It's a blizzard. Let's go running!

There’s something about running in adverse conditions. Something that’s a little more inspiring than your average run on a fresh and calm morning in early June. Don’t get me wrong, clearly I love to run when weather doesn’t make things difficult. But when I woke up this morning to falling snow, I knew today’s run was going to be awesome. 

The best part about running in the winter, and better yet, icy blowing snow, is the lack of expectations. Winter is stronger than your ego. You can’t always run as fast as you want, sometimes you have to stop to dodge an icy spot or a slushy puddle, and sometimes (like today), you are running through ankle deep snow while being pelted in the eyes with blowing ice, which is definitely not conducive to crushing PRs. But as hard as it can be sometimes, throwing expectations out the window is incredibly empowering.

For the last eight months, every run I’ve done has been strategic. I’ve raced countless races, and PR’d most of them as a result. But after my last race, I longed to get out there and run, just to run. No expectations. No disappointments. 

In fair weather, having to stop at a streetlight, dodge a slow moving group of people walking three abreast on the sidewalk, or run through a muddy trail in the rain, was basically the end of my expectations for whatever kind of run I was doing. One time this past summer, I ran one of my normal 5 mile routes only to find that about a mile and a half in, the paved path I was on was under complete construction and I could not continue. I had a brief moment of panic. I was holding an awesome pace, I needed to run 5 miles, and now I was stuck. Where was I going to go? What was I going to do? I needed to decide fast so I didn’t lose any time. So I ended up running on the curb of the major street adjacent to the path for about 800 meters. It may not seem that far, but it was a delicate dance on the narrow balance beam of concrete while traffic rushed past me and it definitely did nothing for my pace. I was so disappointed. My run was ruined. And while it sounds like I was being over-dramatic (I was), I had something riding on every run that I did. There was always a next race, a next goal to beat, a new distance to crush. And honestly, that’s a huge motivator for me. I like the challenge, the humbleness, and the grind of working as hard as you can to crush your goals. But sometimes your ego just needs a break.

So, today I ran a “f**k-it” run. It’s my favorite kind of run. Basically a f**k-it run says just that, to your pace, route or distance. You just head out and run wherever you want, for as long as you want, as fast as you want. No expectations. So it doesn’t matter that for an entire mile you can’t see anything because it’s snowing directly in your eyes, and it doesn’t matter that you want to stop to take a couple pictures, and it doesn’t matter when you slow down to walk up the stairs (or that your route even includes stairs in the first place!), or that you are running at a snail’s pace through ankle deep snow that floats on a surface of sheer ice. 

At the end of it all, it doesn’t matter that you hit 5.46 miles instead of 5.5 miles, it doesn’t matter that your pace was slow AF and actually worse than your last half marathon, all that matters is how good it feels to have zero expectations, and to take the time to enjoy the crazy wintry weather that often allows nothing else but to run, just for the sake of running.

The Worst Run of My Life

Many people might read this title and think “every run is the worst run of my life”. Runners might read this title and be able to recount a handful of runs that would qualify. But I’m a little different. You see, I’ve never really had a “bad” run. I’ve had runs that were harder than others, ones that I wished were over mere minutes after they started, and ones that weren’t as fast as I had hoped, but this isn’t a story about runs that were almost “the worst run of my life”. 

This Sunday’s long run was a 11 miler. Nothing I hadn’t done before, hell, I PR’d my half marathon time this year by SEVENTEEN minutes. 11 miles had nothin’ on me. Eager to beat the heat, I packed a cooler of Gatorade, chocolate milk, and ice cold water bottles and hit the highway to my glory loop of never ending pavement at a park just outside the city. 

The first three miles were golden. Slightly downhill with the wind at my back, I had time to admire the changing leaves of the trees in the almost-autumn sun, and the strange number of dead frogs laying on their backs on the shoulder of the road. 

The four mile mark is my favorite. Deciduous trees turn into coniferous, and open fields disappear as the forest narrows in on the road, as if to give it a big hug and anticipation builds towards the East Gate Hill.  For a prairie dweller, it’s somewhat of a mountainous trek to reach the top, and it’s also an incline I credit in morphing me into a runner that crushed a 17 minute half marathon PR a few months back. 

I can never remember where mile 6 is. Is it the turnoff to the ranch, the road to the group use area, or that large boulder in the field with the pointy edge? Normally I wouldn’t be so concerned, but mile 6 meant I was one mile from where I started, which meant I only had to run there, then run another 2 miles and then turn around and run two miles back. It’s like the run was almost over, right? Yeah, it was one of those runs. There was no denying, wherever mile 6 ended up being, I could barely fathom that I was just over half way done. Smoky skies with cool winds turned into stale hot air, suffocating every breath. “You’re not tired! Your mind fails far before your body will! Come on, you’ve PR’d on every single race this year” I tried to convince myself that I was feelin’ good, but the truth is, I really wanted the run to be over. 

