Peeps and PRs

In my five-ish years of running, I’ve run in a few races.

My photo album ‘o race shirts says over 90.

I’ve run a wide variety of different events, each with its own personality, quirks, and perks. I also have my perennial favorites, and with so many races vying for runners’ attentions, it’s good for a race to have something unique to put itself at the head of the pack.

Food, craft beers, and finisher medals that double as bottle openers are a good start.

Spearman Expeditions is one of a handful of fantastic homegrown race organizers in Nebraska; Stephanie Spearman runs a great event and she always tries to have something unique for each race, may it be a special challenge or a cool piece of swag. We were planning on being in the area for Easter weekend when I saw information on the Cool Peeps 8K. What clinched it for me: a promise of Krispy Kreme donuts at the finish line.

You had us at “donut.”

At race time, it was 40 degrees with a steady light rain and hardly any wind. The race was an out and back on the Mopac Trail, a crushed-limestone rail trail that runs out of Lincoln. The city of Lincoln provided a start-time surprise by not having the trailhead bathrooms unlocked, but fortunately, there was enough time to hit a nearby gas station before the race. (My space cats running tights did turn some local heads.)

Since I hadn’t been running lately, and had been increasingly frustrated with my runs this year, I decided not to look at my pace for the entire race. Wearing long sleeves made it easier not to look, but as I ran, I found very little temptation to sneak a peek. My legs actually felt good, and even though I knew I’d be completely soaked through by the finish, the temperature and lack of wind made it darn near perfect weather to run in. I had never run an 8K race before, so I took solace in one simple fact: I was guaranteed a PR.

On the way out, as we came nearer the turnaround point, a runner came barreling from the opposite direction wearing bunny ears. I assumed he was the race leader, until I saw the lead out bike a bit later. Nope….this guy must’ve just been out on a training run, in his best Easter running wear. It was the most weirdly badass thing I’ve ever seen.

I started the race beside a mother and her teenage daughter, who ran close to me for the majority of the first 4K, but I pulled away from them when they took a walk break somewhere by the turnaround. In the final mile-ish, they had caught up to me and as the finish line came near, the daughter picked up the pace considerably. I was able to *mostly* keep up, until the daughter broke away with about a quarter-mile to go. “Come on, Mom!” she teased her mother. “You run half marathons!”

“Yeah, but I do it SLOWLY!” Mom responded. As Mom passed me to catch her daughter, I called after them: “Youth is wasted on the young!” Mom agreed, as she sprinted away.

As I neared the finish line, I could spot the “special surprise” promised us, on top of the as-advertised Krispy Kremes and chocolate milk. We were about to receive finishers medals fashioned from boxes of Peeps.

GLORY.

After the run was over, I checked my Garmin. I ran 4.96 miles in 57:40 (an average 11:38 pace). It’s nothing to write home about, but I had two successes: I ran the whole time without needing to walk, and my pace for my final mile was nearly a minute faster than my penultimate mile.

Plus, ending up with muddy space cats.

Running the plague leg

Leading up to the Lincoln Half, I was running myself ragged: in the days leading up, I went to a technology in education conference; took students to state journalism competition, and attended the graduation of Nebraska State Patrol Camp 56. After six months of long hours, emotional moments, and hardly seeing each other for weeks at a time, it was finally time to celebrate.

 

Reunited and it feels so good.

 
The Saturday after graduation was glorious: we had NOTHING scheduled, other than packet pickup and carbo-loading for Sunday’s Lincoln Half. We went for a little run, ate sushi, went to see Age of Ultron, and went record shopping. It was a fun, low-key, relaxing day. 

Sunday was the half, which I survived. (I’ll spare the details because I already wrote about it.) With the ultra-busy lead up to the race, my beautiful relaxing day and then a brutal race experience, I think my immune system gave up, bitchily slamming the door closed behind it. 

