. Breezy enough but not too much.
2. The course was really wonderful ... we ran along the lake for much of the time. And when we weren't in the park alongside the lake, we were in some truly beautiful neighborhoods of Kenosha with grand, old-money homes or on the charming streets of the historic downtown. It was also very flat with just a couple of low rolls. 
3. The race was really well-organized for such a big event ... 4000 runners. Parking was a little complicated, but that's to be expected with such a big group. 
4. I started strong ... maybe too fast. The first 5 miles flew by. Note to self: Buy a running watch.
5. My most important muscle started giving me trouble at Mile 6. My brain, that is. My hips started hurting around Mile 10. 
6. I stopped to pee, which I've never done in a race before. Not once. Not twice. Not three times. No, I had to pee FOUR times on the course. Or thought I did. 
7. I walked all of Mile 11. I walked because I had to pee so badly that I was afraid to run. And when I got to the port-a-potty at Mile 12 (which was out of hand sanitizer by the way), essentially nothing happened. I couldn't go. The only water I was making, so to speak, were a few frustrated tears. 
8. I had another thee-quarters of a mile of walking throughout miles 6-11, too. 
9. I was beyond pissed off at myself for apparently not training right. 
10. I finished 27 seconds ahead of my "if you go over this time, you have failed miserably" time at 2:29:33. That's 20 minutes behind my first half and a whopping 6 minutes ahead of my half walk/half run effort in 2013. 

I'm struggling with how to process this. The day didn't go like I wanted it to and I finished about 15 full minutes behind where I thought I would. I'm mad at myself for letting my head get in my way. I am disappointed that I put all that time in to train, but didn't do it right. So was it a waste of time altogether?

It sucks to be disappointed in yourself.

On the other hand, I had a bad day. Bad days happen. I still finished 13.1 miles and that's nothing to sneeze at. The real lesson in this is what I do from this point. Where do I go from here? I can feel sorry for myself or I can chalk it up as experience and move on. I know now how important training my brain is. I also know now that I can't, apparently, train only on a treadmill for a big event.

Maybe that's the lesson I'm supposed to take from this. The lesson of how to NOT let my finish time or the walking get to me. The lesson of how to find my mental toughness again and keep going.

Because the funny thing is that never once on the course did I feel like I wouldn't finish. Never once did I doubt crossing that line. In fact, at the turnaround point for the Half, where the Full marathoners kept going straight, I had the thought that I knew I could walk another 13 if I really wanted to.

I'm stiff today. (More proof that I didn't train right.) But I'm feeling better about it all. Part of me is eyeing up future races because I want to prove to myself that this was a fluke.

So, this story might not be over yet.

I think this might be me. Or at least it's the me I want to be.
Standing tall. Strong. Ready to take on whatever the day brings.
(The park where the race started/finished was full of interesting art.)

The Old Girl Don't Bounce Back Like She Used To!

Well, we're at T-minus 12 days to the Kenosha half marathon. I'm ready, in that I know I'll finish. But I'm also sure there will be no PR.

I did 13.1 miles on Sunday morning ... indoors, because I had a super tight time-frame to get things done and had to take 15 minutes to make a call for work somewhere around Mile 4.

And when I was done, I showered, climbed in my car, and then started on a road trip with some of my favorite people ... a road trip that ended at Ikea and the mall.

So if you're keeping score at home, that's 13.1 miles running with an additional mile of warm up and cool down, sitting cramped up in a car for about 3 hours total, and walking for another 3-3.5 hours.

This is, of course, after my first RIPPED class in over two weeks on Saturday.

I was a hurtin' unit on Monday. My body hurt and I was tired. Really. Really. Tired.

And I felt old. Really. Really. Old.

The whole thing reminded me how important those rest days are.

And I took one on Monday. The ol' Fitbit said I moved less than 3,000 steps and I was in bed, watching DVR'd Mad Men by 7:30 p.m.

But that's OK.

This is sort of how the Old Gray Mare that is me moved on Monday.
But I didn't wear the red hat. I draw the line at the red hat. 

