A Diversion

It probably seems like all I do is talk/write/blog about my marathon training. Ad nauseum. And you'd be right. Because it seems all I do these days is train for my marathon. Who knew it would be so time-consuming? Well, I suppose anyone who's ever trained for one would know... but that, obviously, wasn't me.

I was at the Fall Festival Parade Saturday talking to skinny Scott, the triathlete, about my Friday night debacle and he was giving me lots of good nutrition and hydration pointers.

"You really need to increase your caloric intake," he advised. "Some runners actually gain weight while they're training for a marathon."

It was then that I stuck my fingers in my ears and shouted, "La! La! La! La! I can't hear you! La! La! La!" Perhaps I didn't actually do that, but I thought about it. I've worked my ass off to lose this 63 pounds and I'm not going to let a little marathon stop my weight loss momentum! That's easy for a skinny-ass, super-smart music professor to say. Sheesh. I'd tell Andi to fatten her boyfriend up a little so he can run with the Big Dogs, but I also found out on Saturday that SHE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. One of my very best friends for the past 25 years, and SHE DOESN'T READ MY BLOG. We did, however, agree to start a video blog that will be sure to amuse and entertain you. Stay tuned...

Today, I decided to do a little cross-training, so I hopped on my bike, put my helmet on the right way (I tend to wear it backwards -- much to Chris's dismay and embarrassment), and rode off into the morning for an hour and a half journey. And you know what? It was fantabulous. Here's the thing... on a bike, you can:

A. Go much faster
B. Cover much more ground
C. Stop to visit friends and loved ones without offending them with your horrifying runner's sweat smell

My first stop was to see my beloved hubby. It does make my heart go pitter-patter to see him sit behind his big mahogany desk all spiffed up in a sexy tie and just the right amount of hair product. I mean, I love him even when he wears his ragged undershirts and athletic shorts around the house, but I can't resist seeing him in his element.

And have I mentioned how much I love him? Because as shitty as Friday night was for me, it had to have been worse for him. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to drive around Zionsville with water and Gu and to listen to me complain about how tired I was. I'm sure it was even worse to have to load my sweaty, stinky, confused body into the Suburban and ply me with salt water. And when I put my flannel PJs on -- you know, the sexy ones with the dogs and the Milk Bones all over them -- I'm sure he was lamenting the fact that he was most definitely not getting lucky. And still. He took care of me. He took care of the kids. He was only a wee bit crotchety. He's a good one, my husband. A keeper.

After visiting Chris, I wheeled over to see Andi in The Enclave. (Yes, Stace, I stopped by, but you weren't home...). I hadn't seen Andi since her surgery, but she was up and about and looking good... despite the finger-length incision and the six staples that she didn't know she had until she changed her bandages on Friday. I'm anxious to hear how THAT one turns out...

It felt good to be out and about with the wind blowing through my newly brunette hair. I enjoy running, but a diversion is good. And don't you all enjoy reading about something a little different than running, running, running, vomiting, running?

This training process has been such a learning experience for me. I'm so grateful for all your support, all your comments, all your messages, all your Facebook posts. I truly appreciate every word of advice and encouragement. Thanks to Jenny for saving my blistered heels with her Skin Shield liquid bandage that was more painful than an ancient torture device. Now that I'm all healed, I can even forgive her for calling me a baby and making "waahh, waahh" noises at me while I screamed and shouted profanities in her kitchen. Thanks to Tommy for his shin splint healing miracle exercises. Thanks to Ashley, Laura, Adam, Dawn, and countless others for helping me traverse the whole what-in-the-hell-do-I-eat-and-drink-while-I'm-running landscape. (Adam, I'm still trying to figure out what my "sweat rate" is. Right now, I can only confirm that it's HIGH.) Thanks to my kids for being polite about not wanting to hug my sweaty, stinky self after a run.

I'm off now to map out Saturday's 20-miler. The 18-mile path that I succumbed to on Friday night has become my own personal Trail of Tears. I'm not sure I have the mental toughness to run by the spot where I barfed up my raspberry-flavored Gu and say to myself, "That was in the past. I can DO THIS." Instead, I think it might just be in my best interest to blaze a new trail.

I'm picking one that's free from blurry vision, vomit, and nonsensical speech. I think that's a good start.