All week, I had terrible cough….but terrible is a severe understatement. Hearing my cough with no other context, one would assume it was the mating call of the dark lord Cthulhu. I couldn’t be sick, though; we had another super awesome race planned for the next weekend: Market to Market Iowa. Other than my lungs sometimes trying to escape my body, I felt fine everywhere else, so I convinced myself I could still run. I chose the shortest possible legs for the relay race and hoped that by some miracle, I would be fine. With a team of seven, I’d only have to run two legs, so that was promising. 

The fact that I kept my friend and teammate Darla awake with my coughing the night before while I was sleeping in her basement was less encouraging.

I survived the night however, and we convened with the rest of our team at the start in Jefferson.

 

That’s a damn fine group of runners, right there.

 
We had eight registered runners, but our ridiculously fast friend Scott bowed out for an opportunity to run for one of the elite teams. We still hauled eight bodies, however; our friend Diane was coming off of an injury and was worried about running too long of a distance, so she was there for moral support. 

I was runner six, so I had a while to try to tame my lungs before it was my turn. I knew I wasn’t going to be breaking any land speed records; I’d just be content to not cough up any blood.

 

It’s always good to set goals.

 
My first leg was just under three miles, so I figured it would be a good  indication of my survival chances. The weather was perfect and it was a straight shot with a downward-trending slope. I ran hard enough to push myself, but I was at nowhere near the pace I know I’m capable of. I coughed a few times, but never hard enough to make me stop running. I started to suffer after the end of the second mile, though, and the final mile was fairly tortuous. I was excited to see the next town come into view: the exchange point would be somewhere there. I saw a bunch of cars on the edge of town and got excited, but was crestfallen when I realized it was people watching little kids’ soccer. After an eternity passed, I could see the exchange point ahead; I tried to kick to the end, but my efforts were pretty futile. I passed on the timing chip and took a break to cough for what seemed like a good ten minutes.

I could tell that my teammates were worried about me pushing myself too hard, but I didn’t want to give up. My second leg, however, was going to be close to five miles long; I knew that I would be excruciatingly slow and felt bad about dragging my team down. We looked at the map and saw something hopeful: the driving route ran parallel to the running route. Diane, who was not comfortable with running a total nine or ten miles throughout the day, was more than willing to pick up whatever miles I couldn’t complete. I’d start my leg, and the team could check on me every mile; when I’d had enough, my pinch hitter would take over.

When I had looked at the map, my leg looked like it trended downhill, but there was a very steady, very slight climb at the beginning. It was starting to heat up, and the wind was picking up (and not in a helpful way). The route was through a community skirting the outside of Des Moines, and I had to pass across several intersections: it was a bit dicey at times. I made it through my first mile, and I felt like it would be a chump-out to only run one. My teammates were waiting for me at the end of the first mile, but I told them I’d do one more. At the end of the second mile, I considered doing one more, but the heat, traffic, wind, and steady incline (on top of having what felt like tuberculosis) had taken their toll. I tapped out at the end of my second mile and Diane, wearing our eighth runner bib, jumped in. I jumped in the car so we could make the exchange and quickly learned I had given Diane one of the nicest stretches in the entire race. The course switched from climbing up alongside a busy highway to a shady, secluded downhill slide through a quiet residential area.

 

You’re welcome.

It worked out for the best. I still felt like a contributing member, and Diane was actually wanting to run when she saw how much fun we were having. Now she was officially a team member and could join us for the team finish, to run across the finish line together.

We ended up finishing our 73ish miles in nine hours and forty-five minutes: a 7:57/mile pace. 

Lung cookies be damned, it was still a good day.

I eventually went to a doctor to be diagnosed with both a sinus and upper respiratory infection, and even after ten days of antibiotics, it still took me a while to feel better–I wouldn’t even consider myself 100% three full weeks later. I need to get back after it, though: Market to Market Nebraska is only a mere four months away…

  
 

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

Last fall, I decided against doing another full marathon, trading it for the Double Half Mary: two half marathons on two consecutive days. For 2015, I’m considering a fall full, but haven’t made any commitments yet. Meanwhile, due to some new races introduced in the area, the DHM decided to move from a fall race to a spring one. Because why not, my first half of 2015 would be two consecutive halfs.

