#6. Portland, MI: Small town, Big heart.

Race #6 took place in small town America: Portland, Michigan. The kind of place where you can imagine just about everyone running home to mama's house for sunday dinner with a side of cornbread.

I chose this race for a very limited amount of random reasons.  1. I had never been...or heard of, Portland, MI.  So the Curious George in me said sure why not... and curiosity only killed the cat, and I'm no feline.  2. The flight to Portland, OR and the remainder of the west coast races (where I wanted to run) was over $500... my 2 tanks of gas to Portland, MI were $40.  I obviously had a premonition of the stock market crash that was to come.  3. It was the town's Relay for Life, so in all honesty, it was a great cause (and it allowed me to take a stroll down memory lane to high school when my group of friends religiously participated dressing up as football players to "tackle cancer" and sported a rainbow of fruit flavors as we were "Lifesavers" another year. I was pineapple. That's the best flavor, obviously.)  So that's how I ended up spending my last weekend of July in a town with a population of 3,500...cows included.

Because it was only a 4 hour drive to the middle of nowhere, Mary E and I didn't have to hit the road quite as early as usual on Saturday. So Friday night, I used my mad sales skillz I learned from selling books-door-to-door to convince Bob to let mom & I take the Miata convertible for the projected perfect-weathered weekend. And by sales skillz, I mean I flashed my beaver teeth, batted my mascaraed eyelashes and conveniently was the last child to be born in my immediate family to make Big Bobby cave into passing the keys to his baby.  The "baby" in this case, is not me, but rather his car.  My mom and I came to the conclusion on the drive to Portland that my dad has 3 "things" he refers to as baby, listed most important to uh, least important for lack of a better rating scale: 1. Honey (the dog) 2. his Miata 3. my mom.  Poor Mary E, 30 years of marriage and you get the shaft behind the k-9 and style bars. It's okay, you're #1 on my list (but I don't refer to you as "baby").  I will admit that my dad's farewell to me resembled the current Subaru commercials, where the father is giving all the safety advice to the striped-shirt little girl in the driver's seat; it was quite sentimental, especially when Bob ends his fatherly advice with "and don't break my car".  So as Mary E and I pulled away Saturday morning around 8:30, the glisten in Bob's eye wasn't because he'd miss us, but rather because he feared the wind would screw up his ride's recent wax job.

The doppler was right: perfect weather. Mary E and I cruised with the top down all the way through Indiana and up to Michigan. I did all the driving as mom held onto her dear Mizzou baseball cap while trying to text and update her Facebook and earning herself a really sexy seatbelt tan by the time we neared our questionable destination.  You know those hidden wine country towns tucked behind rows of shrubbery along the highway that you barely notice they even exist?  The ones that you see the "welcome to" and "you are now leaving" signs in the same stretch of road?  The ones that you pass the gas exit intentionally even when you're running on "E" because you don't know when the hidden meth lab there is going to explode?  Welcome to Portland, MI.  (Or so that would be the judgment made from highway view).  As I drove past the Portland, MI city limit sign and saw nothing but fields of whatever Portland is known for growing, the city girl in me sneered and asked "who the hell would actually live here?"  These types of small towns perplex me in the same way that the people I see eating at La Bamba when I get home from work do.  As I pass the window to the burrito franchise at 4 PM on Fridays and see booth-goers chowing down on the soupy white cheese and crumbly cat meat, I can't help but think one of two things: 1. Why are these people drunk at 4 PM? 2. If they aren't drunk, why are they deliberately asking the burrito gods for digestive problems before a Friday night?

We actually drove past Portland intentionally.  I booked our hotel in Lansing, about 20 miles further north as our resort for the weekend.  I had actually heard of Lansing prior to my small town expedition, which made me feel a bit more at ease about sleeping in butt-fuck nowhere.  Also, when I went to book a hotel in Portland, I had an overwhelming two options. The first was a Motel 8, which not only roared classy but also was sold out (Lord knows what, besides the race, drew a hotel crowd of people to Portland). The second option was another motel that looked like the bathroom stall Jamie Lee Curtis cowered in during Halloween H20 as the masked man tried to murder her. Lansing was clearly the better choice.  Even with my GPS, I managed to miss the exit so Mary E and I took the "scenic route" through "downtown" Lansing.  (Note: my use of "scenic" is not to be interpreted as the same definition as when I used this word to describe San Diego in June).  Hungry as hippos and wind-blown as Kelly Osbourne's hair, Mary E and I grabbed some lunch and shopped for a wee bit.  Shopping with my mom is fun, but my credit card continually gives my mom the stink eye.  You see, Mary E encourages all my purchases and somehow her justification always seems logical.  When I tell her that she's a bad influence on me, she always relies on the same rebuttle: "I don't justify ALL your purchases. Like if you wanted to spend $35 on that panda hat that Daytona bought, I would've told you 'no'". That's her only ammo. And sorry Daytona, your panda hat was a freak-of-nature purchase that only you could justify.  But my mom appreciates having a comeback, thanks to you.

After we supported the local Lansing economy, it was time to pick up my race packet.  All my races thus far have been at least 15,000+ people and hosted pre-race expos the Friday and Saturday prior to the run.  Portland's hometown race, on the other hand, set up a race packet pick up table at Cheeky Monkey's from 3-6 PM on Saturday.  We back tracked to Portland and parked the car right outside of the smiley baboon shop, in between two pick-up trucks. As I entered the coffee shop, my entire perception of the town changed and I realized exactly why people live there.  Walking into Cheeky Monkey's was home to population Pleasantville.  Four women stood behind the counter chit-chatting and showing pictures of their families and kids from prom to one another; a man standing behind a table welcomed us; a teenager volunteering to work the packet pick-up table sat at the counter eating his lunch that was probably "on the house"; a kids area crafted for creativity stood ground in the back of the shop.  The coffee shop was quaint with character.  I walked to the table to pick up my race goodies and was handed my bag by Jane Bower.  Jane Bower was a charming woman with a kind smile and the sweetest demeanor tucked behind her small-town accent.  When I asked her how many people were running the half marathon (they also had a 5K race), she smiled, "Just about 80!"  80 people.  That was about the same amount of girls on my high school cross country team.  I texted my friends the seemingly humorous amount of competition and the majority excitedly replied "OMG, win it!"

