I'm Here!

Mike and I arrived in Chicago Friday afternoon and I hit the expo just long enough to buy a bunch of Nike stuff I don't need. Score!

Had a great dinner with Andrew and Leslie (I really hate being the only person at the table not drinking.) and now I'm up and ready for a slow and easy 30 minute run. I'm trying not to get freaked out with how unusually hot here it is for mid-October. Temps are expected to be in the 80's all weekend. Good thing I plan on finishing the marathon under 3 hours when it's still cool.

OMG can you imagine?

But about that. That is all I heard yesterday at the expo. Little snatches of conversation everywhere about adjusting planned clothing and adjusting time expectations - all because of the weather. I keep trying to remind myself that I trained all summer in the oppressive heat and humidity we got in New York. If I do hill repeats in that crap, I think I can take 80 degrees in Chicago.

Yeah!

But other than that, I'm truly excited to be here. There's such a buzz in the air and I love being around all the other runners who are as jacked as I am to just hit the course and see where the morning takes us.

Well, it takes us to the finish line at Grant Park - I meant that figuratively.

I'll attempt to blog about my day of rest so that all my readers (hi, Tina!) can be updated.

Finding inspiration on the bottom of a human pyramid.

Can't you see me channeling my inner runner all the way down there?

And don't laugh ... but it helped. Maybe not the pyramid, per se,but the weekend that surrounded it. It was the Great 40th Celebration of 2010 with the girls back home - an epic event a year in the making. Somehow we got the whole group (minus my running pal Erin) to Capitola - a little beach town down the road from Santa Cruz - for a weekend of fun. I was on week 3 of my tendonitis recovery - which meant I was doing very little running but a large amount of whining.

But it all stopped quickly that weekend. Here's why. You see, everyone in my group of friends has a role. Perhaps it's an unspoken role, but we all kinda know what they are. A few examples:

Lynette's role is to always know where the nearest camera is:

Val is our comic relief. And she cooks a mean carne asada:

Red is everyone's biggest cheerleader, no matter what we're taking on:

Kerry?

Ah, don't be fooled by Kerry's love of poles. Kerry is the Chairperson of the Board. The Big Kahuna. Ms. I Will Kick Your Ass If You Lack Common Sense.

I'll back up. When I so humbly and quietly let my injury be known via Facebook, Twitter and my blog, I heard from plenty of my friends, running and non. But of them? Kerry has known me the longest and she and I share many personality traits. So it should have come as no surprise that as I laced my Vomeros on a very tender and pained left foot to force a long run one Saturday, Kerry - much like a superhero who suddenly senses evildoing elsewhere in the universe - called my cell as my hand was on the front door of my apartment.

"I hope you're not running on that foot," she said sternly. "At this point, you need to just worry about getting to the starting line in one piece and Gal, you won't get there at ALL if you don't rest."

"I know, I know," I huffed, secretly plotting that as soon as our call ended I would tiptoe out of the house and to the park. Like she'd know. She was 2500 miles away.

But the more Kerry talked, the more I listened. After all, this was no couch potato dispensing advice. Kerry is a triathlete, a boot-camper and has a mean set of abs on her flat stomach. If nothing else, I needed to respect the Washboard.

She laid down the rules. When I got to Capitola the next weekend, maybe - maybe - she would allow me to do a slow, short run. But I needed to be honest to myself over the coming days. If I was, I'd see improvement.

So I did. Despite the fact that I wanted to cry every time a jogger passed me on the sidewalk, I didn't run. Despite the fact that I felt pounds creeping onto my hips and ass every morning, I didn't run. Despite the fact that I became a cranky bitch and took it out on Mike, I didn't run. (Sorry, Mike - it was all in the name of recovery)

So on Saturday morning, I quietly climbed down from the bunk beds:

Don't laugh, they were AWESOME.

I slipped on the Vomeros, and went out to this:

I ran along the coast, each mile getting faster than the previous. As I rounded back to the house, I was flying, passing early risers taking their dogs for a stroll and surfers on their way to the beach, all who nodded "good morning." I was happy, I was fast and I was ... pain-free.

That afternoon, a few of us hit the beach and after a few bottles of wine, it was somehow a good idea to build a pyramid on the sand. Aileen and Lynette were cheerleaders in high school and slipped right back into their roles as they organized who would be where. Aileen scampered up on top and gave a victory stance as if we had just held a pep rally in the cafeteria yesterday.

And down there on the bottom, Kerry's knee in my back, acutely aware that other people on the beach around us were taking video that would be uploaded to YouTube to be seen around the world, I realized that if I just stopped thinking about the stuff that caused me pain, eventually it might get frustrated by not getting my attention ... and just leave.

