Less than three months from today, I will [hopefully] be able to say I’ve tackled my first 20-mile trail race. Seven weeks into my training schedule, I thought it would be a good time to kick the tires, check the gauges – share an unfortunate update – and start offering some behind-the-scenes intel for those wishing to place their bets on the main event.
Body scan
Honestly, I feel pretty good. Well, we’ll call it 75 percent good. I’m a few weeks post January Whole30 detox and the ole bod is fairly happy for the time being. Although you and I both know it’s the honeymoon phase. The trick is to keep my sugar dragon in the dungeon so that ugly inflammation doesn’t rear its ugly head. This has always proven to be a fool’s errand for me. I blacked out during the Super Bowl halftime show after eating a healthy assortment of Girl Scout cookies and when I came to Adam Levine’s nips were jumping out at me. Other people saw that, right?
For me, food is something that demands a lot of intention setting. Each day, I have to wake up, reset and resolve to be an active decision-maker. I have to choose to put some collagen in my coffee and let a little fast do some magic until at least midmorning. I have to choose a kale salad for lunch instead of a fried chicken wrap from the cafeteria. I have to choose not to eat chocolate at my desk. I have to choose to have one, not three, muffins at dinner. I have to choose to let fruit be enough of a dessert and stay out of the cookies. For some people, the impulse to make the unhealthy choice is a whisper. For other people, like myself, it is a constant roar, screaming and hollering and jumping up and down inside my head.
Typically, I can find balance. If my stomach is rumbling, my mind can consult MyFitnessPal and come up with a reasonable resolution. If my mind fixates on a mirage of brownies or burgers, I can check in with my stomach and assess the degree of true hunger, often, but not always, talking myself down off the sticky, sugary ledge. But it’s the days I log more than a handful of miles that really throw me. On those occasions, my mind and body are both in cahoots, telling me that I burned an abundance of extra calories so I can have allllll of the things. I can fill up a thousand-calorie deficit in one sitting. Just hand me a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, some ice cream and a bag of chips and then get the hell out of the way.
The elements + the miles
The biggest struggle has been the weather. The good Lord gave me one Saturday in early January that was like 50 degrees and sunny. The entire city was crammed onto one four-foot-wide path, riding and running and strolling with smiling pups. But other than that, it’s been all snow storms and wicked wind chills over here, which has left me predominantly confined to the hamster wheel in the basement.
I am not a treadmill gal. It all feels a little too human lab experiment to me. But to conquer six miles at week four, I had to put on my big girl pants and the Taylor Swift concert on Netflix (I made a promise to a friend that I would give her an honest shot at winning me over) and just crank it out. A week later, I called upon Justin Timberlake live in Vegas to get me through seven. He got it done, and so did the Tennessee Kids, and so did I.
Side note, can we real talk for a second … Am I the only person who finds it unbearably tempting to take multiple mini breaks on the treadmill? It’s just way too easy to put your feet on the side rails for a few pants and let some .10s tick by while you grab a drink. I rarely hear that evil little voice when I jog outside. I guess because I know that if I’m not moving, the distance between me and my house isn’t either. But on the treadmill, that rubber mat’s churnin’ and burnin’ with or without my tired legs on top of it.
Besides, nothing magical happens on a treadmill. Nothing. For example, this past weekend I had to tick off 9 miles, and I just knew there was no way I could do it inside. They were predicting mid-20s and no wind, so I decided to get up at 7:30, layer up and get out there to snake along my suburban training course. Around mile 4, my right hip started to hurt. This is common for me. But then, as the sun began to crest over the rows of houses, I could see the lightest dusting of snow flurries falling from the sky. The flakes sparkled out in front of me, and I pictured a group of angels dumping salt shakers filled with glitter over my head. It was magical. Euphoric. Because when you get outside and put yourself under the heavens like that, a little bit of wonder is bound to fall upon you at some point. That’s not happening on a treadmill in your basement.
Anywho, we’re gettin’ it done over here. About halfway through and staring down the barrel of some big daddy training runs, it’s all been pretty uneventful all things considered. Well, that was, until a few weeks ago…
Social status
You might remember, I signed up for this race with my big brother, Matt. Well, around week 5 of training, his knee started to bother him. I meet him sometimes on Monday mornings to lift weights, and when he walked in that particular week, I knew something was off. My man-child of a sibling joined an adult basketball league, which plays on Sundays. After he knocked out his long run the day before, he’d gone to play with the other men-children and his knee started locking up on him. I looked down. His knee was swollen from cap to near mid-calf. He sat down at one machine (mind you, it was leg day in our weight rotation) and extended his legs out in front of him, pressing the pounds he’d loaded on. That was about all his joint was willing to give his pride that day. A handful of reps and a stern, painful warning shot.
The verdict is in. Homeboy has a torn ACL and unfortunate meniscus situation. He’s assessing the options and still plans to show up in April, but we’ll see what the weeks ahead have in store.
The morning after he told me the diagnosis, arching down from the heavens in vibrant, cascading strokes, I saw a double rainbow. If I were looking for a meaning in the natural phenomenon, I might attribute it to the two gals in my life who, in the wake of the news, decided to strap on their sports bras and join me in the woods at the end of April for this ambitious adventure. That’s if I were into symbolism and fairy tales. And I’m far too old, and it’s far too sappy, to equate these courageous choices with such unrealistic ideas. But the rainbows were there. In February. I saw them. I’m just saying.