Race report: Hy-Vee Road Races half marathon

This won't come as a surprise to anyone who follows me on Instagram, but this year's Hy-Vee Road Races half marathon was the polar opposite of my 2013 experience.

The short version: Race-day weather was perfect, I didn't stop to walk once, and I finished with a milestone personal record that far exceeded my goals.

The numbers: 1:58:59 (9:05 pace) overall; 56:32 (9:08 pace) at 10K; 1:02:27 (9:03 pace) for the final 6.9 miles.

I did Bulldog Hill in 4:19:54, which because I never bothered to time myself during training doesn't mean a whole lot. My preliminary results sheet says that was good for 17th in my division (in comparison, my 10K rank was 38 and my total race rank was 25).

So, to back up, for anyone who cares. Cory and I both decided to keep the 2:00:00 pacers within our sights for as long as it felt OK. That turned out to be the entire race, though how close they were did vary. (We figured out eventually that they went out a bit fast to bank time on the hills.)

I didn't feel fantastic starting out, but by mile 2 it became apparent to me that it was simply a matter of warming up. Everything felt springy and good until close to mile 7.

At that point, we'd changed directions, and we both actually started to get a little too hot. I even had a moment of light-headedness, so I made sure to get some water at the next aid station. That, plus a light breeze and more shade along the route, seemed to do the trick.

Somewhere after mile 8, Cory and I made a friend whose name we forgot to ask and for whom we later wished we'd waited at the finish line. We chatted with Mr. Quad Cities for nearly three miles about beer, pets and careers (as well as running) — a really nice way for us to keep our minds off the hills ahead.

Speaking of hills, the worst one for me was actually up Fleur Drive back to downtown. Not only was it the only one I hadn't practiced, but also it was very exposed to the strongest winds we'd felt yet that day.

After that, Cory and I were feeling much more confident: We'd entered our home turf. Up Grand we went, trying to encourage all the walkers (in an honest, voice-of-experience way), and turned onto 28th ... at which point I got butterflies.

We were so close at that point. I knew I had locked down all my safe goals, but only Cory had a sense for just how well we were doing. But so close didn't mean so easy.

Just as we got to the intersection of 28th and Ingersoll, I glanced at the spectators and saw co-worker Chris, there to cheer on his girlfriend with their beautiful dog. He recognized me too and yelled some encouragement, and I shouted back that I'd practiced on Bulldog Hill, I had it in the bag.

And maybe that was the pep talk I needed — not from him, but from myself — so up I went, passing quite a few walkers on the way. (What a jerk, right?)

Not long after we crested the hill, Cory turned to me and said he was gonna step it up. This came right as I felt the worst, far enough from the hill where we'd both caught our breath, but close enough where the fatigue had suddenly all settled into my left quad.

"Go ahead," I said. "I don't have anything extra." He tried to be encouraging, but I let a little whine creep into my voice as I insisted I really didn't.

I'm sure I slowed up some, yet I never lost sight of Cory. And once I was within sight of University Avenue and had about a mile left, my legs found a second wind.

I have never, ever, felt so strong during mile 12 of a race. Not even during the 2013 Des Moines Half Marathon, when I PR'ed by eight minutes. I did pass a few people and gained some ground on Cory, and my revival was rewarded when I entered the stadium ...

... this year, you barely had to run around the track. Instead of a quarter-mile left, I had not even a quarter of the track!

My spirits went from great to over the moon. I think I yelled "f--- yeah two hours!" as I sprinted that final leg, arms in the air, tossing that monkey off my back with conviction.

Once more: 1:58:59. I cleared 2:00:00 with a whole minute to spare. There is literally nothing I can think of, from my taper week through mile 13.09, that I wish I'd done differently or better.

Time to kick back for a week and bask in my glory before deciding what's next.

Entering the taper

Sunday's 10-miler was the last significant run before the April 26 half marathon. Woo-hoo!

