#12. Mobile, AL: Running is 90% Mental...and Mobile is 100% Weird.

"Ummm because it’ll be hilarious”, has been my response to everyone who asked me why I chose Mobile, AL for my January race.  (That, and I knew it’d be decently warm and there’d probably never be another time I’d visit the state of Alabama.)  Hilarious was an understatement.

            The only thing I knew about Mobile, AL prior to my trip was that Kanye West’s workout plan got Alamay from Mobile, AL to date outside the family, a doublewide and she rode a plane (Mom- I’m sure you have no idea to what I’m referring, feel free to dig out my old Kanye West’s College Dropout CD from 2002 and listen to track 2.  It’s probably next to Avril Lavigne).  Turns out Kanye’s stereotype was fairly accurate.

            After a flight from Chicago to Atlanta, and then a packed connecting one from Atlanta to Mobile I arrived at the regional airport that resembled a lobby of a Holiday Inn.  First of all, the flight was packed because the Go Daddy Bowl Game was going on that Sunday night and it was between Northern Illinois University and Arkansas State.  So, I was among fellow northern Illinoisans.  Little did I know I would soon be among the strangest breed of people I’ve ever met.  The people in Mobile, Alabama have got to be from a completely different planet.  Them and Lady Gaga…but I don’t think they’re from the same one.  After a mix-up with my car rental, I was greeted by my first Alabama alien: Miss Mary Tabb, my first of many cab drivers.

Miss Mary Tabb reminded me of an aspiring, hard to understand, slightly-hoosier Whitney Houston with spunk.  She informed me of the booming metropolis of Mobile, home to about 300,000 southerners (which surprised me with it’s size.  That’s what she said. HAR.).  While she southern drawled about her trip to Chicago 12 years ago, I realized 1. The meter wasn’t running and 2. I’ll need a lot more cash than what I came with now that I’d be cabbing it everywhere.  Mary reassured me that she took credit cards though no machine was in sight.  Midway through the trek to my hotel, Mary stops at a red light and hobbles out of the car with no warning.  I wasn’t sure if she was doing some sort of Chinese fire drill or a rain dance.  She got back into the car with a credit card machine and an orange Fanta.

            After a flat $25 cab ride (which for all I know Mary could have ripped me off—though on my trip back to the airport the next day I learned she actually gave me a $2 discount. Thanks Miss Mary.), I arrived at the Comfort Suites.  Exhausted from my early rising, I decided to relax with Mindy Kailing’s Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?  After that read, I’ve decided she’s my second favorite Indian—second to the one and only, Aziz Ansari, aka T-Strike (Parks and Rec, anyone?)  I strategically planned to make my way to the downtown area in the late afternoon so I could knock out 3 southern birdies with one stone: 1. Pick up my race packet 2. Eat my free pasta dinner and 3. See the Mari Gras parade and keep my shirt on.

I asked the front desk how far the government building in the downtown area was from the hotel.  With a casual “oh just a couple miles; just straight up Dauphin, right on Broadway and left on Government and you’ll be there” explanation, I figured it couldn’t be too far and decided to hoof my way seeing that it was a beautiful sunny, 70 degree day.  Now, let me go ahead and ask you this, readers, what do you think of those people you see just hoofing it alongside a busy road?  Do you think they’re a crazy bum wandering along with no actual destination?  Because that’s normally my first instinct.  And, that was me.  The only difference was this little nomad actually had a destination in mind but just no idea how to get there.  So while people drove by, assumingly thinking “dat bitch is cray”, many thoughts crossed my mind on this trek.

Thought #1: what the fuck am I doing with my life?

Thought #2:  Why is this street called Daphin?  I keep wanted to say dolphin.  Damn, I wish I was at the zoo.

Thought #3: (context: just walked by a restaurant called "foosackly's") Must take a picture (click). How is there an entire restaurant devoted to just chicken fingers?  That’s like an appetizer. Or a meal for 5 year olds.  I wonder what the variety of their tenders entails…

Thought #4: (thought ensued after a black teenager shouted out the car window of a truck, “Back dat ass up girl!”) Is he talking to me?  Why would he yell at a white girl with literally no ass when he’s in a town full of booty-licious apple bottoms?

Thought #5: Where am I?

Thought #6: (thought ensued after seeing two speed bump signs: one that read “speed lumps”, one that read “speed humps”) What.the.fuck.seriously. I guess they like their roads like they like their women: lumpy.

Thought #7: That hotel dude is an asshole. Seriously, where am I?

Thought #8: (it starts to drizzle) COOOOOL.

Thought #9: (look at watch and realize it’s been an hour) This is definitely more than two miles.  Did I already pass Broadway?

Thought #10:  This isn’t funny anymore.

After a solid hour and a half, and 6 miles later (I came to learn based on my cab ride back), I arrived at a CVS on Government to get some water, which I decided would be my homebase for the weekend.  I arrived in the skyline views (HAH) of downtown Mobile.  The two tallest buildings that served as the city’s only remotely skyscrapers (okay, they weren’t close to anything like Chicago) were hotels.  I wandered the streets of downtown; many of the old buildings reminded me of the French Quarter of New Orleans with a very European style (minus the berets); other shops were a bit run-down or out-of-business adding a tone of sadness to the otherwise lively streets.  The streets were crowded with Northern Illinois fans and Arkansas State, so in a sense, I didn’t feel too out of place-the NIU flags waved with familiarity in the wind.  I walked down to the port harbor and then back to the government building to pick up my race packet.

The Mobile Regional Airport, reminiscent of a Holiday Inn lobby. 

A restaurant devoted to strictly chicken fingers. Normal. 

Downtown Mobile. 

A little bit of home

The Mobile "skyline"

            The building was crowded with runners and their respective family members eating the complimentary pasta dinner.  This was definitely a bonus as no other race offered this amenity fo’ free, AND it freed me of having to dine by myself in a restaurant.  Not that there’s anything really wrong with that, but I’m just not the type to dine out, go to movies or drink by myself.  That would just make me either an old, single retired person, a lonely cat woman or an alcoholic.  I’m definitely not the first, I might be on my way to the second and I attempt to avoid the third.  I walked through the minimal vendors they had present at the small race packet pick-up area and spotted three girls in massive, debutant-like pastel dresses.  Yo, Little Bo Peep, where’s yo’ sheep?! They honestly looked like that and though I desperately wanted to take advantage of this hilarious photo opportunity, I just felt bad for these girls as I figured the race crew hired them as humiliation mascots.  I quickly retrieved my packet and two t-shirts and checked out the course map they had printed on poster board.  It was decorated with two post-it notes: one that said “hills start at mile 10.5” and the other that read “If you’re running the half and you go across train tracks, you’ve run too far”.  Great, mile 10.5 is typically when my legs begin to feel like the bricks of the Home Alone mansion and knowing me I’ll be completely zoned out and run off-course across train tracks and end up in the backyard of Alamay’s doublewide.  Digging through my race bag, I noticed I had no time chip for my shoe- odd.  When I asked where the time chip was, this is what the woman said: “Oh there’s no time system.  The clock just starts when the gun goes off and your time is whenever you cross the finish line after that”.  Wait what?  “If you’re wanting to run for time, I suggest you get to the front of the line.”  Oh, you’re actually serious about this?  THIS.IS.BULLSHIT.  I actually got intensely angered on the inside by this news.  Never in a million years would I have signed up for a race (let alone travel 3.5 hours on a plane to a town where I had more teeth than all its residents combined) if I had known there was no official time chip.  I made up my mind to channel my inner-Kenyan and make sure I was at the front of the pack.  I marched past the pastel bubbleyum freakshow girls and hit up the free pasta dinner.  I sat with another loner and we exchanged a few well wishes of luck and I headed back out to line up for the Mardi Gras parade.  Within the hour, the streets were overflowing with Mobile locals.  I stuck out like a sore thumb (another figure of speech that confuses me) as one of the only white girls inter-mixed with the majority of the Mobile population being black.  I was caught in the middle of chanting Ll-A-BAMA football fans and watched the parade, which included a pissed off horse that wouldn’t behave (and crystallized my hatred for those beasts with killer hooves) and a large grocery shopping cart which reminded me that I had to do that when I got home. And I hate grocery shopping. I headed back to the CVS from earlier in the day and called a cab. Living in Chicago makes you forget that in most cities, you have to call-ahead for a cab; they aren’t as numerous as the amount of times you see Scalabrine on camera during a Bulls game.  So I stood in the parking lot (in what I later learned was “the ghetto” of Mobile…whoops. Whatupfoools) for a solid 20 minutes until my cab arrived.