I laughed so hard that weekend that I had no time to obsess about missing a long run or if I was eating the right carbs. It simply didn't matter.

And that night, I even put on my 4-inch heels so the girls and I could whoop it up at a nearby club.

The following Saturday, I laced up my Vomeros and hit the park with Babs for 9 miles. 9 beautiful, pain-free miles.

The agony of the feet.

Oh, we knew it was too good to be true.

At some point ... I had to suffer an injury. Because my training was just going too damned well.

Before you think that this has changed anything about Chicago, think again. I've been training too long and too hard - and have already developed a way-too-cute outfit - to not run this race. It's just that the next three weeks until I get to the start line? Are.Going.To.Suck.Hard.

I know the exact week that it happened. I might even be able to pinpoint the exact run; the exact mile. And I have no one to blame but myself. Oh, and maybe Nike. But that in a moment.

The schedule I have been following is pretty kickass. Kickass in that it rocks hard. But kickass in that it absolutely kicks my ass. I tore it out of Runner's World in May - it was part of a whole special section about making your goals for your next marathon. I had already registered for Chicago but hadn't really thought through a running plan. I didn't love the Nike plan on the marathon website; it didn't seem that challenging and it didn't give me enough hill work. (Everyone has something they love about training - I heart hills. A lot.)

But this schedule started with solid hill work and ramped up the long run miles early. Then you move to tempo runs and end with a few weeks of great speedwork. Seemed challenging but doable. Even looking at the weeks that totaled 45+ miles didn't deter me. I mean, RW would never put a schedule in their mag that couldn't be done, right? Right?

I stuck to the schedule diligently. Hung it on the fridge with a magnet and put a big "x" on every day I ticked off. Would stare at it longingly every night, reading about my run the next morning and trying not to get too excited that I would be one more day down. I got so caught up in following every day to the letter ... that I didn't really think about the fact that I was running hard five days a week. Never saw the big picture.

I was overtraining.

As all of you (okay, just Tina - hi Tina!) remember, Mexico threw me off. Probably a blessing in disguise because I didn't realize just how tired my body had become. I beat myself up on my first 20-miler, fitting it in on a Friday evening because I'd be working all weekend. Problem was? I had run a speedy 10 miles on the Thursday morning before. I simply didn't give my body time to rest.

So my second 20-miler, I swore I'd be stronger. Faster. More prepared. I got up early, ran ten miles on my own, then picked up Barb for the second half. Immediately, I told her how tired I'd been. "I think I'm running too much," I remember telling her. "I've never felt this tired all the time," I said. "Something doesn't feel right."

And then, somewhere around mile 14 - could have been mile 15 - I simply ... stopped.

My foot hurt. Like I had tied my left shoe too tight and the laces were irritating the top of my foot. I adjusted my shoe, tied and untied it. "Sorry, Babs," I whined. "Something is wrong."

I should mention here that I had upgraded my beloved Vomero +4s to the brand-spanking new Vomero +5s. I kind of knew they weren't the same, but I kept running in them, thinking Nike would never have changed them so dramatically. Alas, I think they did. They were no longer like running on clouds. My ankle didn't feel like it was supported by cotton balls.

I hated them. These damned Vomero +5s! Damned Nike for sabotaging me! Saboteur Nike!

And now I cursed them, thinking they had something to do with this new foot pain that was making my second 20-miler suck nearly as much as my first.

I limped home and immediately RICE'd. (Oh, the clever physical therapist who came up with that acronym.) Rest, ice, compression and elevation. Check, check, check and check. And let's not forget the painkillers, since I'm no Scientologist and feel strongly that there is better living through pharmaceuticals.

I won't bore you (Tina) with the details (too late!) ... but two weeks later, I've self-diagnosed tendonitis in my extensor muscles, which run from your toes all the way up your legs. (Good 'ol WebMD. If it weren't for the fact that I'm fairly certain I'm dying of cancer every time I get a headache, that website would be rad). Plan of action for extensor tendonitis is ... omigod, really? ... RICE.

So that schedule on the fridge just sits there, mocking me. I haven't put an "x" on any of the remaining days, since I'm kind of on my own schedule now, largely dictated by the ginormous size 11's on the end of my legs. Besides, it breaks my heart not to tick things off on a schedule. I have my OCD to thank for that gem.

I had one really successful run. Last Saturday, Babs and I did 15 miles, and I did it in good time. When telling people about it, I leave out the part where I limped for the last couple of miles. So while I celebrated a speedy long run, I lamented the fact that I indeed had an injury that now needed to be acknowledged.