Cheeky Monkey's Coffee House 

Portland's Main Street

In front of Cheeky Monkey's supporting Relay for Life

Mary E along the river

Mary E and I decided to split a delicious smoothie as we were entranced by this adorable place that was obviously a staple in the town.  It became clear that Portland was the type of place where everyone knew everyone.  My mom complimented the owner (who was working the register) on her storefront and the woman asked where we were from?  I might as well have said "Neptune" with the wide-eyed look she gave us when I said Chicago.  Wondering how we ended up in Portland, I told her about my races as she wrapped up the souvenir mug I just had to purchase. (That mug now supplies me with my caffeine fuel daily in my cubicle at work).  We left the coffee shop as the owner packed up the baked goods she made for the runners post-race.  For being a such a small town, it was actually home to two rivers.  I'm not sure which ones but I can promise you it isn't the Mississippi, so you can narrow it down from there.  Mary E and I walked along the high rivers and decided to hop back in the car and locate the high school so we'd know where the race started.  We saw the ENTIRE town in the matter of 5 minutes, as Main Street encompassed most of what Portland had to offer.

Time killed, we went back to our hotel to relax with some NCIS and headed to dinner.  Pasta managed to escape the menu (this happened race #4 in Cleveland as well) so salmon it was.  (I'm beginning to think American restaurants are cutting back on the Italian food offered as Jersey Shore cast members continue to disgrace us.)  One table behind my mom & I sat a mother with two little girls who we shortly learned had very large mouths and made me wanna go Silence of the Lambs on them... not hannibalistic, but just silence them. With Lamb Chop (the kid-friendly puppet, of course, not the meat). The mother kept telling Jenna (the youngest of the two) to sit down. So being my name twin, I really wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt and like the adolescent twiglet, but she really was just giving all the Jenna's in the world a bad name and I couldn't help to worry that I was starring at the future of America.  Once the mother muted the little wildebeests with the food served, Mary E and I enjoyed our meal and the delightful mother-daughter conversations we find ourselves often having.  Back to the hotel, we made a quick pit stop for corn and chocolate. It's my favorite combo. ...kidding. Frozen corn for my bothersome hamstring that had been hurting for about a week and a half and chocolate for the obvious reason: we're women.

I zonked out and awoke at 6AM (later than usual, knowing that traffic for 80 runners would not cause a delay) for the 7:30 race.  I was really excited for this race, hoping to get a personal best.  With the exception of my pain-pinging hamstring and aging left knee, I felt really strong in my weeks of training up to this race.  My 5th race in San Diego had taken place the first weekend in June and this race #6 was occurring the last weekend in July, so it had been nearly 2 full months since my runner's adrenaline surged and I kicked it into high gear for a race.  After a minor mishap of forgetting my ipod at the hotel but realizing this quickly, Mary E took the wheel and we headed to Portland's high school for the start.
As we arrived in the school parking lot, visions of high school races flashed as the atmosphere felt so similar (or maybe it was the scenery of a big high school building and track that rewinded my mind 7 years).  All the runners were calm, casually stretching near their cars, or catching up with a friend.  Runners could still register the day-of so by the time the race began, the 80 original runners had probably reached the triple digits.  No large stereo system and mic were needed for announcements, but merely the power of a megaphone.  The race coordinator (Jane Bower's husband) explained that with the recent rainstorms they had earlier in the week, the rivers overflowed and submerged half the original course under water so they did a quick rerouting.  The course would start downhill, we'd do a 5 mile loop-twice and then end uphill. With the groans from the crowd of the unfortunate uphill news, Mr. Bower replied "Well, that's just the way God made it" in the true Alabama twang he sported in central Michigan.  So the runners made their way to the start line (I found myself near the front with the white kenyan men) and rather than a gun fired, a town local said "You guys ready? On your mark, get set" Fog horn. And we were off.

Race Pace TAT!

Start line

Pace leader...on a bike? Yupp.

Around mile 6.3

My mom thought this was funny. Small town charm.

About 1.5 miles to go!

I took the race out a bit too fast, but with The Black Keys blasting, I was in the zone.  It was actually pretty cool having it as a smaller race because the course took place along a running path- no more than 10 feet wide.  Usually, the 30,000 racers I accompany elbow one another as we all try to squeeze our strides through the city streets and avoid tripping over fire hydrants.  This race didn't pose these obstacles and instead offered a clear, tree-lined path reminiscent of my home Prairie Path.  The first few miles went really well but offered a couple ups and downs worth of hills that I wasn't expecting in this Michigan pasture land.  Mile 6.3 began the start of the second 5 mile loop where I spotted Mary E.  In between making friends with the locals she stood near, she managed to support me with her motherly good spirits which I always appreciate.  I knew she befriended the locals because as I passed I heard a tall, unfamiliar dude yell "Go Lincoln Park! Yeah Chicago!"  It turns out this was the son of the race coordinator and as Mary E befriended him she learned that he, too, was from Lincoln Park, Chicago.  Then she proceeds to tell him the intersection and restaurant I live above (which he knew exactly where it was), so if random men ever come a-knockin', I'll have my own mother to blame. Thanks mom.

Along the way, the volunteers at the water stations were some of the friendliest and loudest supporters.  One station even had two little boys with drenched towels who would whip them around, causing a bit of a sprinkler effect cooling off the runners.  (This also seems to be a very strategic parenting tactic- let the boys be rambunctious and tire them out at the same time...all while doing a good thing for others. Those will be some good men, right there.)  The second 5-mile loop was challenging, mentally more than anything else.  It's knowing that you have to re-run what you just ran for the past 40 minutes.  My pace eased and as I took one of the mini hills around mile 8, my hamstring pulled with pain.  The remaining 5 miles were a hurting hobble as I favored my right leg, trying to avoid putting my weight on the left.

Up the hill and around the high school parking lot, I finished the race in pain, but strong coming in at 1:47:37.  I've always been the consistent type in a lot of aspects of my life, and this is deeming true in these races as well as I keep running approximately the same time.  My roommate Sarah and I were just talking about this; with the exception of St. Louis (remember the medic tent scene?) all my other races have been within less than 4 minutes of each other.  I should probably expect this, seeing that I don't switch up my routine and when I do it normally just means me adding more mileage because I get on a runner's high.  Anyways, my hamstring tightened as I tried to walk it off, hearing Jane Bower congratulate me from the near finish line.

Cheeky Monkey's cookies, muffins, breads and fruits distracted me from my painful leg muscle, but the best of all was the cooler with ginormous popsicles in it.  Yum. It was seriously better than any Flinstone push up or ice cream sandwich, so I'm not entirely sure why people do absurd feats for a Klondike Bar when they can just have a tastey red popsicle instead.  Awards came about an hour later as runners continued to trickle in.  Not only did I get my normal "participant/finisher" medal, but I was also announced over the megaphone and dazzled with a second medal for being the top finisher in my age group of females 20-24.  I was also the 5th female overall to finish the race.  With double the hardware, my chain was fa sho hanging low.