            The cab ride that lead to my discovery of my 6 mile trek earlier that day brought me back to the hotel to catch some ZZzz’s.  After a goodnight’s sleep, I was ready for the race.  I had pre-arranged my cab for pick-up that took me to the course.  I knew the intersection at which the race started but when I arrived my normal hour in advance, I was perplexed with the lack of other runners present and a lack of start line.  I asked a few people around where I could find the start line (because yes, I will talk to just about anyone and have no shame in asking strangers questions. My friend Kirstin, circa race #10 in Indy, loves this trait about me. And by love I mean, wants to taze me when I do this with her around).  They pointed to a neon orange piece of tape along the ground.  No other signage indicated the start-line, but just a long strand of tape that you might find around the perimeter of a freshly painted door.  The gear check-in was equally as horribly visible, being a soccer mom mini-van with a poster-board sign on the side, half way up the street from where the race directors said it would be.

I finally took my spot at the front with my shoe nearly toeing the highlighter orange tape across the street.  The Easter egg girls (still in their Barbie prom gowns and serving as humiliation mascots again) lined in front of the runners, next to the local Boy Scout troops and in unison, the entire crowd sang the National Anthem.  The feeling of community resonated throughout the singing patriotic crowd.  (I really think my vocal bliss added something special, especially considering my parents have a CD of my Sandburg Middle School drama solo performances in A Christmas Carol and Meet Me in St. Louis. I was quite the thespian.)  With the jammin’ local DJ (who probably had a name of like Mobile Mike) and the gun fired, we took off.  I was flying and felt great (which would later be the cornerstone to my demise)…until I realized I clocked a swift 7:18 first mile.  I attempted to ease my pace, but with my adrenaline pumping and the surroundings of elite runners who can actually maintain a fast pace the entire run, I continued to take it out way too fast.  By mile 4, I could feel my legs weakening; my hip flexors stiffened and my left knee whimpered with pain.  I maintained an 8 min./mile average until about mile 7 when I hit a wall; the worst part was realizing that I did this to myself simply by getting cocky and taking it out too fast.  I played a mental blame game trying to convince myself that it was the RACE’s fault for my stupidity, with their lack of time chips FORCING me to the front; I knew it wasn’t such an intangible thing’s fault- it was my own.  And the mental downfall ensued.  This was my first race wearing the Garmin Forerunner my dad gave me for Christmas and it’s awesome—it takes your heart rate, tracks your pace and elevation with a GPS, has a virtual race buddy—and does so much more (thanks again, daddio!).  But for all it’s incredible features, I focused on one: the feature of the pace buddy that darkens to a black background when you’re under pace.  With every mile, I solely concentrated on my pace that was increasing as I slowed: 8:07, 8:19…8:35.  And I completely, mentally gave up.  My mind threw in the towel as I focused on just staring at my slowing pace every few minutes—it was addicting.  I forgot the fun and enjoyment and freedom running gives me and I was swallowed into a physical vs. mental war.  And 1:47:01 later, I ran through the narrow finishers chute and walked through it, completed defeated.  No guts, no glory.  No puke, no heart.  Okay, that shit I just made up is terrible, but I didn’t puke and while most of you are probably thinking “Um aren’t you happy you didn’t taste last night’s regurgitated noodles”, assuming I have normal, non-bullemic readers…I wasn’t happy about the non-vom.  Because, I’ve puked immediately following the races I ran my fastest; the races I literally gave every last bit of energy I had in my body; the races where I ran so hard, I puked.  And I knew I didn’t give everything I could; I let my mind win and forgot to run with my heart.

Monster shopping cart in the Mardi Gras parade 

Finisher. 

Tiny finish line 

Bubbleyum twins, thanks for the entertainment!

First marathon finisher

            Filled with disappointed and self-frustration, I continued walking through the chute to retrieve my medal.  It was then that I remembered to put things in perspective and not be so hard on myself:  The First Light Marathon benefited a local charity, L'Arche Mobile, which is a home for mentally disabled and handicap citizens of the Mobile community.  Four of its residents sat in their wheelchairs, supervised, and passed out the wooden medals the home’s residents had painted and made for finishers.  As the one resident reached to hang the ribbon around my leaned in neck, I remembered that this is what my journey is all about—though I’m running to fundraise for breast cancer research, every individual race I sign up and pay for benefits a charity and helps others.  I may have not run my fastest time, but I did a good thing and the resident smiled with an unspoken “thank you”.  I couldn’t help but to think about my Uncle Dennis, my mom’s brother, who, too, is severely mentally handicapped and in a wonderful facility in Kankakee, IL, where its residents do arts and crafts, similar to the painted medal I had just received.  It was an emotional realization but a much-needed one for me to walk off the course with a small smile on my face.  I made my way to a bench to stretch and call my family and boyfriend awaiting my results.

            Walking back to my home base (the sketchy CVS parking lot), I watched the first marathoner come in to the finish—the crowd roared with encouragement as he clung to his thigh in obvious pain.  This moment, too, reminded me of why I wake up at 5AM on one Sunday every month: the feeling of just finishing.  Nearing the local CVS pharmacy, I made friends with two cops who were directing traffic for the race.  They immediately realized I wasn’t from their hood and whipped up some friendly conversation.  This was when I had the perfect chance to ask the perplexing question that had been on my mind all weekend: WHY were those girls dressed up like Princess Peach?!  They explained to me that they were Azalea Trail Maids (I just had to wikipedia that shit because I kept calling them Amazon Ezekiel trail girls. My bad.)  These girls are “official town ambassadors” that hone “southern hospitality” mannerisms of the old-time era in Mobile.  I wanted to ask if they still had make-shift slaves just to remember “the old times” too.  Yeah that was pretty terrible of me, but I still don’t get the point of those cakepop girls.  Which, led me to snap a photo of them without guilt as I discovered they CHOSE to dress like this and were not, in fact, used as freakshow mascots.

            I hung out in the CVS parking lot waiting for my cab where I was approached by a short, limping lady.  The next words out of her mouth really just summed up my experience in Mobile, AL: “You wannnnntttt some Koooool-Aid?” she asked.  In my teacher’s pet, nervous, if gerbils-could-talk-this-is-what-they’d-sound-line voice I gently responded, “Umm…no, thank you.” As the effervescent advocate of her Kool-Aid she rebuttled with, “I’ve got allllll kinds of Kool-Aid” and hobbled off with her kooler pack on wheels.  I mean, there very well might have been some nice, refreshingly-chilled purple drank in that mini-fridge on wheels of hers, but I think it was most likely packed with drugs.  Those drugs clearly ate away at this woman’s teeth and seeing that I was called shark by my 7^th grade teacher because of my crazy grill, I have every intention of keeping my fixed beaver-like chompers in tact and just said no.

            The cab company that I’m sure knew me by the sound of my Chicago voice retrieved me from the sketchy parking lot and I hopped in the shower upon returning to the hotel.  With nothing left to do in Mobile, I decided to just head to the Mobile Airport with plenty of time to spare.  I arrived there at 12:31PM.  The only reason I knew this was because that was the time Chad (boyfriend) called and I told him I’d call him back once I was through security; I called him back at 12:44PM.  Yes, a whopping 13 minutes to navigate through this “airport”.  In fact, as I pulled up my email to get my eTicket number to plug into the check-in kiosk, the woman behind the desk asked for my name and before I knew it, she was pointing to my name, flight number, confirmation number and eTicket number on her clipboard.  Yes, they had a clipboard with every single traveler’s flight information; I felt like I was checking in for a 4^th grade field trip.  Up the stairs, I stood in the short, single-file line that they deemed “security check”.  The TSA worker that stood at a very student-council like podium chatted up a storm and may or may not have actually looked at my ID. The workers cackled about my “running stick” and seemed to lack any security protocol which got me to the gate area in minutes.  Since there were only 7 gates and my flight wasn’t for another 3 hours, I didn’t have a gate assignment so I set up shop at a table where I ordered a sandwich and finished my book.  My flight was delayed by about 40 minutes but luckily didn’t affect my connecting flight in Atlanta.  A flight of slumber, I was back in Chicago and welcomed by Bob and Mary E.

            And that, ladies and gents, is Mobile, AL in a nutshell.  I can honestly say I’m glad I ventured there as part of this trip, but those 30 hours there were enough to last me a lifetime and I can’t fathom a reason as to why I’d ever return.  Farewell, Miss Mary Tabb, keep driving your cab. 

            And here I am, 6 days away from my final race.  And I.cannot.wait.  Nor can I truly express my excitement so I'll restrain for now. I’ll be posting one last time before the big finale. Stay tuned.

#11. Dallas, TX: 13.1 Miles of Misery

...I know, I'm being so morbid. But seriously, it was just fucking miserable and you'll understand why when you keep reading. What wasn't miserable about this race was the fact that I got to see and stay with my favorite newlyweds: Anna and Michael Primeaux. (Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson sucked compared to them. And they're divorced now so it's really no comparison).