This route was even more race-day-specific than its predecessors; it included a loop around the Capitol as well as the hills up from Gray's Lake, from downtown to the base of Bulldog Hill and of course Bulldog Hill itself.

It was another solid, strong effort. We had some obstacles in a strong southerly wind and an early side stitch for me, but we stuck it out.

Oddly enough, I kept a better pace and attitude going up Bulldog Hill than I did at the end of my nine-miler — I don't get it, but I'll take it.

So what now?

I'd already started to scale back workouts that weren't the long run, just to save my feet a little bit, but I'll continue that.

I'll still have a longer run this coming Sunday (thinking about five miles), and I'll continue with the speedwork (just at a shorter distance).

Originally I'd thought of incorporating more yoga to keep active, but if the weather continues to grow nicer, bike rides might be more tempting.

And I'll just enjoy the dramatic spike in free time. People always talk about the taper crazies, and maybe my own memory is fading and I've ranted about them in the past, but right now I'm just glad to scale back a bit.

I am profoundly grateful for having found the right post-long-run routine to prevent stiffness ... but it definitely takes up time beyond what the run already sucked up.

Throw in eating and a shower (and, OK, the procrastination before the run!), and it often feels like the day is totally gone.

But not this Sunday!

Progress report on Hy-Vee Half Marathon training

I have been a very diligent little runner this spring, and it seems to be paying off.

Of course this year, I haven't had to contend with the polar vortex, so skipping workouts has been harder to justify.

Nor have I brought my phone on most of my long runs — I get tired of holding it and of obsessing over the statistics. Also, Cory has joined me on most of them, so I feel less likely to encounter trouble with no way of calling for help.

So that means I'm judging progress on feel alone, which is OK. I signed up for this half marathon to keep myself accountable in general and to get in tip-top shape for a spring 5K. (Mission accomplished.)

Here are my takeaways from the long runs so far, though.

Seven-miler: My parents had visited us this weekend, and while we hadn't indulged ourselves on a Roman emperor's level, we certainly hadn't skimped on the calories or hydrated optimally.

We also didn't head out until midafternoon on the first truly nice weekend Des Moines had seen all year, so temperatures were a little higher than what we were used to.

Nevertheless, I felt amazing through the first four or five miles. I did lose a little bit of giddy-up once we hit Bulldog Hill, which only surprised me because of how good I felt leading up to it, and how easy the hill had felt in earlier shorter and colder long runs.

Eight-miler: We left much earlier this time. It took me longer to find my groove during this run, but I did find it.

Our route also hit three hills that we'll encounter in the race: up from Gray's Lake, west on Grand Avenue from downtown, and up Bulldog Hill. Yep, definitely getting harder ... but not impossible.

Nine-miler: I noticed my enthusiasm shrivel once I put running clothes on, a sure signal that training is peaking and that race day had better be soon OR ELSE. (This is the second-to-last long run of the plan, so race day is close.)

If you were in Des Moines on Easter Sunday, you can easily imagine how this run took some effort. If you weren't — it was warm and windy. Not constantly windy, or constantly in-your-face windy, but definitely drying.

I felt slow and sluggish at first, probably because of both the weather and a lingering cold, and when we stopped for water around mile 5, I developed a side stitch. Good timing, as we had our three hills still ahead of us.

Either my random prodding of muscles worked, or my body handled the stitch on its own, because by the time we got up Grand to take on Bulldog Hill, I don't remember it being there anymore. In a way, I was glad for the wind, heat and cramps — any or all of these could happen on race day, so might as well be prepared.

Cory peeled off at 28th, so I had to do Bulldog Hill alone. Even without peer pressure, I did NOT cave and walk. But man, is that hill growing tougher as the runs get longer ...

Race report: Friendly Sons of St. Patrick 5K

When I woke up Sunday, there was no sign of rain to come; there was, however, a weather alert on my phone: "wind advisory."

Great, I thought. But without that wind, I don't know that I'd be able to say the 2015 Friendly Sons of St. Patrick 5K was one of my best races yet.