Day 1

When I did the first day of the DHM last fall, I didn’t know what to expect, so I took it easy. Since I was coming into this year’s race undertrained, I still wasn’t planning on setting any land speed records, but I was planning on doing work.

The couple of hours leading to a race (especially longer distances) are always the most nerve-wracking: did I fuel properly? Did I poop enough? Did I pee close enough to race time so I won’t have to go during? One becomes obsessed with food and bodily functions.

One of the best and worst parts of the Valparaiso run is the supplied port-o-johns. I’ve run a lot of races; I’ve utilized A LOT of porta-potties; I think I have enough experience to be considered a connoisseur. These portable water closets are like the Taj Mahal of shitters. I’m excited when a potty has the dispenser-thingy for hand sanitizer; these babies have a sink with flowing water and a foot pump to flush your waste matter out of sight. So why is this the worst part of this race? The Valparaiso race has two toilets for around 140 runners. This can be rough enough, but with all of the luxuries of the loo, each runner’s visit takes just a smidge longer. About fifteen minutes to race time, I decided I should go to the bathroom one more time. About ten minutes to race time, I realized I had made this decision too late in the game. 

  

Curse you, Amenities!!!

 As the seconds ticked by, the line moved at a snail’s pace. Race start time came as I was the next in line. I jumped into the porta-potty, peed like the wind, and crossed the start line a minute after the gun time: phone, fuel, and headphones gathered in my hands, I had to finish assembling myself literally on the run.

The route, an out-and-back on a Rails-to-Trails course, is not a overly difficult race by any means, but the first half is a consistent uphill climb.

The. Whole. Way.

As I labored up the hill, just as I was starting to flag out, the lead runners started coming by on their way back down. Sometimes an out-and-back can be demoralizing as I see the runners who are obviously significantly ahead of me, but this time, it was energizing. I cheered on the leaders, and the vast majority of them made encouraging gestures back to me (I even got to high five a guy dressed as Superman.) Once I hit the mid-way water stop and the turnaround point, it was absolutely glorious. For the next mile or two, I felt like I was flying. I continued to push, but my glutes and IT band were starting to yell at me. Finally, I could see the top of the grain silo that sat by the trailhead: not much farther. I could see the beams of the truss bridge just on the edge of town; I saw the DHM banner at the finish line; I picked up my pace. The line of sight, however, is tricky: the finish line looks much closer than it really is, and I pushed my way through a very painful quarter-ish mile.

Last year, I completed Day One in 2:35:30; this year’s time: 2:31:11.

One down.

Day Two

The weather forecast for Day Two called for slightly warmer temps, a little more sunshine, and significantly more wind. The wind would be out of the south; the course was another out-and-back, initially heading southward. We would have a strong headwind for the first half, but just like yesterday, at least the more challenging section would be the first to tackle–life would get much easier once I hit the turnaround.

For the next six and a half-ish miles, that’s what kept me going. 

Early in the running season, I had battled some hip flexor pain, but some rest (due to an overly busy schedule) helped me heal. The pain in my glutes and IT band was a new thing, so I had no idea how bad it might get or how I could avoid it. Added to that was the soreness of a hard-earned 13.1 the day before, and added to that was a brutalizing headwind. Again, the lead runners started coming back, and again they gave me new strength (this time, I got to high five Captain America). Again, I became a new person as I hit the turnaround point; the glorious, glorious tailwind was everything I had built it up to be in my head.

When the pain and/or exhaustion and/or tedium of a long run gets to be too much, I get through it with the power of Doing Random Math in My Head. I counted down the miles to go, estimated what pace I would likely keep, and set a goal for a finishing time. Last DHM, my Day Two time was roughly ten minutes slower than my Day One time. If I could finish in at least 2:40, I would improve the time differention between the two days, and I could consider myself a success. 