Shakin' Blue Tail Feathers

I love my Fit Bit because sometimes it cracks me up.

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After a long day on Friday, with 17,000+ steps that included a 5-mile early morning run and a trip to Miller Park, Saturday's numbers didn't look as good when I checked in at about 8:30 p.m.

I was kind of disappointed with the 6500 that had been recorded ... far below-desired goal of 10,000.

As I thought about the way we'd spent the day, I wasn't entirely surprised.

You see, we went to Chicago (sitting), had lunch at Howell & Hood in the Trib building (more sitting ... and mini red velvet cupcakes) and then took in a matinee performance of Blue Man Group (even more sitting).

Since we went as part of a group tour, we were dropped very near the restaurant and then dropped literally at the front door of the theater. Yes, it was uber convenient, but it just didn't allow for a bunch of steps. Good ol' FitBit was sort of flat-lining for much of the day.

Except for one spot.

There was an energetic spike of activity in the afternoon, during the time we were at the performance.

If you've never seen Blue Man, you might not know that they have a song called "Shake Your Euphemism." The song is essentially a nice back beat and a list of words for "butt." It's hilarious. (Listen to the song here and get the full lyrics here.)

To put it bluntly, at this point of the show, they encourage you to stand up and shake what your mama gave you.

Apparently, I did.

The smaller blips were from me tapping my feet, BTW! 

Mama would be proud of my Groove Thang. Or my Squash-Tart, as it were.

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If you want to see Blue Man for yourself, more info is here: http://www.blueman.com/chicago/about-show.

Running a Half Marathon on Three Training Runs a Week

Half Marathon 2015 is getting closer.

It's May 2, as a matter of fact ... a mere 24 days away. 

I still don't have a hotel. I have just one long outdoor run under by belt. I'm feeling heavy and not eating very well. I'm temporarily out of fish oil capsules so my knees hurt a bit more than usual. 

And I'm starting to find excuses to add a "total rest" day during the week. None of these things are good signs. 

On the bright side, I did 11 miles on Saturday with no major malfunctions and no significant additional aches and pains on Sunday. 

This might be the strangest training for a half I've ever done. 

It's strange mostly because I'm only really running three days a week. 

And it's quite a contrast from my first half. 

Back in 2012, I was running nearly every day. I'd hit my treadmill each morning for 4 miles and then I would run at least 6 on one weekend day and longer on the other weekend day, working my way up to a pre-race 12 on long run day. I was regularly getting in 30-ish miles a week, even on a slow week. 

Fast forward to 2015. My knees are in worse shape and my body has an idea of what I'm asking it to do. After a year of fairly heavy strength and cross training, I'm stronger and more well-rounded than I was then. 

So this time through, I spent the first couple of months with two, sometimes three, weekday 4-mile runs and one slightly longer run during the weekend. Then I'd cross-train on two or three days a week. I gradually started adding a mile to the weekend run. Plus, I religiously took one full rest day each week. 

So that's 12-16 miles a week in the beginning. Once I was at the 8- or 9-mile mark for the long weekend run, I added a mile to both of the weekday runs, too, increasing my overall mileage to 18-20 per week. 

And that's where I am now. I go five miles a day, two mornings a week. This past Saturday, I put 11 miles in for my long run. That's only 21 miles in a week. 

I'm not sure if this is a smart way to go about it. But it is the way I have attacked it this time for any number of reasons. I am pretty sure my time will be considerably slower than that first time, too. 

Or maybe it won't. I can't wait to find out.

The Best Meal I Never Had, Part 2

Just to catch you up ... we're on our way to Louisville. Jim has surprised me by making reservations at a fancy restaurant on the 25th floor of The Galt House hotel. The restaurant rotates, providing breathtaking views of the city. 
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I'm smiling. What a great way to kick off the trip ... my husband has done something so very nice for me and it feels so very good.

We settle in for the long ride, chatting about anything and everything. Laughing and planning and dreaming and just being ... together. I love that feeling of being perfectly in sync.

