Post No. 300 is about not running

(Irrelevant to the post itself: This is my 300th on this blog!)

This is sort of a mishmash of tangentially related topics — being at an athletic event and not participating.

First was my experience volunteering at Run for the Trees, which was a 5K/one-mile race the day before my half marathon. I very much wanted to go, because the venue sounded gorgeous and it benefited the Boone County Historical Society, led by my good friend Pam.

Running didn't seem like a smart idea, so I volunteered instead, though I'm not sure that standing outside for an hour on a cool, damp day was textbook pre-race prep. (Obviously, it all turned out OK.)

My job was to usher runners toward the finish line, which was a pretty low-effort job. That left me with plenty of energy to cheer on runners and shout out things like "first female finisher!" "top-five finish!" "lookin' good, almost there!" at people.

I'm not sure whether I was encouraging, annoying, or useless. It probably depends on whether you're a grumpy runner, like me, who doesn't want to hear uplifting comments when things get tough (and did I mention it was a trail race after a rainy morning?), or a runner unsure of your runner status and in need of a cheerleader.

But at any rate, it was fun in spite of the rain and the early wakeup call required to be in Boone on time. I would consider volunteering at another race; we'll see whether that ever manifests itself in action, though ...

On the other end of the emotional spectrum was watching Cory finish Dam to Dam recently. I arrived in time to cheer him on during the final 200 meters (he didn't hear me, but I know I was there) and hung out with him at the post-race party for a bit.

I was there about 15 minutes before he finished, and you would think that watching tired runners — or, worse, the incredibly gifted ones who sprinted to the end — would have made me think "man, I'm glad I'm not running, I'd look worse than the tired ones and be livid at the energetic ones."

Nope. I was jealous. I stood in the crowd, stereotyping much of it as not-runners, and thought wistfully: I belong with the people on the course. I might not look like it, but I do, I promise!

It is an odd feeling to be back on the outside again, watching sweaty people with huge grins hobble around, bubbling over with post-race analysis. Only a few weeks ago, I was clearly one of them — that day, I was just an admirer.

So that sounded rather bleak and self-deprecating, but it actually wasn't. It also refueled my running flame, in that I reopened my mind to Dam to Dam and that I resolved — sometime soon — to start working on a fall race schedule.

More on that schedule in a few days ... it's taking shape, but needs some actual thought still.

Sightings in the wild, part II

I've been spotted by co-workers while out on the loose again.

A while back, I was running past Walgreens as co-worker Jennifer was walking out to her car. I think she recognized me, in spite of what was almost certainly a crazy outfit; at the very least, she returned my wave.

A more recent spotting came from Jill, who was in a car at the time (but not the white CR-V that honked at me along 42nd Street).

It was raining at the time, which evidently prompted Jill to turn to her school-aged daughter and ask, "Do you think we should stop and offer her a ride?"

I didn't look miserable, though (hooray, no race face!), so they kept going. However, I think this was the same day it hailed, because I don't remember any other rainy runs ... maybe they should have stopped.

* * *

As for Sunday's Hy-Vee Road Races half marathon — I did it, and I did it well. I want to blog about it well, too, and today I just don't have the brain space. But details will be forthcoming, I promise!

The agony and the ecstasy of Midwest springtime

It's only natural that a bit of a down post would follow such a cheerful one.

To be fair, I'm using a little bit of artistic license to help inspire the blogging, but it was still a pretty mediocre week in terms of workouts.

We started out with thunderstorms in the forecast for Tuesday and Wednesday, meaning I chose to drive to work rather than bike. (Safety second, not being cold and wet first.) I never stop being surprised by how guilty I feel when I drive someplace that I generally bike to.

At least on Thursday, I felt confident enough in the weather forecast/my ability to persuade some nice guy to rescue me via car, if need be, to start biking again. And holy moly did it feel great to be chilled by a damp cold wind as I flew downhill that day.

I had a similar struggle-and-redemption story in my running. Given that it was overcast, cool and wet, and that a cold virus was still lurking in my sinuses, I didn't really want to run.

Tuesday, I went on an easy three-miler without issue, but I got lazy afterwards and didn't complete my foam-roll regimen. You better believe I felt it the next day, when I mustered the ambition to get ready for a tempo run.