Meet my attractive hosts: Anna and Michael. Yes this is a picture of a picture.

Not only was my flight to Dallas a steal of a century, it was the perfect excuse to see my boo and her mr. boo. (She doesn't call him that, I just felt inclined to right now).  Anna made her debut in my blog longgg ago when she planned on doing all the races with me; but as explained in a much earlier post as well, she came to her common sense and opted not to but DID decide to do this one in her hometown with me which made me all giddy and shit.  This was the third time I got to see my favorite mischevious boo in about a month in a half thanks to her bachelorette party, followed by her epic wedding and then this race.  Anna had to work Saturday morning when I jetsetted so I was glad to see Michael didn't forget to pick me up.  Foster the dog joined too.

So it was just me and the boys.  The car ride consisted of a lot of work talk, wedding recap, Michael tip-toeing around asking me if me and his friend were dating yet, and Michael's jaw-dropping at the length of my reverse city commute to and from work.  When I told him I typically spend 2.5 hours in the car to go a full 44 miles round-trip, Michael reminded me of the nauseating comparable drive from St. Louis to Columbia, MO taking only 1.5 hours...for 125 miles. He couldn't comprehend the daily pergatory  I put myself through...he doesn't do well with traffic, probably similar how I don't do well with olives. Or foam on hangers.

Back at their Athropologie-esque apartment filled with creams and tans, Michael had some work to wrap up and I had some trashy TV to watch while waiting for Anna.  Though Michael pities me for my brain-numbing commute, I can't say I envy him as a first year CPA who is literally always on-call for work.  I think in the hour and a half we waited for Anna, he had to log onto his work computer three different times, took a work call and his phone made some weird little noises that I'm sure was code for "do this NOW Michael, xoxo, your boss".  He did take a few breaks to show me all the tricks he's taught their dog Foster (who they also call Doodle, Uncle Schnoodle and I think just about any other name that rhymes with noodle.  Poor pup must have daily identity crises).  But let me tell you, Foster/Doodle/noodle brain has got mad skill: he sits, rolls over, high fives, twirls, fetches the remote, hand/paw shakes, and can probably play the keyboard too.  He also has THE whitest teeth I have ever seen.  Both canines and humans included.  Now, I obviously don't check out dog's grills on the reg, so that just goes to show how eye-catchingly white his chompers are; his smile nearly made me melt (kidding).  Then, there's Chauncey the cat.  Chauncey and I go wayyy back: she was my roommate senior year.  I lost the battle to my two cat-loving roomies and when the poor kitten was rescued from a hood of a car, how could I say no to providing such an innocent, harmless creature with shelter?  Well, Chauncey wasn't harmless: she was a bitch.  But a pretty cool one.  And so, we met again.  Now that she essentially suffered from the feline version of gingivitis leaving her with a mere two teeth and is declawed, she's pretty harmless and spends most of her day sun-bathing stretched out or playing her Friskie's fish game on the iPad.  (Yes, there's an app for cats.)  So let me recap Anna and Michael's pets: we've got multi-titled Foster who can do about 20% of the things humans can and Chauncey the cat who is tech-savvy enough to play on an iPad.  The only pet I've ever had was Russell the hamster, who was the biggest (well, technically smallest) 1.4lb asshole. All he could do was chew through his plastic, colorful-tubed wonderland that I so graciously provided him with and roll around in a ball filled with his own droppings and slamming into walls while doing so.  Russell just bit me and stunk up my bedroom.  I'm not bitter at all by the fact that Anna and Michael's dynamic duo pets trump my worthless furball (who is now buried in a check box in my backyard, RIP).

Anna came home (I like how I'm talking like I actually live with these lovebirds) around 12:30 and with bellies growling we scoped out some brunch.  The three of us (me being the mistress) ate a feast of veggie scramblers, breakfast burritos, homemade breads and potatoes at a restaurant that reminded me very much of the Egg Harbor Cafe in the good old Elmhurst.  Post-brunch, Anna and I rid her hubby of the ride and headed off to the Texas State Fair Grounds, home to the race expo.  Though the area the State Fair Grounds is in is questionable, Anna assured me that the last time she was there, the two gangsta teens that were circling her car on bikes didn't actually do any harm-- and trust me, no one messes with Anna. Or Texas.

Making our way across the parking lot, the multiple-month Dallas drought decided it was bored and it was time to shit a torrential downpour on us.  Anna always likes to blame these unfortunate times on karma paying her back for the time that she flicked off an entire school bus of little children.  Looking like wet Raggedy Anne's we made it into the expo center home to all the warm, dry people that beat the storm.  Anna originally wasn't planning on spending the $120 registration fee and running the race as a bandit, bib-less with me; but the atmosphere and my sweet race packet inspired her to officially register.  In the race bag, runners typically get a bunch of marketing material, postcards for other races, sample muscle lotions, mini energy bars and a race shirt.  What do you get in a Dallas, Texas race bag?  An ENTIRE box of Cliff Bars and TWO shirts: one participant and one tech finisher tee. I guess everything really is bigger in Texas.

The rest of the afternoon included curling up on Anna's couch; obsessing over Chauncey the cat; watching Michael leave for Petsmart; watching tv; obsessing over Foster the dog; obsessing over Chauncey; watching Michael return from Petsmart with Christmas pet toys (though Foster seems like he'd be more of a "Festivus for the rest of us" type of dog); stretching; ordering food; eating food; and Anna's friend Lyndey coming over to join us for a bit of our relaxing evening.  Lyndey brought over Anna's belated wedding gift of the widest array of classy kitchen containers I've ever seen.  Anna and Michael now have more wine glasses and flutes than a New Year's champagne toast; they also have EVERY small kitchen appliance you can imagine: a toaster, juicer, food processor, mixer, probably a Belgium waffle maker they have at Holiday Inn continental breakfasts, and something that looked like R2D2 on top of their cabinets.  Lyndey told us she didn't register for the half marathon, but as a natural athlete, she would join us.  Shortly after she left, Anna and Michael hit the sack and although playing middle spoon was tempting, I hit the couch.

We awoke to even more Dallas drizzle in the morning.  We layered on our race clothes for the predicted chilly temps (though I still sported my fave spandex shorts) and Michael played Nigel Barker, noted fashion photographer, shooting quick pre-race pics of his ladies (I love playing mistress.)  He told us he'd catch us around mile 3 and Anna and I set out to pick up Lyndey.  We fetched our third muskateer and slowly made our way to the race.  Dallas did not think the traffic patrolling through which did not agree with Anna's road rage.  Finally in the State Ground lot, we prepped ourselves to face the rain.  On our walk to the race, we did spot Anna's high school boyfriend. Ah, sweet nostalgia. Hey, Grant, Anna's ex.

Pre-race

We waited in what seemed like a never-ending line to use the porta-potties.  Who knew taking a shit could be so popular?  We shivered our way to the starting corrals where I was asked by a preteen where we pick up our race bibs.  I wanted to feel bad for the adolescent who was a day late, but I just couldn't and informed him with an "ummm yesterday?"  and scampered off.  The three of us somehow ended up in corral D-3 when I was supposed to start in corral A-2.  So we weaved through thousands of people, past 10 minute mile pacers, 9 minute pacers, and runners securing their iPhones in ziplock baggies shielding their lifeline from the rain.  We finally made it to the beginning of corral B which would have to do as the National Anthem commenced and fireworks went off; yes, fireworks.  In all the races I've run, I've never seen this 4th of July sky artwork before a race (evidence #2: every thing's bigger in Texas).  I'm actually surprised they didn't fly the Texas flag, because all Texans are obsessed with the Texas flag.  Anna and mine's other roommate senior year, Katty, another Dallas native, is a prime example of  having this Texas flag love affair.