A short 5-ish hours and countless topics of discussion later, we're both getting sleepy. We've agreed that the south side of Indianapolis is a good spot to stop for the night and we start looking for my two requirements for a satisfactory evening:

• A Hampton Inn
• A Waffle House

You already know how I love a Hampton Inn. But the Waffle House is a secret I don't share with everyone.

What do I love about a Waffle House?

What don't I love? It's fast. It's simple. It's hard to screw up eggs. It's cheap. It's open 24/7. You can see the person cooking your meal so you know if they sneeze on it. The people watching cannot be beat. Oh, and there's one more thing.

They have grits. Glorious, swimmin' in butter, salty delicious grits. (OK, it's a buttery spread.)

And I love 'em.

We sit down in a booth between two cops and a Mexican family. We're served by a waitress with only a few teeth. We order our hashbrowns smothered and covered (onions and cheese). And I know right there and then that we won't be going to that fancy restaurant.

How could it possibly be better than this? Sitting with the man I love, grinning from ear to ear as he watches me bouncing in my seat with anticipation of the glorious grits. As it happens every time we're in the South, he slips into his Missouri accent, says things like "yes, ma'am" and "no sir" and it melts my heart.

Long story short, the Waffle House meal is extraordinary. We grab a few hours of sleep and jump into the car bright and early for the short 90-ish minute drive into Louisville. On the way, we stop at yet another Waffle House for breakfast so I can have one more bowl of grits. Then we go straight to the show and walk all day long.

By 5-ish p.m., we're ready to check into our hotel and get gussied up for the big rotating restaurant.

Except that when we're checking in, they mention that there's a prime rib buffet at the hotel restaurant that night. I see Jim's entire thought process flash across his face. It's only a split second, but I get the whole message in an instant. It goes something like this: "I love prime rib, but I love Lisa more and I'll go to the rotating restaurant that will make her happy because she's important to me. But boy--I really like prime rib." Then he smiles.

He knows that I know. I know that he knows that I know. We both know all there is to know. Perfectly in sync, once again.

Up in the room, I look him square in the face and say, "I don't need to go to the fancy restaurant. We're both tired, and schlepping downtown might take more energy than we have. I love you more for making the effort than you can possibly understand. Let's have prime rib."

It's a bit of a "Gift of the Magi" moment and we both know it's meant to be.

He eats prime rib. I have some pasta and giant meatballs. We both get dessert. And then we snuggle into a booth in the bar to watch Louisville take on NC State. The night and this life couldn't be any more perfect.

With or without what would have been a delicious meal in a fancy restaurant.

The Best Meal I Never Had, Part 1

Hey CC readers! Are you still out there? It's been a while and my apologies if you've been looking for me. (But you probably haven't been ... I assume you have far more interesting things to do in your life!)

I am back after a long weekend away. We left Thursday after work for a fast trip to Louisville. There's a ginormous truck show there every year and I absolutely adore everything about all of it.

I love the show--talk about people watching! I love the city--food, bourbon, horses. Seriously, not much better than that.

But mostly, I love the time with Jim. Like everyone else, our lives are busy and we get pulled in a zillion directions every day. His company is doing well, and that means he has a lot on his plate. His phone rings at all hours of the day and night. He's got loads to arrange/rearrange, driver issues to fix, trucks to maintain, bookwork to do ... and then he's taking a class on top of it all.

To be honest, even though we're in the same house, often at the same time, we're very rarely moving/thinking/being together.

In fact, sometimes we get kind of "far apart" even though we're sleeping in the same bed, if that makes sense.

Which, makes something like a weekend trip to Louisville all the more appealing to me.

Yes, I knew he'd have drivers there and that we'd spend a little time with them. Yes, I knew we'd try to pack too much into too little time. Yes, I knew we'd arrive very late Thursday night and be back on the road for home very early Sunday morning so Jim could get weekly payroll and paperwork done. And yes, I not-so-secretly pouted a little bit about all of those things, selfishly wanting just a bit more together time.

