The thing about training.

Until this summer, I’ve never been so conflicted over a marathon or its training. I entirely blame the San Diego Rock N Roll Marathon. I trained my ass off. Intense. Disciplined. High-mileage. It paid off. Since then, I’ve entirely fallen off that training regiment. It was exhausting. The thought of picking it up again just three weeks after PR’ing in the marathon sort of made me want to die.

Oh my god, that’s it. I’m an emo runner. Running is HARD, wah… etc. etc.

But really. That business was work. Hard work. At the time I loved it. I felt strong. Ready. But when all was said and done and over, whoa, did rest certainly sound like heaven.

So, sure, I’ve been running since then. Getting in my miles, mostly. Come Oct. 3 I’ll be ready to run 26.2 miles, as usual. But will it be a horrible performance? If you ask me right now, I’d say, “Yes. It’s going to be terrible.”

Which is where I’m currently see-sawing. What do I mean by “terrible”? Because simply running 26.2 miles is not terrible. Even a little. It’s amazing. So what’s with my baditude? My body is capable of some phenomenal things. I am a runner. An endurance athlete. If you chase me, you might catch me, but if you don’t, I’ll out-run your ass. This is going to be my eighth marathon. October marks my five-year anniversary of marathoning. I’ve completed fourteen half marathons in as much time.

I am a runner, hear me roar. Dammit.

I need to remember that. Keep it in my head at all times. Not every marathon can be a PR. Not every marathon will feel like San Diego. Not every training season will live up to the magic of Spring 2010. It can’t. Not with two marathons a year. Realistically, for me, that’s just ridiculous. I need to be OK with letting October be free of time goals and expectations. I need it to be about the enjoyment and the physical feat that is a marathon. Because it’s something to be proud of. Damn right I have a magnet on my rear bumper that says “26.2″. I make 26.2 my bitch.

And so this is my affirmation. October will be OK. I will run 26.2 miles. I will finish. I will smile. And I’ll add another notch to my figurative marathoning bedpost. My Road ID has a quote on it. It reads, “I run because I can.” And I do. Not everyone can. Sure, I can moan about an “awful” 18-miler, or whimper because I’m just not training hard enough. Or I can shut my mouth and own it.

Now, Spring 2011 is a whole new ballgame. I’m going to kill it. So for now, I will take what I have and be proud. I’m a runner. Look out.

Edited: August 31st, 2010

Playing catch up.

First things first. I’m going to need someone to hold my hand and rock me to sleep when this season of “True Blood” ends. IT’S SO GOOD. It’s so… odd. And strange. BUT SO GOOD. I won’t say anymore, however, as to not spoil it for people who are behind. And who are those people? Because they need to get their priorities straight.

On a completely unrelated note, I finally ran some miles this weekend. Like, 23 of them. Eighteen on Saturday and five more on Sunday. That all sounds lovely and like progress, but really, it was not. It was hotter than hell outside, which is what happens when you wait until noon to start an 18-mile run. It was hot and I was sweaty and there was not enough water in the world to quench my thirst. My pace was slow, I had to rest more than I wanted to, and in general I wanted to die. BUT, I did it. My legs have recovered swimmingly, but it’s likely because I didn’t put forth much effort either day as far as pace and effort go. I’m bound and determined to get in a solid 20-miler this coming weekend. I’d also like to put in one request for a 40-degree day.

Yeah.

Luckily, I had a super pacer and water boy with me on Saturday. He came in the form of a boy on a bike, carrying water, moral support and sanity. He even sped home ahead of me to prepare a bottle of ice water and wait at the corner to join me for the last tenth-of-a-mile. I will keep him, which brings me to my next conundrum:

Dating and the Internet.

Twitter is one thing. Anyone who follows me on Twitter likely knows who he is, at least by his Twitter handle, if nothing else. But my blog is another beast. I don’t necessarily want to name him here. I could, but some things are sacred. Sometimes. I mean, clearly not much is sacred here on this blog, but I try. Once in a while. With that said, I refuse to give him some generic title like The Boyfriend or The Man. Seriously.

No. Just… no.

So today, until otherwise solved, he’s the guy who spent several hours with me at my worst on Saturday. And it was good.

In other recent developments, my couch is no more. Thanks to one handy saw and a helpful friend, we hauled that thing (and its cat pee) out of my apartment in pieces last week. So, my apartment is still hot, and now I’m couch-less, but hey! I still have those doors!

Gotta look at the bright side sometimes.

Edited: August 30th, 2010

Claustrophobic. Also: rant.

Here’s how my summer has been: Gone. Every weekend. Visiting this friend. Or that friend. Or another friend. Or so-and-so’s in town. Or such-and-such is going on. “Visit ME!” “Me!” “Over here!” “But what about ME?” “Krista!” “I haven’t seen you in SO long!” “COME VISIT ME!”

You know what I did last weekend? Not a goddamn thing. I did not leave Madison. Except once. To go to the beach with my FAMILY. You know, the people who birthed me? Raised me? Kept me alive all those years? Yeah, them. I miss them sometimes. You know who else I miss?