Race 6 complete! 1:47:37

Topping the charts

Getting my "top finisher" medal, like a boss.

After collecting my bling, Mary E and I headed back to the car.  Along the way we were intercepted by Jane Bower, with her heart of gold, who wanted to make sure I was okay after seeing the pain I was in from my hamstring.  Her and her husband were the coordinators of the race and it was then that she informed us this was the first year they tried the half marathon as their Relay for Life.  I commended her for such an organized race and just genuinely good people supporting the cause and the runners and we parted in good spirits.  Mary E was beaming with pride as always; I'm really surprised she hasn't made a button to wear on her sweatshirt like she used to do when I played AYSO soccer in my Mia Hamm-wannabe glory days.  She was extra chatty as we headed back to the hotel and I have Cheeky Monkey's to thank for only serving regular, caffinated coffee at the race.  My mom ONLY drinks decaf coffee, so when she has caffeine she's like a wind-up toy controlled by a four year old on a sugar high.  (Okay, that was mean, sorry momma) but she is a riot.  We grabbed our minimal luggage for the weekend and hopped back on the road to Elmhurst.

Overall, I was so happy I did this small town race; it was fun and very different from every other race I've run.  My perspective of Portland changed entirely from the time I judged the fields of nothingness from the highway to when I actually saw how thrilled someone like Jane Bower was with the turnout and support of her town.  As I continue to always be "on the go" for these races, it's places like and the people of Portland that remind me to slow down and really remember what's important in life.  It's always the people; a place is only as good as the company of the people there.

Well I've gotta go pack for race #7.  I leave for Minneapolis tomorrow and I can't believe it's already here- it snuck up on me!  I literally feel like I just ran Portland, though it was 3 weeks ago.  So I'd be lying if I said I felt completely prepared for this one. But as always, I know it'll be awesome. And my best friend Caitlin is coming with me. And I'm staying with my crazy cool friend Alissa. Good people. Good times. Good night.  DONATE: http://donate.breastcancer
marathon.com/2012Marathon/JennaDunkleRuns

Running for a Reason: October 1994.

Preface: Prefaces don't really exist in blogs, but I decided this needed one. It's really more of a warning but I didn't want to write "warning" because that just reminds me of a pack of cigarettes. Ew. So the preface is that this post isn't my normal sarcastic verbal blunder. But it is important to me so if you normally read this for my terrible jokes and crude humor, you may opt not to read this one but instead I ask you scroll to the bottom, click on the link and donate. Here it goes.

I was 7 years old when my Aunt Linda lost her battle to breast cancer.  Having been so young, I don't remember much and I couldn't empathize with the struggle; what I do remember is looking at her laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an oxygen tank in the middle of her living room and looking up to my mom and asking, "When do you think Aunt Linda will be able to take us to Navy Pier like she promised?"  I didn't understand.  My mom didn't know how to answer.  And I didn't realize that a few days later, she'd be gone.

Get Well cards from my aunt's students draped the living room walls.  My oldest cousin Peter was by Aunt Linda's side when breast cancer took her away.  While that's about the extent of my memory regarding the dwindling days of her life, what I do remember and know is far more important.  I remember my aunt for the crafty, creative projects she'd do with my sister and me.  Whether it be appliqueing a shirt, or bejeweling my new shoes for kindergarten, she was the best at that.  I remember her taking me to see Beauty and the Beast on Ice as she had a love for all things Disney and a bigger love for all things family.  I remember her for the mother she was to my two amazing cousins, Kevin and Peter, who are now unbelievable parents themselves, shadowing my aunt's footsteps.  I remember her for the best friend and older sister she was for my mom.

I also remember that just two years ago, my Aunt Elizabeth faced the same battle.  Strong headed and hearted, you probably would have never known.  In my early twenties, I understood much better this time around... but not really. I didn't know nor fully understand the pain and exhaustion my aunt was going through. But that's not what my aunt would want attached to her name. Instead, she's a staple in her community with her personal pet business; she's a genius when it comes to anything dog related; she's a fabulous cook and host, a well-read teacher, and one of the hardest workers I know always on the go. And she's a warrior against breast cancer.

There are always statistics and studies shared about the number of people a disease is affecting, or an improvement in medicine.  There are thousands of life-threatening diseases and luckily, ten fold that number of volunteers and advocates raising money to find cures.  I don't sit here and write this to say my cause trumps any other, nor do I say this disease is by far the worse.  I also won't sit here and promise that your donation WILL find the cure to breast cancer.

Instead, I will say that had it not been for breast cancer, my aunt would have been there to see her two sons marry two great catches, Mel and Heather.  Aunt Linda would now be wearing a "World's Best Grandma" sweatshirt for her five beautiful grandkids and would have welcomed the eldest, Riley, of those grandkids home from Europe just last week.  Had it not been for breast cancer, my best friend and role model, my mother, wouldn't have lost her best friend.

Cousins Mel & Heather, baby Noah, me & momma

For those of you who knew my Aunt Linda, reading this is probably a struggle as memories rush back to your heart and minds, tears well in your eyes (I am finding myself a blubbery mess right now all over my keyboard).  For those of you who know my Aunt Elizabeth, you probably smiled as you know how strong and the fighter she is (sorry for ending in a preposition).  While I could have easily and unemotionally requested you to donate to breast cancer, framing it with perspective and sharing the stories of my aunts makes it so more real and I hope that it only inspires you.

I've said this before, but there are PLENTY of days that I dread my training. While I love the "sport" (...or hobby/activity for all you "running isn't a sport and neither is tennis type of people"), there are days after work I'd rather do a happy hour with friends. While running brings me clarity of mind and stress, at times the aches and pains I get from it are what causes that stress. But it's not about "those days"; it's about the bigger picture.  When I tell friends, acquaintances, strangers at bars, what I'm doing, I get a variety of reactions. Many people find it "cool", "crazy" and I've even had one stranger say I'm the most interesting person he's ever met because of it. (I'm still not sure if that was meant as a good thing).  But inevitably, they always follow it up with a "why?" Why am I doing this? Why am I running 13 half marathons in 13 months?

