#2. Atlanta, GA: Holy Hills.

Did I go to Atlanta or San Francisco? And Was I on Jack and Jill's never-ending journey to fetch a pail of water? Because that's how I felt. Atlanta was a constant incline. And the chance of the course coming to a plateau was slim to none...and Slim just left town. Okay, it really wasn't THAT bad, but it was a hell of a lot hillier than I expected.


The weekend commenced with a father-daughter road trip.  We (mostly Bob) drove from about 5:30 PM on Friday until 1:30 AM to some really classy hotel in No-Mans-Land Tennessee. (It may have been 12:30 AM but driving in and out of central and eastern time zones really confused me. And I already consider myself a relatively confused person.) We crashed for about 4 hours and were back on the road before the sun came up.  Along the way, my dad met a "nice man" at a rest stop who trailed behind him into the bathroom and within 5 minutes invited him into a stall with him. I'm not sure how my dad had the willpower to turn down such a charming request.  We bolted.  The remainder of the drive was fairly uneventful, with a soundtrack of throwback John Mayer and snacks provided by Mary E (thanks momma).  Bob and I haven't had that type of bonding since probably Indian Princesses. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's like the daddy-daughter version of Girl Scouts, without the thin mints. And instead of cookies, it's camp-outs and monthly pow wows where little girls make fun of the Kickapoo tribe (maturity has yet to develop at age 6) and act completely politically incorrect as if we were the ones who feasted with the Pilgrims back in the day. And I'm pretty sure the dads just always got drunk. Needless to say, the road trip was a Father-Daughter moment that lasted for almost 13 hours.


We finally made it to Hotlanta and it was exactly that. Hot. And Sunny. And filled with people wearing khakis. (I really am wondering if that's an Atlanta thing for the amount of sand colored slacks I witnessed.) We checked into our actually classy hotel and strolled a few blocks to the Georgia Dome, where the pre-race Expo was occurring.  The great thing about the Publix Georgia Marathon is that Publix is a grocery chain. So the expo had FOOD. And Bob and I came hungry. LaraBars, boxes of granola, soy bread, crackers...to eat there and throw in my pre-race bag. It was every broke college kids dream of free food.  From there we walked around as I gawked at all the running gadgets and my chips & salsa sample digested. 

Rolling up to ATL after 13 hours in the car 

Bob at the Expo

In front of the Georgia Dome 

Peach Trees. EVERYWHERE. So confusing.

The rest of the day consisted of tourism- roaming the hilly streets that all appeared to be named Peach Tree. I was warned by my friend Mark who had just been in Atlanta the day before that EVERYTHING was named Peach Tree. He was right. After determining that Peachtree NE and Peachtree NW really did not run NE or NW, we found a delicious and highly recommended Italian restaurant for dinner, Azio. The food coma came shortly after back at the hotel. And stretch, hydrate, fill out my emergency contact info on my bib and I was out like a light.


5:30AM came with a still nighttime sky when Bob and I headed to the start line. I felt pretty baller, because I was placed in Corral C (3rd of 16 starting corrals) because of my expected finish time. Corral C was the "fastest runners" behind the elite and sponsored runners. So on a celeb scale of Jennifer Aniston (I love her and I'm watching Marley & Me, so it seemed fitting to name drop her right now) down to Carrot Top, I felt like a solid Sarah Jessica Parker...minus the horseface.  Pre-race, I made my routine stop at the "Honey Buckets" (I'm still baffled by who actually named a portable toilet a term of endearment). These are actually hot commodities before a large race as this one and with the long lines you'd think we were all lining up with our golden ticket to see if the schnauzberries really taste like schaunzberries. While in line, I listened to a woman panic about how it was nearing race time. Annoyed, I decided to start talking to her, mainly so she'd just stop talking to herself. Asking her if she's run this course before was a bad choice. She proceeded to tell me how it was very challenging and she's running it again because she didn't finish the first time. Cool. Nice to meet you too Negative Nancy. I'm surprised if she even had to go to the bathroom after that since she had already shit on my spirit. 

Race pack momma packed for me :)

"Does this make me look gay?" Yes dad. haha

Chicks dig scars, guys dig bruises...right?

Heading to the start line

Dad did a good job documenting the other runners

He spotted me at between mile 1 and 2!

The gun went off and so did the runners. One would've thought we were running at 10 at night by the glow of the streetlights in the murky sky and 60 degree weather. The crowd of runners overwhelmed the street course causing me to hop on the sidewalk and dodge the fire hydrants that popped up in my way.  The incline of the course was steady and neverending and I felt as if I was exerting twice the amount of energy to only go half the distance. Honestly, by mile 4, my legs wanted to call it quits.  Mind over matter.  I was running an 8 minute pace for the first half, so while my body felt weary my mental strength kept me going.  There were some downhills as well,  but I spent the majority of my race praying for a plateau in the course.  The course was challenging, paved with some streets that reminded me of New Orleans and others that reminded me of Nashville.  I realized that I enjoy the parts of courses that are through neighborhoods- I think it just calms me. Perhaps it reminds me of home on my journey around the country. I kept telling myself to not focus on my time and the finish line finally arrived an 1:46:19 later. 


