I've perfected my game face

As my friend Ken put it, I was "spotted in the wild" recently.

Co-worker Suzanne greeted me upon my arrival at work on Tuesday with: "Did you run today?"

I thought she was merely referring to the beautiful weather, or perhaps a lingering flush, but after I said yes, she continued: "Out in West Des Moines? On 50th Street?"

Yep, she definitely saw me. "I thought about waving and saying hi, because I was at a stoplight, but I didn't," she said.

Suzanne is a runner as well, so I thought perhaps she'd refrained from a honk and a shout because she too had been startled out of her zone by such noises.

Oh no. "You had this look on your face, like you were in the zone, and I thought, 'No, better leave her alone and not break her focus,'" she concluded.

That run was definitely one in which I set a (very basic) strategy and executed it flawlessly; at the point where Suzanne saw me, I had completed step one — don't burn yourself out on the long, slow incline of doom right after the first mile — so I'm not surprised that I had a grim/determined look.

In fact, it amused me that someone I know didn't want to bother me during a run: Maybe that means I've developed a good game face along with my recent physical success.

When you're petite with a penchant for wearing pink and purple, it's nice to know that once in a while, you can look intimidating.

When la dolce vita catches up to you, it's not so sweet

It dawned on me recently, after reading yet another runner's status update/Daily Mile post/tweet, that I hadn't gone on a long run in a while. Nearly a month, in fact.

So yesterday — Sunday's rain enabled me to procrastinate — I set out on an eight-miler, bright and early. I finished in about 1:17, averaging a 9:36 pace. The key word here is average, in two senses.

One, in how those miles ranged from 8:50 to 10:27, depending on the terrain and whether the wind was canceling out the humidity or canceling out my strength.

And two, in how unremarkable the run felt. With the exception of a few highs and lows, I mostly just moved OK. 

That was 24 hours ago, and my body is definitely still demanding what the heck I did to it. There's no pain, which I appreciate, and it seems that I was able to cure the insatiable hunger and lower-back stiffness last night ... but the sleepiness and slow-moving, sore legs have stuck around.

The last long run I took, a 7.5-miler in July, didn't seem to affect me quite this much. I doubt the extra half-mile is to blame. Though the routes and weather conditions were different, it's not their fault, either.

What to blame? More like whom to blame. Me.

While it's true I've been running fairly consistently over the past month, I've also been rather self-indulgent recently. Dinner out, with appetizers and/or dessert? Yes, please. A glass of wine and/or cup of ice cream after work? You got it.

Don't worry: My alcohol tolerance hasn't shot up, nor have the buttons on my pants popped; I'm indulging in moderation, but on what's becoming a routine basis.

Fellow young athletes have shared wisdom about treats and training with me in the past.

One, my roller-derby-playing friend Jeniece, cited a blog post comparing bodies to machines — the quality of the fuel, for each, affects performance, i.e., when you're pouring junk in, don't expect stellar results.

The other, Scheels bike group leader Jordan, mentioned that he abstains from alcohol, not because he doesn't like it, but because it cancels out the gains from working out. (He has some ambitious biking goals, which I've forgotten.)

I'm not going to turn into an ascetic — even despite that New York Times blog post that destroyed my "I run for pizza" philosophy — but now that the ice cream and wine are gone from my freezer and fridge, respectively, I don't think I'll restock.

Seen while running: Week of Aug. 5

All three sights — only one of which was documented by camera — were scary in their own way last week.

First, on Monday night, was what I assumed was an act of violence. I'm pretty lukewarm toward watermelon, though it did hit the spot perfectly after my first 40-mile bike ride, but it couldn't have done anything to warrant this treatment!

The scene of the crime: a sidewalk along 50th Street.

I will say this, though: When I first spotted this, in the dark and without the benefit of contacts, I assumed it was a watermelon wedge. Then as I doubled back, it occurred to me that perhaps rubbernecking was a bad idea — what if the red flesh wasn't fruit, but actual flesh?

Gone are the days when roadkill was an everyday obstacle on my runs. Someone's gross-out instinct is weakening each day she lives in a city ...

Second, on Tuesday night, came another stealth biker. I nearly walked into him as I set foot on the sidewalk for my run. More like "not seen while running."

It wasn't completely his fault that I didn't see him until the hum of his rapidly spinning gears and the breeze created by his speed startled me — I was about to embark on a nighttime run.

And third, on Saturday morning, was Jordan Creek Trail, on foot, east of 50th Street. Unfortunately, I wasn't supposed to see that. I was supposed to turn north on 50th Street during my 4.5-mile route, which I'd started an hour before I needed to be in the shower so that I could arrive, clean and punctual, at work.

All of those things still happened, because I realized my error just late enough to nudge the run toward five miles ... and because I'd packed my lunch the night before.