In my first post, I said I had no idea why. I correlated it to the countless spontaneous decisions I've made in recent years.  I've given numerous answers ranging from "it seemed like a good idea at the time", "It's my news years resolution", "It took my mind off of my heartless ex", "It keeps me in shape", "It lets me see parts of the country I might've never otherwise visited",  "I don't know, I didn't want to do another full marathon, so I wanted to do a half...well, 13 of them" to "I constantly want to challenge myself", "It's just one of those once in a lifetime things I wanted to do", "I don't like things that come easy to me so why not?".  While all those responses have held their truth at some point during this process, those reasons aren't what gets me out on the path, even in 95 degree weather as my body screams "f*&$ you", 4 days a week, clocking over 40 miles in that duration.  Those reasons are not going to give me that unbelievable feeling of accomplishment come next February in Jacksonville, FL. Perhaps some of those reasons GOT me going, but they are not what KEEP me going. Running for a purpose...for something far greater than me...for someone far more exceptional...for a cause with so much meaning is what makes it worth hitting the pavement every week. Selfishly, I do love the challenge and the betterment it's given my life. But I've run for myself for 12 years and have never felt the passion and commitment I've felt these past 6 months of this process. I am running for a reason, for my aunts. And for all the other survivors and fighters, mothers, daughters, husbands, sons, uncles and friends that have been touched by breast cancer.

So as I wrap this up, I'll leave you with this: Coworkers and family members have told me I should set up a Paypal account and have my readers and "fans" donate to fund my journey. While my average race costs me about $500 (after registration, flight, gas, hotel, meals, etc.), I am blessed and fortunate enough to be able to fund myself.  I don't need nor want the money.  So instead, I'm raising money for the National Marathon to Finish Breast Cancer (my first and final race of this journey in Jacksonville Beach).  The patients and families need it far more than I ever will. My goal is to raise $2,620 by February 12, 2012 for my final race. (A marathon is 26.2 miles...so I figured in true Jenna form I'd do a little play on numbers). I ask you that if you think what I'm doing is cool, crazy, interesting, asinine, ridiculous, marvelous...or if you have an aunt, mother, sister, friend, you donate. If I can get the half of my Facebook friends that I actually know to donate just $5 (that's the cost of ONE beer, people), I'll have just about reached my goal. If one beer is too much to ask, I request $1. Anything and everything helps.

If I hit my goal, I'm going to do something really super cool. I'm not sure what yet, as my brain doesn't function thinking that far in advance. I'll let you know. But please, just donate. Not even for me, but so 5 adorable grandkids can meet their grandma. And so one mother doesn't have to miss her best friend. Here is the link to my fundraising page: http://donate.breastcancermarathon.com/2012Marathon/JennaDunkleRuns And thanks so much...it truly means the world to me and keeps me running.

Here is a link to an article that was written about my journey in my local newspaper a couple months back. It'll give you a little more about my story and the link to the donation page can also be found at the bottom of that article: http://triblocal.com/elmhurst/community/stories/2011/05/america-runs-on-dunkle/

P.S. I promised I'd let you know where I was headed for my July race. Have you ever heard of Portland...Michigan?  Great, neither have I, but I'm going there next weekend for my first small town race. And it's going to be awesome...and hilarious.

And guess who's coming with me?  My best friend, Mary E. Sarcastic blunder to come next post, promise.

#5. San Diego, CA: half marathon, half vacation

...and a WHOLE lot of fun! This trip truly solidified my love affair with this Cali-city.  Normally as I pack my bags last minute on Saturday mornings, I prepare and get excited for the race; this time, my excitement resided in my memories of the Gaslamp District from Spring 2009.  Flip flops, bathing suit...oh, and I guess running clothes...packed, the 4 hour flight for my 3-day vaca seemed never-ending.

I landed in my favorite city on a day that resembled a postcard that reads "Wish you were here".  70 and sunny welcomed me and I was on my way to wait in the unnecessarily long line at the car rental place... I guess that's what I get for reserving at "Dollar Rental". Lucky for me, there was a family with 6 adorable, little blond girls that resembled the Olsen Twins (pre- eating disorder phase) in line right behind me. I recall one named Summer and another Savannah and I just kept praying they weren't following in the Duggar Family's 19 Kids and Counting footsteps. Poor children.  Anyways, I finally made it to the counter to pick up my "economy car" I had put on reserve. I couldn't wait to see the rims on the 4 wheels of my: Chevy Aveo.

The one good thing about my little Aveo was that it did suit my need to sit dangerously close to the steering wheel.  Anyone who's ever driven with me can attest to the fact that if I ever get into an accident, I'm sooo totally dunzo, like Kristin Cavallari's car (see: Laguna Beach, season 1) due to the fact that I find it illogically necessary to sit about 6 inches from the wheel. It's the perfect car for little people. And I don't mean midgets, I mean just small, compact people. But other than that, it sucks. And I don't know how anyone drives Smart cars, because cars that small just make me feel stupid. Har har har.  This was by far the smallest car I had been in since cruising the burbs in Caitlin's Prius, which we nicknamed the "Sex Kitten" in high school (for no logical reason, of course.) But, the Aveo would serve me well for my 3-day getaway to Cali and off to the expo I putted.

Check out my rims for the weekend

Welcome to Paradise

OCEAN 

I could get used to this

Awkwarding at the expo

The Expo for this Rock 'N Roll Marathon was the largest by far this year. Sponsored by Brooks, I was in merchandise paradise. I dicked around there for a while, enjoyed the city and met up with my girl Madelaine Hahn, who I hadn't seen since I pomp & circumstanced in black & gold a year ago.  Madelaine was hilarious navigating through the expo- like a little lost pup. At this point, I feel a bit like an "expo pro" (which really is nothing of which to be proud) and knew where all the hot spots were- aka the vendors with free food and shit.

Post expo, I miraculously found my midget car wanna-be in the lot and cruised to my hosts in Solana Beach. Solana Beach is about 20 minutes north of San Diego. But really, it's just 20 minutes of unbelievable views.  After finding a radio station that wasn't in spanish (which was relatively challenging to do, but an imperative task, seeing that the extent of my espagnol includes only 'mas cervesas' and 'donde esta el bano?'), my windows were rolled down, with music blasting and I was dreaming Californication.

I pulled up to Maureen and Richie's beach abode and made my way to the music festival to meet up with them...and by meet up with, I mean, meet the people I'd be living with for the long weekend for the first time.  Yes, that's correct, I had never meet my hosts before.  So how did I end up staying with them?  Well, it just so happens Bob went to grade school with Maureen and when my stupidity surfaced again postponing my hotel booking, Bob connected with his long lost friend.  Alas, Maureen being the awesome human being she is (which will be explained further in the post) opened her home to me no questions asked. So back to Solana Beach: As a tourist, I had no idea where I was walking to, but luckily music is loud and much like a dog following a smell, I trailed the sound (I can't imagine how Helen Keller ever got around.)

