Well, maybe you didn't exactly ASK, but I've got a touch of the narcissism, so I'll tell ya anyway.
To summarize, I have my good days and I have my bad days. I am getting most of my runs in (as well as some biking), but some runs are excruciating, while some blissful. The dramatic inconsistency at this point is somewhat of a mystery, though.
For example - Two weeks ago, I had a 14-miler. Well, not so much a 14-miler as it was a 11-miler with a 3-mile death march at the end. In hindsight, I chalked it up to running four days in a row (which I never do), including a 7-mile speedworkout, a 5-miler and a 4-miler. So when I showed up for the 14-miler, it should have been no surprise that my legs were like, "Fuck you M. We out."
Then last week I have a 15-miler, and I could have run all day long. What's more, I came home, ran errands for my sister's pasta party, and then threw the actual party that night (she ran her first 1/2 marthon the next day - which I will detail on my next post....:). ANDDDDDD - I turned around the next day and ran the last handful of miles with her during the race.
I know, right?!?!?!
Before you ask, I'll answer - I have NO idea what's up with that, Willis.
But let's talk about that 15 miles, shall we?
For the most part, it was uneventful - oh, until the point when I realized my shorts slid down and I was running crack-out for god-knows how many miles.
Because of all the things runners want to see while running along the beautifully brilliantly blue-watered Chicago lakefront, M's ass crack surely ranks up there - according to Frommers, my crack ranks just higher the Chicago skyline at North Avenue Beach, but slightly lower than crew races in the Lincoln Park Lagoon.
I hear it's a quite a sight. Hard to tell when all I can see is an over-the-shoulder glance in the bathroom mirror.
So turns out, it was far hotter than it felt, and by the time I hit the turn-around at Buckingham Fountain, my shorts looked like I just went for a swim - they were dripping with sweat so bad, the dropletts were running down the back of my legs.
So I knew the outer parts of the shorts were a bit sagging, for sure, but it wasn't until I made it back to the North Avenue foot bridge that I reached back and discovered my...exposure. I spent the rest of the run (4 miles) yanking up the drawers to ensure my modesty (hey, I do have some...a little..okay none, but I could do without being arrested).
I blame it on the built-in undies. See, I wear those Nike shorts, and tend to flip the waisteband over itself because the shorts are a touch too big - thus sort of screwing with my perception of where the waistband is really laying on my body. I still felt the bloomer liners at the base of my butt cheeks, so I assumed things were all hanging tough, if you will.
Turns out things were definately hanging - but not quite so tough.
Too bad it took me until the last half-mile to realize I never tied the strings, which would have been an instant fix. Oh well. I was just grateful that I chose (for some odd reason) to run with a shirt that morning (and not just my sports bra, as I usually do in the extreme heat), so it helped stifle a could-be-major wardrobe malfuction.
So when I got back to the car, droopy drawers and all, I knew that I couldn't sit in the car as saturated as I was. I mean, my ride's not exactly p.i.m.p - yo - but even I have some standards.
So I searched the car and - Tah Dah!! This is what I came up with -
After assembling this get-up, I immediately called my husband and told him to erect our finest bedsheets over the window, defrost the squirrel from the freezer and pour his baby a glass of moonshine - hey, it you're going to be white trash, go big or go home, right?
And then, 15 minutes later, I arrive home, and see this:
Is it weird to be sort of...proud? I mean, it's a sweat puddle, right? But I see a puddle of sweat in my yoga-mater-covered car seat, and I view it as a sign of my hard work. That's 15-miles of work pooling there in the driver's seat, no?
In hindsight, that might have been a little weird to take a picture of that.
What do you think, nephew Brody?
Hmmmm....methinks that's a look of judgment...from a guy who craps his own pants.
Let's check in with Cheese and nephew Aiden...thoughts? Am I weird?
If I had a magic 8-ball, it would probably say, "All signs point to yes."
Oh well. Onward to the next run...