Just like the Valparaiso route, the final stretch before the finish line is a dirty, dirty trick. I could see the finishing banner at least a half-mile away; I started to kick too soon, but didn’t want to pull back once I began. I thanked the volunteer watching traffic for me, hurled an expletive or two at my husband, and crossed the finish line. I had improved the deficit between the two days by about three minutes.

Got ‘er done.

2014 DHM Day Two: 2:44:28 (8:58 slower than Day One)

2015 DHM Day Two: 2:36:55 (5:44 slower than Day One)

Since I was pretty undertrained, I was more than pleased with how the weekend went. If I can get my act together, my goal for my next DHM will to have a faster time on Day Two.  

  

 

The Brass Ring

When I started running almost five years ago, I held a pretty steady 12:00-12:30/mile pace. It improved incrementally over time, to where I knew I could bust out a 10:30-11ish/mile for a 5K race. Once I got my 5K time down to around 31:00, I seemed to plateau. I commonly fluctuated between 31 and 33 minutes but the goal of a sub-30 5K seemed to be a unicorn.

When I set my running goals for 2014, one of them was a sub-30. Fairly early in the year, in March at the Grand Island Firefighters IAFF Local #647 MDA 5K Fun Run (yes, all of those things), I came within seconds of my goal. 

Unless I can cover .03 miles in less than three seconds.

 The rest of 2014, I didn’t come even remotely close to that PR. Most of my 5Ks fell around 33:00; I could only push a sub-10:00 mile on mile-long runs, and even those were few and far between. I ended the year reaching a couple of goals, but I missed more goals than I made. My confidence as a runner was plummeting.

Starting 2015, I did not publicly declare my running goals for the year, since I was convinced I wouldn’t be meeting any of them anyway. The sub-30 5K still hung over my head, but I wasn’t going to put too much weight on it unless I started seeing obvious progress.

March brought my first non-trail 5K race of 2015 and my second running of the MDA 5K. Because I had become so frustrated with a lack of progress after a winter of running, I had been avoiding looking at my Garmin until my run was over. If I watched my pace too closely on my run, I would only get frustrated with myself and it would make everything worse.

It was a chilly but pleasant morning as we began. I started with the main pack, but they predictably began to pull away. With long sleeves on, my shirt was covering my watch so that I wouldn’t focus on my pace. However, when my Garmin buzzed for the first mile split, I caved to temptation. I stole a quick glance: I had covered my first mile in 9:22. I decided that I wouldn’t buy too much into it, but I would try to continue running at the same level of effort. I knew I needed to average under 9:40 to reach that goal. I would peek at my watch once or twice in mile two to make sure I wasn’t slowing down too much, but tried not to obsess over it. I completed mile two in 9:49: I still wasn’t ready to believe that I could reach my goal, but I made the decision not to give up, either. I paced behind another runner and used him as a rabbit; I tried to catch up with him, but to no avail. I avoided looking at my pace for mile three; I knew if I saw my pace slip too much, it would crush me–there was simply no way this was actually going to happen. I could see the finish line as my watch buzzed for mile three: my split was 9:28. I just had to maintain for a measly tenth of a mile–THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. I started to check my watch obsessively now: not for pace, but for distance. I wanted to make sure I had the full 3.1, since last year’s race had recorded as 3.07. I reached 3.1 as I shot past the volunteers at the finish line; my Garmin recorded a pace of 7:21 for my final tenth of a mile. 

Boom.

The runner I had paced behind came up to congratulate me on a good run; from his approach, I assume he may have had a similar outcome to mine. I grabbed a bottle of water and had a short celebratory cry in the car before going to get a victory latte.

 

  

Tails of Trails and Romance

My husband and I have never been big Valentine’s Day aficionados. While I always use it as an excuse for going out to eat, I have little to zero expectations beyond maybe a pescado suidado at the little Mexican restaurant that happens to share a building with a gas station and discount liquor/tobacco mart.

This year, we made a whole weekend of the “holiday” weekend, primarily because V-Day fell on a Saturday and I thought a Valentine’s Day race would be a hoot.