Meet my hosts: Maureen and Richie. They were AWESOME; quite possibly two of the coolest people I've ever met- and I'd consider myself fairly well-versed in 'coolness' (when you extract the two years I wore a fanny pack and sold books door-to-door, of course.)  Maureen was so welcoming and excited to see me- as if I was one of her own kin.  We enjoyed the music festival which was about 200 feet from the ocean, surrounded by farmer's market-like vendors, a beer garden and local bands. Maureen was a dancing machine posting up front and center stage and with Richie sporting a Napolean Dynamite tee, I knew I'd get along with them just superbly.

My AWESOME hosts for the weekend!

Around 7:30 we went to dinner at this adorable little restaurant. When Maureen and Richie asked what I was craving, I explained to them that before races, my only prerequisite on restaurants are as long as they serve pasta with red sauce. I enjoyed talking about my job with them, followed by a hilarious conversation with Maureen and Richie that could easily be generalized as "all guys are nice until they aren't." This conversation solidified that yes, my ex is still in fact a giant douche bag. Speaking of guys...every male specie I saw in San Diego was beautiful. (okay, maybe not the unshowered, dreadlock men) So were their calves. I think the San Diego sun perfectly sculpted every dude's calf and roasted it into complete solid muscle.  (Is that weird?...Okay, yeah it is, whatever.)

I ended up being the party pooper, as George Banks would coin, on Saturday night. While Maureen wanted to continue getting her groove on at the festival, my 3:30 wake-up call haunted me like Jaws, so I called it a night. Yes, I forgot to mention that when registering for this race, I failed to realize the 6:15AM start time. I also failed to realize that if driving, you had to park at the airport authority lot to be shuttled to the course and had to arrive at the lot between 4-5:30AM. So a few short hours later, my alarm sounded and I was on the road by 4AM.

The Aveo and I cruised smoothly along I-5 for 15 minutes until the Washington exit neared. The Washington exit was the exit that all 33,000 runners in their respective cars were all trying to funnel toward. At once. Come 4:45, I was still stopped in the standstill traffic. It was when I started seeing the runners abandon their drivers and cars and walk along the highway to get to the exit that I knew I needed to pull a Fievel Goes West and go on a little adventure. Moving 10 feet further, the car in front of me took a small exit so, in a monkey-see, monkey-do fashion, I followed.  As I took the turn, I read a sign labeled "No race parking access". Perfect. Genius. I continued to follow the car ahead seeing that I was clueless and in bufu. We ended up U-turning in a Marine Corps base, so with a quick salute, I drove right back outta there seeing that 'Merica wasn't my number one priority at that moment. A few side streets later, we arrived at the destination lot. The sign clearly lied like a rude teenager and I wish I could've high-fived the local in front of me who paved the way.

A short shuttle ride later, I arrived at the course around 5:30, with plenty of time to spare. I did my port-a-potty thang and made my way to gear check. This was the first race this year that I didn't have anyone to hold my goods while I raced.  From there, I found my corral- #6 of 42 at the start line. 42 corrals. 33,000+ racers. Holy balls. The San Diego sun was already above head when the gun went off. As I neared the start, the announcer mentioned that Alli and Roberto from last season's The Bachelorette were at the start line to cheer us on. I anxiously looked around to see my D-class celebs and realized that moment encompassed two components that take up the majority of my free time: running & trashy reality TV. I didn't see the prime time lovebirds, but I'm sure they were cheering for me as hard as I cheered for Alli to pick Chris L instead of Roberto.

I was trotting along again, for this race #5. I wasn't entirely mentally "in it"...and I really didn't care.  I had enjoyed the minimal stress my Cleveland race caused me and thus decided to just enjoy this one as well.  In fact, my dedication to this race really lacked. This could be exemplified in the 5 inch wedges I sported the day before the race for 8 hours and my training that has plateaued. (Minus the speedy 15 miler I did the Sunday before in a torrential downpour that resembled a wet dog version of Baywatch).  However, my heart has been feeling much better and I haven't collapsed anytime recently so all systems were a "go".  So yes, I know I should be pushing myself harder to get a faster time, but I still have 8 more races and I'd rather just enjoy this journey. Along the course, I witnessed some unusually interesting things.  The first and weirdest had to be the caveman running. (Apparently running is so easy, a caveman can do it! ...I'll cool it with the jokes). But seriously, this guy was a pre-historic man, completely naked with only a canvas butt-flap. His thick, black hair was longer than mine and untied; he wore no shoes and instead had his time chip looped around a twine anklet. He received more praise than a prize poodle from other runners. I may have given him a thumbs up if his white, hairy man thigh hadn't starred at me. Man thighs gross me out so much. If I was Jane, I would've most def. not been interested in this modern day Tarzan.  The next interesting thing I saw was a group of Elvis look-alikes.  Now, every race seems to have at least one of these Graceland wannabes, but this was an entire group and I just so happened to see them as we passed one of the rock band mile markers singing "Jailhouse Rock".

Most of the race took place on highway roads, which is def. not my fav.  However, Highway 163 (I think that's what it's called) was beautifully decorated with greens and florals as I trotted along.  If there was any question whether my ass exists or not, I can assure you it does because mine burned as I took the ramps and hills with great fervor. The course even veered toward the nationally noticed San Diego Zoo.  I knew this because 1. the course description told me so and 2. because at one point, the aroma of the breeze made me look around to see if I was running through the monkey house. Yes, it smelled like Rafiki's ass. Highways and ramps, sceneries and shops, I finished the course 1:49:31 later.  At approximately 1:49:33, I blew chunks everywhere again.  This time I believe it was due to being a little water-logged, as I could hear the liquid swishing in my belly like the oceanic waves not far from me.  (I drank more water during this race, preparing for the heat...although, it really wasn't too roasty.)  Slower than normal, I wasn't thrilled...but I wasn't disappointed. I was content and happy that I enjoyed the California course.  I met some rando runners and made temporary friends and called Bob & Mary E to let them know I made it out alive and wasn't currently laying in the hospital.

Music Festival

Race #5 complete! 