Which is why, when I literally ran in the back door on Thursday night, pausing not at all on the way to my bedroom to take a quick inventory of the pile I'd tossed into a carry-on suitcase that morning, apologizing for being late, jabbering like a whirlwind, I was so surprised to hear this:

"Pack something nice. I made dinner reservations for Friday night."

(Insert that record scratching/screeching sound here.)

What? Did I just hear that correctly? I stopped dead in my tracks and it got very quiet.

"What did you say?" I asked.

"I made dinner reservations someplace nice for tomorrow night. Make sure you have something to wear or I'll never hear the end of it," he said.

Now, I need you to understand this. My husband is a lot of things. He is good in crisis. He is kind to old people. He is occasionally quite funny. But he is NOT a maker of reservations at fancy restaurants. He is NOT a planner of romantic evenings.

"Let's go. I'll tell you about it on the way," he said.

I zipped the suitcase closed, still sort of confused. He threw the bags in the car. And we hit the road.

As our house got smaller in the rear view, I savored the discovery of this mystical, delicious information. I nibbled away at the corners of his secret like it was my last piece of Dove chocolate.

He, of course, just wanted to tell me where we were going, like the practical man he is. I, however, wanted to hear the whole story in infinite detail. When did you have this idea? (Wednesday.) How did you know what restaurant to call? (I Googled it.) Why did you pick the one you picked? (I looked at the menu.)

Finally, after I had all of the details of the events leading up to my arrival at home just an hour before, I let him tell me the name of the restaurant.

It was this: http://www.rivue.com/

Yeah, white linens. Did I mention that the restaurant rotates 25 stories up?

To be continued ... 

I Thought She Recognized My Shoes

I wore running clothes to my colonoscopy. My softest tights, a tank top, a zip-up wicking jacket ... you know, something comfy that could get peeled off in a hurry should the need arise. Zippers, buttons, belt ... completely unnecessary and obviously ill-advised on this day. 

After checking in, I was led to a little ambulatory surgery room. A CNA took my temp, gave me that name bracelet thing and handed over a gown. I changed out of my comfy gear, into the sexy tie-back number and waited for the nurse. 

Her name was Jodi and she was awesome. She snapped the blood oxygen monitor onto my finger and took my blood pressure and pulse. 

"You're a runner, right?" she asks. 

I'm thoroughly confused and give her the head-cocked dog look.

"You run, don't you?" she repeats. 

"Um, yeah, I try, I guess." I'm still not sure what has given me away. Sure, I had running gear on before she walked in. Maybe she saw me. My eyes dart toward the floor where I'd kicked off my shoes, thinking maybe she recognizes the brand or something. 

"Your pulse rate is low," she says. "Runners have low pulse rates."

I can't help but smile. 

They're cute, right? Mine squeak, too, causing
some unwanted attention every once in a while. 

My Least Favorite Runs

WARNING: This post is gross. I hesitate to share because it's at the very least TMI and at the very most disgusting. But that's also why I'm sharing ... because no one told me this stuff and I think it's important to understand it. I am not an expert on much of anything, but if sharing my experience can help someone, that's makes this silly blog worthwhile. I want to be very clear, too, that I am in no way offering medical advice. I am just telling you what happened to me. I encourage you to discuss any and all things "abnormal to you" with your own physicians. 

This is my story and I don't blame you for not reading it because it's going to get a little graphic. 

But hey, as the book says, "Everybody poops," so we can discuss it like grown-ups, right? Though, you should feel free to giggle at any point. I do hope you will NOT think of this if we're ever out for a beer however. Because that would be weird. 

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Today was colonscopy day for me and I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am that it is over.

In fact, I am welling up with tears of relief as I write this because the emotional and physical journey it takes me on is all-consuming. Try as I might to put on a brave face, I'm truly scared shitless -- literally and figuratively -- every single time I have to undergo this procedure.

This is my third walk down this aisle. I am 47 years old. For most people, screening colonoscopies start at age 50 and happen every 10 years thereafter. In other words, most people get three in their lifetime.