Not because I notched a personal record (which I did — 23:35!) or because I got an age group award (third place among ladies 20-29), but because it wasn't necessarily an easy day and yet I did not give up.

Toasting our victories: We both finished in under 24:00 and in third place in our respective age groups. 

The first half of the race was the worst part, in terms of the wind. I knew it would give me back what it had taken once we hit the turnaround, so I gritted my teeth and pushed through.

Sure enough, when we hit that turnaround, my pace went from feeling awkward and challenging to smooth ... and still a little challenging, given how much energy had already been used up.

Despite that, I had enough energy and optimism to thank the police at intersections, smile for a photographer and respond to cheering spectators. (Speaking of which: Check me out in this gallery!)

I was more tempted to slow down or stop to catch my breath during the final mile than I was during the first, but I did not yield. Thank God!

As I charged toward the finish line, I had no idea how well or poorly I was doing — I almost immediately had bumped the MapMyRun record-workout screen to an ad and also the friends page, and fiddling with my smartphone hadn't seemed worth it.

So when I saw 23:30 on the race clock, with steps left to go, I couldn't help gasping "oh my God" out of shock as well as fatigue.

It sure felt good to finish seconds after Cory instead of literally minutes. And to know that I focused on what I could control (my own effort) versus what I couldn't (the weather conditions).

The splits: first mile 7:20; second mile 7:36; third mile 7:30; final stretch, at a 6:36 pace (hello, downhill with a tailwind!).

What else can we conclude from this race performance? That every race day must begin with my sister sending photos of our family's tortie cat, Allie, and that my own cats are obligated to repeat this every race-day morning.

OK, so I imposed myself on Dusty, but he didn't flee!

Sunburn update

A nerve-racking week-plus without riding made me determined to build two solid rides into my "weekend" (Sunday and Monday, my two days off from work).

I did 30 out-and-back miles Sunday morning, starting on the Clive Greenbelt trail and turning around at the SW Fifth Street pedestrian bridge. All conditions — temperature, wind, elevation, restedness — were optimal; until one final uphill struggle, I was averaging 15 mph.

A chunk of this ride followed the Hy-Vee Half Marathon route, but I am happy to report that I was actually in a state of mind to appreciate the trails rather than wonder angrily why I was even doing this.

Sunburn acquired: a set of parentheses on my shoulder blades, facing like this ) ( . It's the spot where a racerback tank top exposes skin, but where straining sunscreen-covered hands can only swipe awkwardly.

On Monday afternoon, I squeezed in 40 miles, taking the Greenbelt trail to the Raccoon River Valley one. I absolutely loved how quiet, new and rural the stretch from the Waukee parking lot to Minburn was; I was less enchanted with the wind that day.

Still, because it was an out-and-back, what the wind took from me at points, it also gave back. Legs that were tired from the previous day's effort and the current day's 20 mph winds managed to average a 14 mph pace.

Sunburn acquired: several irregular splotches on my legs. This one is deeper than the parentheses, probably because it was on skin that rarely receives direct sunlight ... let alone for three hours. I'll just share photos, for your amusement/commiseration.

I have shorts on, though you can't see them. What you CAN see, however, is the outline of a Band-Aid around a cut I received Sunday night. Evidently I protected not just the wound itself but also the inch or so of skin surrounding it. 

Evidence of the shorts ... and the sunshine hitting my parallel-to-the-ground thighs directly. 

How did this happen? I wore running shorts instead of the knee-length shorts that keep my skin from rubbing awkwardly against the seat and, apparently, from being roasted in the sun.

I never want to be sunburned, let me make this clear, but I'm taking a very optimistic outlook on these burns. Better to find all the weirdly sensitive spots now so I can slather them in sunblock during RAGBRAI.

Your body knows best

One thing I love about the Midwest is the thrill of the seasons changing. One thing I don't love is how that thrill overrides rationality sometimes.