Finish Line

Making random runner friends 

Beach time

Wild Child

The perfect way to end my weekend: Nathan's hot dog & TCBY

After the race, I made my way back to my pad for the weekend. The following hour involved me sun-bathing in the hot tub, in low 60 degree weather at 10:30 in the morning. Complete bliss. My leggies felt much better with the jets loosening up my tired muscles. A shower and nap later, Maureen, Richie, his nephew and brother headed back to the music festival to rock out to Wild Child (The Doors minus Jim. RIP Mr. Morrison).  We enjoyed the jams as my shoulders sizzled like bacon in the sun.  Maureen and I walked to the ocean and strolled through the vendors. This part of the day included having a guy ask me if I just graduated high school. Hmmph. Some day I'll grow into my Chicklet teeth and get Shakira-like hips, ahhh someday; and while I'd like to blame the guy for being a moron, he was only off by about 5 years and many times I see preteens and say "oh wow, look at that cute 7 year old"- I suck at guessing age. So I guess I'll cut the dude some slack (I was more offended he insinuated I had the rack of an 18 year old.)

The rest of the weekend included sushi dining, touring Maureen's garden that flourished just about every vegetable imaginable, relaxing and reading by the pool.  The time came to bid adieu to my favorite hosts and return my beloved Aveo to catch my flight home on Monday afternoon.  I ended the weekend with a Nathan's hot dog and TCBY in true fatass form at the airport. Though I didn't want to leave, I know I'll be back to San Diego.  I could honestly see myself living there, as long as it's not mandatory to get some sort of plastic surgery after the age of 40 (which I got the vibe it is against the law to have saggy, pale skin there).  San Diego just won't know what hit it when I return in my glowing Irish skin and real buttox assets.

With race 5 down, I'm currently scrambling to plan my July race.  I did some race rearranging to make sure I could make it to Mizzou's 100th Homecoming in October, which made me change my October race to Denver, which made me cancel Colorado Springs for July. Which makes me raceless...which is almost as bad as being pantless. So I'll be sure to post before my July race to let you know where I'll be headed.

Signing off to figure out my race for July...which is next week. Shiiiiiit. Byeeeee.

Race #4. Cleveland, OH: Cleveland rocks...and rains.

...Seriously. Bob and I didn't see the sun the entire time we were in the state of Ohio. Did I mention that Bob was tagging along for this race as well?  I don't think I did, but I think I have mentioned that my parents are awesome on numerous occasions so you could easily have assumed one was joining me.


Bob and I hit the road by 6:30 AM on Saturday, May 14th. Lucky for me, Bob cruised as I snoozed. It was pretty much like I had a personal chauffeur the entire weekend, except Bob lacked a goofy suit (well, the suit part at least...his wardrobe is fairly questionable) and my backseat lacked swanky leather seats and free booze. About six hours later and one time zone eastward, we rolled up to Cleveland and were greeted with clouds hovering near ground level.  The clouds and fog were so intense that tops of buildings disappeared into the gray abyss as my windshield wipers threw punches at the rain.  We headed straight to the Expo, which was actually held in a suburb of Cleveland, due to road construction. The building in which the expo was held was...interesting, reminding me of an indoor petting zoo from the outside. Luckily, no donkeys were inside and the facility was surprisingly decent.  We followed the signs because half of the expo center was being used for a "Gem and Jewel show". I didn't know those existed. But what I do know is that most girls may consider diamonds their best friend, but I consider my running shoes that so I opted for the marathon expo and ditched the bedazzled 14K gold.


Picking up my race packet and bib was the same as always. Except this goody bag of running stuff actually had good shit in it, compared to most. To be honest, I was relieved to see that I HAD a race bib. You see, the race sold out 6 hours before I got registered thanks to the fine procrastination skills my college degree earned me. But, having my mind set on racing Cleveland and quick wit, I navigated to the race's Facebook page to find that some dude was selling 20 race bibs. Thanks Mark Zuckerberg and race-bib hoarding dude. After a few emails, I learned the bib hoarder dude (let's call him Charlie, for simplicity's sake, seeing that I can't remember his name. And because I like the name Charlie) was selling these bibs on eBay. This process screamed sketchy. But once I learned that "Charlie" bought these bibs for a charity for a little boy with Leukemia, I realized that getting a race bib in a dark alley was sketchy. This was not. And I felt like a pretty good Samaritan. So $85, a few emails and one fax later, I was registered and happily greeted with my race number, 4 safety pins and bubble gum pink race shirt.


This being the 4th race expo I've attended in 4 months, they start to look the same. But every time I seem to make a purchase. I think it's a mixture of retail addiction and running obsession. Very healthy. Bob made the purchase and this time it was a "shoe pocket". First of all, for those of you who have gone from creepy people not knowing me to dedicated fans with some "Jenna Dunkle" knowledge (that's not a real Jeopardy category, I made it up), you should know that I LOVE pockets (almost as much as I love hot dogs). They're seriously awesome. And so underrated. So a shoe pocket is totally right up my alley, seeing that my spandex lack my favorite "accessory". It's essentially a little pouch that Velcros within your shoelaces to hold your ID and house key. Why on earth would someone need one of these you ask? Well, seeing that I'm moving to my swanky Lincoln Park pad above La Bamba ("Burritos as Big as your Head!") July 1st, I'll need a place to keep my key as I run, since leaving your door unlocked in Chicago is "unadvised".  Mainly though, Bob liked that it could hold my ID in case my ticker ever stops working and I pass out on a long run (since that seems to be becoming a somewhat regular habit for me). So rather than sporting the Jane Doe look if I ever pass out, my shoe pocket will let them know that I'm Jenna Dunkle and I still have a Missouri ID. whoops. 


Post-expo, Bob and I headed to the the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It's a really cool structure and has a ton of ridiculous paraphernalia, ranging from purple velour suits worn by Elton John to Billy Joel's handwritten lyrics of "We didn't start the fire". Bob drooled over the decades of music as I walked around like an idiot saying, who's The Who? (KIDDING. I know who The Who are. And I also enjoy good music, regardless of the fact that I have a guilty pleasure for Akon. Stop judging me, at least it's not Miley Cyrus.)  The museum was a perfect pass-time as the rain continued to dance upon the streets of Cleveland outside.


Hotel check-in? Check. And then it was dinnertime.  My normal choice for a pre-race meal is pasta with red sauce, as any experienced runner would agree.  Bob and I opted to avoid Mother Nature's continual frown of a downpour outside and headed to the hotel's restaurant...a.k.a. the only restaurant I've ever been to without a single pasta dish. (Waffle House doesn't count as a restaurant).  So salmon it was.  I was okay with this irregular choice as Cleveland was a "take it easy" race, if you recall from my last post.  So although my normal precarbo-load was put to standstill with the limited menu, it didn't irk me too much. And the salmon was scrump-dilly-a-dumptious. 