But because I have had issues in the past and because my dad had colon cancer, I am one of the lucky ones that get to go through this amazing experience every five years. That means, if you do the math, I'll likely get to go through it six more times for a lifetime total of nine.

It's like winning the poop lottery.

This year I had a special concern and it made the whole thing 10 times worse than normal. But before I get to that, I want to tell you a few things about the dreaded colonoscopy.

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Colonscopy 101 ... or should I say 202?

1. The colonoscopy is critical for everyone and the best diagnostic cancer screening available in the world of all cancer screenings. It allows doctors to see and remove polyps that could turn into cancer. It allows them to see and remove precancerous cells. It allows them to diagnose existing cancer early and treat it/surgically remove it before it kills you. Colon cancer is TREATABLE and the screening is imperative. If you are 50 and have not had it done, schedule it tomorrow. Please.

2. The actual procedure is a piece of cake. First, you get an IV. Then you lay down on your side, chit chat with the techs and doc. Before you know it, you're in sleepy-bye land. While you're out, they run a scope up your behind and survey the five-or-so feet of your large intestine, looking for polyps, abnormal cells, missing socks and mittens? and other oddities. You wake up still in the procedure room and honest to goodness, I was talking to them today as they were finishing up. I was aware that the doc was still "in country," but could feel nothing. You get sent back up to your outpatient room, eat some toast and, in my case, drink a can of Coke. Then you're on your way home.

3. The preparation, in my opinion, is hideous torture. I refuse to believe that we can put a man on the moon, create a car that parallel parks itself and program a house thermostat from your cell phone, but we can't find a better way to induce diarrhea. The customary process is to start a clear liquid diet the day before the procedure (avoiding anything with red dye), drink 4L of a salty, thick, disgusting mixture (8 oz. every 10 minutes) until you're shooting clear waterfalls ... no fecal flecks/flakes/chunks/matter and no color.

In my case, this also involves nearly uncontrollable shivering, tears and eventually vomiting, not necessarily in that order. I drink what I can for as long as I can, stopping when I can no longer keep from vomiting at the same pace of intake. Or until I can't stop crying ... whichever comes first. I made it through all but 24 oz. of the go-go juice last night before the puking started. A new record. Tears followed. Then I went to bed in long johns, socks and slippers, long-sleeve pjs, a sweatshirt and two extra blankets, waking frequently, of course, for a field trip to the bathroom.

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Why Three, You Ask? 

So, why have I had three colonoscopies before I turn 50? The first was because of blood in my stool in my early 30s and the cause turned out to be an anal fissure. (Think run in pantyhose.) Nothing to worry about. The second was ordered after my dad's diagnosis. This one was because I'm now on the 5-year-family-history rotation. And, because I had a new symptom that was related to my running.

For the past few weeks, after each long run, I find myself with a single bout of diarrhea that includes bright red blood. A pretty large amount of blood.

And trust me, that's enough to freak you right out.

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The New Wrinkle

Before the procedure today, I made sure my doctor knew about this change in bowel habit. I had been researching it all on the internet (because, let's face it, if you want good medical information, what better place to look that the highly unregulated and largely inaccurate tomes of guidance from non-experts?). I was thoroughly convinced that not only did I have colon cancer, but colitis, Chron's disease, diverticulitis and hemorrhoids, too.

On top of it all, I knew that since this test would be performed under my old/severance health insurance, I would need further testing/treatment, but since it would be a "pre-existing condition" for my new insurance, set to take over in a few weeks, I would not have coverage for all future treatment related to it. And surely, the cost of colon cancer, colitis, Chron's, diverticulitis and hemorrhoids is going to be pricey.

Plus, I just didn't want to die.

Scared shitless is an appropriate and accurate description. I fret. I worry. I don't sleep. I get short with Jim. You know, totally normal crazy person stuff.

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How It Turned Out

The doctor found a single polyp, removed it, and assured me that it didn't look remotely pre-cancerous, cancerous or abnormal, though of course it has to be tested. He also said the running-related bleeding was not uncommon among runners. He assured me that everything looked just fine and that I didn't have to worry about it. In fact, he said my exercising/running/weight loss was a good thing for my overall health and longevity, given my family history.