I worry. I worry that I won't be able to run for the next three weeks until Chicago. I worry that even if I rest this whole time, I'll still be in pain on race day. I worry that I didn't do something about it in time to heal. I worry that I was a stubborn idiot who insisted on continuing to run. I worry that I've done all this work for nothing. I worry that I won't make my goal.

At this point, the fitness I worry about is not in my body. It's between my ears.

I have an amazing support group of running friends. Erin called me immediately to calm me down, telling me that I have one job - to be healthy at the starting line. And to do everything to insure that I am. Kerry called, too. After berating me for continuing to run (I rely on Kerry for reality smacks across the face - think Cher in Moonstruck slapping Nicholas Cage: "Snap out of it!"), she said it concisely: "It may not be the run you wanted, but if you heal yourself now, at least you'll finish it." Babs had the same issue last year and always gives me a good sympathetic ear. Rose, training for New York, also suffered an injury and like me, is a type-A runner and highly competitive. She assured me that I'll kick ass.

In the meantime, I've ordered a new pair of Vomero +4s, knowing my trusty pals will be just what I need on race day. I've vowed to hit the gym every day to keep up my fitness with low-impact cardio and strength training. I'm RICEing. And with a little luck, I'll show up to Grant Park on 10-10-10 ready to kill 26.2.

Besides, the super-cute race day outfit I bought at Lululemon is not going back.

It's about freaking time.

And ... it is!

I'd like to introduce the newest member of my family. Family? Meet Garmin:


Oooooh ... helloooooooo Garmin.

I have officially reached a new stage in my running. Today, I own a Big Girl Watch. Not that I had been putting it off. But really? My Nike Sportband worked juuuuuust fine. For the past year or so, I've been perfectly content with my bare-bones, no-nonsense Nike band. Behold:


Yes, he works fine. Light on the wrist and to see calories, time, pace ... I just hit a switch at the bottom. I also just plug that baby into my computer when I get home and it keeps a running total of my miles on the Nike website. But basic nonetheless. I call him ... Nestor.

But when Nestor tried to do Yasso 800s with me? He got a little flustered.

I was never good in math. It's been long enough since high school that I can now admit that I had to repeat calculus. All of my girlfriends were honor society who were like nine grades ahead of everyone else - but not me. I struggled through everything but my English and writing classes, all the time reminding myself that "once I become an adult, I will never have to use math again."

And then? I became a runner. Runners have complicated formulas for everything. They're obsessed with things like pace per mile and what their 5K PR is. They calculate what it takes to run a negative split race - the second half being faster than the first - using a complex breakdown of what their goal pace is at certain times. I'll admit that while I enjoy this kind of math, I also know my limitations. I know that when I stagger over the finish, barely able to breathe, I have way overestimated what my pace should have been. And it wasn't because I was feeling confident; it was all fuzzy math.

My lack of wicked math skills has also been accompanied by a natural shift in the calibration of the Nike Sportband (ahem, Nestor) as I've worn it more and more. So much so that as I would complete a full loop of CP - knowing that it is exactly 6.03 miles - Nestor would look up at me innocently, stating: "6.33." Nestor, perhaps wanting too badly to please me, would begin to grant me an extra 3/10ths of a mile every time I ran.

I was then thrown into a tizzy after the Napa to Sonoma Half when at a glance down at my wrist after the finish, Nestor told me I had just run 12.7 miles. Reminder: a half is 13.1 miles. What the what? What had I done? Was Nestor mad at me for something? Where did those other 3/10ths disappear to? I actually even asked an official if maybe the race organizers had quietly just shaved off a little. "Come on," I urged. "It'll be our secret."

Wait. I meant 4/10ths. See? I still suck at the most basic of math.

Alas, it seemed that Nestor was just a little off. Again. Recalibration did nothing but piss him off even more.

But I love him, so I put up with his erratic behavior. And when it was time on the schedule to get to Yasso 800s, I gave him a pep talk, telling him that he could absolutely do this.

For those of you not familiar with the Yasso 800s, behold from a fine running blog:

====================================

What are the Yasso 800's?

The concept is simple. One day per week for several weeks leading up to a marathon you mix interval training into your weekly run schedule. The intervals should consist of 800 meter runs. If you’re aiming for a 4 hour marathon finish time, then run your 800 meter interval in 4 minutes. Jog for another 4 minutes and then repeat by running another 800 meters in 4 minutes. And if you’re trying to run a 3 hour marathon then do 3 minute 800 meter intervals followed by 3 minutes of jogging, and repeat. Do this until you can do 10 total repetitions in a given workout at your marathon goal pace. After 2 or 3 months of Yasso 800′s along with your typical marathon training schedule you should be prepared to charge the marathon and complete it at your target pace based on the Yasso intervals. Easy and effective!