I woke up Monday feeling just peachy, even though I'd run a fast 5K and biked 24 miles the previous day. With the 70-degree forecast — and midweek cold-and-rainy front — there was no way I was taking a rest day.

Another bike ride was on the schedule; a flat tire five miles into what I'd hoped would be as close to 30 miles as my condition would allow, however, was not on the schedule. The Shrimp (my bike) and I trudged home defeatedly.

I hadn't felt fatigued before getting the flat, but the walk of shame did wear me down some. Still, the weather was so nice, and I had the whole day off work, so there didn't seem to be any reason not to pick one of the week's running workouts in its place. Right?

Wrong, as I realized within the first tenths of a mile. My legs felt weird. At first, I thought it was just post-bike adaptation; when I stopped "to retie my shoe" before a mile was done, I knew that wasn't the case.

And yet I pushed on, thinking that if I simply willed myself through the first half of my out-and-back, I'd be able to float home without trouble.

On a different run, that might've been the case. But I was running on tired legs; I was running on a relatively empty stomach; I was running in temperatures I hadn't seen since September on a sunny, windy day. It just wasn't my day, period.

The cherry on this sundae of crappiness was the jerk driver who honked at me as I crossed — while I had the crosswalk sign! — because I was impeding his ability to turn right. You know, if I were moving that slowly to ruin your day, why didn't you turn while I was still crossing the three lanes before yours?

I ended up getting in 4.75 of the five scheduled ones, and I'm 100 percent OK with that. I should've listened to my body earlier, but better late than never.

A better runner than blogger

At times in the past, I have been a better blogger than runner. Right now, that's not true — and not just by virtue of my inconsistent posting.

When I last wrote, I was coming off a good set of intervals that made me feel great (oh hi, runner's high!). Since then, I've also had:

* Two collegial group runs on absolutely gorgeous days.

* One three-miler in which I averaged a sub-9:00 pace.

* One three-miler in which I averaged a 10:39 pace because it had been snowing for about 24 hours straight, including during my run, and because it felt like 14 degrees. I still went out, people.

* One seven-miler done before work, done in subfreezing temperatures and done slightly faster than race pace. With stop-and-breath or stop-and-blow-the-nose breaks.

* A few "meh" runs. It happens.

* But most importantly, one eight-miler where I kept a 9:08 pace and could still walk afterwards.

Yeah, let's talk more about this run, even though I definitely went faster than I wanted to.

I didn't purposely plan a route that babied me through terrain or through weather; there were some inclines (one at the end, no less) and some stretches that went into the wind, and the reverse was also true. Factor in the tempo run two days before and the longer-than-expected shakeout run the day before, and this becomes a legitimately good run.

My splits were reasonably consistent, as was my mental state. I used the count-backward-from-100 trick to get me through mile one's never-ending hill, and shortly after that, I began suspecting I was en route to a strong effort.

Though my early hunches are often right, I didn't want this one to cause me to push too hard, or to send me into deep despair if I hit a wall. So I reminded myself that I'd barely done two miles and not to get too excited.

A little fatigue did sneak in after mile three and continued to flicker on and off for a few miles, but part of that seemed to be navigational stress. (I took a stretch of path I've only biked coming from the opposite direction.) Once I hit a familiar spot, I could feel my legs perking up again.

The only part that was a true struggle was the final half-mile. About a mile before then, I'd felt my energy — mental and physical — start to waver, but knowing the end was in sight kept me going.

It almost doesn't matter how fresh or faded I am, though; the long hill north on 60th from EP True to Ashworth, is going to take my breath away. Suffering is a given; the only question is how much.

This run was close enough to perfect to counter any panic over half marathon distance (it can overwhelm me when I haven't gone long in a while!), but far enough to highlight a few areas for improvement. I'd say I definitely deserved the chicken parmesan I dug into that night.

The hardest half-mile

After probably a month of talking about it, we were finally doing it: Three friends and I had met at Raccoon River Park last Sunday to do an easy 5Kish loop.