There were a few races that weekend, but we settled on the Raging Bull Trail Run, part of the Red Dirt Running Series and put on by Angry Cow Adventures, a race organizer that we had not experienced yet. The race would be at Platte River State Park, one of the loveliest and most brutal places to run in Nebraska.

We rented a cabin and packed up our dogs.



And some chocolates. And some beer.

We drank our beers (and a bottle of wine), and when we’d reached the point that nothing seemed like a bad idea, we decided to create some promotional materials for the park.



The corgi was a most helpful guide.

The days leading up to the race had lovely February weather: temps in the 40s with mild winds and sunshine. At race time, it was 12 degrees with a brisk northerly wind of about 20 mph. There had been a few snowstorms in the previous week; many of the trails were still covered in snow, and the snow had melted and refrozen a few times, leaving a crunchy, deep, slick, treacherous mess. I was more than happy to take my place at the back of the pack, in hopes that the front runners would tamp the snow down and break up the ice.

It’s not uncommon for me to have to take walk breaks during a trail race, especially with some of the impressive climbs of Platte River State Park. In some places, however, the snow was deep enough that I was forced to walk. Sometimes it was because I was sliding so much I feared I would end up in the bottom of a creek bed, but other times, fighting through the snow made my heart rate spike. 

       It was a winter freaking wonderland.

I knew it was time to walk when I would start to get wheezy and my vision would start to go blurry around the edges. Though the route was well marked, I almost missed a turn once or twice due to lack of brain function.

   Orange flags = beacons of glory

The race could be run as a 3, 6, or 12-mile race, all run on the same three-mile loop.  At mile 2ish, I thought there was no way in hell I could do that route again. I made it to the checkpoint and reluctantly headed back out. By the second pass, the runners ahead of me had pulverized the deeper snow into a finer powder, making the snowy areas considerably easier to run on. By mile 4ish, I was damn glad I was doing the six-mile rather than the twelve, but I felt relatively good, and even though my splits weren’t any faster on the second go-around, it seemed to go by much more quickly.

        A factor in this feeling may have been my entering the “zero f**ks given” zone, at which point I periodically stopped to take photos of my race. Because, seriously. Look at this trail.

As I came to the final climb back to the finishing point, my husband was dutifully waiting for me to cheer me up the last hill (also, the joke was on him since I had the car keys). In the last mile or so, I started to bonk: I knew there was promise of pizzas, beer, and Valentine’s candy, and I was so very about all of those things. I didn’t even pretend that I was going to finish strong; I trudged up the majority of the last hill and joked with my husband, picking up the pace for the last push into half-frozen jelly candy hearts.

   ATE. SO. MANY.                 SO. HALF. FROZEN.

We each had a slice of pizza, but the 12-milers were still on the course, and I’ll let you guess how warm you can keep a pizza when the wind chill is in single digits. We each had a beer, chosen from a mishmash of beers thrown into a couple of coolers (everything from Busch Light to craft beers). I turned down a Summer Shandy; it seemed incredibly wrong to drink one in the frigid cold. Because he always has to one-up me, my husband went ahead and placed third in the men’s 6-mile; I was pretty thrilled to come in 8th out of 12 women. We had lunch and retreated back to the cabin for a nap.

   We pretty much romanced the shit out of this weekend.



Happy Trails

I eventually came to love running, even though I suck at it. I loved trail running at first sight, even though I REALLY suck at it.

I had been running for almost a year when I signed up for my first trail race, the Empyrean 5K. This is a trail race through a Lutheran church camp, hosted by a local brewery. Yes, it is as awesome as it sounds.

“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” -not Ben Franklin, sadly

As I started running, I would gauge the success of a run based on whether or not I had to walk for any duration of it. That was my goal for every race (not including water stations: I’ll probably never master drinking out of a paper cup on the run [God bless Lincoln marathon and their lids with straws]). I learned very quickly, however, that trail running is a completely different animal.

My philosophy for road races: run to the end.
My philosophy for trail races: don’t be a hero.