And the three of us were off as the clouds above held off the rain.  We took the first mile out very modestly and then the rain ensued.  From mile two until the end, we were running in frigid rain that smacked us in the face like tiny swords of a tiny man.  Anna and I kept an eye on one another running almost side-by-side but after about mile 3 we lost sight of Lyndey.  We looked for Michael but didn't spot him.  The roads were slick and it didn't help that Dallas has streetcars that run along rail tracks through the road-- I observed this because I nearly twisted my ankle as I slipped on the cylindrical metal rod.  There is really no other way to describe this race but completely cold and miserable.  By mile 5, every positive thought had escaped my mind and I just wanted the race to be over.  Anna and I stuck together til about mile 7, where she pulled away and got ahead.  The competitive side of me tried to chase her but my legs felt like bricks and the rain seemed to push them back down every time they were lifted.  My soaked clothes clung to me, but I honestly felt worse for the women around me running in yoga pants that were clearly not water proof and weighed them down.  Actually, I felt the absolute worst for the small dog I saw tucked in a spectator's coat.  Why would you bring such a helpless creature into a Dallas tsunami?  Poor little guy.  We ran through Highland Park- a very ritzy area of Dallas lined with spectators holding signs that read "Giddyyy-Up!" and the most gorgeous mansions; I tried to appreciate their visual appeal but my mind wouldn't clear itself of how miserable and cold I was.  All I knew was that my legs were tightening, my hands were frozen, Anna was well ahead of me, I was soaking and I had a badittude.  Nearing the finish line, my vision began to blur and I assumed it was my contacts being intercepted by the raindrops smacking me in the eye.  But then I just felt like I was in complete vertigo.  I crossed the finish line, threw up per usual, and couldn't gain balance.  I was so out of it and shivering; my body wasn't warmed up at all after  the entire 1:46 run (woof, back to my old times, I thought)- it was just cold and I was so light headed.  The race directors tried to get me in a wheelchair but I resisted seeing that all I wanted was to be inside in warmth.

I teeth chattered my way into the building to redeem my medal and the post-race snacks.  Instead of just a goody bag worth of bananas and energy bars, Dallas offered a full buffet of food, even including fresh pancakes that smelled like Maple trees.  Bags of pretzels, popcorn, Lara Bars, Gatorade, waffles, chocolate milk, orange juice were all present- I'm surprised they didn't have a sushi bar.  Nothing really appeased my appetite besides one thing that caught my eye: hot chocolate. Yes, please.  It warmed my veins and I held tightly to my wet belongings to start my trek back to Anna's car.  On my way out, I noticed they had race officials with cell phones for runners to utilize if they needed to call any of their family, fans or spectators: brilliant concept.  Of all the races I've run, I've never seen this type of amenity and it really does make a whole lot of sense.  Then back out in the rain I trudged.

I had originally thought the race was the most miserable two hours of my life when little did I know, the walk back to the car would be far worse.  The State Fair Grounds are not exactly small, unless you're comparing them to China.  There were so many different parking lots and the rain continued to pellet my face as I searched for our area.  All I had as a point of reference was the Ferris Wheel and when I realized it was a good 3/4 of a mile in the distance, I knew I had a ways to go.  With no extra clothes on hand, I kept dropping my free food in puddles because I was shivering so uncontrollably.  Probably close to 25 minutes later, I reached Anna's car to find her trying to warm up in the heated vehicle and strip into warm garb.  "HOLY SHIT JENNA, THAT FUCKING SUCKED" was I'm pretty sure the first words out of Anna's mouth.  She, too, is vulgar, and if you think I despise the cold, meet Anna: she hibernates when it's like 50 degrees out.  We laughed and bitched about the terrible race and discovered she finished about 3 minutes ahead of me.  It was then I discovered that while my iPod had continued to bust out jams the entire race, not a single button of its face would work.  The rain killed my dear iPod as if it was the Wicked Witch of the West herself.  Good thing it was stuck on a favorite Christmas tune of mine: Hanson's What Christmas Means to Me. (Okay quit judging, it's feel good AND I'll proudly say that Hanson was in fact my first concert when I was 9 years old AND I owned the Hanson home video on VHS, which starred Billy Bob Thorton, which still perplexes me).  Anyways, I flashed the parking lot of SUVs as I layered on a few warm items and we waited for Lyndey.

Post-race...Foster making an appearance

Not moments later, Anna looked at her phone to discover a text from Lyndey saying she quit and just bolted home during the race.  I can't say I blame her- it WAS pure misery and we did run right by where she lives.  Plus, seeing that she wasn't even registered and was more running this for "fun" and there was nothing "fun" about this race, I've got mad props for her intelligence.  We stopped by her place on the way home to give her her keys and belongings and continued on to Anna's.  I'm pretty sure we sat in her parking garage for a good 5 minutes avoiding getting out in the car and back into the frigid air.  We shimmied our soaking bodies into her building and upon opening her apartment door, were greeted with big mugs of hot chocolate and a bar of dark chocolate (one of my faves), compliments of Michael.  Whatta gem.  I love being the third wheel and girlfriend to the married couple, especially at this moment. We warmed up with our chocolaty treat and hit the showers (separately).  Upon reviewing Michael's photography skills of the race, we soon learned that he thought two random, strange women were Anna and me.  What a bad photographer. And husband. Kidding, I love me some Michael.  (But this explains my whopping two pictures from the entire trip as seen above). I continued my crucial role as third wheel to a Greek food market where we got linner (lunch/dinner...why hasn't anyone come up with an official name like brunch yet? Linner, it is...I should copyright that.)  It was still raining.  And then it was time for me to leave the rain forest of Dallas, Texas and my favorite couple (aside from Bob and Mary Ellen, obviously).

I made a meal out of pretzels and chocolate milk at the airport because I'm clearly on Jillian Michael's diet.  A flight in complete slumber, I was home in Chicago.  I can't say Dallas was one of my favorite races (far from it), not only because of the external conditions, but also because I just lost sight about just enjoying the races and having fun with it.  So, as I prep for my race this weekend in Mobile, AL (my second to last race, HOLY SHIT!) I just need to remember my love for the "game" (if one calls running a "game") and to ignore the alligators, racists, and hillbilly's I very well may encounter.  And it's my first race flying solo-- it's go time baby. See ya when this little birdy returns from flying south.  In the meantime, DONATE: http://donate.breastcancermarathon.com/2012Marathon/JennaDunkleRuns only one more month to go! I'm SO close to my goal!!!!! Yay for self promotion. Bye.

#10. Indianapolis, IN: Mustache rides in windy Indy

…The mustache will be explained later in this post; but no, it has nothing to do with No-Shave-November.  I actually think that concept is disgusting, primarily because it combines laziness, prickly facial hair and guys’ cockiness who think they’re a “man” because they can grow such shrubbery on their face.  So while the descripted wore their burliness proudly,  my friend Kirstin and I hit the road after a half day of work on Friday.

            How Kirstin and I became friends is a fairly recent and unfriendly way of becoming friends.  She started at our place of work last December; we became acquaintances by March, friends by April, and now spend far too much time together. And I don’t hate it. The delay for our friendship is not because we share a common belief that all work places should have a natural peanut butter pump machine, think Aziz Ansari is the god of all humor, or think weiner dogs are shiny, beautiful little beings…because we do- instead it’s because she happens to have the same name as the 19 year old my ex decided to “pursue” in an elevator in Jamaica last year.  So I obviously thought anyone with that name was the devil. But low and behold, this friendo is awesome so I was more than happy to hear she wanted to visit her friend who recently moved to Indy and would join me for race #10.

            The trip started with Kirstin popping in her mix CD she made for the trip which we ended up never taking out of the player.  That’s right, we listened to a full 7 hours roundtrip of everything from The Naked and Famous to Queen to Kanye and Jay-Z. (Kirstin also painstakingly listened to my valiant efforts to hit Beyonce’s high notes.)  We passed a “HELL IS REAL” billboard (On the reverse side it said “JESUS IS REAL”. Thank GOD.), a Christian school bus in the middle of a field and not a single speed limit sign.  So, I had no idea what the speed limit was, which would cause this next issue:    We ended up cruising behind a State Police car. Keeping my distance but pacing off the cop’s speed, I thought I was fine.  But when the cop got over in the right lane and slowed down, I took that as my cue to do the same, seeing that speeding by a cop would just be blatantly stupid.  Apparently so is getting behind them.  Moments later, we watched the cop car exit, speed up the ramp and come back down chasing poor Lady Slipper’s blue ass.  Damnnnn ittttt: pulled over.  The woman with a horrendous twang and a uniform that made her look like the trunk of a Weeping Willow told me she pulled me over for three reasons: 1. She was going 80-85 mph but that does NOT mean I can do the same because according to her she’s “trained in driving” and she’s sick of dealing with idiots everyday.  Ummm okay treebark lady, I have a license too, does that make me “trained” in driving? Andddd are you insinuating I’m one of those idiots?  Because I, personally, think I’ve got a higher IQ than the average coconut. 2. It was a very “smartass” move to get behind her when she slowed down rather than pass her, which she thought I was going to do.  No, that is a SMART move, you ASS. Again, passing you rather than getting behind you would just be saying, Please give me that ticket sugar momma. 3. My passenger side brake light was out.  Okay, not only do I not have eyes in the back of my head, I sure as hell don’t have them on the back of my car so how am I supposed to know that?  I mean, I know I’m pretty much a celeb at this point but it’s not like I have paparazzi chasing me and letting me know these things.  They’re too busy catching Ashton Kutcher in hot tubs in twenty-year olds that are probably named Kirstin, too.  The cop took my license (which is still Missouri and completely invalid seeing that I’ve lived back in Illinois now for a good year and a half) and walked back to her car. She dicked around in there for a while and probably played some Words With Friends or some shit because when she came back she had no ticket in hand and handed Kirstin a warning through the passenger side window.  How I got out of that with a WOMAN cop is beyond me.  I normally assume successes such as this are due to my huge beaver teeth that people, including female cops apparently, just can’t resist.  Kirstin thought it was either because she was sporting some cleave or she thought the cop thought something was wrong with me because I sit so close to the steering wheel and just felt bad for me.  Well, if it’s massive orthodontia, tits or misunderstood retardation, who cares. CHEERS.