The sun had been shining earlier; temperatures had been well above freezing; the route was flat as a pancake. It was a perfect time and place to inaugurate our running club.

Except that we missed the window of faux-spring weather. And the wind was gusting at least 20 mph at times. And as we deliberately set out into the wind — to get it over with, pre-sweat and pre-fatigue — our skin began to prickle: rain, or snow or sleet.

We hadn't reached a half-mile yet, and we were tiptoeing around puddles that had somehow survived the day's onslaught of drying wind, while barely surviving it ourselves.

There was no conversation, only grimaces. Maybe the friend who'd refused to join us had been the smart one.

I waited for someone to say it: "Forget it. Let's go home."

As we rounded the corner that eased the wind's ferocity, we began to speak again, but not of quitting. Our feet splashed and squished through the gravel that hadn't drained, but no one complained seriously. (OK, maybe I did.)

We'd lived through that first, horrible half-mile. We paired off by pace. We dealt with runny noses in our individual fashions (sleeves, snot rockets, Kleenex tucked into sports bras).

And back in the parking lot, we joked about doing it again "in nice weather" next Sunday.

I think we made it official: We're a running club.

Emerging from winter's crucible

I stepped outside Sunday for my five-miler, bracing myself for a blast of arctic air.

The tips of my ears trembled in anticipation of the horrible freeze-and-defrost cycle I was sure they'd go through, because I wasn't wearing my fleece headband.

And yet — all I felt was a little shiver. Was there a cruelly cold wind gust lying in wait for me somewhere? Or was I actually dressed appropriately for what my computer said was 21-degree weather?

It seemed so, when the gloves came off at mile one, and the cotton sweatband kept my ears perfectly comfortable. But still, it was below freezing, right?

Tuesday, the phenomenon repeated itself: I saw 30 degrees on the weather widget and tempted fate further. No jacket this time, just a long-sleeved T-shirt; no ear coverings, just a sweatband; and no gloves at all. (A scouting expedition/trip outside to take out the trash persuaded me to leave them behind.)

The past month of Iowa winter had changed me, it turns out. Flaky skin, nosebleeds, frozen thighs and dead iPhone batteries led me to overreact — do I no longer thrive on cooler weather? — and believe I needed spring to arrive posthaste.

But at the same time, it toughened me up. During the nonwinter of 2011-12, I had forgotten the lessons and fortitude I gained during 2009-10 and 2010-11. The winter storms of 2012-13 so far have not just recalled that knowledge, but also built upon it.

That is to say: I didn't just walk outside Sunday and Tuesday and think, "Huh, it doesn't feel like a meat locker with a fan on," I stepped out and thought, "Wow, it feels nice outside."

Twenty-one degrees felt nice — "a great day for a run!" I even declared in a text. My Viking blood* didn't get drained after all.

*My grandpa's cousin was told by a doctor that she had a tendon condition only found in those descended from Vikings. Yes, this may not have come from our common ancestors; no, that doesn't mean I'll stop declaring that I have Viking blood, because they probably still impregnated one of my ancestresses.

I have to at least try

We're only a few days — out of I don't know how many — into the cold snap, so I'm afraid that I'll jinx myself by saying this.

It's not been that bad for me ... running-wise. (I didn't particularly enjoy that frozen gas line that killed the heat for at least seven hours Monday.)

I nearly wimped out Sunday, walking from my car back into my apartment. The previous night had included a bizarre two-hour wakeful period, and my stomach was happily full of El Mariachi. A nap sounded far better than cold, snow and wind.

It was too early in the training schedule to cave, though. "You have to at least try," I told myself, and I ended up having a fabulous run. Getting the windy portion out of the way first helped, but I also just love the squeak of sneakers in the snow. Don't know why.

