Exhalation inspiration

There’s nothing worse than a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Scratch that—there’s nothing worse than running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Wait, it gets worse—there’s nothing worse than being stuck next to an old guy with bad breath while running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been there at one time or another. But just in case you’ve somehow avoided this treadmill rite of passage, take a moment to imagine yourself in the following scenario:

You’ve just passed the halfway mark on a grueling five-mile pace-progression run.

Your breathing is growing increasingly labored as you struggle to convince yourself that hey, it isn’t so bad. At least you pretty much have the joint to yourself, since everyone else is out trying to light their barbecues in the rain.

But then…dun, dun, duuunnnnnn…in walks the old dude with the most severe case of halitosis known to man. He has his pick of machines. He could literally have his own row if he so desired. But guess which one he chooses? Oh yeah, that’s right: the one directly to your left.

To make matters worse, he is positioned approximately halfway between you and the wall fan you have cranked up to maximum speed, so whatever disgusting odor comes out of his face is blown directly into yours.

You are flooded with feelings of utter frustration and helplessness as you think, “Dear Lord, why me?”

You wince as he repetitively presses the “speed up” button, finally settling on a rate of 4 mph—a blistering pace for a 65-year-old in jeans with an elastic waistband.

It’s only a matter of time before he’s sucking air—and then blowing it back out, infused with an odor that can only be described as a mixture of coffee, taco seasoning and moth balls.

And so, on that fateful Memorial Day weekend, as I desperately tried to invent a new breathing pattern that did not involve the use of my nose (an attempt which, by the way, failed miserably), the old wheels started a-turnin’ and the old light bulb started a-blinkin’. I had an idea.

More on my stroke of brilliance in my next post. Sorry, I know the suspense is killing you, but you’ll just have to wait.

Buyer's remorse

If you’ve ever been shopping in a supermarket, I know you’ve made at least one impulse purchase in your lifetime. My usual weaknesses generally fall under one of two categories: chocolate and Cosmopolitan Magazine.

This weekend, however, I expanded my repertoire of rash commercial transactions. On Saturday morning, I impulse-bought 10 kilometers.

Actually, to be more accurate, I impulsively agreed to register for a Saturday morning 10K race while (slightly) under the influence of a Friday evening microbrew.

As you might recall, I have never raced a 10K. In fact, six miles is on the far-right side of my normal training distance bell curve. One might even consider it an “outlier.” (That one was for my high school Algebra II teacher, who always insisted that math would eventually come in handy in my everyday life. It took eight years, but there you go, Mr. Hammond.)

What made my decision all the more surprising (and stupid) was the fact that I was fully aware of what this particular 10K race entailed: a roughly one-mile climb up a mountain trail just minutes into the race.

I know that many runners wouldn’t bat an eye at such a course. But I am not ashamed to admit that I am not that hard core. I don’t like dirt. I’m not a fan of rocks. And mile-long hills? Not really my style.

Remember, I’m an 800 runner. (Sorry…a retired 800 runner. I’d probably have to be a few microbrews in the hole before I’d agree to run one of those again.) The point is that I am naturally drawn to flat, hard, predictable running surfaces. Cement, asphalt and rubber are some of my all-time favorites.

Suffice is to say that Saturday’s race pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone. I showed up hoping to see at least one—just one—person at the starting line that I knew, for a fact, I could beat. But unlike my last racing endeavor, there were no old men in kilts, no middle-aged women in sparkly green tutus.

My heart pounded, and I started to feel a terrible twisting sensation in the pit of my stomach as panic set in. Suddenly, I felt athletically inferior to every Vibram-shod, GU-carrying, tech-fabric-wearing competitor in my immediate vicinity. That included the nine-year-old kid in the Transformers t-shirt and the eighty-year-old man in denim cutoffs.

I hung out near the front of the pack at the starting line, careful to allow any runners wearing singlets and/or racing flats to get ahead of me. I knew those people meant business, and I did not want to be the defenseless target of mid-race F-bombs when they had to go off-roading to pass me on the single-track trail.

I started out conservatively. My plan was to treat the mountain climb as an extended warm-up. You know, the kind of warm-up where you traverse several steep switchbacks while testing the structural integrity of your Achilles tendons.

Well, that plan fell apart about halfway up the incline, when I was forced to choose between walking and rupturing a calf muscle. During my walk period(s), I came up with a new plan that involved sucking it up and finishing while maintaining a safe and prudent pace.

On my way down the hill (and by hill, I mean nearly vertical and borderline-unnavigable mountain face) I made a quick assessment of whether I had a realistic shot at a come-from-behind victory.

In the distance, I could barely make out the form of a runner sporting a pink tank top and a bobbing ponytail. Using the basic rules of logic, I narrowed the possibilities down to two scenarios: I was either getting my butt kicked by some kind of badass-renegade runner lady or a dude who was incredibly comfortable with his sexuality.

I crossed the finish line and limped to the end of the chute, where I handed my tag to a race volunteer. (At least, I’m pretty sure I did. Apparently there was no record of me finishing, although I’m pretty sure the unrelenting pain in my back, thighs, glutes and feet provides sufficient proof that I did not imagine the whole thing.)

Then I sat down. Once my legs had stopped twitching involuntarily, I started stretching and massaging my calves. Even though the race had been, for the most part, pure hell, I was glad I made myself do it.

I finished (or at least I'm claiming to have finished) third overall for women, which according to my calculations, makes me 1/3 badass-renegade. (There you go, kids. Another practical application for math.)