            The rest of the trip was smooth sailing and after 3.5 hours in the car and entrance into a new time zone, we arrived in downtown Indy.  From here on out, I’ll refer to Indianapolis as Indy, because Indianapolis is a stupid long name, just like people of royalty who have four first names followed by Roman Numerals.  Unfamiliar with the downtown area, we were in search for the Convention Center.  Kirstin made the sadly logical decision to just “follow the people wearing jeans with running sneakers”.  Ugh, she’s so right.  Runners really have terrible fashion sense in that respect.  Which might surprise you since I’m a runner and quite the fashionista with unmatched socks and the seam of my skinny jeans always being twisted because they barely squeeze over my massive man calves.  We entered the glorified world of running paraphenalia and I fetched my race packet while simultaneously reminding Kirstin she could STILL register if she REALLY wanted to.  An eye roll followed.

            We then went in search for a restaurant at which I could stuff my face with noodles and bread, my very ladylike carbo-load.  Along the way we noticed wooden planks in the middle of the road that were being used for a senior portrait photo shoot.  Besides providing a wicked background to make that 18 year old look like a badass, we were very confused as to the purpose of these wood islands.  The Spaghetti Factory seemed like an obvious choice for dinner.  Inside we waited a solid 40 min. after a projected 20 minute wait time among other runners (we knew this because yes, they were wearing jeans with running shoes. Okay, and they had race packs).  And babies.  There were so many babies just chillin’, droolin’, doing their chubby thigh thang there.  There was one teeny, tiny baby in a polka dot dress and headband who literally looked like she just popped out…presumably, fully dressed in polka dots.  The reason I mention all these little critters is not only because there were so many it really added to the experience at the restaurant but also because Kirstin and I have very similar feelings towards such little beings and the birthing process in general so this situation made us feel nervous, awkward and disturbed.  While waiting, Kirstin ran into her old high school soccer coach, who too, was running the half marathon the following morning.  Finally seated, Kirstin and I found ourselves to be placed at a four person table that could have comfortably seated eight. It was such a large square of a table that we considered sitting next to each other like awkward, overly-romantic couples do; we decided against it for fear we’d look like an awkward, overly-romantic lesbian couple.  Even though we’re far too attractive for that stereotype.  (Okay yes there are pretty lesbians, we just aren’t them).  Salad served, Kirstin quickly learned that the chef decided to top her mixed greens with a brown paper towel.  Now, most terrible-soul people cause a rukus about such a gross accident; but, being the classy ladies we are who really don’t give two shits about such nonsense laughed it off but carefully inspected the remainder of our meal for trolls, stickers or any other random objects.

            Post-dinner we headed 15 minutes across town to our pad for the weekend.  Remember my awesome host in San Diego who was my dad’s friend from childhood, Maureen?  Well, THIS was the home of Marsha, my dad and Maureen’s other best friend.  Marsha was actually in Chicago for the weekend but so very generously opened her home to Kirstin and me for the weekend.  Upon arrival, we noticed a few things: 1. The streets were seriously so freaking wide.  Honestly, I think Marsha’s neighborhood street was wider than the Edens expressway.  I mean, I know nothing about real estate but if I were ever trying to sell a house in that neighborhood of Indy, I’d include “very spacious street, perfect for an epic block party” in the description to really seal the deal.  2. Marsha’s German Shepard, Gracie, was barking at us, loudly.  Of all things Kirstin and I have in common, love for dogs is not one of them she possesses (note: unless it’s a wiener dog).  I’m pretty sure the only thing Kirstin liked about hearing we’d have a K9 roommate for the weekend was that it was German like her.  But after entering with a baby-talk “Hi Gracie!”, the dog warmed up to us and enjoyed her visitors. 3. Marsha’s house was darling.  She has quite the knack for decorating in an eclectic manner, which didn’t surprise me based on the charming and wonderful personality she hones. 

            Saturday morning I was greeted with Kirstin in knee high argyle socks and a North Face (mind you, this is the same girl who the day prior mocked runners for their terrible fashion sense).  To be fair, I had forgotten to turn up the heat after Marsha warned me she keeps it lower for the dog during the day.  So it was a bit chilly in the abode…but nothing quite as chilly as the outside world.  Arriving at the race early, we sat in the car to avoid the brisk 35 degrees.  After my first of two porta-potty stops per routine, we took shelter in a large, heated tent with other runners.  Kirstin seemed to enjoy the people watching of all the freaks of nature (myself included) who willingly wanted to run in cold weather for 1-6 hours.  We parted ways after agreeing she’d try to catch me at mile 3 and the finish line.  Shivering til the start next to the State Capitol building, the gun went off followed by the cliché “And the bass keeps running and running and running running…” Black Eyed Peas, Let’s Get it Started in Here blared.

            I took out the race a little faster than I prefer- running a 7:42 my first mile, but fell into my normal groove shortly thereafter.  It was still fairly dark out when the race started and steered us through the minimal streets of downtown Indy (it really isn’t that big).  I kept my eyes out for “monuments” as the name of the race “Monumental Marathon” promised me some legit, old buildings.  Nearing mile 3, the course veered to “Monumental circle” that possessed the only monument I saw the entire race, towering high above and decorated with hundreds of spectators at its base.  It was definitely a cool little area to run through and as I weaved around the bend, I kept my eye out for Kirstin.  Sure enough, I spotted her right away and threw my arms in the air, waving like a wild banshee in hopes she would spot me in the pool of runners.  She did and managed to take a few pics…and by pics, I mean she actually took videos of the banshee like arm wave.  With a pep in my step from seeing my fan, I trudged on to later be entertained by a step group in all black sweats shaking their thangs and stomping their steps.

Pre-race: 7AM's never looked so good.

we'll call this one: "smokin' fast!" har har.

Post race: 1:42:33 later. #464 out of over 12,000!

            While Indy isn’t a very large downtown area, the course did a really nice job of taking runners winding through the streets to enjoy what the city does have to offer.  The middle miles seemed to go by pretty quickly as I was extremely satisfied with my recent addition of Will Smith’s “Miami” to my race list.  Seriously, Will Smith does no wrong in my opinion.  The last three miles was where it actually got tough for me.  While all races are physically challenging, I’ll admit that Indy was kind of a rough race for me in the sense that, come mile 10, I just wanted it to be over.  I’m not entirely sure why but my guess is with my extremely busy October, my longer runs suffered and thus my legs became adapted to only running 8-12 miles, making that final stretch a painful challenge.  (It also didn’t help that I was sporting shorts in 35 degree weather and my legs were tightening in the cold).  And, it was WINDY: straight into the icy wind the last three miles. It burned to breath; it stung my thighs; my damp-with-sweat hair painfully struck my face like little icicles.  And the nausea set in.  My final miles are normally my fastest, as I typically kick with 7:10-7:30 min miles.  The end of this race, I was doing 8:10s at best as I tried to lift my legs higher and faster but they numbed with exhaustion.  I spoke my normal words of positive affirmation including my newest addition recommended by Kirstin and told myself: “I’m SO fucking beautiful.” Admit it, it’s awesome. and hilarious.  The finish line in sight, I finally made it across 1:42:33 later—another second fastest time, #464 out of over 12,000, wobbled and puked what I had left in me on the streets of Indy.  Kirstin had warned me that if she saw me puke, she probably would too as she’s a “sympathy vommer”.  She did indeed spot my moment of ill glory but luckily locked it up and greeted me moments later as I collected my medal and free hat they passed out to all finishers.  I debriefed the race for Kirstin as I layered my sweats on, was content with my time and we snagged some free Jimmy John’s sandies.

