Paper boy

Recent trends in running fashion have left me worried that we are all slowly losing our identity as runners. (On a completely unrelated note, the recent upsurge of vehicles with Alberta license plates in my hometown has left me worried that we are slowly being invaded by Canada.)

The more we “borrow” gear items previously designated for sports that are not running, the more we look like athletes who are not runners.

“That’s hogwash!” you might say.

But before you write off my concern as irrational paranoia, consider the following evidence.

Women running in skirts originally intended for playing tennis:

People running in rubber foot-gloves originally intended for yacht racing:

Dudes running in calf warmers originally intended for Jane Fonda:

If that’s not enough to totally freak you out, get this: legendary running coach Alberto Salazar recently revealed that he is asking some of his athletes—namely Olympic silver medalist Galen Rupp and high school national recordholder Mary Cain—to wear equestrian shoulder braces while training.

Yep, you read that correctly—equestrian. As in horse riding. Because duh, small people who sit on top of horses that run have a lot in common with small people who run like horses.

When I read this story, I couldn’t help but imagine poor Galen decked out in all of the crazy gear that is surely lurking in his closet. How ridiculous would he look?!?

Well, thanks to my rudimentary Photoshop skills and a slightly embarrassing amount of free time, we don’t have to imagine anymore. Below you will find my most recent exploit in a string of non-revenue producing ventures. I call it Paper Galen—soon to be the number-one toy among kid marathoners everywhere! (So far this only includes the Welsch sisters, but I have a feeling America is on the cusp of a youth running craze.)

This, not That

Five months into my half-marathon training, I have come to a terrible conclusion: I’m turning into That Lady.

You know the lady I’m talking about—we’ve all seen her, or her male counterpart, That Guy.

They’re the way-too-serious recreational runners who cruise down the local river trail dressed in head-to-toe tech gear: compression socks, arm sleeves, moisture-wicking visors, GPS watches, hydration belts, Breathe Right strips.

In college, my teammates and I used to make fun of them. Of course, most of us were too poor to afford any sort of gear to supplement the oversized sweats and T-shirts we were issued at the beginning of the season. But come on, nothing makes you more legit than running a Division I college cross-country workout in a grey cotton T-shirt that was made for the world’s fattest cross-country runner.

So anyway, now that I have a real-ish job, I have been able to add to my gear arsenal. When someone suggested that I try GU in order to combat the “ugh” feeling that I experience at around mile eight of my long runs, I went to the store and bought a whole bunch of GU packs.

And just like that, I became That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts before long runs.

The only problem was that ingesting the GU mid-run caused an unfavorable reaction in my GI tract. My first thought was, “Shit—did I check the expiration date on that mayonnaise?”

Turns out, Best Foods had nothing to do with my mishap. I had completely overlooked the fact that GU is supposed to be consumed with water. Otherwise, you don’t digest it properly. Rookie mistake.

Soon, I was That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts and plans her runs around designated water stops. I even considered planting water bottles along my routes.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. If you’ve ever Googled “Public water fountains in [insert your town here],” then you most likely have played the role of That Lady or That Guy at some point in your life.

Right around the time when I was researching algebraic equations that could help me determine the water and GU intake intervals that would maximize my energy levels, I realized that I had gone too far.

When I started training for this stupid race, the goal simply was to finish. Once I got a couple of long runs under my belt and realized that I was definitely capable of finishing 13.1 miles, the goal was to crack the top 10.

By the time I was crunching numbers like a tax accountant with a meth problem, I was determined to win at all costs.

The thing is, I’m the kind of person who can drive herself insane over the most minute details of a race—stuff that has nothing to do with fitness or preparation.

The 800 meters was bad enough. During my warm-up routine, my mind was usually consumed by a continuous stream of ridiculous worries. Should I wear tights or not? Is my ponytail too high? Do I have a visible panty line? Is Dancing With the Stars on tonight?

And that’s only for a two-lap race. Multiply it by, oh, 26, and you can see why I so vehemently resist becoming That Lady. My obsessive personality can’t handle That Lady.

Therefore, I’ve decided that I shall henceforth be known as This Lady. This Lady eats GU whenever she feels like eating GU. This Lady doesn’t give a rip about VPL. And This Lady is going to kick some serious ass next weekend.

