no excuses

My best friend Pat had a saying a while back when he was busy changing his lifestyle and losing weight, "NO EXCUSES." No excuses to cut a workout short. No excuses to order fries not salad. No excuses to skip a trip to the gym.

Of all the weeks for excuses, this was one for me.

My training plan had me on for a Tues run of 3 miles, Thurs run of 5, and Sat run of 7 miles. Monday, however, I was in a fender bender which gave me a mild case of whiplash. There would be no run on Tuesday. By Thursday, I was feeling better, but I didn't want to push it and had limited time: 2 miles was all I could do. Last night, my allergies acted up in a big way and I managed to get about 4 hours of sleep. Today was super busy with kids games and work, and I was exhausted and my eyes & nose were a faucet.

By the time 4:00 rolled around you could've stuck a fork in me, I was done.

No excuses.

So, on went the running gear and I munched a handful of M&Ms. Then Glenn and I set out for a run (he did the first 2 miles with me; aside: I so love running with my husband! My pace is slow because I'm just chattering away and he's like, "Stop talking!").

At 2 miles, Glenn turned around for home and I plugged on. I mapped out a new route through a development and I came to this spot where I could take the easy way out and log just under 5, or I could push it. No excuses. I did the loop.

All in all, I ran 6 miles on a day when few would've done so. Car accident. No sleep. Kids with games. Work. Plenty of reasons not to run. Except, Jill L. is a runner. And I've got just enough crazy to run even when my battery is empty.

IN YOUR FACE!

Runners have a love/hate relationship with hills. We love how we feel when we get to the top - such a fantastic accomplishment that driving around in the cool comfort of your car hides from you. We love how strong we know our legs are getting, pounding up a steep grade. But, we HATE them - we hate how much harder they make us work, how we huff, how we struggle, how our stride goes from gazelle to gopher.

Runners respect hills so much that we even name them. Hills in major races get named by the runners who strive up them towards the finish line, like Heartbreak Hill on the Boston Marathon. But we name even the hills that are around our homes, the hills we are so familiar with we know each pothole, the dog at each home along the way. A friend of mine has named the hills she runs on in Central Park "Hell Hill." I've run that one with her, and the name is well deserved.

My hill is called by me the "Big Ass Hill."

Big Ass Hill is a long, slow half mile of a pretty steep grade through a beautiful McMansion subdevelopment near my cul-de-sac. It begins 1.6 miles from my front door and goes up, and up, and up, and then levels of so that it's almost flat (but not) and then goes up til the road ends.

This summer, in the high heat and humidity, I avoided Big Ass since it was tough enough to breathe in the thick, sweat air on the flat roads along the corn and dairy farms.

But now, it's time to run her again. I signed up for the Amish Half Marathon, a scenic 13 mile run up and down and up and down the large rolling hills through Lancaster...hills are in my future.

Last week I attempted to run up Big Ass Hill - and she beat me. I couldn't do it. My legs and lungs gave out half way up...

...but this morning, I conquered her. I ran up Big Ass Hill and then, just to show her that *I* am the boss, I did hill repeats on the steepest 0.1 of Big Ass. In your face!

the Fonz

When I run, I often look like The Fonz.

I don't mean that I resemble Arthur Fonzerelli, white t-shirt and leather jacket and super awesome hairstyle. Actually, if Fonzie were to need to run for some reason (though, most certainly he wouldn't run, but saunter down the road) but if he did, you can be sure that Fonzie would do so in the most cool manner possible - I bet he could even pull of running 26.2 without breaking a sweat in that jacket of his.

Nope. There's nothing that exudes "cool" or "trend-setter" when I run.

When I run, my hands take on the Fonzie pose. Passing cars must think I'm a stumbling, trotting hitchhiker, my right hand always out there, looking for some Good Samaritan to take pity on my huffing & puffing self and load me into the cool interior of their back seat, saving myself from having to make my way back home.

When I become conscience of that I am channeling my inner-Fonzie, I try to make my thumbs behave normally, but that makes the rest of my arms behave weirdly. Then I run like I've just been given these 2 new limbs to try out, and they are all wavy and floppy and I don't seem to know what to do with them.

So, if you see me turtle-trotting down the road, thumb out, know this: I'm not trying to bum a ride. I'm just saying, "Aaaaaaayyyyy."