====================================

"Easy and effective!" Who wrote that? Obviously someone who never sat next to me in trigonometry. It took me nearly an hour, scribbling notes all the way, to figure out how to do this workout. I don't think it even required "carrying the 1" ... but my math did. Oh, and don't get me started on meters versus miles. I still struggle with military time (Add 12. I think.), so conversions are not my thing. In the end, this is what I gleaned from the Yasso 800s: I needed to watch my pace, my time and my mileage all at once. Nestor was dejected, knowing he would fall short. Pressing that little button on his underbelly to toggle between those fields was the only way to do it. And I am just not coordinated enough to do this as I am hauling ass.

We tried. We gave it our best shot. I still got in a good run, but to this day I have no effing idea if I did them correctly.

And Nestor knew.

So Mike surprised me last week with the sleek Garmin 405, which does everything but go to the bathroom for me - provided I can find satellites. You see, Garmin runs on GPS, which means I am - for once in my life - exact and correct when I am running. He beeps at me when I hit mile markers or if I fall off pace, and he provides me with a virtual running partner I can try to beat. (That option is way creepy so I doubt I'll use it.) Best of all, I have all of my numbers right there in front of me. No need to press buttons anymore.

And I think I shall call him ... Gavin.

Nestor is okay with the arrangement. He knows I may still strap him on my right hand for long runs, since I love seeing my Nike level increase and I am ohsoclose to the next one.

Ironically, this all happened the same week I bid adieu to my Nike wrap-arounds. Oh, you know them well:




Hmmm. It appears I only wear black tanks when I run.

More on point, I have the wrap-arounds everywhere I go. Even when I'm on the road, I pack them right alongside Nestor. (Oh, tragic Nestor!)

This? Not so effective:


I'm afraid the next Happy Running Cindy picture you see will star a different pair of shades. For now, I'll keep the broken ones sitting on my dresser, right alongside Nestor. Maybe they can reminisce about being important parts of my training, helping me to become the mature runner I am finally growing into. They can take pride knowing they were my training wheels, proudly watching as I roll down the street with Gavin at my side, a little wobbly yet unaided and steadfast in achieving my goal ... all on my own.

Or maybe because they're a watch and a pair of sunglasses, I'll just donate them to charity. Come on people, this isn't a Pixar film.

The tequila made me do it.

Or, in this case, not do it.

I'm so sorry, dear readers (okay, so it's just Tina), but I was kidnapped by banditos in the Mexican countryside and made to drink tequila for hours at a time, ripped so cruelly away from my marathon training ... and my blog.

All right, only partly true. The part about the tequila. And the training and the blog.

But really, tequila? Can be blamed for so many things that go horribly off-course, probably even historically. The Titanic? Tequila. The 2000 presidential election? Tequila. The pitch meeting when "Jersey Shore" got green-lighted? Definitely tequila.

And they made me wear a sombrero!

As my Chicago training progressed, I knew one large obstacle loomed on the schedule. A trip to Mexico with our close friends who we travel with every year. Remember New Orleans last year?

Ah yes ... those friends.

So as you can imagine, I was a bit concerned about throwing off my training schedule for the five days we'd be at ... wait for it ... an all-inclusive resort. Yep, top-shelf liquor with the flash of a woven bracelet bestowed upon you when you arrive. As Val so aptly pointed out, our group was going to become the luxury resorts' loss leader. They'd quickly be rethinking this foolish all-inclusive gibberish upon our checkout.

We were to arrive on Thursday night and my running schedule was supposed to go something like this: Friday - 5 miles; Saturday - 16 miles; Monday - 5 miles; Tuesday - 8 miles of hills.

I rearranged the schedule before we left, figuring there was no way I was doing a long run of 16 miles on Saturday. I'd get up super-duper early on Thursday before we took off, run my 16 miles. Then I'd see how the rest of the days played out. With that schedule, only Tuesday would be a toss-up. I figured the 5 milers would be easy enough to do on the hotel treadmill.

Thursday morning.

I slept through my alarm. Several times. Don't blame me, though. I was feeling a little sniffly and cold-ish. So I took my snotty butt to the gym where I successfully pounded out ... a mile and a quarter. Omg so pathetic. Thursday? A total loss on the training schedule. But it didn't matter once we got to Nueva Vallarta because we were with our best friends who are always totally refined and conservative.