4:45AM came too soon. Mainly because my body thought it was 3:45 with the time-zone going all Criss Angel on me. By 5:30, we were strategically parked in downtown Cleveland on a street that would allow us to escape the racecourse without pancaking runners post-race. Some genius decided to have ALL parking garages closed so this was our only option.  The race was EXTREMELY well organized. While most races spend a pretty penny on port-a-potties (ahhh, alliteration, my fave), this race started and finished at the Browns football stadium. Thus, providing substantial shelter from the misty skies and giving access to an uncountable number of bathrooms--every runner's dream pre-race. With an hour of stretching time, Bob commented on how many fat people were running. Cool dad, fat people have dreams too, ya know. And I think they'd prefer being called "big boned". This lead him to ask if I think he's capable of running the Chicago half with my sister and me in September. I thought he was kidding. He wasn't...but we agreed it would probably be better to start small with a 5K...go daddy, go :)!

Don't mind my outfit.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame...and rain.

In front of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

Bob's turn!

Pre-race

Dad found me in the pack pre-race

Just doing my thanggg 

FINISHED! Race #4 complete: 1:46:45!

It was finally race time and Bob and I parted ways. His last words to me were, "No need to rush this one". Very motivational before a RACE...thanks dad. However, I knew it was the caring dad in him worried that I my heart would beat with pain and I would push myself too hard. I nestled myself in the pack, further back than normal, planning to take this run slowly. I had come to terms that I would walk this one if I had to...and I was oddly okay with it.  The race began and we took off to the tunes of Drew Carey chanting "Cleveland Rocks!"  My pace felt like a jog.  I was going much slower than usual, as I was trying to be "smart" and cautious of my health. At the mile, I glanced at my watch to see a slow 9:28 pace.  I didn't care. My head bobbed to my playlist and I literally, dilly-dallied as the rain served as a refreshing shower. I had so much fun just dicking around, people-watching. I was running, but I wasn't focused on it.  I was enjoying the pitter-patters of feet around me as I took it easy. The course was a decent amount of highway road, which normally I dislike. But I really liked running through Cleveland. It's an extremely industrial city, giving it character. At one point, we trotted (and by we, I mean, I  trotted and my fellow runners, ran) through a historic area that had flags of all different countries painted on the cement cylinders holding up the viaduct under which we ran.  The supporters were unlike any other as Cleveland burst with camaraderie. Even the smallest of streets were paved with people cheering, or someone pulled to the side in their car blasting their radio for entertainment.  My favorite supporter had to be the lady on the sidelines with a massive sign above her head with arrows pointing down toward her that read, "MEN: single AND supportive". I like her style. Sorry, eHarmony, that lady won't be needing your services.


Before I knew it, the stadium was in sight. My pace had increased but I hadn't noticed.  My feet continued to rise and fall against the slick pavement.  A man in a flesh-colored body suit sped past me.  Half of this body suit had the muscular system painted and the other half sported the skeletal system. He was wearing frog feet and I couldn't believe a weirdo like that was actually going to beat me. The finish line honestly snuck up on me- I wasn't expecting it.  So one final surge of energy and I was done.  Time check? 1:46:45! I'M BACK IN THE GAME- was my first thought. After a disaster of a race in St. Louis and weeks of disappointing training and numerous doctor visits, my time didn't suffer.  I ended up running only slightly slower than my Atlanta race, clocking an 8:08 pace. I was ECSTATIC.  As I swam through the crowds in search of Bob, I caught him out of the corner of my eye. And I'm pretty sure what I saw in his eyes, were tiny tears. He was expecting me to finish well over two hours, as I had told him I might have to walk part of the race depending on how my heart felt, so my early arrival was a surprise and a relief, all in one for him. While excitement raced through my body, I knew that the glisten in his eye was a sigh of "Thank God, you're okay". Needless to say, he was proud. Chilled from the rain and my drying sweat, Bob and I headed to the car as I told him all about the race.


As a quick advertisement, I would HIGHLY recommend the Rite Aid Cleveland marathon and Half marathon for any runner or one-time marathoner warrior.  As I said before, the race was extremely well organized; and the course was flat as an 11 year old's chest. It was an easy and fast course.  Most importantly in my books (I never understood that figure of speech, because I don't just have "books" but whatevs), the people there were so nice and supportive.  Bob agreed that he really enjoyed this race, even having had to stand in drizzle for nearly two hours. 


Testimonials aside, Cleveland was a good race for me.  Not because of my time, because let's face it, it still isn't my personal record. Instead, it was a sign of hope.  In a race that I thought would be a huge disappointment, I finished strong.  As I continue to chase this goal of running 13 half marathons in 13 months, I am learning that there are days after work that I dread training; there are days that my body is sore; there are Saturday nights that I'd rather enjoy 8 beers than run 15 miles the next day; there are times that I wonder "why the hell am I doing this?" But as long as I keep faith and know that I am doing this to accomplish a once-in-a-lifetime goal; that I will come out so much stronger; that I am practicing discipline and dedication on a daily basis...I will finish this journey proudly, regardless of what the clock reads after each race. Cleveland reminded me of this and has prepared me to enjoy and take on San Diego this upcoming weekend. 


I'll admit that I'm more excited just to visit San Diego and see my long, lost Mizzou and P90X buddy, Madelaine Hahn than I am to race.  I've been there once and I knew I would return, so San Diego will be home to race #5.  


If I don't come home, don't come looking; it probably means that I found a rich, handsome runner man in one of my (and Ron Burgundy's) favorite cities and I'm totally okay with that. Ta-ta. 

#3. St. Louis, MO: 1 race, 2 race, 3 race...FLOOR.

Or maybe it's 1 tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila...floor? Yeah, that's it. But this witty saying regarding my beverage of choice seemed very applicable to race #3 in STL.

Let me back up. Hi. Sorry it's been over a month.  If I had the same dedication to blogging as I did to running, this wouldn't be an issue. However, if I had that same dedication, you also would probably be really sick of hearing from me. 