Hal Higdon said to rest Monday, and I did not argue (in fact, I don't think I saw a single runner out and about). Tuesday's weather reading didn't look much better — 6 degrees, with a wind chill of minus 2, at 9:30 a.m. — but Sunday's wintry triumph kept me on the straight and narrow. You at least have to try.

From the neck up, I looked like a bug exterminator:

And from the neck down, I looked normal ... but I wasn't. Yoga pants over the running tights; thermal socks over the Balegas; short-sleeved T-shirt over the thicker long-sleeved T-shirt, all topped by a windbreaker; and gloves tucked into the jacket cuffs.

The final measure of protection: Because I only needed to go three miles, I just picked a half-mile stretch along my apartment complex and did it six times, in case hypothermia set in.

So of course, everything went fine; I even pulled down the face mask a few times. My thighs never quite loosened up, and I found myself stopping for a breath and a nose-clearing every half-mile, but otherwise it was pleasant enough where I couldn't even brag about still going out despite the conditions.

At this point, I was bursting with love for winter runs. I shed a layer (the outer T-shirt) in celebration of Wednesday's 17 degrees ... but picked a route based on terrain, not wind direction, and suffered all the way home.

Still, though I couldn't wait to return to the warm, still air of my apartment, that failed tempo run was exactly what I needed. It feels refreshing and invigorating, despite the fatigue; cleansing, despite the sweat and car fumes; and disciplined, despite all the procrastination and escape plans I build in.

And I've found the phrase that will push me out the door: I have to at least try.

I did something right, according to the New York Times

Rationally, I know that any health-related article I read is likely to be disproved, then proved again, etc., in an endless and never-resolved cycle, and that I should adjust my reaction to them accordingly.

I fail at this. (See "I have to cancel my grumpy post.") And I'm unlikely to correct this failing until the glow of doing something right, according to the New York Times Well blog, wears off.

Now, I didn't exercise for 90 minutes, 15 minutes after getting my flu shot, as the research in this post suggests. But to sum up all the studies cited, it concludes:

"So for now, (a doctor) says, the best course of action is to get a flu shot, since any degree of protection is better than none, and, if you can, also schedule a visit to the gym that same day. If nothing else, spending 90 minutes on a stationary bike will make any small twinges in your arm from the shot itself seem pretty insignificant."

Or, in my case, spending 30 minutes with only minimal feeling in your toes thanks to a brisk Iowa winter wind made the tenderness a moot point. 

Hibernation ends; life returns to normal

Yesterday I ran three miles. Before I headed out, I was euphoric over the upcoming run; during the run, I was often cold, often breathless and occasionally annoyed at my hobby; after the run, I was zen.

I feel like life is back to normal.

Week one without running was crappy, because I had a nasty cold, but otherwise welcome — I needed the rest.

Week two without running was also crappy, which I at first attributed to the sinus infection that replaced my cold. In addition to the usual fun symptoms of sinus infections, I started struggling to sleep, feeling generally repellant to other people (nothing says "let's hang out!" like filling a tissue with snot every 10 minutes), and growing irritable.

This probably makes me the asshole runner everyone loves to hate, but I'll say it anyway: I think the sinus infection contributed to my insomnia and crankiness, but quitting running cold turkey probably exacerbated the situation.

On the bright side, when this epiphany occurred over the weekend (with a few more days of hibernation still scheduled), I realized it was a rare running layoff that I didn't fear would turn into a permanent end to running.

And out I went. The run wasn't spectacular, but it wasn't terrible, either, like I thought it might be. (Another bright side: Two weeks is not enough to destroy my fitness!)

Endorphins still came, the shower felt that much more amazing because of all the sweat it washed off, the food tasted that much better, and the sleepiness that hit during "Lincoln" was that of a good effort given, not of sitting mostly motionless in a darkened room for hours.

So as enjoyable it's been to have legs that don't stiffen up after long periods of sitting, or not having to practice time-management skills, I'm not sorry to see it end.