He also stressed that he needed to see me in 5 years.

He will. Next time, I am considering asking Jim to take a Sharpie to my butt cheek and write him a little surprise note. Surely looking as people's buttholes all day long must sort of stink (literally and figuratively, again, pun intended) and maybe a funny message would make him smile when he looks at mine.

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Lessons Learned

1. The next time, I am going to ask for an alternative prep. While I don't believe ALL internet research, I did find a number of sources that outlined a Miralax/Gatorade option that seems infinitely more humane. Perhaps by then a pill will be available. Or, at the very least, I'll be asking about adding Crystal Light (clear colors only) to the mix to make it more palatable.

SECRET TIP: Brush your teeth after every glass ... it helps prevent gagging for me.

2. I will also change the way I eat the week prior to the test. And I'm going to suggest to my doc that he make more information available to help people plan/prep better. I started a clear liquid diet a day early (two days vs. the recommended one) in hopes that "less in/less out" would make things a bit easier. It did not. Next time, clear liquids will start a full three days ahead of the procedure. I will also stop eating high fiber foods (cruciferous veg, fruits, nuts/seeds, legumes, whole grains) a full week before the procedure. Bring on white bread, pasta, cookies!

SECRET TIP: Your doc might OK gummy bears as "clear liquid" ... as long as you don't eat the red/orange ones. (Red dye can discolor things, making it harder for the doc to see what he/she needs to.) In my book, gummy bears beat Jello.

3. I am not going to be shy about talking about this. It's too important. Schedule your colonoscopy today. Check with your parents to find out if they have had theirs and get them to do the same. Not everyone will struggle with the prep like I did. I hope you don't, in fact. But even if you do, it's not a reason to not do it. I will come hang out with you on poop day if you want. I'll make fart jokes and bring a rushing water white noise CD.

And, because I'm a balls-to-the-walls-push-it-to-the-limits-no-fear kind of girl, this was my post-colonoscopy meal:

I figure it's not going to stay in me very long ... so perhaps
all the junk calories won't be absorbed. And it's not like
it's going to cause MORE gastric distress than I'm already
in, right? What better time to eat it? #Livinontheedge

See Ya Later, Slog!

Long run Sunday was a bit different this week because for the first time since last fall, I ran outside. 

And, I gotta tell you ... I was a little nervous. 

You see, I've gotten used to my controlled basement environment. I know exactly what to expect and I'm comfortable there. The temperature is always perfect. There's no wind. I have a bathroom close-by. If I run our of my Rehydrate/Spark mix, I just go get more. The belt of my treadmill moves under me as I watch whatever crap TV that holds my attention. 

I was a bit worried that I wasn't ready to run outside again, that it would be harder than what I was now accustomed to. I was afraid my knees wouldn't take the pounding on the pavement and that the hills were going to kill me. 

Most importantly, after last week's disastrous slog of 11 miles, I also thought that I just not might be able to get the distance done. 

I'm happy to report that I worried for no reason. 

Yes, it was sort of windy. Yes, it was actually a bit chilly this morning and I wasn't dressed quite right. Yes, I picked a fairly hilly route. 

And yes, I actually had to make a detour home for a pit stop (no place to hide in tilled farm fields!). 

But I got it done. Without walking. Not even on the hills. 

I mapped it when I got home. Map My Run said it was just shy of 10 miles, though my FitBit said it was more like 10.5. (And my Fitbit usually reads less than my treadmill ... so who knows what's really right?) 

In any case, I made it! The slog is gone and I felt strong through the whole distance. I actually sort of enjoyed the hills and I didn't need as much water as I thought I was going to. 

That's a win, regardless of the distance. 

Umm, yeah, this is JUST what I looked like today. LOL.
Except I had three layers on, a crazy headband and my hair
was sticking straight out from my head ... well, until I sweat
so much it was plastered to my scalp. 

No, Please Don't Move the Printer!