So Friday morning was a bit touch-and-go.

But I managed to bang out 5 slow miles on the treadmill and figured I'd do what I could on Saturday morning. I knew there was no long run in my future. Our drunken exploits and hangover potential aside, there is just no way I can do 16 on the dreadmill. Could I take it outside? Sure, if I didn't mind the stifling humidity and +90 temps not to mention that pesky U.S. State Department advisory for tourists traveling to Mexico, warning that you best not step foot out of your resort for risk of being kidnapped and beheaded by drug lords. (Not that dramatic, but the gringo from New York wasn't taking any chances.)

Up until this point in my training, I looked at the schedule so prominently posted on my fridge as gospel. I didn't waver from a hill repeat or tempo run. I hadn't cut anything short. I was, if I do say so myself, a model trainee.

Enter the margarita.

Saturday morning started out with our amazing breakfast buffet. (It took me several mornings after we returned home to stop plodding into the kitchen in flip-flops and shouting incredulously at Mike: "Donde esta el berry bar?!") But come on, people. It's a freaking all-inclusive. And being that time really doesn't matter when you're on vacation, I can give you about 127 justifications for having a margarita at 10:30am. Even more if it's with reposada.

(Speaking of time. We found out a day into our trip that our resort - located just 15 minutes away from the airport - was in a different time zone from Puerto Vallarta. It made for much confusion with dinner reservations and no one ever seemed to be able to tell us what the correct time was. After a few days of guesstimating by looking at the sun, an exasperated Kerry finally asked the concierge: "What time do you think it is?" We never received a proper answer.)

So Saturday, we had an excursion. Ziplining. (Which I was really excited about, since the only other time I had done this was in Costa Rica with Mike, Mike and Claudette. But since we're really more of the "sit around the pool bar and put away pina coladas" people, our CR ziplining adventure was over the resort pool. Mike actually waved to me from the hot tub as I passed overhead. Claudette and I have since used "ziplined" as a verb to describe anyone half-assing something, i.e., "She totally ziplined that job interview.")

So a couple of margies in and several (many) Tecates on the long, winding drive up the mountain ...


... the long run became a distant and hazy memory. And this? Was our zipline adventure:

Followed by a "tequila tour" by our guides. Which was really just them getting us wasted on really good tequila in an effort to garner more tips. Totally worked.

I had thought that by the end of the day I'd have a sense of regret or anxiety for blowing off a crucial training run. Frankly, all I felt was warm and buzzed. And I dug it. Besides, I still had Sunday to get back on track. I'd try to fit in something in the morning.

This was Saturday night:

So day two of the Great Marathon Training Blow Off started with a wicked hangover. That was quickly repaired by bloody marys in the pool.


Followed by a concoction whipped up by our pool boy Wenceslaus (Kerry dubbed the drink a "Wencie").


Followed by little milky, caramel-y shots of heaven. We are all class.

This picture has not been Photoshopped:

By Monday, I was back on the treadmill for 5 miles and I'm fairly certain I was sweating Sauza. But I still had Tuesday. I was supposed to do 8 miles of hills - which is difficult to do on a treadmill anyway - but I would have settled for anything at that point.

And then this really big dude named Montezuma banged on the front door of our hotel suite. What an a-hole this guy is.

Spent the entire trip home Tuesday sweating, swearing and darting for el bano. Worse still, when I got home and tried to get back on my schedule, I'd find that about a quarter mile was my limit. A stomach cramp would shoot through me and I'd be forced to walk, muttering to myself all the way home about the damned ceviche bar.

This was the first week that I was able to get myself back on track. Logged my highest mileage yet - 42 miles for the week - and had a pretty successful 18-mile run, half of that with Barb at my side. Of course, the Cipro prescribed by my doctor didn't hurt, either.

But the trip was awesome. We've found the perfect mix of personalities to travel together and it just works so well. I've never laughed so hard for so many consecutive hours. We joked (but were kind of serious) about making t-shirts up for all of us proudly proclaiming: "Those People." Since we were the group everyone else stared at - and were subsequently horrified by. Like last year in New Orleans, we can't wait to travel again together next year.


Maybe I've been taking myself too seriously with all this training stuff. Maybe I needed a fun-filled five days with friends to realize that that's what's most important in life. Maybe it's okay to blow off the schedule in exchange for memories that are only made when you're good and marinated in Mexican beer. Maybe every now and again you need to live life like a Jimmy Buffet song.

Maybe everything is just better when it's accompanied by salt and lime.

I'd look awesome in Dri-Fit and puka shells.