            Post race we weaved our way through the road closures all across Indy to take a quick shower and nap at Marsha’s.  A beautifully sunny, 60 degree day made it very opportune for a winery.  And so began our day of adult beverage drinking.  We headed downtown to the Easley Winery and really splurged on a $3 tour of the winery followed by eight tastings.  The tour guide was probably the most enthusiastic wine conessieur you could imagine.  That was sarcasm, my friends.  But he did know his shit.  Our favorite part was obviously the actual tasting of the vino.  I managed to “surprise” the tour guide with my choices of the wines I wanted to taste as I’m a young lady and I was apparently choosing wines typically consumed by the age 62 male demographic.  Whatever, I like to try new things, bucko.  Our favorite was a white wine that was best paired with “muffins and relaxation” or something weird, according to the description.  The food pairings were pretty hilarious- I think one of them said it was best paired with a campfire.  Mmm, nothing like a s’more to go with a glass of chardonnay.

            We ended up getting a few bottles (some as gifts), and some cheese and crackers to enjoy on the patio outside.  A bottle and block of cheese later, we were feeling good and overheard someone talking about a brewery across the street.  Ears perked, we had the obvious answer for what we’d do next in our day of celebration.  Across the street we became confused as we saw no winery in sight.  Luckily for technology, Kirstin Googled that shit and we realized we were standing right in front of the brewery.  Well, the building looked like a Knights of Columbus, which should have been our cue to what we’d encounter inside.  Inside, we were greeted with tickets to redeem 6 free beer tastings.  This was seriously the least I’ve spent on alcohol aside from my college days of .75 cent triple wells at Big 12 and the free drinks I scheme for in Vegas.  And then we walked in the back to become the cutely-dressed, white girls black sheep of the crowd.  The general population in this ‘Sun Kings” brewery (an Indiana local beer) is very similar to the loyal customer base of Harley Davidson.  We sipped on our beers (some tasty, others a bit too bitter) among the interesting crowd that included a man wearing a tee that read “I’m not a baby but I still love nipples”.  If that doesn’t scream class and my new best friend, I don’t know what does….well, maybe the shower that was in the bathroom there.  Seriously that place was weird.  But who can pass up free beer and quality blog material?  From there, we wandered the streets of Indy towards the more downtown area, picking up a fake mustache along the way.  Hence, Mustache rides.  If you’ve never been to a good stache party, you’re really missing out.  Kirstin hadn’t as I suppose it could be a trashy Missouri leisurely activity, but we enjoyed our newfound fake upper lip decor until it lost its stickiness and we entered an area of the general public.  We did a little drunk shopping (don’t worry, I was very satisfied with my purchases the next day) and ended our day of drinking with Mexican Food and chugging H20 to sober up for the ride back to Marsha’s only to start drinking again an hour later.

Winery playtime

Figuring out the stache 

THE Monument

Celebrating

            Back at Marsha’s we changed into evening wear, played with Gracie who had an ironic fond liking for Kirstin the K9 hater, which of course I found amusing.  Kirstin’s friend Andy (the one who moved there a few months ago) joined us for our night out on the streets of Indy.  We started our night with Andy’s choice of whipped Cherry vodka, a bev unfamiliar to Kirstin and myself, which ended up being quite delish when paired with root beer (the only dark pop I’ll drink without alch…that I chose to drink with alch).  Per Andy’s recommendation of Broad Ripple, a younger, party strip of Indy as opposed to the classy bars downtown, we headed to a bar called Rock Lobster.  This is not to be confused with Red Lobster, an eating establishment I’ve never graced with my presence and probably never will. Although I hear their cheddar biscuits are the heat. (Heat= awesome, Mom. FYI).  Rock Lobster had an interesting choice of tunes and music videos (Interesting= 90’s Destiny’s Child, Marky Mark, Spice Girls and Cotton-Eye Joe.), which led the three of us to shoot the shit while anticipating if 98 degrees or Boys II Men would be next.  The night of celebration became a bit hazy from there on out.  I do remember a dance floor, which obviously means I shook my lack of ass. And Kirstin later informed me the night ended with me running up the street to a hot dog cart and demolishing the processed meat in the matter of seconds. Typical.  Needless to say, we really took advantage of the fact that I had a Saturday race and were able to celebrate the accomplishment THAT night in full force.

            The next morning we slowly moved and packed up.  The car ride home consisted of a lot of “hangover silence”, listening to Kirstin’s mix CD on repeat and no cops.

            Not only was race #10 exciting because of my second fastest time and a great weekend all-around, reality set in that I only have three of these puppies left.  It’s really both exciting and a bit sad as I’m beginning to think what the hell I’m going to do after my next three races.  26 marathons in 26 months?  Kiddinggg…maybe. Actually, no, not a shot in hell.  But I will need to figure out something to do with all my free time and to challenge myself more so.  I will admit that it will be nice to actually see my bank account INCREASE for the first time in a year. 

            Next stop: Dallas this weekend to run with my boo, Anna (remember her from an earlier post- my college runner roommate?)  Well back then, she was Anna Zapata, but after a ring, an exchange of “I do’s” and an amazing wedding, the newlywed Mrs. Primeaux will be joining me for race #11.  I’ve been nursing a wicked cold and strep throat combo for the past week and a half which has totally cockblocked my running schedule, so this could be interesting. But eh, with a quick yee-haw I’m thinking this will still be a good one.  I mean, afterall, everything’s bigger in Texas, right?

Talk to y’all after.  Oh, have you donated yet?  Go ahead and do so now, pleaseee :) http://donate.breastcancermarathon.com/2012Marathon/JennaDunkleRuns

#9. Denver, CO: 13.1 miles, 5,280 feet up.

There's a very good chance I left my heart in Denver.  No, I did not meet some charming man candy; instead, the city stole my heart.  One of my coworkers once asked me what I would do with all my plans to travel overseas (in hopefully the not far future) if I met a special man candy.  I told him that no man will ever be as interesting as the world.  And Denver was no exception.

Early Friday morning, my parents ritually drove me to the airport to catch my flight for my first visit to Colorado.  Landing a few hours later, I was anxiously excited to see my friend and hostess for the weekend, Carrie.  Little did I know, the Denver airport would be quite the trippy situation around which to maneuver.  Finding ground transportation was an interesting task.  First of all, you had to go down an escalator.  Okay, yes that's normal for an airport. But it doesn't change the fact that I hate down escalators.  Have you ever seen Elf?  How Buddy the Elf is both perplexed and afraid of the moving staircase?  Now have you ever seen Kristen Stewart speak publicly?  It's awkward and fearful.  Combine the two and you have me facing a downward escalator.  I let others pass and normally take a few moments to hop on board.  Next, I had to get on a tram.  It reminded me of the El in Chicago, but much cleaner and most of the people onboard seemed to have homes.  Then, up an escalator...back down a different one only to find out I was on the wrong side of the airport because there's an East and West side for ground transportation pick up.  Had I known that I would've packed my compass. So back up the escalator, directly across the airport and down another moving torture chamber also called an escalator, I found Carrie Barker.  Not to be confused with Carrie Bradshaw.  Carrie Barker has much better taste in avoiding belly shirts, frizzy hair and ugly men. 

Carrie was awaiting in her sweet, new ride.  This little gal pal rearranged her work week to make sure she could spend all of Friday with me.  (I also learned that she in fact planned on devoting her entire weekend to hanging out with me and playing tour guide. She was seriously THE BEST).  We headed to a hip, modern and Denver-local breakfast joint for brunch called Snooze.  Picture The Jetsons' furniture mixed with organic greens and you've got Snooze.  Popular by demand, we had to wait but it was definitely worth it and we had plenty of catching up to do.  Toshimoto, our waiter who disclaimed that wasn't his real name (Really?  Could've fooled me), steered us away from my go-to breakfast order of an omelette or veggie scrambler and in the direction of the best breakfast I've ever eaten.  Snooze allows you to do half portions so I went with a Caprese Benedict and a massive chocolate chip pancake topped with chocolate, carmel and other delicious fattiness that I'm sure went straight to my thighs that were to carry me 13.1 miles just two days later.  If my arteries had closed up after that meal, it would've been well worth it.  (Okay, that's an exaggeration).  But Toshimoto was awesome, even though every time I looked at him I thought of my 4th grade Tomagatchi pet. 

Post brunch, we headed to Carrie's place just south of Denver.  Decorated in all shades of elegant purples, Carrie's apartment was both charming and welcoming with an array of mountains in sight.  Carrie finished up some work as I watched early episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians (pre-wedding and pre-divorce episodes, of course.  I'm talking early episodes where they still had name captions, like "Kim" when they spoke because no one knew who these socialites were. Or knew how big her ass was yet.)  From there, we ventured to downtown Denver to the Convention Center to pick up my race packet.  Prior to arriving in Denver, my friend Tony (who was also Denver born and raised) had scared the shit out of me about the altitude.  When I told him I was running a half marathon there after a weekend in Vegas and I would only be there two days before the race (leaving very little time to adjust to the mile high air), he basically gave me a look of "You're screwed" and directed me to drink 3x as much water as I normally do.  Keeping that in mind, the first thing I had to do when we arrived downtown was race to the bathroom in the Convention Center.  (I continued to do this the entire weekend as I had engulfed myself in about 2 gallons of water every day leading up to my arrival).  Inside the expo, the woman who handed me my race packet gave me the same look as Tony did when she saw my license was from out of state.  When I told her I hadn't felt any altitude symptoms she proceeded to warn me about her constant headaches and bloody noses.  At that point I actually was worried I'd get a bloody nose during my race since I tend to get them at more than interesting times.

