How do you define a runner?

Is it their gear? Their 10K time? Is it judged by the furthest distance run, or the number of races completed? Or, can only the ones who flirt with being addicted be considered a true runner? You know – those who love it, have a compiled list of personal records and talk about running 24/7? What about the folks who grudgingly do it because they “should”?

I’ve always “run.” I used to race my brothers down to the mailbox during the summers, because it was the only thing we had to do all day. I used to “run” away from home when my parents ticked me off as a kid. Then I’d “run” home when it got dark out. In more recent times, I’ve become very good at “running” away from making decisions and discussing politics.

In all seriousness, I bought a personal trainer in the form of a German Shepherd/ Rottweiler mix and decided to train for my first marathon. But even though the Fargo Marathon less than a week away, I still don’t feel like a runner. As I rub my sore knees, pick at my blisters and evaluate my black toes from running over 380 miles in the last 16 weeks, it has been really hard to determine whether I’m getting stronger or just falling apart. And honestly, even though I have my eyes set on 26.2, the ultimate event for a runner, I feel like calling myself a runner is a bit of a scam.

I guess I view “runners” as smooth operating, well-lubricated machines with a fast pace and a stride to my three. I feel more like a rusty old tanker set at sea for no particular reason.

Case in point: My loving boyfriend witnessed a heart wrenching sob-fest following my first 20-mile run. I had hoped to finish 20 miles in 3 hours that day – a pace that would have been just short of a miracle for me. I pushed through the door to my home and pulled myself – with my arms – to the top of the stairs. Utterly exhausted and altogether disappointed with my performance, I collapsed, covered my face and started crying.

It wasn’t exactly a “shining moment.”

And there stood the guy who has helped motivate and encourage me in my trek. Dumbfounded, he listened as I shook my head tried to convince him I couldn’t do it.

It was a rough week. But looking back, that feeling of doubt was reoccurring. Week after week, starting at 14 miles, I’d complete the run, and honestly, whole-heartedly believe that if I had to run another mile I would not have been able. But the next week, I would.

Now almost all that doubt is behind me. Let me say, I never thought I could look at a route for a marathon and say, “eh, I can do that,” when in previous years just looking at it made me dizzy. Now, as I nervously wait for race day, I’m so excited it’s intoxicating.

I have a few thoughts on training for my first marathon, which I, God willing, will finish on May 18. Hopefully readers will either find them funny, inspirational or completely nuts.

1.) People have asked whether I’ll do more than one, to which, in the initial weeks of training, my response was “no way, doing it once, crossing it off the bucket list and that’ll be it.”

Truth be told, a lot of people have really good reasons for running a marathon. Like therapy, or a true love of the sport. Maybe weight loss or getting over some hump in their lives. I had no reason other than to prove to myself I could do it. But after I got going, it was a free pass to eat whatever I wanted. Then I realized that provided I finish, I will have one-up’d both of my brothers. In other words, I’ll be making history.

People say marathons are addicting, and I can definitely see why. Continually pushing yourself to the limit is an awesome feeling. That being said, I plan to cross “run a marathon” off my bucket list, add it to my repertoire and try to limit my bragging. Time will tell if I run another.

2.) I’ve tallied the miles I will have run by the time the marathon is completed. When/if I cross the finish line, I’ll have run 414.2 miles.  This means I’m currently 92% done with the whole fiasco and, interestingly enough, the actual marathon is a whopping 6.3% of the process. That’s kind of incredible, isn’t it? Also, I did this same calculation in week 10 and was not happy with the numbers at all, felt 95% hopeless and 100% wanted to quit.

3.) As you could imagine, Saturday mornings after the marathon will feel like Sunday afternoons after a Super Bowl. Elite runners wouldn’t understand, but the time put forth to this is incredible. In the 3^rd hour of one of my runs, I imagined spending this much time on triathlon training. Or even to something like piano lessons, sewing, or photography. This much dedication to one thing would do a lot for anyone.

 4.) It’s really hard not to sound like you’re bragging. And, whether or not you try, talking about running is extremely hard to keep to a minimum. I’ll admit, when I’ve been out and about the hours following a long run, I want to tell complete strangers what I did that day. I’ve been tempted to share details of a long run with a server at a restaurant, a barista, a gas station attendant, even innocent bystanders on the sidewalk.

“Hey blue shirt guy! I RAN 18 MILES TODAY!!!! What have YOU done??”

