Stupiditude

I read a lot of running blogs.  In every one of these blogs, there are pictures of the writer-runners in great running poses looking all majestic, graceful, and about to run into the arms of many, many sponsors offering them extremely lucrative endorsement deals.

I do not have any running pictures like that.  I have pictures like this:

I'm the dork in the middle.

Caught me mid-hand raise.  I'm not really floating across the finish.

End of my last leg of Ragnar TN.  About to hurl.

Again caught mid-hand raise.  It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

I have come to terms with the fact that I will never, ever be one of those runners whose pictures show nothing but grit, determination, and willingness to do whatever it takes to be the best.  I think the pictures above show I do pretty much the opposite of that, and this "opposite" is something I'm having a hard time nailing down into actual words that make sense.  I'll get back to you when I do, or when I make up some new words to describe it. ("Stupiditude" is one I'm pondering using.)

I will also never ever be the type of runner who can bust out 12-18 miles on a treadmill and feel as if they got in a "moderate workout" for the day.  Today's workout was supposed to be 10 miles, but after procrastinating all day in my office listening to the 15 mph winds whip through my uninsulated 1930s farmhouse, my brain had worked itself up into a "OMG it's going to be SO COLD in that wind I don't think I can do it unless I lose a finger or an ear" frenzy, and I had pretty much convinced myself not to run outside.  Hell, I almost didn't run at all, until I went downstairs and saw my treadmill looking all lonely and sad.

So that's when I decided to run 10 miles on the damn thing.

For the first 5 miles, all I could think of was, "This is SO MUCH BETTER than running outside.  Really."  For the next four miles, all I could think of was, "For *bleep*'s sake why did I turn the treadmill the other day so it is facing a blank wall instead of the window?" To get myself through the boredom, I started running 400m ladders, increasing the speed up to 6.0 mph every 400m and then working my way back down one-tenth of a mph at a time.  This was my way of not glancing at the miles every 3 nanoseconds and at least getting part of the run to speed the hell up so I could be done.  I also started air-guitaring to my iPod that was blaring in the background at every opportunity, began to loathe the color of the wall and fantasizing about other wall colors and textures, and began to wonder if I would sit down sobbing in the middle of my first marathon in April if I couldn't handle doing 10 miles on the treadmill.

The last mile was...nonexistent.  I found out that my treadmill automatically shuts down after 100 minutes of use and stubbornly refuses to turn on again until the motor has cooled.  Damn them, thinking of my safety and prolonged life of my treadmill.  At least I managed to get 9 miles in.

Oh, and I managed to find at least one OK racing picture:

This is the most determination you'll ever see on my running face.  Apparently the determination and focus comes out when I'm trying not to get 3rd degree burns.