So I'm turning 40 in January (audible gasps, I know it's simply unbelievable), which is kind of a big deal in my family.

Call it our really effed up preoccupation with aging (we think birthdays that deserve black balloons are cool, not an excuse for locking yourself in a closet with a bottle of pills), but everyone who has turned 40 has had a blowout party that we all make, no matter where we're located. We all flew to Minnesota for my sister's 40th (props to us for making that trip in January, eh? It's like the frozen freaking tundra. I have never been so cold in all my life.) and we flew home to California for my brother's 40th as my sister-in-law Trish threw him a huge surprise party ... huge as in hundreds of people and a commercial margarita machine. Because every awesome party has a margarita machine.

We do these things big. So 6 months out, Trish has already started bugging Mike about what we're doing for mine. Now by contrast, Mike and I are total last-minute planners. I think I threw together Mike's 40th (I got the 'aging ROCKS!' gene and embarrassed him with a surprise party, complete with Mike masks. He hated every second of it, which thrilled me to no end) in about two weeks. I'm not condoning it, I'm just saying, this is who we are. Trish went on to explain that they are trying to plan a work/family trip to Hawaii in January, so they didn't want a conflict with my birthday.

I gave it about 43 seconds of thought before I Googled "marathon" and "January 16 2011." Imagine my surprise when I found one ... in Hawaii. No joke, the Maui Paradise Marathon, held on my 40th birthday. Could it be that we could get the whole family together in tropical paradise for the big 4-0? Upon reading through the website, however, there was this small note:

*****

June 30, 2010, Aloha! While conditions are improving on Maui, unfortunately they are still not conducive to putting on a world class marathon, half marathon, and 5K events for Sunday, January 16, 2011. Runners and participants deserve the best when coming to Maui. Unless the MPM team can guarantee that to its participants, they will not hold the event as much as they would like to do that for all of you who want to come to Maui to run/walk and combine it with a first class vacation. Therefore, the January 16, 2011 event will not be held on a formal basis.

*****

What?! Not held?! Do you know what January 16th is?! Okay, call me dense, but I refused to believe that a few potholes would delay an entire marathon on my birthday. Don't they know who I am?

I emailed the head of the MPM, who promptly responded with an "Aloha, Cindy!" (Let me just say here that I want to live in a place where you have an alternative to "hello." Yes, one could make the argument that "Hey, asshole! Move your truck!" is the official greeting of New York City. But if you're looking for warm and fuzzy with a hint of exotic, Hawaii's version of "hello" is for you. And if you say "hello" back, they know you're not from there. Love that!)

Anyway, he tells me that yes, they've decided to hold off on an "official" MPM. But behold the rest of his email:

*****

Aloha Cindy. Sorry for the delay in responding but we were doing some things that might have an effect for January but nothing happened to change it. There will be no formal event at this point. However, we are going to start gathering names of those who might want to do a group type run, informal if you will. Means you would need to carry your own supplies, no cops, none of the things with a formal race. However, if we get enough to do it, I will see about getting finisher's shirts and medals and then have a low fee to cover those items. Couple other things could go along with it but in effect, it would be very low keyed.

We can always do a special birthday party run for you and your family! We have the course laid out so you could easily enough do it. I fully understand why you would want to do something like that seeing how it also is a new age group! For us runners, those are the only birthdays to celebrate.

*****

He then signed off with a "mahalo" for my interest. (I might start using "mahalo" in grocery stores and banks. Do you think people in Manhattan would think me odd? Or perhaps just recently returned from the islands and not yet grasping being stateside again?)

Even though it seemed improbable that there would be an island marathon for me to run on my 40th birthday, I couldn't get over how touched I was that a running club on the other side of the Earth was willing to basically throw something together for me. Okay, so it wasn't just for me ... and yes, they would dig having a bunch of tourists on their island spending money ... but it all goes back to this weird runner's kinship that I've often tried to describe.

My favorite story since beginning this odyssey is still when Mike gave up his shoes to the runner at the Queens Half Marathon last year. (And if you don't know the story, read it here. You won't be disappointed.) Although Mike isn't a runner, he gave them up without thinking twice. But what I might love more is that the dude who asked for them - thought nothing of doing so, assuming that everyone at the race that day was of like mind.

I'm reminded of my friend Erin. She's a high school friend and in my group of girls who have managed to stay close all these years despite careers, husbands, children, diverging interests and miles in between.