The RW Holiday Running Streak is on

The idea of doing the Runner's World Holiday Running Streak intrigued me, a week or so before it would start, but I had one reservation: the holiday part.

Thanksgiving — the kickoff day — posed the biggest challenge, at first. My parents were coming to visit me on Thanksgiving Eve and leaving before I headed to work on the actual holiday at 3 p.m.

Our plans were pretty loosey-goosey, but I figured that getting in a single mile (the bare minimum to keep the streak alive) was completely doable; if it didn't happen before work, it most likely would happen after my 11 p.m. punch-out.

Though that didn't turn out to be necessary on Thanksgiving — we said our farewells at noon, and I headed out in sunshine and 60-degree temps — the mental preparation paid dividends two days later.

A friend I'd made in Rockford was visiting family in Ames over the weekend, so we hung out Saturday before I headed to work at 1 p.m. There wasn't time before work, but there was after — at 11 p.m.

I'd gone running after work plenty of times during the summer and early fall, but never this late, never when it was that cold and never for that short of a distance. The first two factors dragged on my enthusiasm, but the third one pumped it up. Only a mile. Less than 10 minutes. I'd be safe and snug on my couch before I even knew it.

That same guarantee had pushed me out the door Friday, when temperatures were in the 30s or maybe even upper 20s, and when the wind was whipping around the prairie. I ended up knocking out a solid set of intervals rather than the slow mile I'd promised to do at minimum.

So the first three days were the toughest, but the challenge is working exactly as it was intended to. Mac 'n' cheese, eggs Benedict, sweet potato pie, egg nog, adult beverages — I'm downing them all in moderation AND without guilt.

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.

My adventures in trying to run fast

Thrilled with my Remembrance Run 5K results, I decided that it was high time — after 3.5 years of running — to push harder. I'd seen what I could do, after all.

After three attempts to repeat said speed, I'm starting to fear that I peaked Sept. 30, 2012.

On my first attempt, a too-strong start had me gassed before I hit the hilly portion. Those hills, by the way, weren't supposed to be there. Splits: 8:35, 8:22, 9:03, 8:58, for an average of 8:44.

On my second attempt, I knew what I'd done wrong the first time. That didn't mean I was able to avoid repeating it. Splits: 8:19, 8:18, 9:44, 9:20 for an average of 8:56.

CAVEAT: I fudged my numbers the first time by pausing the clock for things like nose-blowing, retying of shoes and catching my breath/swearing. I was more honest the second time, resulting in some larger numbers.

On my third attempt, I went with some boring out-and-backs along a not-quite-mile-long, flat stretch. Surely this would help, right? Wrong. Over 3.35 miles, I did average 8:47, with another incredibly speedy first mile catching up to me on the following 2.35 miles.

None of this was fun, except for each run's first mile. I was frequently angry and in some sort of discomfort. Surprisingly warm weather on one day and surprisingly strong winds on another contributed to my frustration.

During one low moment, though, a perfectly timed quote floated into my head: "If it were easy, everyone would do it."

That doesn't magically make it all kittens and bon-bons — I still feel only an average amount of accomplishment after these runs — but it does remind me to be a little more rational and realistic.

For example: Perhaps instead of repeatedly trying to run four miles at a pace I only achieved during a 5K full of positive peer pressure, I should remember all the advice I've heard/read about good speed workouts and do one each week.

Instead of assuming that one extraordinary race meant I'd learned pacing and mental endurance overnight, I should expect a learning curve. Even after 3.5 years.

And finally, instead of being grouchy about my failure to relive the magic, I should applaud myself once more for ever finding appropriate race-day aggression — I earned that medal.

Last week was great for running

My old blog, Get Running, appealed to runners as well as nonrunners because I didn't bog them down with splits and complicated workouts measured in metric increments. (That's partly because I don't bog myself down with any of those things, either.)

So while I'm thrilled about last week's numbers, generally speaking, the goal here is not to cite too many figures or to wax too rhapsodically about my efforts.