My new office is small. Really small.

There are five of us in it, a front room, back room, counter top/20-year-old microwave/dorm fridge area and a bathroom. Single seat.

It's in an old building downtown on the second floor. Per ADA rules, there is an elevator, but I have yet to find it. Oh, and two public parking lots, one out front and one out back, but neither is too far away.

Therein lies the problem. Other than a flight of stairs, I don't get any actual movement in during the day. My Fitbit is horribly bored. Maybe even disappointed.

The bathroom is literally 15 paces away from my desk, and the copier is 16. The shared printer and fax machine? A whopping 7 at best. As such, there's just not a lot of opportunity to rack up the steps.

So today, someone speaks up in our staff meeting. "The printer in the back room isn't currently networked to any of our computers ... there's something wrong with the wireless dealio ... they can't get it to work. But you could directly connect it to your computer if you'd like to have it in your office," she says, in an effort to be gracious and helpful.

I laugh. "Good Lawd! If I had a printer inside my office, I'd even never stand up during the day!"

Those everyday steps matter. They add up. While a close parking lot is a nice thing when the wind is blowing the icy snow in your face, it can also be a huge detriment for your butt.

Some Days Are Harder ...

On today's agenda ... the 11-mile run.

Working against today's agenda ...

• The loss of the "spring ahead" sleep hour
• The inability to run right away when I woke up due to a work committment at 7:30 a.m.
• The change in pre-run routine/delayed run start which included eating breakfast, making a veggie lasagna and watching an episode of Mad Men
• Last night's steak dinner sitting in my gut ...
• ... Which may or may not been the cause of a funny tummy
• An unenthusiastic attitude
• Sore knees

There are days that are just harder than others. Today was one of them.

It surely wasn't a pretty run. It wasn't a fun run. Maybe it wasn't a "run" at all. It was more like a slog. 

In fact, it took a long time, with most of it coming at a slow pace of 5.6 mph. It included about one total mile of walking sprinkled intermittently throughout, in 0.2-0.3-mile increments. It also included two bathroom breaks and one water break.

But it's done. I finished. To say I'm all in would be an understatement.

If you look at a half marathon training plan, you'll see that I'm a little ahead of schedule for a May 2 race. My assumption going in was that I was going to need some extra prep time because I haven't been training as hard as I should or as long as I should in the months leading up to now. I also planned a little cushion to work around a few life events: a colonoscopy in mid-March, a trip to Louisville at the end of March, etc.

Because of all that, I'm not freaking out about having a bad week. Honestly, it's good mental training. What if about a mile in on race day, I can tell that it's an "off" day?

Still have to finish. Some days, that's victory enough.

Balancing Act

Because we're hip and cool and because our lives are so freaking glamorous, Jim and I went to Woodman's tonight after dinner. 

Yeah, I know, you're jealous of our jet-setting existence, right? I understand. It's hard to think about your own little life when forced to compare it to our fabulousity. The Kardashians who?

It was an "in-between" grocery stop, meaning I didn't need staples (canned goods, bulk supplies), soda or meat. I really just needed the fresh stuff to go with the things in my already stocked pantry. 

So, this is what was in my cart: 

Red grapes, cucumbers, red peppers, orange peppers, mushrooms, onions, cauliflower, carrots, milk and eggs. Nice, huh? I'm so very good. 

Oh. Maybe I forgot something.  

Did I mention Twizzlers, jelly beans, Dove Dark with Caramel & Sea Salt and Malted Milk Easter Eggs? 

Hmm. Guess not. 

I'm calling it a balanced diet. 

Grumpy Morning

My alarm went off at 4:55 a.m. this morning. And I was not feeling it.

One quick look outside only exacerbated my disenchantment with the pre-dawn. It was snowing like mad and I just wanted to return to my warm bed with my gently snoring husband and my perfectly arranged pillows.

But I had RIPPED. At 5:30 a.m. In Janesville. Which is a 15-minute drive on a good day, so there was no time to waste.