The great thing about going to the expo with Carrie was that she became equally enthralled with the running culture as me as we collected free snacks, including tomatoes.  Yes, someone was passing out baby tomatoes at the expo. And yes, I ate them.  We spent a good amount of time at the expo as I eyed some running sunglasses.  Now, normally when I see runners in those shades I think they look like a douche. Or a lesbian.  Not that there's anything wrong with those two types of people, but I just don't want to look like either.  But Carrie warned me at how piercing the Denver rays could be.  But risking I'd look like a sporty Ryan Seacrest, I veered away from the sunglasses and toward the Brooks station.  Carrie, too, sports Brooks Adrenaline and upon learning that we were both avid Brooks customers, a Brooks worker willingly snapped a photo for us.  We voiced a thank you but inside I was screaming, "TELL ME HOW YOU GOT YOUR JOB. IHATEYOUBECAUSEIMSOENVIOUSKBYESTRANGER!"

Post expo, Carrie played tour guide to the city of Denver.  It's a lively city with plenty of people roaming the streets and buildings towering above.  We made our way to I guess what would be considered a "main" street (as I'm forgetting its actual name) that is lined with shops and restaurants, bars and boutiques.  The best part of all is that main street is a pedestrian mall for blocks upon blocks.  That feature gave it a darling charm and calmed the traditional hustle and bustle of a normal city street.  We walked down the bricked mall making our way to their old Union Station that possesses a lot of character architecturally.  We stopped in a quaint, traditional bookshop reminiscent of You've Got Mail so I was quick to look for Meg Ryan behind the counter.  (By the way, if anyone wants to let me know what the hell happened to her, and Helen Hunt for that matter, feel free to write me.)  In a world of super-sized department stores and online distributors it was refreshing to see such a shop in the middle of a big city with plenty of foot traffic.  Within the books there were even recommendation cards from the workers, almost an old fashioned Yelp.com. We finally strolled up another street dazzled with tea lights strung between old fashioned clocks that was home to some very unique (and pricey!) boutiques.  Our favorite had to have been the hat shop.  It was literally a shop filled with hats; and no, not trashy baseball caps like Lids in Yorktown Mall.  Instead, it was Charlie Chaplin meets Kate Middleton hats that could make anyone look instantly stylish and sophisticated.  For about $120.

Making our way back to the car, I snagged some pictures of the large blue bear that "leaned" against the glass Convention Center.  I'm not exactly sure its purpose but Carrie said it was a touristy-thing to capture, much like The Bean in Chicago.  It's amazing how a city can make any ordinary object King Kong sized and people stare at it like a child looking at a shiny object.  It was cool, but in essence it looks like a huge ploy-doh Berenstain Bear. We were stopped by a couple women representing Dodge.  Dodge is always a key sponsor of the Rock 'N Roll Marathon Series so it was no surprise they were staked right outside the Expo center.  In true human instinct, we initially said no to their offer to test drive one of their rides.  But as any good sales person knows, people have to say "no" before they say yes.  Well, then came our yes.  But it was only after they told us that Dodge would donate $20 to a charity of our choice just for taking a ride around the block.  Rough life, riding a 2012 Fiat for breast cancer.  After a brief survey and a breathalyzer, we hopped in the mini ride and cruised around town.  We tested the convertible version; for being such a small car it actually felt quite roomy.  So I didn't feel half as dumb as I did when I rocked the Chevy Aveo in San Diego.  Plus, the Fiat did retro right and retro has to be done right unless you want to look like a shithole Goodwill store.  The ride was smooth and the Dodge lady that joined us chatted with me about the 50 half and full marathon combo she did in two years.  Seriously, my 13 halves in 13 months is starting to look like amateur hour if I keep meeting people like that.

After our test drive, we hopped back in Carrie's car and drove up to Boulder to visit her boyfriend Brice. I hadn't seen Brice since we graduated from college either and he's a great guy who can pull off a fierce bow tie so I was excited to see him.  The three of us roamed the streets of Boulder, a typical but neat college town, in search of any restaurant that had a wait time of less than 45 minutes.  When that prerequisite failed, we opted for a bar/grill nearby to take shelter from the chilly evening.  Finally seated we enjoyed a tasty meal with good company.  I've gotten really used to this whole 3rd wheel concept so I felt completely normal on this tricycle date (...but I will say I prefer being a back wheel).  After dinner, we went into this fun vintage shop that was on Pearl Street, an awesome avenue of vendors and art.  Any kid that goes to CU really lucked out with their college town experience, if you ask me.  Talk about a tight town.  And the tight town ended our Friday full of adventures.

Saturday I woke up to Carrie practically shaking me exclaiming, "it snowed last night! It snowed last night!" like a little tot on Christmas morning.  October 8th: snow in Denver; October 8th: 68 and sunny in Chicago.  Mother Nature is such a jokester sometimes.  And by jokester, I mean huge, raging bitch.  With the outside world just looking cold, Carrie and I spent the majority of the day curled under blankets, relaxing on the couch.  A perfect lazy Saturday.  Early afternoon, we pulled ourselves together to go for a little run; I really wanted to see how my lungs would tango with the highly-gossiped altitude.  We headed to Washington Park, home to a lovely flurry-paved running path in the heart of Denver.  Carrie, being a Mizzou cheerleader alum and a generally athletic gal, had no issue keeping up with my steady trot.  The air was thick and brisk and I'd be lying if I said it didn't burn to breath. But for the most part, the little effect the altitude appeared to have on me was reassuring for my next day race.

Once showered, Whole Foods warmed us with their soup.  It was the largest Whole Foods I had ever seen: a palace for the nutrition obsessed.  I'm actually beginning to think that the size of Whole Foods markets is in direct proportion to the health of the city in which it dwells.  For example, Denver is known as the healthiest city in America- thus, the Whole Foods was like a mini amusement park.  Chicago is known as a fairly fat city (thanks to people like me who snack on hot dogs on the reg)- thus, the Whole Foods are comparably small.  Which makes me believe that Alabama and Mississippi must have zero Whole Foods markets.  But I'll let you know once I visit Mobile, AL in January.  But again, this is just one of my theories.  Very similar to my theory that every dog I encounter loves me.

We picked up some groceries for a pasta dinner and headed back to Carrie's parents' house for the evening.  Pre-cooking, we continued our lazy Saturday with watching Blue Valentine (starring Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling) on onDemand.  We were intrigued to watch this rather depressing film hoping Ryan G would play his normal sweet heartthrob role.  Instead, he rocked a cig half out of his white trash mouth the entire movie.  Along his side, Michelle Williams played her normal depressing, dirty-haired Dawson's Creek role.  I mean, if I had a smokin' hot hubby like Heath Ledger that starred in one of the greatest movies to date (10 Things I Hate About You. Stop judging me, it's hilarious), and he died, I'd be emo 24/7 too.  Needless to say, the movie ended leaving us in question about whether we actually enjoyed it or not.  Carrie played Chef Boyardee as I de-tailed the shrimp.  We wined and dined (well, I drank water) and I went to bed a happy carbo-filled camper.