"Expect rain to end by 11:45 a.m.," said the forecasting website as I warmed up around noon. Liar.

A gentle rain began to fall as I ran a mile away from my apartment. It picked up when I got to where I intended to cross the street, so I could eventually head south, and I tried to wait for the light to change.

But the crosswalk light was elusive, and my patience finite, and the skies ever-gloomier. Forget it, I thought, I'll just head back to the apartment and maybe cross there.

You know what those 30 to 60 seconds resulted in? My being that much farther away from the apartment when the hail hit. Emphasis on hit. Poor arms.

By the time I got back inside, dried off and did my complete round of stretching, the rain had stopped. Go fly a kite, Mother Nature and weather.com.

To make up for the 10 minutes of tempo running I didn't do, though, I did a short hilly run on Friday, when sunshine and dry weather returned to Des Moines.

Oh, the euphoria of running in pleasant weather after you've completed what you feared would be a brutal work shift, without having a meltdown, in time to have a friend-filled Friday night!

Rain on my parade? I think not

I went for my first run in nearly six weeks on Friday: two miles.

I'd planned to alternate between running and walking every quarter-mile.

That lasted all of one walk segment. Partly because I got a late start; mostly because going slow felt just fine.

I also didn't plan to get caught in a downpour, but it happened anyway. And yes, when I saw that there was a light drizzle with chances of thunderstorms, I considered staying in and staying dry.

Obviously, I didn't cave, and my determination was applauded by a bicyclist chugging through the same storm.

Many of my leg muscles were less thrilled the next day, but I'll tolerate their complaints after their surprisingly good performance during the run.

A text from running/riding buddy Regina that arrived later summed up the experience best: "So I went for a run and it didn't suck! This bodes so well for post-RAGBRAI."

Agreed.

A day full of firsts

I had two good reasons not to commute by bike yesterday: scattered thunderstorms and a slow leak in my back tire.

But I did it anyway and am disproportionately proud of myself for it.

The light rain on my way to work wasn't much of a problem. I tossed everything that needed to stay dry into a clean cat-litter tub and congratulated myself on a first successful commute in the rain. (It's been a very lucky two months.)

The leak was a little bit more of an issue. It was slow enough that I knew I could pump the tire up right before leaving and arrive with plenty of pressure left.

After that, though, I'd need expert guidance on how to patch or replace the tube. Fortunately, my bike-mechanic boyfriend was only a block away.

It was the perfect opportunity for me to finally try doing it myself — we weren't on a trail with bugs swarming us, or in a hurry to get somewhere.

So after three years of owning a road bike, I did it, with Cory talking me through it and lending a hand (literally) at times, and I'm confident that I could do it by myself if need be.

Granted, it would take much longer and involve much more struggling. That's fine. It's preferable to being afraid to take a long ride by myself, to feeling powerless, to hoping a friendly expert happens to be nearby in case of a flat.

With that done, I was ready to ride home — and the rain was ready to begin again. This was no light drizzle; it was a steady stream that, by the end, stung my forearms and clouded my vision.

Honestly? It was kind of fun, especially because home was at the end of a 1.5-mile-ish ride. (Much more fun than being 10 miles away.)

It also might've been excellent training for tomorrow's Bacoon Ride, if the forecasts are right.

I worried about the wrong crises

I set out on what was supposed to be a 45-mile bike ride Wednesday, with a handful of minor apprehensions.

They were the usual concerns: What if I get a flat tire? What if I missed a new pasty-white patch of skin while applying sunscreen? What if the winds keep whipping across the open fields surrounding the Raccoon River Valley Trail? What if I run out of water on this hot, humid day?

As the trail entered a wooded stretch on my way west, I stopped fretting about most of these factors and began to enjoy myself. The only niggling doubt I had was why no one else was on the trail, but then again, it was early Wednesday afternoon.

Still, as the miles piled up, I decided to quit while I was ahead and turned around somewhere in Adel, after I'd gone 15.5 miles from my apartment, intending to make up the miles elsewhere.

A little before mile 20, I noticed a dark blob to the southwest. Hm. I decided to keep pushing myself instead of letting the wind push me east.