On paper, Erin and I couldn't be more different. Her politics are conservative and she's a Sarah Palin fan; I studied at Berkeley and think Bill Clinton was the Second Coming. She's heavily involved in her church community; I'm a "twice a year"-er whose church prayers usually begin with, "crap, God ... sorry it's been so long." I drink and swear like a sailor; the hardest thing I've seen her drink was an ice tea with a shot of Splenda. Although we've known each other for over 20 years, sometimes I imagine I appear to her as strange rebellious teen.

But our common ground is running. Erin is an avid runner and has finished - and finished well - many marathons. Here she is during the San Francisco Marathon this past weekend. Oh, and she did it as a training run. Show off.


Erin is currently training for New York in November. When she got in through the lottery, I was as happy as if I had gotten in myself. She got in, along with a girlfriend, and they would be travelling cross-country to run one of the greatest marathons in the world. Would Mike and I be able to house a couple of runners come the first weekend in November? Of course, I replied. There were disclaimers: there will be an airbed involved, and most certainly a shihtzu staring at your face every morning, but if you can handle it, then mi apartamento es su apartamento. This is what runners do.

Our pasts are the reason we met - and our presents are diametrically opposed - yet going forward, I'm happy to have someone else in my life who understands the native tongue. We both speak the international language of "Holy crap, where's the stupid finish line already?!"

Mahalo for reading.

We ran 13.1 miles and all we got was this stinkin' wine glass.

Ah, but you know me too well. That beautiful glass was rarely empty!


Yes, we did it. Kerry finished her first half-marathon ever. Me? The most enjoyable race I've ever run.


And then ... we drank a crapload of wine.

One cannot fully appreciate the finish however, without first understanding the beginning and the middle. In a word, the whole weekend kicked big ass.

Let me start at Friday. Kim and I coordinated so that we'd arrive SFO at the same time and cab in to Kerry's pad. The mere fact that Red left her three kids in the dust and came all the way up from San Diego to watch us run still boggles the mind. She also came up for my marathon last year. Hands down the best cheerleader-slash-friend a girl could ask for. I heart her.

Going back to my neurosis about finally having a decent Brightroom photo, we decided to paint the town red.




Then on to dinner with Lynette and Renee.


The next morning, I got up early to take a quick jaunt through Pacific Heights. Kerry lives right near the Presidio, which - for those of you not familiar with it - sits on an enormous hill. Frankly, the whole damned city does, but the Presidio is a particularly steep puppy. It's a beautiful park overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge that's a joy to run through. Now, Mike and I lived just blocks from the Presidio and we also got married there. But sometimes? It's like my 11 years out of the city has erased all memory of its topography. About a quarter-mile down the first winding hill it dawned on me: I have to run back up this mother.

After walking back to Kerry's pad, we picked up Peet's and scones (and if you don't know of these things, I simply can't explain bliss in the course of a short blog) and all headed up to Napa along with CC.

A quick word about CC.

CC is one of Kerry's college friends and although I have heard about her for years, I didn't really get to know her until quite recently. She is, in short, a totally down girl. Supportive, sweet, ten tons of fun, and - for being 8 1/2 months pregnant - has a wicked body with totally toned arms. I secretly hate her.

But when Kerry told her she was running her first half marathon, there was no pause before CC started asking about hotel arrangements. Because there was no way she wouldn't be there to yell very loudly for her. That's the kind of girl she is. And I know this because that's the kind of girl Kerry is. Red's right up there, too. Girlfriends who want to make me be a better girlfriend.

How in the world they still want to hang with the bitchy, judgmental person I am, I have no idea.


So this was the expo where Kerry and I picked up our packets and our badass numbers. Can you see that I am just a number off being James Bond?


It's a beautiful venue that also happens to be where CC got married. Which is why Kerry thought it was fun to re-enact her role as bridesmaid.


Well, she thought it was funny.

We headed back to the hotel in Napa to hit the pool:


And then a great Italian joint to carb load:


And oh yes. This is a pregnant woman with a glass of wine. Deal with it.


Race morning, 5am.

Kerry said she tossed and turned all night. I slept like a rock. She seemed nervous. I was calm, steady, and being the BFF I am, most likely mocked her. In any event, we looked way cute in our new Lululemon getups.


Please note the pigtails. I told you people I was shaking things up for this race. Black clothing and single ponytails be damned!

So here's where I should say a little something about my promise to provide video. Yes, it's still coming. You'd think that because I do this for a living, I could figure out how to edit and upload my video easily. Not so much. So tune in later for totally exciting video clips.

We got bussed to the starting line at a nearby winery and the gun went off at about 7:15. We started out with one really killer hill ... only to be followed by a couple of miles of downhill. It was exhilarating. And when you finally see that video, you'll know what I mean.