Would that have been totally inappropriate?

This journey has been amazing. People aren’t wrong when they say a running a marathon is a fine line between a mental game and an athletic achievement. I’ll never forget the routes I’ve taken, the cold mornings I somehow got the strength to run the route, the things I’ve seen along the way and the way I amazed myself every week. I would encourage anyone to start running for whatever reason they can find.

Best of luck to runners this Saturday – whether or not you feel like one.

Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.

I hate winter. Really I do. And I’m not the only one who hates it. Face it, winter can be a huge inconvenience. It’s like a giant corn cob stuck up your rear. Super uncomfortable, hard, and a total pain in the butt.  And, when you think it’s about to wither away, it gets nudged up just a tish further. A royal, lingering pain. And any Northerner who doesn’t agree is either a snowbird, or totally nuts.

Great attitude, huh? Welcome to North Da-Cold-ah.

Each year I try to be positive about it…. “Maybe this year won’t be so bad,” I think, and, actually every few years, it isn’t. For example, last year was a dream come true.  A campfire was comfortably had on my birthday in January.  Without a coat or shoveling, I was able to play 2-on-2 driveway basketball in mid-December. A winter where I ice skated three miles across the lake without having to dodge any snow drifts. I think temps dropped below zero three times. It was perfect.

Sadly, a “winter” like that may never roll around again.

Each winter, I take a trial and error approach, trying something in efforts to lessen the misery .  A few years ago, I got an autostart in my car that’s terrible in the winter. This way, when I got stuck, the car was at least warm.

The year after that, I bought my first pairs of non-kid boots. This made shoveling and digging my car out way less painful than shoveling and digging my car out in tennies.

The next year I found a really big boyfriend who can do amazing things with a grain shovel, like clear my entire sidewalk in the time it takes me to clear one step. The ROI on this one is insurmountable.

Last year, there was no need to medicate. Seeing grass in February was a cure in itself. However, I kept the guy around as a safety mechanism.

Each of my plans to “make it better” have worked to some extent, but it’s a new winter, and I’ve decided I need to make an honest effort to find something I actually love about the winter, besides burying  myself under blankets and complaining.

SIDENOTE: I do love downhill skiing, but considering the landfill is the only piece of land in within a hundred miles that remotely resembles a slope, it’s kind of out of the question unless a lot of traveling is involved. And, not to sound like a ski-snob, but sometimes I think the landfill might be better worth my time.

So I purchased a few things at garage sales in the off season to make this winter less agonizing. Although I’m really not looking forward to using them (they all require me to go outside in below-freezing weather), I’m trying to keep a good attitude.

First, I bought my first pair of comfortable ice skates for $10. I’ve been borrowing skates, or scrounging up an ancient pair from the basement of my parents’ home, but it generally results in sore or bleeding ankles for the next week. When all is said and done, it’s not that much fun.

I also purchased a new pair of cross country skis for $12 and some odd cents (they were supposed to be $14 but I literally was scraping the ash tray in my car to round up enough change). I’d like to say I’m excited to use them, but it’s basically like running in the snow/cold/ice, only with more crap to haul along with you. Again, just trying to keep a good attitude here… I’ve also considered that these skis may become my main means of transportation given I have about as much control maneuvering my Mazda3 on ice as I would in an inner tube.

Let’s see what you’ve got, winter.

Finally, for the low cost of one dollar, I purchased a one-piece snowsuit. It’s a little snug, somewhat short and definitely old, but I’m (possibly overly) excited to wear it on every occasion where it’s semi appropriate. It’s bound to make people laugh, or at least smile.

I’m just hoping it’s contagious.

Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.

When’s the last time you acted like a kid? I don’t mean allowing a spurt of immaturity get the best of you or clumsily knocking over a cup chocolate milk. Dig a little deeper. When did you last go back in time and try to do something you did frequently in your earlier years? I’m talking rounding up every single blanket in the house and spending an afternoon propping them on the dining room chairs to create a fort in the living room. The ultimate fort – one where the height of the roof is equally important as the secret passwords to enter into Never-Never-Land and gain access to the stash of fruit snacks. I’m talking spending an entire winter morning building the largest snowman you were capable of building, and then crying when it melted that afternoon. I’m talking about believing in Santa, imaginary friends, afternoon naps, and pinkie swearing. Being a kid once again.