The Empyrean is always in February, so the temps have varied every year, and the footing has ranged from powdery snow to ice to mud pit. The race is kicked off with a small ceremony: a prayer for the safety of all the runners, and then a ritual sacrifice of a snowman.

Eat it, Winter

My first time running Empyrean, I really didn’t know what to expect. I positioned myself with the back-of-packers, as usual. The route varies every year, but I’ve noticed that smart trail race designers start their races with a looooooooooong climb to get the field a little more strung out before the race hits the single-track trails. I ran the incline, but then a second, steeper hill came next. I knew I’d have to walk; I was feeling bad about my performance so early into the race…until I watched the 30-odd runners ahead of me hit the hill; simultaneously, every single person started walking. At this moment, I realized that trail running was a bitch, but we were all in this together.

At this moment, I fell in love.

I’ve done several trail races since that first one, and they are consistently some of my favorite events. I love the running community because everyone supports each other and most people are only competing with themselves (except for those front-of-packers). Trail running is all of the goodness of the general running community, plus some masochism. Because of the challenge and because of the pain, trail runs seem to usually have more of a party atmosphere; post-race tasty adult beverages are generally the norm. In fact, for the Empyrean 5K, Empyrean Ales brews a beer exclusively for the event: the Luther Lager.

Available only after space cats and ass kickings.

Each race tends to have its defining moment, and mine for this year’s Empyrean 5K had to do with a run-in with a local celebrity. Ivan Marsh is an amazing runner and pretty well known in the Nebraska running community, especially for trail races. I am proud to say I came across the finish line just ahead of Ivan this year.

Of course, that was after he had already finished the race and circled back to run the final mile with a friend of his, but I take my victories where I can get them.

This triumphant finish also involved jumping in a puddle and trying to steal my husband’s beer (not pictured).

Romance!!!

Happy Valentine’s Weekend!! My husband and I ran an ass-kicking 6-mile trail race; it was super romantic.

The Toughest Trail

Runner’s World asked for submissions for a feature on runners’ favorite race shirts; I decided to play along. I searched high and low through my self-curated archive of running shirts to choose the best.

Decisions, decisions.

There were so many cool designs (and some pretty lame ones); there were so many shirts that were reminders of many great races I got to be a part of. I flipped through my album numerous times, and kept coming back to a shirt that represented not one single race, but three attempts at the same event: the Ni-Bthaska-Ke Trail 12K. Rather than a new shirt for each year, there has been a single design offered for the event as a whole. I’ve done this race every year for the last three years, and it has kicked my butt soundly every single time.

Attempt #1: April 7, 2012.
I had been running for less than a year, but I had tackled a milestone for a new runner: the 10K. Searching for events, I found this race. A 12K wouldn’t be *that* much farther, right? It would be a challenge, but how much harder could it really be, right?

Right…..?

Oh, poor, sweet, innocent, stupid Me.

Not knowing what to expect, I ran with no water or fuel. I didn’t need fuel for my 10K; why would I need anything for an additional measly mile and a half? I ran my first-ever 10K in 1:14; this race took me an additional HOUR to finish (That’s one hell of a 1.5 mile). It wasn’t until after I finished that I heard other runners discuss how the course was so difficult, the 7.5-mile course was “a half-marathon effort.” For the first time, I experienced the “bonk”: that moment when your body completely runs out of fuel in your system, and things start breaking down. I walked a good part of my last couple of miles…marginally due to the difficulty of the course, but mostly because the only thing my brain could process was “sandwiches.” When I finally emerged from the woods to find my waiting husband, I could only eat chips directly from his outstretched hand.

It was a beautiful day to wish for the sweet release of death in the woods.

Time: 2:13:11

Attempt #2: April 6, 2013

The next year, I was a little more accomplished and confident as a runner; I had a half marathon under my belt, and was working towards a second half. However, as I ramped up my miles, I had injured something in my groin/hip flexor area, and around two miles into a run, I would feel some pain–after a longer run, I would practically be unable to walk.

