freak shows, food trucks, and stank

weekend mileage:  17.1ish total

on the iPod:  "one more time"  -- daft punk

I figured out quite some time ago that the training portion of running distance races can be equally as enjoyable at the actual event itself.  Training provides structure and discipline, goals and objectives.  Not to mention that it's incredibly social and interactive, which is something that almost everybody can understand as being a good thing.  I'm an introvert by nature, often content to not make plans and preferring to get plenty of time holed up alone, so training is a great outlet for human interaction, especially for me.  It feels safe.

Having said that, there's nothing quite as exciting as a race weekend, which is exactly why I didn't really give a rip that I boarded a plane in the middle of a hotter-than-hell summer, one that has been bone-achingly dry and somewhat exhaustive from the lack of rain.  It had been three months since i'd run a good distance race and it was time for the Rock-N-Roll Chicago Half Marathon.  Heck, yeah!

Up until this weekend the summer has been really nice, particularly some time at the beach with a great guy, but because of injury it's been a summer voided of real mileage.  I had only run a handful of times, some of which didn't go so well.  But under the auspices of my amazing sports therapist that I affectionately call Painful Patty, I'm slowly getting back into form.  Painful Patty is my new best friend -- she's a miracle worker.  I've never had somebody dig with their thumbs so hard into my feet, but please understand that the torment and suffering and tears leaves them feeling like soft pillows when it's all said and done.  I've got another appointment to see her tomorrow and it'll most likely be the best part of my day.  I digress...

Landing at O'Hare may as well have been landing back in Fayetteville, because it was just as hot and miserably humid as it was in Arkansas.  Save for the fact that I was in my favorite city in the world, nothing had changed and I knew I was in for a sweat-fest of epic proportions.  It didn't matter.  Not one single bit.  I was too excited about lacing up with 20,000 other runners and hitting the streets of the Windy City for 13.1 miles.  On top of that, my friend Sarah Rack would be running her first half marathon along with me, and I was happy to spend the weekend with she and Jason.  I was clearly anxious to get out and log some miles, so much so that I went for a short training run Saturday morning, leaving out from their Logan Square condo and heading to the shores of Lake Michigan in the north loop.  Traversing through the city streets with no real plan felt outstanding.

Saturday afternoon found us at the Fat Tire Bike and Beer Festival right around the corner.  It was a hot mess of all things bacchanalia fashioned after a old school traveling caravan circus, leaving no stone unturned: they had barkers, oddities, freak shows, food trucks, marching bands, and plenty of Fat Tire beer on hand.  The atmosphere was palpable and salty, as urban hipsters from all over Chicago mingled in their skinny jeans, vintage clothing, and moustaches.  It was a great way to spend the afternoon: people watching and swilling.  

      

Race morning came sooner than later and there was absolutely no grace from Mother Nature.  I'm not even kidding when I say that I was sweating with minutes of being outside, and this was at 5:45 in the morning!  Downtown Chicago, regardless, was electric with runners ready to pound the pavement and give it hell, and Sarah and I were right in the middle of it.  After a bag drop and a bathroom break we gave words of encouragement and parted to our respective corrals, nervousness hovering above in anticipation for the gun.  I knew that Sarah would do well in her first half-marathon, and even though I didn't see her again until the post-race party, she came through with flying colors.  

Bang!  The gun goes off, and, per usual, I started out fast, though not as bad as i've done in previous races.  Controlling the adrenaline rush at the beginning of a race is next to impossible, but smart runners learn how to do it.  One of these days i'll be that guy, but it hasn't quite happened yet.  Immediately I was surrounded by friends i'd never met, live bands, cheering crowds, volunteers, and really tall skyscrapers.  By mile marker two I was already covered in sweat and loving every minute of it.  The course mimicked a part of the Chicago Marathon that I've now run twice, so it was somewhat familiar to cross over the river, pass through the financial district, and see the famous Chicago Theater.  We also got to run on Michigan Avenue which was really cool.  Jason and Sarah's parents were spectating in front of the Congress Hotel in mile six and I immediately spotted them holding up signs and clapping amongst the throngs.  The skies became overcast which helped a bit with the temperature, but only enough to make me wish it were early March instead of late July.  I didn't care, however, running on and loving the sport that has embraced me wholly.  It's become my life.  

The final miles included amazing views on Lakeshore Drive and Soldier Field, home of the Chicago Bears.  The unmistakeable downtown skyline was straight ahead as the race finished in the heart of Grant Park.  With about a half mile to go, I pushed hard and picked up to the quickest pace that i'd logged the entire morning.  I felt like a runner again after taking the summer off and I wanted the finish line to somehow move forward so that the feeling wouldn't have to end.  It was a great moment, despite the fact that I was soaking wet. 

After immediately hydrating with water, gatorade, two chocolate milks, a smoothie, and one not-so-cold-but-really-good Goose Island beer, I met up with everybody in the main field and watched the winners get their checks, one of which will run the marathon in the Olympics for her home country of Poland in a couple of weeks.  Rock bands got the party started as a really awesome race turned into a really awesome outdoor party.  Jason's sign was a huge hit on the course and I made him pose for a picture.  He graciously obliged.  The morning was ideal.  