I recently got together with my younger brother.  Since he moved out of the basement of my home just three months ago, we’ve seen much less of each other. We both agree its better this way. Truth be told, I miss him a little. Some days. Not every day. And to clarify, I miss him, not living with him.

Anyway, I went over to his home with hopes of creating another one of our famous adventures. I imagined taking our road bikes out for a spin – perhaps swinging by the humane society to check out a St. Bernard that had stolen my heart. We might stop somewhere and have a beer, or purchase a croquet set at a garage sale. You know – a mid-twenties adventure.

Instead, Tom proposed we cruise around some nearby trails on his mountain bikes.

Mountain bikes? Mountain bikes are for off-roading. Hence the “mountain bike” title. AKA: Not my road bike, not my style. However, like any other situation in our lives, his excitement trumped my distaste for an activity, and before I knew it, we were taking off to trail ride.

It was like rewinding 15 years to our childhood when we’d take our “Huffy” and “Murray” bikes to the local parks and cause ruckus.  Generally racing the family dog, we’d bike as fast as possible until reaching our destination – even though we had already been there four times that day.

Telling of the fun we were about to have, he led us to a park with narrow pathways, hills and a forest full of other thrilling things like poison ivy and sudden drop offs into the Red. Pavement, concrete, road signs – non existent.

“You can go whatever direction you want,” he yelled back at me as I desperately tried to keep up. I was in an unfamiliar forest in a part of town I had never been. If I lost him, I’m not sure how we’d reconnect – a small detail he never has seemed to care about. Eventually the hick version of Tony Hawk let me lead

“Watch out for the more narrow paths – there’s probably poison ivy in here,” he warned.

Imagining how productive the following week of work would be if I were to contract an itchy rash, I realized there was no way to avoid the leaves that surrounded the tight paths.

What the heck. I didn’t take time to perform a risk assessment when I was young. Why was I so concerned now? Maybe taking a day off to itch my legs and scratch my tail feathers would be good for me.  Caught in my daydream, I quickly came up on two trees – ironically located about a handlebars’ distance apart. Slamming on my brakes, it became clear that I was a little late on the draw. Letting go of the handlebars, I desperately reached for the trees, as an alternative way of stopping. Unfortunately, this meant my hands came off the brakes, and I nearly dislocated my shoulders. I hung at the top of a hill for a few moments and somehow managed to stay on my bike – which, need I remind you, I didn’t want to ride in the first place. Suddenly a soft bush of poison ivy seemed like a good way to opt out of this regrettable ride.

My brother just chuckled as he watched me struggle, then warned that a steep hill was approaching.  His only cautioning word was “faster!”

So I sped up, hit loose dirt, and completely biffed it. Laying on the ground spitting out dirt, I confirmed that this was not my ideal way of spending time on a Saturday – or any other day for that matter. Not only was I somewhat embarrassed, but I was also frustrated that he expected me continue. My fun factor was not overly heightened, but I pressed on.

Finally, he promised one more “highlight” of the trip and we’d be done.

Oh. Joy.

My hopes were not high was we approached “the best part.”

“Ready?” He said. “Let’s go!” He gracefully glided across a foot-wide suspended plank that straddled a 6-foot deep gorge.  I gracefully slammed on my breaks and came to a stop inches short of it.

“Come on,” he said, looking back.

Yeah. I’m going to trust the kid who has fallen 12 feet out of a tree, nearly sawed his hand off, face planted while doing a BMX bike stunt leading to a bloody face and a bad concussion, and nearly drowned in a pool when he was 2-years-old and still managed to survive.

I don’t have that kind of luck.

Evaluating the dangers, I stared at the plank. I could definitely sprain an ankle or break a leg if I didn’t make it all the way across. However, the likelihood of dying was low.  It could potentially hurt my reproductive organs if I landed really hard on top of my bike, or become paralyzed if I landed on my head.  Taking a different route would just be easier, especially considering nine times out of 10, I would start across, panic and fail. Still, I had an overwhelming urge to prove myself wrong.

Tom began offering to help me across. Ignoring him, I stood in front of the board and contemplated. I try to do one thing every day that scares me, and with daily routines, it isn’t everyday you get that chance.

I began backing up, coaching myself – just don’t panic half way across. I ultimately decided that if I can bike a white line flawlessly for miles on my road bike, I could handle a foot-wide, 8-foot span of danger.

He watched as I passed over the board. I think I shocked myself by making it across. I must admit, it felt pretty good… kinda like being a kid again.

Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.