Compared to Florida, I felt physically weak.  But while I so badly wanted to beat my 1:44:50 I ran in Florida, I was satisfied with my 1:30 slower time because I gave it my all and that's all I really can do.  By the time I hit mile 9, I honestly didn't think I'd be finishing anywhere near running an 8:06 pace per mile. Post-race, I hit the shower and attempted amputating my toe. Which was disgusting and painful and I'll spare you the details (for once). And back to the roads with Bob.  The road trip ended having clocked 1,450 miles on good ol' Lady Slipper to run 13.1 and 25 hours to run for 2 hours. And no sight of Ludacris. sigh.

Thanks for road tripping & supporting me pops!

Race #2 COMPLETE! 1:46:19

Well, St. Louis is up next. I ran the full marathon in 2009 and made it my bitch, so I'm not worried about this one at all.  It's a fairly easy course and I'm dragging Daytona (my bestie, not the beach or the car race) out of bed to cheer me on. In fact, I'm attempting to drag all my friends from Mizzou and the book kiddos from Columbia all the way to St. Louis to cheer me on... but mainly so I can see them. (And by drag, I mean, once you guys read this, you should get the memo to be there- got it?)  I'm also totally stoked because my #1 blog follower THE Shaina Chechang & Laura Jones (some of my fav book kids from Iowa) are running the race too! Wahoooo! The race is two weeks from tomorrow and this past week, I've already upped my speed for hard training.  I've got two people to beat in STL: myself and my ex. Yes, I found out he's running it and his chance of beating me is about the same as his chance of him being a good person. And I'm also pretty sure he reads my blog, so Hi, you're going down. And you still suck. But more importantly, I can't wait to destroy my Florida time with a sub 1:43 time. Fingers crossed, laces tied.


So to quote my debut performance in Sandburg Middle School... Meet me in St. Louieee! (Clearly my acting didn't go far. I'm sticking to running.) Adios muchachos. 

procrastinator or dumbass?

Both. Let's just say that when I checked flights to Atlanta for race #2 three weeks ago, they were a steal of $220 roundtrip. And then let's also say that when I finally decided to try to book my flight a week ago, Priceline, AirTran, Fly.com, Cheaptickets and every other searchable means of flights gave me the dirty look that I give people who smack their lips and flashed a fatty $530 price tag my way. It was Priceline Negotiator vs. Flight Procrastinator...and seeing that I'm the flight procrastinator in this case, I'm also the dumbass.


So what does this mean for my travel itinerary this upcoming weekend? ROAD TRIPPP! (No, not with Tom Green. I don't hang out with people who marry Drew Barrymore. Or like her in general.) Instead, I'll be hitting the road with good ol' Bob (my dad, for those of you creepy people who still don't know me but still insist on reading my blog). Within minutes of telling my dad about my flight dilemma, his instant response was "Why don't I just drive ya there?" So let me take this moment to say that, yes it's still early in 2011, but I'm pretty sure the Academy's votes are in already for Parents of the Year and it goes to Bob & Mary E. Honestly, whose parents would drive 25 hours roundtrip through the night to watch their daughter run for less than two hours? Mine. Now that I think of it, maybe they're on drugs...Which might also explain why each wall of our basement is painted a different neon color... (okay, that was my doing in middle school. Sorry mom & dad for making your house look like a Pink Flloyd/Lisa Frank lovefest). Okay, I'm kidding about the drugs...I think. But Mary E and Bob do it because they're the best. And awesome. And so selflessly loving and supportive. Seriously, I can't believe you're actually doing this for me daddio.


And when you look at it as 25 hours to run for less than 2, it sounds like a really fucking stupid idea. But, when you think of it as the big picture and "doing absolutely whatever it takes to achieve a year-long goal", it sounds a lot better. So I'll go with the latter. Plus, road tripping with Bob is going to be hilarious. Minus when he tries to get me to listen to old man music. I'm currently trying to convince him we should take his Miata and enjoy the 80 degree Hotlanta weather this weekend with the topdown (So I can pick up hot hitchhikers with my hair blowing in the wind, obviously). But for now, it looks like Lady Slipper will be paving the mountain roads. 


Runs this week have been awesome, so I'm super excited for race #2. (With the exception that I think I sweat out an entire case of Bud Light on my long run thanks to my apocalyptic celebration of St. Patty's Day in Chicago this weekend. Good decisions as always.)  But that aside, I'm not focusing on time, I'm just going to run as fast as I possibly can, just like Florida. And then I'm going to search for Ludacris, since I'll be on his stomping grounds.