ME.

Sometimes I want to do what I want to do. Sometimes I want to do NOTHING. Sometimes I want to be in Madison. Sometimes I want to sit on the couch with my boyfriend because I have one and I can and get over it. Sometimes I want to make new friends. Sometimes I want NO friends. Sometimes I miss my friends from life before the Internet. Sometimes I wish I could keep everyone separate. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know so many fucking people. Sometimes it’s all kind of too much.

And sometimes I need to let it all out in a long-winded, passive-aggressive blog post, then quietly remove myself from the Internet and go back to my corner of the world.

Edited: August 24th, 2010

Rambling: WHY GOD WHY Edition.

Right before I moved, one of the cats peed on my pillow. On my bed. ON MY EDWARD CULLEN PILLOWCASE, which is an offense punishable by death on its own. Pillows were thrown out, sheets, mattress pad and comforter were fumigated. Even Edward was spared. All was right in the world of Asshole Cats.

And then I moved. My parents brought up a couch that belonged to my aunt. It’s an old couch, kind of smelly. Conspicuous stains throughout that look remarkably like pee. She’s got about eleventy dogs. The fear existed that this couch was doomed. First of all, clearly the cats are pissed. One of them is pissed, at least. Literally. <shakes head> But I haven’t figured out which one. I suspect Chicken, for no other reason than she’s the finicky cat. She hates change. She’s delicate. But if history teaches me anything, I’d point to Harley, who’s favorite pastime is shitting all over my existence. Also literally.

But one week passed. Then two. The cats came around, started enjoying the extra room to roam, the new furniture to decimate with fur. NOBODY PEED. Hooray!

Until yesterday. There it was. The spreading wet spot. Somebody peed on the throw pillow, which then spread to the couch cushion.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

After bashing  my face into the wall 78 times and slamming my body into oncoming traffic, I soaked the cushion in some pricey concoction of Cat Pee Remover. Tossed the pillow, threw the cushion out on the balcony to recover. I doused the rest of the couch in some Asshole Cat Repellent I recently bought at the pet store to prevent Harley from shitting on my pretty new kitchen rug. I took a deep breath. It would all be OK. It would. It was just pee. They’re just cats. The couch will be salvaged, I swear it.

Until this morning. When I noticed more. In the spot where the cushion previously had been.

*SHAKES FISTS AT THE HEAVENS*

WHY GOD! WHY?!

I am coming to you, Internet. To tell me what to do. How do I make it stop? Is the couch a lost cause? Are my cats a lost cause? Can I tie them up in a garbage bag, fill it with rocks, and drop it into Lake Monona? (NO! JUST KIDDING! NEVER! EVER!)

*face plant*

Edited: August 20th, 2010

Dreams in pipes.

I want to write a novel. Everybody says that, but I really, really do. Everybody says that, too. But still. ME! This is about me! Meeeeee.

I have so many ideas in my head, but no complete ideas. I could write a novel comprised solely of great first sentences that have floated through my mind. It’s what I do. I’ll randomly create a story in my head. That one sentence. The first sentence. Then BAM. I don’t know where to go from there. Ideas come to me while I’m running. It’s the only time my mind wanders. I mean, my mind wanders a lot, don’t get me wrong, but I get uninterrupted wandering while running. Even then, when my mind is free and clear, and I’ve got nothing better to do than make shit up, I can’t get past the opening line. Or a character. An image. 

I’ve got a friend who’s working on her second novel. SECOND. I love it, and am both amazed and mind-blown at the same time. HOW DOES SHE DO IT? I wonder if I have the creative capacity to create an entire novel. A plot. Characters. Sub-plots. Depth. Development. How do you make people care? How do you craft a story that’s worth it? How do you come up with something new?

My head hurts.

I’ve read so many fiction novels. There are so many out there. Thinking about it is overwhelming. How is it even possible to create something that hasn’t already been done? Or isn’t there? Do you just throw caution to the wind, write what’s in your mind, and pray like hell that it grows wings and flies?

I don’t dream of becoming a best-selling author. I don’t dream of making millions. I’d be happy with one copy of my book. My name on the front, my picture on the back. My words in the middle. Just tangible proof that I created something awesome. I think I’m more in love with the idea and the process than the result. The hours in front of the computer. The late nights. The revisions. The characters. Pages and pages and pages of story that will probably get deleted, replaced or reduced to two sentences. And really, that’s just the dream I created in my head. The reality of novel-writing is likely less glamorous. But like most of my pipe dreams, they’re made up of naivete. With a side of charm, of course.

But still. It’s a dream, and it’s mine.

I don’t know where to start. How to start. I’ve never actually put any of those first sentences down on paper. They’ve simply drifted out of my head as quickly as they entered. After a first sentence has to come a second, and I don’t have one.

Anyone in the market for a one-sentence novel?

Edited: August 19th, 2010