(And it's mornings like this that are the reason I sleep in my workout socks. A) I don't have to fumble around trying to find the right pair in the darkness and B) My warm feet never have to hit the cold tile, the very idea of which could potentially prevent me from getting out of bed in the first place.)

I threw on some workout clothes, grabbed my water bottle and headed to town. Growling.

The underside of my car only occasionally cleared the accumulation of snow on my country roads. The slow ride in meant I was late.

Then to make matters worse, I went to the wrong location first (we've been having class at a church for the past two weeks as the country club was undergoing some renovation), making me even later.

Grrrrrrrr.

Class has already started by the time I got there. I'd missed warm-up entirely and the other brave souls were halfway through the first section before could get my coat off, shoes on and weights out.

It took me a while to get into the groove, I'll admit. Peggy was up there, being her normal cheerful, encouraging self and I was doing all I could to avoid direct eye contact because I just wasn't awake/ready yet.

But slowly, slowly, the grumpy started to melt away. Sweat is a good antidote to a bad attitude.

An hour and a half later, I walked into work with a smile. By the time I made it to a lunch meeting with a very dear old friend, I was feeling like a million bucks.

Funny how that works.

Bruises, Jelly Beans, the DVR and My 10-Mile Run

As you already know, Sunday has become my long run day. On the docket for this morning, 10 miles, in preparation for the May 2 half marathon in Milwaukee.

The roads in my neighborhood are still too messy and icy to run safely outside, even if the temperature is teetering on comfortable. I know myself well enough to know that I won't drive into town to find cleaner pathways. With those two pieces of reality hitting me in the face, I sucked it up and hit my treadmill.

What I love about running is that every run is different. Every single one. What should be a routine, ordinary, even dredge-like treadmill slog is still sort of full of quirks. Here are the highs and lows:

Bruises:
Yesterday, I indulged in a massage. My left shoulder has been hurting ... for years ... but the past few months have been really unbearable. My GP ordered some PT at my last visit, but I just haven't gotten around to making the appointments yet. So while I was getting a pedi yesterday (yes, another small indulgence that usually only happens during sandal season), I noticed that a) the lady administering it went positively medieval on my sore calves while doing that leg lotion thing and b) the salon sign said they offered back massage.

I got a little giddy with the thought of her pounding the crap out of my shoulder. (I hope that doesn't sound perverse.) The truth is when it gets really sore, the only way to make it feel better is to have Jim poke at it as hard as he can. This leads to me screaming in agony. And then it leads to temporary relief.

I asked about the massage, they set me up and off we went.

Before I knew it. I was face down and this teeny, tiny woman was standing on the table, her feet at my hips, and she was using her entire body weight to put pressure on my lower back and shoulders.

OMG.

I can't even tell you  how much it hurt. And then just when I thought I couldn't take another second of it, it would feel better. She'd go back to the exact same spot that was freaking killing me 30 seconds before and it was not painful at all.

I woke up this morning and my whole back was sore to the touch. Without a doubt, there will be bruises by tomorrow. Every single step of that first mile vibrated through all that soreness. But I know better than to judge a run by the first mile and it eventually stopped throbbing.

Jelly Beans:
We're approaching Easter. I love jelly beans. What better excuse to eat them than the long run? Pop a few around Mile 6 for a little burst of energy and I'm a very happy girl. I don't need those fancy "energy" beans anymore. Good, old fashioned Brach's work just fine. My favorite colors? Orange, white and purple in that order. Least favorite? Black, green and pink, in that order. Tolerable? Yellow and red.

The DVR:
Ten miles is a long time to spend on a treadmill; longer when you add in the 2.5 miles I walked as cool-down. I watch DVR'd TV shows to make the time go as quickly as possible. On today's playlist? Two Duggar episodes, one Wahlburgers and two Love, Lust or Runs, commercials mostly forwarded through. It was not my best "mix tape." I shouldn't admit I watch this crap, should I? For the record, however, I wish someone would give Stacey London a better show. I love her, but LLR is no What Not To Wear.

Seriously ... it had better be warmer, and the roads drier and snowless, next week.