  

That night, over sushi and noodles, I couldn't help but think about the race.  There's simply no other way that I'd rather spend my time, energy, and focus than run distances, and race days are the best.  Hands down.  I was reminded that i'm blessed to be able to do what I love and that every day I should show grace and thanks, in my own way, that I can.  Summer is fast coming to a close, but training season is just getting started, as I know that New York in November is just around the corner, even though it seems so far away.  I'm not for sure when I'll be back in Chicago to lace up again, but I know that it will happen.  I'm not ready to rule anything out, but instead enjoy where I am today and let tomorrow worry about itself.  That's all we can do, right?

One final note:  While waiting for my return flight home I couldn't seem to get away from a disturbingly pungent and foul odor that burned my nose.  I got up and moved, thinking that some poor soul, most likely from Europe, wasn't wearing deodorant.  The smell lingered.  It wouldn't go away.  Desperate for fresh air and unable to concentrate, I finally realized that the assault on my senses was coming from my running shoes.  They were producing an unbearable, sweaty stank that had never been experienced on planet earth before.  It was so aversive and disgusting that I considered leaving them in a corner of the terminal, never looking back. 

But, alas, I shoved them in my bag and hid my head in shame, afraid of the masses that were clearly as offended as I had been.  They're currently sunning on my back deck, and, at last check, were just as funky as they've ever been.  

Run. 

lemonade

weekend long run:  12 miles
on the iPod:  "payphone" -- maroon five


I hate plantar fasciitis.  


Having said that, things can only go up from here.  And I promise they will.  But please understand that, right now in this moment, I hate plantar fasciitis with every fiber of being in my great big body.  It's that simple.  I'm also taking applications for people who want to hate plantar fasciitis along with me.  There is no pay for the aforementioned position, because I live on the salary of a public school teacher, but I can give candidates free training on how to hate plantar fasciitis and will also be happy to write an outstanding, and mostly truthful, letter of recommendation when the time comes to move on to better opportunities.  I'll even throw in the buzzwords like "ability to multitask" and "think outside of the box".  


I feel better already.


I unofficially marked the weekend as a jumping off point to begin training for fall marathons.  I'm registered for two pretty big ones and haven't ruled out running both, but also haven't booked plane tickets, either. Regardless, it's time to train if I want to survive them, not to mention that I've simply missed distance runs since the end of April in Nashville.  I like the whole concept of training unofficially this time and feel like it suits me well.  I've never been nearly as interested in finishing fast as much as I have been enjoying the entire race, so going into July and August without anything on paper is just fine with me.  Running has always been about more than a time for me, it's been a passionate experience that makes me feel alive, so i'm cool with simply lacing up and doing the best that I can.  In fact, it's liberating.  As long as I don't come in dead frikkin' last, I'm okay.  And if I really stop for a minute and think about how lucky I am to be able to do what I love, even that wouldn't be so bad.


So at some point on Wednesday or Thursday of last week I decided that 12 miles would be a good get-back-into-training distance run.  Plus, I knew an easy six-mile out-and-back on the Mud Creek and Skull Creek trail system, so logistically it made sense.  Heading out at 6:30, the sun was barely awake but the morning was already bordering on hot.  Sweat on my brow  was quickly followed by sweat everywhere as a late June morning in Arkansas enveloped all things organic, including me, in an blanket of humidity and sunshine.  Not to be deterred by the weather, I relished the chance to log miles and collect my thoughts, loving the cardio push and muscles churning.


The Skull Creek trail, which serves as the main artery for the trail system, was teeming with runners and bikers.  It was great to see friends, old and new, as the mileage increased along with the morning heat:  Bruce Wilkins, Brandon Pigeon, Carole and Lloyd Swope, Katie Helms, Mark Vetter, and Rolf Wilkin.  Part of what makes training so important to me are the community of people that are passionate about the same things.  It's invigorating and reassuring to be amongst like-minded fellows.  Runners are my people and I'm starting to realize that more and more with each mile, each race.


My enthusiasm for returning to training was incredibly visceral and ernest, almost tangible.  But it was also short-lived when, somewhere around mile 8, my right foot began to ache with a mild pain that I immediately recognized:  plantar fasciitis.  Damnit.  Nevertheless, I pushed on, trying to ignore what was so obvious and persistent.  It wasn't going anywhere.  Finishing with a quarter-mile cool down walk, I spent a considerable amount of time stretching in an effort to minimize the pain and give relief to my stupid right foot.  The entire ordeal of not finishing strong was disappointing and upsetting: I had high hopes that everything would go well and it would be the start of a great three months leading up to 26.2 miles.  Not to mention the fact that, having showered and grabbed a cup of coffee, my foot now officially hurt like hell.  It was the worst pain I'd experienced.  After pouting on the couch and minimizing all unnecessary movement for a couple of hours, I had a minor ephiphany:  we're all people that are essentially broke, busted, and disgusted, so there's no utility in not having a positive attitude.  I decided to turn lemons into lemonade.  It also helped that my best good friend, Mrs. Murie, who I know that i'm going to miss during this summer training season, texted to invite me to stop by her nieces' and nephews' lemonade stand.

   


I don't know what the rest of the summer holds in terms of running, and i'm okay with that.  There's nothing i'd love more than to go out every Saturday morning and increase my mileage from the week before, but sometimes we have to let go of the need to control and simply let it happen.  I've learned that nothing in life is without purpose, even things that we don't like, so maybe this is supposed to be time to let my body relax and heal.  Or maybe its supposed to be time for something new and profound to happen.  Or maybe the zombie apocalypse will start tomorrow and we'll all have to outrun the undead.  I can't say for certain either way, but in the interim methinks I'll have another cup of lemonade.