I started stronger for my second Ni-Bthaska-Ke, but my injury caught up with me, and about did me in. I ended up pacing with another injured runner; we would take walk breaks together and periodically stop to stretch our pains out. We kept good company, but I barely limped across the finish line and couldn’t run again for a couple of weeks afterward.

Mile 7’s a doozy.

Time 2:18:55

Attempt #3: April 5, 2014

Third time’s a charm, right? I came back in 2014; I had completed a full marathon, I had run through much of the winter; I was ready and willing. This was the best trained, most prepared, and healthiest I had been for the Ni-Bthaska-Ke. I worked on pacing myself; I had fuel right at the right moments; I planned my water stops perfectly. I still had to walk the major climbs, and they still kicked the crap out of me, but other than the screaming legs, I felt pretty damn great. As I passed a few people toward the very end, at the peak of one of the toughest climbs, they teasingly scolded me for looking so happy. (People tell me that I’m a smiley runner, but that might be more of a friendly pain grimace they are seeing.)

Also, the face of victory.

I walloped my previous times so soundly, my husband missed my finish: he wasn’t expecting me for at least another 15-20 minutes.

Mile 7 continues to suck.

Time: 1:52:47

So I shared my shirt with Runner’s World.

*asterisk

As 2015 began, I was starting to get a racing itch. I ran regularly throughout the holidays, but my last race had been the Feast & Feathers on Thanksgiving. I’d been running, which was good, but I needed an organized event–I needed to be around other runners. My next scheduled race wasn’t until early February which meant a racing drought of over two months.

Not. Okay.

I missed that feeling of race day anticipation.

I missed the camaraderie of fellow runners.

I missed having a set goal and purpose for a run (not just running for me).

I missed lining up on a start line and crossing a finish line.

I missed crap like this.

I obsessively checked websites, but other than a couple of New Year’s Day races that weren’t close enough be viable, the well was dry. There was finally one event that could be a possibility: an untimed, non-competitive fun run hosted by the local running group.

As a way to break up the dead-of-winter doldrums, a group of local runners devised “The Y to Y Run.” The distance between the Grand Island and Hastings YMCAs (on runnable roads) is quite close to 26.2 miles; runners can run solo or as a relay; they can also start at the halfway point in Doniphan for 13ish miles.

I put out a call to my friends on Facebook to see if anyone would be willing to do a relay, either the full or half distance. I had considered the half distance as a solo, but it is an unsupported run and I didn’t feel like carrying all my fuel, water, and whatnot with me. My friend Erika, a new runner, expressed interest in the half distance as a relay, if we could get someone else to run. She rounded up her boss, and I convinced my husband to run. We’d each have a leg of 3ish miles.

January temperatures in Nebraska generally range from the teens to the 30s, but a north front can bring the most bitter of cold, so I watched the weather closely. We had been having some pretty awful cold–some days the high wouldn’t even reach double digits. The forecast for Y to Y, however, was looking good with lows in the 30s and a high of upper 40s. Good news, everyone! It was going to be ridiculously windy (25-mph sustained), but it was going to be a north wind for a southbound route.

We were about to be tailwind heroes.

Lord, give me sails.

I took the third leg, a three-mile stretch that ended up being mostly on a delightful minimum maintenance road. (If you’ve never had the pleasure of running on a dirt road through the country, I feel much pity for you.) I started out at a strong pace to see what I was capable of.

‘Murica.

One of my goals for 2014 was to break thirty minutes for a 5K, which means I would have to average roughly 9:30/mile. Throughout the many, many 5Ks I ran that year, I never made it. I PRed in March in just over 30 at a 9:45 average, but the vast majority of my races didn’t even come close.

I jetted out, with the wind shoving at my back. I pushed hard, but found a happy pace and I cruised along without any pain or fatigue. I tried not to obsess over my time, but I did catch a glance and saw I was under a 9:30 pace. When my watch beeped for my first mile split, I saw I had a 9:28 mile. I was pleased with myself, but I wasn’t going to fret over it; I still had at least two miles to go, and I wasn’t sure if I could maintain the same pace for that distance.