However, a few miles later, my sunglasses became unnecessary. Just make it to Waukee, and you'll have refuge in case of the thunderstorms Weather.com assured you will not arrive for another few hours, I repeated.

The winds stopped propelling me forward and started pushing me sideways. The air grew drastically cooler. Rain drops fell, then barreled down.

Only five miles lay between me and my apartment, but I chose the cautious route and pulled into the Caribou Coffee. This was the right choice, as I soon found out.

Another biker, named Tim, had sought refuge there, and no sooner had I propped my bike up did the storm hit with a vengeance.

Over the shrieking of the wind and clatter of the rain, as precipitation seeped down the walls and under the doors, we shared amused frustration at the lack of warning about this weather. Another customer — I didn't catch his name, so I'll call him Winterset, because that's where he said he lived — showed me the belatedly updated radar and its promised series of severe storms.

But, oddly enough, this is where the story turns cheerful. I bought a latte to warm up and chatted with Winterset, who expressed regret that he'd brought his car, not his truck, to town and thus couldn't help me get home; meanwhile, Tim, much less optimistic about the weather, called over that his wife and/or daughter would come fetch him, and I was welcome to a ride home, too.

Was this the safest thing to do? Realistically, no. But I accepted. I'd trusted the hairs on the back of my neck in Adel, despite the sunshine; I'd stick with the hot hand. (Also, as Winterset and I each concluded, "wife and daughter" made the situation seem safer ... though once I got back, I realized how nonsensical that was.)

Tim's family arrived, in a blissfully warm Jeep (wet clothes in an air-conditioned building, brr!). It turned out that they lived mere blocks from me — though it wouldn't have mattered where I lived, they said; I still would've been able to ride with them — and Tim even insisted that I stay in the car until he'd taken my bike totally off the rack.

I thanked Tim again, tried to offer to do a good deed to thank him, and he shook me off. Instead, he urged me to stop by the family's house sometime and say hello. He even told me the street address.

"Iowa Nice" isn't just a joke or an excellent Scott Siepker video. It's a real thing.

Also, in addition to the kindness of Winterset and incredible generosity of Tim, there was the sympathy from the Caribou Coffee employees. I think one even asked Tim whether he needed a ride home. No judgment, no eye-rolling at the mess we likely caused.

A feat of mental strength

When I stepped outside Sunday morning to test the temperature, I discovered good news and bad news.

The good news was that a T-shirt and shorts were completely weather-appropriate.

The bad news was that it was drizzling, and I had to be at work in two hours — meaning it was either run now or hope I was committed enough to go after work.

As I've admitted before, I'm a wimp about rain. Getting an iPhone has only made this worse, because it's a crutch: "I don't want to get my expensive high-tech phone wet, you know?"

This time, though, I managed to kick my own crutch out from underneath me (hooray!). I told myself that if the rain's pace picked up — I couldn't tell it was raining from inside — I could just turn back. But on the first springlike day in at least half a week, I would regret staying home.

So I went and was rewarded with:

* Very little rain. My shirt was merely speckled, and my smartphone was never in any real danger.

* A smug sense of superiority. The same girl who bundles up in a blanket at her office desk was out on a windy, overcast day in shorts and a T-shirt, while other Jordan Creek Trail runners had long sleeves, windbreakers, earmuffs, even sweatpants on.

* Shiny stats. I took a break midway through the speedy portion of my tempo run (YES I KNOW I WENT OUT TOO FAST), but each half was almost 1.5 miles at a 8:28 pace.

The fact that I even ran might not seem all that impressive, but I'm kind of a baby about the weather. I spend a great deal of time at weather.com, looking at the hourly forecast to find when it will be driest and how many of my long-run fears — heat, humidity and wind — I can avoid.

To deliberately head out into a condition I dislike took willpower.

Apparently I have willpower.

Tough enough for Iowa in the fall

I've been feeling pretty tough lately — at least when it comes to handling the recent erratic fall weather.

Sunday morning, when it was mild but insanely windy, I probably wore a long-sleeved shirt and shorts, and on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, I was able to go back to my T-shirts. Yep, even in the drizzle.