The race that puts the "kilts" in "kilometers"

As I stepped out of bed this morning, every joint in my entire body produced some sort of snap, crackle and/or pop. My whole being was consumed by a single, all encompassing ache, and I wondered if this is what Charlie Sheen feels like every morning.

My hangover, though, was not of the hookers-and-cocaine variety. No, I had done something far more outrageous. I raced a 5K.

As you might remember from my previous post, I entered the race in hopes of reawakening my competitive spirit in a fun, friendly atmosphere. Well, that is exactly what happened…sort of.

In my college racing days, my pre-race ritual involved focused race visualization, an extensive stretching routine, a stomach-approved meal of plain noodles and water, and of course, an early bedtime.

After several years and countless repetitions of this boring regimen, it grew unbearably tiresome. I just couldn’t bear putting myself through it again, so I decided to establish a new ritual.

It involved thinking about the race as little as possible, eating a dinner of lamb stroganoff and beer, and ending the night with a concert fundraiser, another beer, and a scoop of ice cream. I went to bed feeling full, happy, and completely ignorant of the possible consequences of my irresponsible pre-race behavior.

I awoke feeling rested and calm as a cucumber. I ate breakfast, read the newspaper, played the free online version of Bejeweled—you know, all the stuff I’d do on any regular morning. I got dressed, laced up my shoes, and pinned on my race number. And that’s when—da dum (think Law & Order)—panic set in.

I started freaking out. I wondered if I could call in sick. Do people call in sick to races? My mind was spinning. I wasn’t ready for this. It was going to be a huge embarrassing failure.

I pulled myself together enough to drive to the starting line. When I got out, I felt an immediate sense of relief. How could I get worked up about racing people in green tutus and leprechaun costumes?

Then I spotted an old friend. She was completely hammered and slurring her words as she (loudly) proclaimed that she and I were going to “totally kill this thing.” So I would be racing with drunks, too. More relief.

She pulled me to the back of the crowd, where she introduced me to some of her friends, who I assumed were also drunk. Before I had time to push my way to the front of the pack, the race announcer was counting down to the start.

During the first few hundred meters, I cautiously jogged around men in kilts and women in sparkly shamrock skirts. By the time the crowd thinned out enough for me to settle into my normal pace, the leaders were well ahead of me.

But instead of panicking and attempting to make up all of the distance in one fell surge—as I might have done in the past—I just stayed calm, cruised along at a quick but manageable pace, and enjoyed the beauty and splendor of Missoula’s north side.

I was having a ball picking people off, when out of nowhere I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I looked to my left and was startled to see my parents driving next to me in their barely audible Toyota Prius. Electric hybrids might be good for the environment, but to unsuspecting road runners, they are really just a low-emissions accident waiting to happen.

Anyway, my cheer crew showed up periodically throughout the second and third miles, which provided me with a much-needed mid-race boost. “Go get those guys in front of you!” my mom squealed.

I was momentarily embarrassed, as I was sure “those guys” had also heard my mother’s comments. As I came upon them, I apologized for my vocal but well-meaning family. I moved past them, but as we approached the pedestrian bridge, one of them initiated a response-pass.

This guy—let’s call him Arm Sleeves, since he was wearing a pair of removable compression sleeves—blew by me as we started climbing the ramp to the bridge that spans the rail yard. As he made his move, he said something that was probably meant to be friendly and encouraging.

But I hate being passed, so it didn’t matter what Arm Sleeves had actually said, because to me it sounded like, “Ha ha, see you at the finish line, sucker!”

And just like that, my competitive fire was lit—and burning hotter than ever. In that moment, beating Arm Sleeves became the single most important thing in my life. As we spiraled down the ramp on the other side of the bridge, I took a moment to regain my composure. Then I moved in for the kill.

The final quarter mile was all grit and muscle memory. I ran faster than I’ve run in weeks. As the finish line came into view, I sprinted away everything I had left, convinced that Arm Sleeves was right on my tail.

When I finished, I spun around and realized that he, in fact, was not—but in my dash to cross the line before him, I had edged out a high school girl by a couple of seconds, which made me feel like a real bully.

Still, I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t excited about earning the women’s title in the 2011 Run For the Luck of It. And in the process, I learned that racing success has nothing to do with eating plain noodles. It’s more about mental control, patience, and fabricated rivalries with otherwise friendly competitors.

Coming soon: RFTLOI race video