Into my second mile, I came upon another runner. As I started to pass her, she tried to make small talk with me. She had started a few miles after Doniphan, and was running about eight miles solo. With the wind, it was tough to hear; I paced beside her as she asked me about who I was and how far I was going. I had a feeling she had been getting a little lonely, so I didn’t mind running with her for a little bit, but I knew that I had slowed down considerably. The run organizer pulled beside us and drove slowly alongside us, checking our progress and making sure we had everything we needed. As he got into a deeper conversation with the other runner, I gave a friendly wave and went on my way. Mile 2 clocked in at 10:53.

If you look closely, you can see where I had company.

After my hangup on mile two, I wasn’t too worried about trying to break a 30-min 5K, but I still felt good; I knew I had teammates waiting for me; and I had had to pee for the last 45 minutes, so I kicked it in gear. I was almost relieved, however; could I really count this as a PR, when the wind was practically blowing me towards town? My husband said that “wind-aided” records never counted in the big leagues. I was keeping a quick (for me) pace, and it felt relatively effortless. If I would’ve set a new PR, I would’ve had to put an asterisk by it; I wouldn’t have earned full bragging rights. It was probably for the best, anyway.

fin.

My final mile was in 9:19, giving me a finishing time of 30:22 for 3.08 miles, a 9:51/mile average pace. So, my current PR stands. Asterisk free.

WE’RE GOIN’ STREAKING!

I know for some runners, keeping a consistent running schedule is a piece of cake. No matter what their schedule or other responsibilities, they ALWAYS get their run in. They can put in several miles a day for days at a time.

These runners suck and I hate them.

Sometimes other things take precedence. Bitches.

The winter of 2013, I attempted the Runner’s World Holiday Run Streak: run at least a mile per day every day between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. I tried hard to make it, but missed about three days. I was still proud of myself, but it was hard not to be disappointed. Summertime came, and with it, a new streak challenge: run every day from Memorial Day to the 4th of July. I was doing really well, until things fell to crap. My corgi fell dangerously ill and almost died; my grandfather passed away; I lost all motivation once I broke the streak. Out of the window of 40 days, I missed a total of ten. At least 75% is a passing grade…?

And the dog is feeling better. Thanks for asking.

Thanksgiving was on its way, and it was time to attempt a streak again. I kicked it off with the Feast and Feathers trail half marathon; in style. This time, I wouldn’t chump out. This time, there’d be no excuses.

This time, I’d do it in style.

I ran in the dark. I ran in the cold. I ran after beers and a bacon cheeseburger. I ran over snow and ice. I ran in 25-mph winds. Many times, I was only able to squeeze in a single mile–it was a little frustrating when dressing for a run took longer than the run itself.

You can’t consider yourself a winter runner until you’ve had your eyelashes freeze shut on a run.

On my streak: I developed “Rules for Winter Running:

1. Dress in Layers
2. Put One More Layer On
3. Head North on Your Run, Because There’s Your Headwind
4. Turn Towards Home; Enjoy Your Tailwind
5. Strip to Your Underwear in Kitchen
6. Enjoy Snack in Kitchen in Underwear
7. Put on Dry Warm Clothes and/or Take Nice Long Hot Shower

At the end, I made it. I ran every day, with no excuses. In 36 days of consecutive running, I totaled 74.36 miles.

On New Year’s Day, I ran my final run of the streak; a 3-mile out and back just outside of the little town I live in. On my first run of 2015, I came across a few people out for a walk here and there. I was headed east, back towards town; a gentleman farmer was headed the opposite direction. He told me, “Nice job; keep it up,” and I wished him likewise. He pointed out to the west and said very sweetly, “Look at what God gave you.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw this.

Thank you, sir, for a great start to my year.

I don’t know what 2015 will bring, but I’m hoping for new challenges and new accomplishments.

Cheers.