I only bring this up because I'm smug about what I saw other runners wearing those days: jackets. Some even fleecy-looking. Guys, the high on Tuesday was 70 — the temperature at 9:30 a.m. couldn't have been fleece-worthy!

Monday, I took a much-needed rest day, but I still found the energy to be smug as I drove past a runner wearing a ear-warming headband at 9 a.m. in the sunshine. I'm pretty sure Des Moines broke 70 that day.

Part of me realizes I'm being a jerk and a hypocrite, because the blanket I curl up in at work has earned me quite a few incredulous "it's not that cold!" comments. Someone who's had to defend — or agree with mockery of — her internal thermometer probably shouldn't give side-eye to others.

But with that workplace wimpiness in mind, I think we can all agree that I deserve to at least take pride in my jacket-free runs of late. I'm the toughest in West Des Moines, as long as I can keep moving.

I can outrun storms

The title of this post makes a bold claim: that I can outrun storms. Before last night, I wouldn't have believed it possible, either.

However, it's true. I set out blithely without a glance at the weather forecast; I already knew scattered storms had been predicted, so I figured there was no sense in wasting time and ambition by going to weather.com.

What should've been my first sign of trouble was simply treated like a photo opportunity. To the east I saw:

To the west, the eventual direction of my run, I saw:

With nothing more ominous occurring, though, I continued on my route: about 1.5 miles south, then west on the Greenbelt Trail for about a mile. The goal was to do five miles total, which I very nearly did. (That comes later.)

Around mile two/2.25, as I passed a white-haired gentleman, he said something to me that sounded like he'd called me "pardner." No, what he'd said was: "That's thunder."

Just 25 more minutes of safety, and then it can rain as much as the crops around here need, I pleaded — well, pleaded is too strong a word. It was more of a playful bargain I'd offered, with nothing in return.

I reached the top of the hill that marked my turnaround spot at 2.4 miles. More thunder, this time audible. "Keep the pace up," I thought, slightly less facetious than I'd been a quarter-mile earlier.

Then, as the white-haired fellow and I crossed paths again, there was lightning. Every droplet of sweat that splashed down my body made me think the farmers' prayers had been answered instead of mine. After the third mile, this finally became true.

I took off my tank top, wrapping it around my iPhone, and decided to welcome the rain on this hot, muggy evening. This optimism lasted until the intensity ramped up. Squinting against the raindrops, blinking furiously like windshield wipers to see forward, emerging from the protective tree cover of the trail and onto the open sidewalks, I began putting my dad's advice (borrowed from James Bond) into practice: "Always have an escape plan."

Less than a mile away was a Walgreens. Worst-case scenario, I could seek shelter and either try to wait it out ... or make a phone call for help.

While I planned this out, though, the rain subsided. I plugged on, not wanting to tempt fate; even with walking across one intersection to catch my hill- and wind-stolen breath, I did 8:57 over this stretch. As I continued north, the sidewalks grew drier. Could I have ... ?

Not yet. Rain — steady but light and thunder-free — returned as I arrived at the Walgreens intersection. A driver even rolled his window down as I waited for traffic and asked whether I needed a ride. I declined, for many reasons, but mostly because I knew it was less than a mile to my complex. I can do this.

The final 0.8-mile stretch is an upward-rolling one, not exactly where you want a storm to catch up to you. I could feel the judgment emanating from the cars going by as I plowed on, steadily pushed east by wind gusts that stung my ankles with dust.

During the final tenths of a mile, flashes of lightning occasionally illuminated the flailing traffic signal poles. I let the wind shove me downhill and into the apartment complex parking lot as rain once again began to hammer the asphalt.

Safely indoors, I unwrapped my iPhone and hit "save run." I'd managed 4.9 miles in 44:04 minutes, good for an 8:59 average pace. Miles two, three and four each had been finished in less than 9 minutes; during the last 0.9 stretch, I'd kept a sub-8:00 pace. (Thanks, powerful gusts!)

And best of all, I was alive and unsinged, only slightly damper than normal after a Midwest summer run. My fears seemed so foolish as I sponged off — had I really considered phoning east-side friends and begging for help that I would never, ever, confess to my parents that I'd had to seek?

The cockiness of having escaped major trouble is sweet indeed.