Do I even need to say that my alarm went off dark and early on Sunday morning at this point?  Well, I think I just did.  It was a chilly 42 degrees so I battled with running in my normal spandex shorts or my capri tights.  I'm not a big person for change and racing in capris is untested, dangerous waters so I went with my shawrts. (I felt like J Kwon there for a second, sorry).  Carrie dropped me off; I hit up my porta-potties, dropped off my race bag and wiggled into the start line crowed.  Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle yeahhhh. With a gun shot, I was gone.  I took this race out slower, more strategically, nervous that I'd be choked by the hands of the mile high man.  We ran past the stadium which was when I realized that right ahead of me ran a woman in a Abercrombie & Fitch winter coat that the cool kids in middle school sported.  (That did not include me, as for a good chunk of junior high I had 3 rows of teeth (yes, 3 rows), glasses and permed hair that I didn't know how to style with gel).  The coat was unzipped and the woman ran with her hands in the pockets, as if the puffy burgundy winter wear almost served as wings.  It looked terribly uncomfortable and awkward to say the least.  Mile 4 had a single hill that posed as the only fairly challenging section of the course.  I was happy to see that, unlike the Chicago half marathon, Denver's was planned so runners could actually breath in the city as they ran.  Nearing the final 4 miles or so, the course winded through a park and neighborhood area.  I ran under a wide-legged Brooks inflatable rock star right before mile 10--when the altitude suffocated me.  I became headachy and light-headed but trudged on.  At this point, Rhianna was shouting about how she found love in a hopeless place for the 38th time in the matter of 3 minutes; at this point I let the fight in me take over.  I looked at my watch, noticed I was running my recent average pace and found the finish line 1:43:27 later.  My second fastest time...by 6 seconds. hah- HEY, it still counts.  And then of course, I left my mark on Denver by throwing up repeatedly all over the street.  Apparently this is routine for me now.  I made my way to find Carrie and was handed the normal free food and the notso normal free food: a hot breakfast burrito.  I really didn't want it, but how could you pass up a hot sausage wrapped in flour?! I gave it to Carrie when I found her and she was beaming.  She was seriously such a trooper; not only was she so happy for me, but she also just loved taking in the entire atmosphere of the race.  Her excitement as they announced the first marathoner coming in at an ungodly fast time would have made you think she was a dedicated runner that lived for this kind of stuff like me.  It made my experience and post-race celebration that much more exciting!  

We got my race bag full of warm clothes and I called my parents to let them know I finished and was alive.  The great thing about races with "text tracking" is that when it works, people from afar can know how you're doing.  But the thing is, it never works; and thus, when my parents don't get updates after I start, they immediately think I'm dying in a hospital somewhere.  When I called my mom, she started to cry; she had been so concerned about how I'd do with the altitude and to hear I had my second fastest time brought out the happiest tears of a proud momma bear.  Even half way across the country, my parents have a way of being the most supportive and amazing people for every single one of my races.  When I was done getting all Hallmarky with my mom & dad, we headed back to Carrie's car to take advantage of the remainder of the beautiful Denver day.

Carrie continued to play tour guide and drove me to see the Red Rocks ampitheater.  Only one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen in my entire life.  It looks as if someone dipped their large Crayola paintbrush in the top of a dusty, red volcano and painted Pride Rock from The Lion King.  The only thing missing was Simba with that gooey shit on his forehead.  But seriously, the Red Rocks were amazing.  And someone obviously let the insane asylum near Denver loose because there were people RUNNING and biking up these things.  I'm not a physics whiz, but I really don't think gravity is supposed to work like that; I'm still dumbfounded by how they didn't just roll backwards down the steep slopes.  Of course Carrie reminded me that if I were to ever move there, I'd be one of those people.  And she's probably right.  The ampitheater looks like such a legit place to see a concert.  And in the visitor's center there, it listed every artist and band that's ever performed there and on what date they performed.  Talk about some serious documentation.

 

After Red Rocks, we enjoyed some Mexican food at the foot of the landmark.  Carrie mentioned that this was a very frequented restaurant by Red Rock visitors.  It doesn't surprise me because the fish tacos were the tits; and the decor of the restaurant included pictures of their 1994 Mardi Gras party that could've been mistaken for a Brandy Bunch pool party at the YMCA.  After lunch, it was time for me to say my goodbyes to Carrie and Denver.  Neither were very difficult because I was going to see Carrie just a week later at Mizzou's 100th Homecoming and I KNOW I'll be back to Denver.  I've said time and again that I'd move to San Diego in a heartbeat.  Well, while San Diego has beaches of beauty, it also has more fake boobs than the Mattel Barbie factory.  So from a strictly city love affair and realistic place of where I could actually picture myself living and fitting in: Denver has my heart. 

What I've loved so much about this journey is that I've gotten to visit some of my favorite places, places home to some of my favorite people and places that I've never been.  Denver was the latter, but has become a favorite place and a place I someday hope can be home with some of my favorite people.

But for this weekend, Indy's on my mind for race #10.  It's my first SATURDAY race which means I'll be racing double digits Saturday morning and double fisting by Saturday night. I'm roadtripping with my main girl Kirstin tomorrow after a half day of work.  We'll be sure to thoroughly document the weekend since this will be quality material for when we become famous from our reality tv sitcom that's in the works.  I'll try to blog when I get home Sunday.  But you know I'm not very good about the whole timeliness shit.  And I'm not sure what time we'll be home...mainly because the Indy time zones and the fall back time change confuses the crap outta me.  So until some unknown time, bye bye!

Spotted: Dumbass in the rain.

Okay, first of all, you're right- I have not blogged about race #9 in Denver.  But cut me some slack; I plan on doing it this weekend, which is my first and only weekend that I'm home in October. Ah, I have such the crazy life of a celeb. (Minus the drugs). And I may or may not have had a beautiful love affair with Denver so as any good love story goes, it requires time and effort which I don't have on this fine Wednesday evening.

What I do have is a bowl of hot soup and a brief story that will automatically make you feel better and smarter than me. (Not that I'm implying you aren't smarter than me anyways, but I did get a lot of colorful "A+" stickers back in my elementary days).  I am also sporting a very fashionable look as I write this: my purple bath robe and knee high Juicy Couture socks.  I LOVE my robe and wear it on quite the regular basis, as my roommate's boyfriend has pointed out.  If you don't own one, I highly suggest putting this warm fluffy garment of joy on your next shopping list, right below a jar of Peter Pan Reduced Fat Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter. The Juicy Couture socks I could normally do without; I hate wearing socks. And besides these socks, I pretty much hate everything Juicy Couture.  Especially those gross, embossed, velour jumpsuits. So I'm sure you're wondering why I'm wearing such a heinous outfit and telling you about it. Well, it's because I'm freezing. And a dumbass.

It is currently 45 degrees outside, pouring rain, with tornado-like winds that cut through you like the whipping nunchucks of TMNT Michelangelo (my fave hero in a halfshell).  I would know this because about 20 minutes ago, I was running in it...by choice. As I sat in an hour and 20 minutes worth of traffic on my 22 mile commute home earlier this evening, I chose to ignore the rain that was causing everyone to drive like morons.  But that's not too stupid of me, because no one on the Edens knows how to drive when it's sunny out either. I also chose to ignore the radio caster's suggestion to stay inside because the waves along the lake were reaching 20 feet.  So, when I got home I slid into my spandex, zipped up my running jacket and headed out to face the wrath of Mother Nature.

I headed to my normal route and when I reached the path along the lake, taxis were posted up waiting for the poor pedestrians and bikers that got caught in the heat of Mother Nature's bitchslap. Why I didn't think it was a good idea to turn around this short 9 minutes into my run is beyond me. Southbound was impossible to head as the waves crashed, drenching the entire path.  Northbound, there is a large amount of grass area between the lake and the path.  So I ran about a half mile north.  However, I underestimated the distance 20 foot waves could reach. And I'm pretty sure it's more than 20 feet. Because the path separated by a mini Chicago pasture was no safe haven. And I was soaked. As the waves crashed over me, the sleet hit my face. And I felt as cold as Kate Winslet did in Titanic as she hogged the door and let Jack drown. (Seriously, that bitch could've made room).  The wind fought me and I had to turn around. There was no way this was happening. This is not passion, this is insanity.

I made it back to the corner of Fullerton and Clark, frigid and soaked watching people struggle with their umbrellas which nearly poked me in my little blue eyes. Nearly 5 minutes from my apartment a.k.a. warmth and dryness, I looked around and took off again.  I seriously have to be out of my damn mind. I ended up getting completely lost and was miserable my whole 8 mile run.  While my thoughts are normally positive or reflective as I run, all I was thinking was how I wanted to just quit my job so I could hibernate until July.  My feet were drenched and numb.  I tried to think about how fighting the wind was good resistance training but as the sharp ends of my pony tail whacked me in the face I could only think about how I hope the Lincoln Park zookeepers brought all the animals inside as I ran by so they didn't have to suffer in this shit.  The only good part about my run was seeing a little dog in a rain jacket. (I love a well-dressed dog). And I finally, was back on Clark and made my way home.  It was seriously the craziest, windiest, wettest, coldest and most moronic run of my life.

And here I am: trying to warm up. with a windburned face. In purple fluff. And a complete dumbass. And, I just received a text from my friend Kirstin who couldn't believe I ran in this shit that told me I needed to go on that show "My Strange Addiction". She might actually be right. So, run along and feel better and smarter than me now.  But I bet you'll really feel better if you donate for a good cause: http://donate.breastcancermarathon.com/2012Marathon/JennaDunkleRuns .  Plus, it's Breast Cancer Awareness month. Duhhh.

We'll chat about Denver soon.  Au revoir!