Before I wrap this post up I've gotta say Happy (early) Birthday Kel-Dawg. Yes, it's true I planned a race on my best friend's birthday and won't be there to celebrate, so the least I can do is give a shout out on my blog to my 14 followers...even though you aren't one of them I know you read this haha. But seriously, I'm sorry. But you're 23. And old. Come Sunday, we'll both be feelin' like MJ in his early days.

Love you birthday girl- CHEERS!

Alright, pictures & posting to come after I destroy Atlanta! We'll chat then.

the uncomfortable comfort blanket.

After my novel of a post from last week, I truly had no intention of blogging today. But unpredictable me is throwing a curveball at you after a 15-mile thought on my run today. It's typically on my long runs outside on Sundays that my mind gets racing as well. And today was no different. In fact, my thoughts on today's run were so provoking that they even caused me to pause my iPod for the majority of my run, inevitably shutting up Rihanna from sharing her excitement towards chains and whips. (Sorry, Barbados babe). And thus, causing me to share with you. (Again, the narcissism is kicking in, assuming you care).


Today I realized running is my uncomfortable comfort blanket. Yes, I also realized that's an oxymoron...but I'll get to that. As a kid, my "comfort blanket" was sucking my thumb. (Thank God I didn't come out a raccoon, I don't know what I would've done without that wonderful opposable digit... Not to mention Mary E probably would've been pissed if I came out a raccoon). I thankfully outgrew that comfort blanket. But since I was 12 and started running, I have yet to outgrow this one. Running has always been my release. As cliche as it sounds, it has always made me feel free. My mind wanders; my emotions ease; and the road ahead is always welcoming to the pitter-patter of my sweet kicks (Brooks Adrenaline, my fav. shoe, in case you've forgotten). It calms me; it excites me; it makes me feel good. Probably about as good as the woman from Northwestern's scandal of a sexual demonstration felt. Kidding. 


But at times, today being one of those times, my verb of a comfort blanket becomes uncomfortable. Because running can be so challenging at times and take me well out of my comfort zone physically...and mentally. Today was a mental feud for me, at least before my run. I'm two weeks from race #2 in Atlanta and I found myself telling my friends and family that my confidence that I'll do well and run fast is dwindling.  I've been battling a nasty sinus infection for about a week now. It's me vs. mucus. And shit's getting real. Thus, affecting my breathing on runs and creating a bit of a handicap in my mind. And then I focused on how I hadn't run more than 11 consecutive miles since my last race. And then I nauseated myself with the idea that Mary E, or anyone for that matter, will not be at my next race and I'll have to really plan ahead with the minor details such as, "who will I give my bag of crap to right before race time? Or who will I look for in the crowds of fans when I'm losing motivation at mile 9?" These thoughts coupled together sent me in a turmoil of anxiety. And Xanax ain't the answer. (Ain't? Who am I? Gross.) So what do I turn to when I'm feeling anxiety? My comfort blanket: running. Which is coincidentally what was causing my anxiety in the first place. (Don't worry, not once did falling back on sucking my thumb cross my mind. Small children who do that also watch The Wiggles. And I fucking hate those frolicking, singing men.)


But the beauty of a comfort blanket is that it's always there until YOU DECIDE you've outgrown it. So I hit the pavement running in true fashion (fashion meaning, routine in this instance, not my sexy spandex) in hopes of releasing my tension and regaining my mental strength for my races to come. And sure enough,  my comfort blanket didn't let me down. I ran a solid 15 miler in the muck-residue from the Chicago snowfall yesterday at an 8:20 pace and felt great. (Sinus infection aside. I still currently hate my nose and ears. Damn you senses). This run reminded me of why I'm taking on this adventure. (And it led to this post, so clearly it was good since it's providing you with reading material on this fine Sunday evening.) As I passed fellow runners on the prairie path, I also humorously realized just how comfortable runners get within the realm of the sport. (i.e. runners, like myself, think it's entirely normal for male runners to wear short, tight shorts that showcase their junk). But yet, when I see a bronzed beach bum doing the same in a speedo number, I want to vomit. (Sorry dad for talking about "male junk".  Don't worry, I'm still your "little girl".) Alas, the virtue and power of the comfort we weirdos find in running.


So this post was a bit off-beat and rant-ish... but that's my style. (And I like to think I have good style. Minus the spandex.) But the point is, you can only find comfort in things if you decide to. No matter how comfortable your blanket (or person, or teddy bear or ice cream flavor) may be, if you focus on how itchy and old it is, rather than reveling in the positivity it brings you, you've consciously made the decision to lose the battle of overcoming uncomfortable, sucky situations. You've focused on the negatives (sometimes of even the most comforting things in your life) and used those as excuses to keep you from your goals. 


So with that, I've got no excuses for Atlanta. It's gonna be sweet like Georgia peaches. Talk to ya in two weeks!