Just before Mile 2, we spotted our cheer section: Kim and CC on the side of the road, camera snapping and both jumping up and down.



Yep, that's the Flip cam in my hand.

This is what the whole course looked like. Miles of vineyards and dirt roads with locals who had carried their chairs out to the ends of their driveways to cheer us on. A few had canisters of steaming hot coffee, settled in for the morning with their newspapers. Totally quaint and charming. So unlike me to like that.

At some point between Miles 4 and 5, Kerry nonchalantly popped her ear buds in. I had been attempting to just chatter away at her in hopes to keep her entertained. But I've heard me. My stories aren't that interesting. And at some point when I started remarking at the scenery, she (somewhat sarcastically) asked, "what are you talking about?"

When a glance at my watch at Mile 5 told us that we were running at just around 10 minute miles, she was visibly disappointed. I knew she wanted to pick up her speed, but she resolutely told me, "this is where I am." And with that, I felt like our run together was about to end.

It's the runner's dilemma. My normal pace is a bit faster than Kerry's. While I was having the best time running alongside her, something unspoken was happening. I started itching to go a little faster ... while Kerry started itching that she was holding me back. She wasn't. But in deference to her, I know that as long as I ran with her, she'd be thinking about it. And then we both would.

So I did what every really good person who strong-armed her friend into training for and then running a half-marathon would do. I took off and left her in the dust.

All right, no dust-leaving here. I'm not that fast. But I have to say, something kicked in that I have never before experienced.

Not sure if it was the scenery, the perfect running weather, the homespun crowds that yelled my name as I passed or the anticipation that as soon as I finished I could drink all the wine I wanted until noon ... but I started hauling. And I felt amazing - not once did I even enter the Bite Me Zone.

Knowing that I had been at around 10 minute miles, I did some quick calculating in my head and realized I could still go under 2 hours. Wouldn't be a PR, but maybe even better: my first negative split. Which means the second half would be faster than the first. I tore down the country roads. I off-roaded onto the shoulder to get around slower runners. (Oops, sorry about the dust! Should I leave a note?) I paced behind people, reeled them in, then smoked them.

I went sub-8:00 for nearly 7 miles. I don't do that.

And when I came into the finish chute, smile on my face and barely a sweat (yes! me! barely a sweat!), I knew what I had to do.

I found the dudes from Brightroom and I made sure I took a badass picture.


In the end? 1:58:33.

I picked up a cool medal:


And doubled back to the finish to watch Kerry cross at an amazing 2:11. Seriously? 2:11 for your first half-marathon? Insane. She was ecstatic, as she should have been.

We found CC and Kim at the Sonoma Square and headed to the wine festival.


2o wineries, all pouring ... free tastes. Oh, hello, Perfect Day ... have we met?


As if it couldn't get better, I got a great surprise. My mom and Ken drove up to surprise me at the finish!


I don't get to see them often, so it was great to spend even just a little time. So nice of them to come up to see us. Of course, they wine tasted too. (What do you think, I was brought up by wolves?) Hi Tina!

At noon we looked around and realized we had been the first ones to the tasting tables and were most likely now the last to leave. We took the final drops of the muscat being poured (it was noon, the cabernets went early and beggars can't be choosers) and headed for lunch. Great Mexican joint. Which means you're actually not allowed to eat without drinking margaritas. I think it's like Mexican law. Like if you don't follow it you're shot or something.



Thank god for pregnant friends. CC was our designated driver and our day was far from over. When she headed back home to San Francisco, the ruffians that Red, Kerry and I are went back to the Square for a little more wine tasting.


And somehow. Somehow. We managed to rally for cocktails and dinner at El Dorado Kitchen.



At the end of a day that began at 5am ... wound through 13.1 miles on our feet ... and through a lot of laughs and even more wine ... we crashed at our hotel, got breakfast in the morning and hit the road.

It was tough to say good bye to sunny Wine Country ...


Even a little tougher to say hello to my foggy San Francisco, knowing that I'd be soon boarding a plane back to New York.


Kerry drove Red and I back to SFO and the only thing that kept me from crying - other than the fact that my lack of emotion keeps me from activating any tear ducts I may have - is knowing that I'll see them again in a few weeks when we all head to Mexico.



I may have annoyed Kerry a tad when I emailed her like 28 hours after the race, excitedly telling her that we should register for the Healdsburg Wine Country Half in October. She used some excuse about doing a 65-mile bike race in September and the Nike Half in early October and most likely needing a rest. Blah blah blah. Whatever.

Maybe all I wanted is to once more capture the feeling I had on Sunday.

It's not often you have a perfect day.