Race #3 in STL was way back in the day, before sweet baby Jesus rose again, on April 10th. And many events ensued that weekend. For the first time during this adventure, I was traveling solo. Lady Slipper (my loyal set of wheels, in case you've forgotten) hit the road Thursday after work. 4.5 hours later and the shortest trip yet, I was in serious canoodle sesh mode with my bestie Daytona, my hostess for the weekend. Daytona and I hadn't seen each other since what I coin as the worst night of my 2010 year, 4 months prior. Not only had we not seen each other, but after her December graduation, she skipped town across the pond to see and do things much more exciting than running 40 miles on a weekly basis. I mean, I've never been to Thailand, but I'm going to assume it's a little cooler than the Illinois Prairie Path. Just a guess. So to keep this post as short as possible...which you should know by now, really won't be anything Danny DeVito style, I'll summarize: Daytona and I canoodled; the notorious "ex" and I communicated cordially for the first time in 4 months (woooof); I claimed my tennis ball of a race shirt at the expo; I played sober sally Friday night and people watched entertaining, drunk fools; and I played Martha Stewart in the kitchen whipping up a little pasta party meal Saturday night.

I'll remind you that this race I had some company! My avid blog follower, Shaina Chechang opted to not race but she did in fact road-trip from Iowa to support myself and a few of my fav. book gals Laura Jones (who I like to call LL Cool J) and DeAnna, who were also running- this being their first half marathon! So Saturday night, we carbo-loaded, stretched, inspired, laughed and went to bed a little later than we probably should have. Who says slumber parties are only for 13 year olds?

Here came the 5:30AM alarm, a once-a-month routine. Well, at least for me. Daytona managed to lay in bed until the very last minute and still not be the last one out the door. I did my morning thang of hydrating, clif bar munching and stretching. With all three race bibs pinned to our shirts, LL Cool J, DeAnna and I were starting a new fashion in Daytona's apartment building.  Daytona dropped us off at the race with plenty of time to spare after agreeing upon mile 6 as the cheer spot at which her and Shaina would post up. 

Brook's Bus at the Expo

STL Arch at 6 AM

Mile 6...SWASS (woof.)

Struggling to finish... Clearly

...and FAINT. 

Daytona: muh main girl supporting me!

SO proud of LL Cool J & DeAnna for running their first half!

I strategically placed myself between the pace groups of 1:40 and 1:45 finish times (hoping for my 1:43).  I took off and felt good, running strong within the pack.  Around mile 3, I started feeling a bit "off".  I'm not even quite sure how to describe it; a bit of nausea and light-headedness (yupp, that's not a word. So sue me, Webster) ensued. Mile 4 came and so did the upchuck. The nausea took over and I knew it was coming, so I veered to the sidewalk of the course and the second I stopped to catch my breath, the insides of my stomach were splattered on the pavement. (Sorry, to go all Quentin Tarantino on you). I still cannot figure out why I felt/got sick to my stomach as the pasta dinner the night prior and my energy bar that morning were routine habits. I still think the charming ex poisoned my red sauce. 

From that point on, my physical strength was gone...which dwindled my mental strength. I felt weak, light-headed and my chest hurt with pings of pain. The heat continued to rise and so did my pace. My once "I feel happy, healthy and terrific" mentality turning into "Just get through this race." The worst part about it was that I KNEW I was mentally defeated, and didn't do anything to change that. Mile 6 graced Daytona and Shaina's cheers and warning that ex was ahead of me at this point. But to be entirely honest, at this point I didn't care. I just wanted to finish. The rest of the race was a blur of exhaustion, captioned with chants of "Keep running for beer" from the sidelines. Wearing a shirt that says "will run for beer" inevitably asks for this but seeing that I felt on the verge of unconsciousness, the only thing I wanted at this point relating to beer was my couch that I park it on while hungover. 

The finish line was finally in sight.  The digital, red numbers on the clock ticked with disappointment as I neared the inflatable archway of finishing. Not more than 200 feet from the line, my legs collapsed and I hit the ground. I was completely depleted of all energy. Dizzy and light-headed, I picked myself up and got across the line.

The next thing I saw were medics hovering over me in a tent. An IV was in my arm and those electrode things served as third, fourth and fifth nipples (ew that's a gross word) on my chest beneath my sports bras.  I had collapsed right past the finish line and been carried by some unfortunate, good-hearted people to the local med tent. It was like Nashville 2010 all over again... except this time, I finished and this time it wasn't a hospital. Of course this was the one time I didn't fill out my emergency contact information on the back of my race bib. (I was never good at remembering permission slips for field trips in my K-5 years either. ) Anyways, I lay there annoyed, knowing my time wasn't what I wanted. But hey, at least I wasn't the girl next to me; she passed out before she even started the race. I'm still not exactly sure what she was doing in the tent 2 hours later, but I guess it did seem like a pretty sweet hangout...if you're into gauze and shit. 

Luckily, Daytona and Shaina saw my timberrrr of a fall and made their way to the med tent. But apparently, the tent had some pretty stiff bouncers because they had to wait outside. How discriminating. Daytona later informed me that she nearly punched a fellow spectator in the face as she tried to barge through people when she saw me collapse...ahhh, true friendship right there.

I made sure I got my medal and collected my goodie bag of free food. I didn't even use my ticket for my free beer, so you KNOW I wasn't feeling too hot. Bummed with my time and the fact that yes, the notorious ex did beat me, my dampered mood didn't last long. After all, I finished, having done the best I could do with what I had, where I was; I had awesome support from Daytona, Shaina and virtual text message cheers from afar friends; and LL Cool J and DeAnna killed their first half marathon.

My official time was 1:57:02. I don't write that proudly, but I also can't say I'm ashamed. It was a matter of elements, rather than excuses and for that, I cannot be upset.  So 3 races down, 10 more to go!

#4 is actually coming up this weekend in Cleveland. (Yes, I pulled a switcheroo and nixed the LaCrosse, Wisco race).  I needed a little more time to physically (and mentally) prepare post STL collapse. Docta's orders haven't been too promising as it involves no running for the time being. Anemia and my whacky thyroid disease is taking a toll on my body so my runs have been...pathetic/nonexistent. Until I get both those things in control the next 2-4 or so weeks (the time the doc said it'll take), I'm taking it easy. A heart ultrasound is also in order soon to make sure my main gurl is pitter-pattering as she should (yupp, def. just feminized an organ). My normal stubborn self wouldn't listen and do my own thang, but seeing that my body continually gives me the middle finger every time I throw on my Brooks, I'm actually listening. Kinda. So Cleveland is going to be one of those "just get through it races". Yes it might involve some jogging/yogging and dare I say it, WALKING. But right now that's all my body can handle. So we'll see how this one goes. And I promise to blog in a timely fashion post-Cleveland. 

I also promised I'd try to keep this short. Welp, PSYCH.  Let's just hope Drew Carey was right and Cleveland does in fact, rock. Til next time, homies.