Past mile 7 where my parked car was filled with icy chocolate milk dreams, I reminded myself that another 2 miles to the turnaround would come faster than I thought. On my first loop around, I mentally mapped out where the 2 mile turnaround should be. Just past the marsh area where the water looks fresh enough to drink, just past the “something” in the field that looks like a bear, and right where a tall tree stands alone, majestic against the vast prairie field behind it. That’s where I’d turn around. I have never felt more like walking during a run than in this moment. If only walking didn’t mean it would take more time to reach the end, if only walking didn’t demoralize my running ego. I didn’t hurt, I wasn’t out of breath, I was just DONE. Except I wasn’t. There was still a mile and a half to go. Uphill. 

My mind was out of motivation. My body was out of motion. I closed my eyes and ran hoping that maybe it was a dream, and that when I opened them I’d be at my car chasing my long run with a swig of lemon ice Gatorade. My eye’s opened and I was only 50 meters ahead. I closed my eyes again, and felt every step, every jolt of the concrete radiate through my entire body, I felt the angry sun on my face, the failing determination in my mind, and the hopeless optimism that I would turn the corner to see the end. And like a gift from the Sunday Long Run gods, I got a sign. Literally. The sign to the turnoff to the parking lot. DONE. This time for real. 

The chocolate milk felt like luxury, the lemon ice Gatorade tasted like what I imagine Windex to taste like. And, defeated and exhausted, I fell into the sweet sweet reclined seat of my Civic in an attempt to un-remember the last 10.5 miles of “The Worst Run of My Life”.

My Love Affair with Diet Coke

I don’t know where it began, but Diet Coke and I became quite an item in the last few years. It started out as something occasional. A beverage to supplement a meal or something to quench mid-afternoon thirst. But what began as a casual relationship, soon turned into something much more serious. 

But first off, let’s get things straight. I’m not talking about just any Diet Coke, I fell in love with Diet Coke in a can. Not from a can poured into a glass, but Diet Coke straight-up, chilled, IN a can. A little bit of internet “research” told me that apparently the sweeteners are a little different in bottled, can, and fountain. Whether that’s true or not didn’t really matter to me. Neither did the looming horror of the anti-aspartame activists around me that took every chance they could, to explain to me how my attraction to DC was worse than Ebola. 

There’s something about the sound of a cold can being opened. It’s like you can hear its chill, feel its flavor, and touch its bubbly texture. And there was something of comfort in that sound. Like a cozy scarf on a cool autumn day, the hot summer sun melting your skin, or a fluffy pillow to lay your head on after a long busy day, DC felt good. REALLY good. The first sip was always the best, just like a fine glass of red wine. The flavor lingered awhile as a velvet blanket of “ahhhhhhhhh” permeated every cell in my body. This was my everyday, this was The Good Life.

So naturally, we took things to the next level, and that next level came at 8:00am. While everyone else was chugging back their fourth five-dollar-coffee of the morning, I felt like I was winning the game of caffeine dependency when I’d crack a cold one to start to my day. “Sure, your 500 calorie latte is “healthier”, I mean sugar isn’t really all that bad anyway is it? And there’s something to say for the benefits of full fat dairy, so add a couple extra creamers-- it’s good for you.” MY sunrise bevvie clocks in at ZERO calories, and a measly 50 cents. BAM. 

Spring turned to summer, summer to winter; a few times over, and DC and I were still going strong. DC had replaced my craving for unnecessary snacks, it was a fix to calm stressed out nerves, and I was feeling pretty good about it. Until I realized that not only had it been replacing things in a seemingly good way, I also was drinking next to no water. I once actually considered bringing DC to the gym with me if it weren’t for transparent water bottles. So, I started to entertain the idea of what life would be like on my own. Could I get past wanting to devour a box of m&m’s at 2pm every day? What would accompany my lunch? What would I do at 8:00am? Who would be there for me? And as unreasonable as I thought it sounded, I was up for a challenge. 

So, DC and I broke up. Wonder what happened next? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Now, I’ve read many a story on people who quit DC and have experienced some life-changing-euphoric-lightbulb-type-moment, people who feel that their bodies have been cleansed from all evils of the chemicals gods, and that suddenly have a new lease on life, re-incarnated as their favorite childhood super hero. Not in my case. Turns out that it’s not that hard to come to work at 8:00am and just drink water. Turns out that drinking water with lunch works just about the same. Turns out, that when I thought I NEEDED DC to get me through the last half of the day, an extremely long and boring conference call, or to actually do what it was intended to do---quench thirst,  not having it around didn’t change anything. And it blew my mind. There was my lightbulb moment. 

Going solo actually wasn’t all that hard. I thought about DC from time to time, and to be honest I wanted to go back on occasion, but for what? Am I convinced that aspartame is worse than Ebola? No. Do I think aspartame is good for me? Also no. So what’s the point? 

And while I still miss the “ahhhhhhh” and comfort that comes from breaking into a clammy aluminum can of brown liquid, life goes on without DC. And it turns out this new-and-improved version of The Good Life ‘aint half bad.