That said, I have to repeat, stunned, my splits from last Monday's run: 8:55, 8:49, 9:49 and 8:44. If you don't remember/weren't in Des Moines that day, it was crazy windy in the late afternoon, which is when I decided to run a loop.

So there's a reason each mile is what it was: 8:55 was downhill with the wind at my back; 9:49, uphill with the wind in my face. 8:49 and 8:44 were on beautifully flat stretches.

Still — daaaaamn! And more importantly, it felt great. That wind definitely blew a ton of cobwebs out of my brain, and brushed a lot of oh-my-god-you-spent-three-hours-on-your-couch grossness off my skin.

Tuesday's numbers were not quite as sexy, but they represented my breaking last year's recorded run/walk mileage of not quite 670 miles. (Emphasis should be placed on "recorded," because I wasn't tracking tourism-related walking as diligently as I am this year.)

Thursday stunk in regards to performance. I was able, however, to psych myself up for the run — before I felt bleh and overly warm with long sleeves on — by deciding to run a familiar route clockwise rather than counterclockwise, like always. And I was also able to justify it by knowing that it still leaves hills at the end, even though I attacked it from a different angle.

Then Saturday — oh, lovely Saturday! — I found myself in the Iowa City metro area on a crisp, 60-degree day at Sugar Bottom. Aside from the giggle-inducing name, Sugar Bottom had a nice gravel path through the woods that gave me wonderful flashbacks to northern Illinois' Stone Bridge Trail.

Also giggle-inducing (but frightening as well): the names of some Sugar Bottom trails. I did not encounter the Troll Bridge or Becky's Revenge, though one hill did feel like a Hell Trail.

I'm very grateful for Des Moines' city trails, which wind through green space and muffle traffic noises, and I'm grateful for the solid sidewalk system, too. But I cut my running teeth on country roads and small-town paths. Sugar Bottom felt like home, and I felt like a million bucks after that run (and a delicious breakfast at Bluebird Cafe).

My legs' message finally cracks through my thick skull

Last month, it seemed like my Rockford running buddy Doug's posts on Daily Mile were consistently gloomy. I almost felt bad clicking on any of the smiling emoticons when I saw the grim-faced ones he was selecting.

Eventually, he blogged about making a change in his running routine, going from longer weekday runs and medium-long weekend runs to shorter weekday runs and truly long weekend runs.

It had paid off for his legs and thus also for his psyche as of the end of August, and judging from his tweets and Daily Mile posts, it's continued to work.

Meanwhile, the running routine I've sort of adopted/sort of fallen into is exactly what Doug had decided to quit — several four- or five-milers scattered throughout the week, plus one run of up to eight miles.

I didn't fret about it too much at the time. Runners aren't all made the same, and I kept going with what I thought was working.

Last Thursday, I started my morning with a seven-miler that felt about how most of my recent runs had been feeling: slow and heavy. I blamed the humidity and unexpectedly sunny skies. The next day, I did a four-miler that felt just slightly better.

Then, for 48 hours, I didn't run at all. Only on Sunday morning, more than 48 hours after I'd finished the four-miler, did I hit the road. And it felt great, not at all like every run in recent memory. On Monday night, I embarked on another run — same conditions, same route — and had the same strangely springy result.

Not even the strong winds and 60th Street hills on Wednesday afternoon could dampen my spirits or frustrate my legs, which were moving after another 48 hours of inactivity.

What changed?

Each run was no more than four miles, and they had more than 24 hours of rest as buffers. Looking back, I probably shouldn't have added "increase short run distance" to my training style without dropping "run frequently because you feel like too much rest makes your legs rusty," or at least adjusting it.

Also, having a wide range of run distances was a theme of previous half marathon training plans, but not my most recent one's — the training for which featured a lot more stopping and starting than past ones had, back when I was more of a noob and supposedly in worse shape.

Mystery possibly solved. I know I'm supposed to listen to my body, and I was trying to. I just couldn't interpret what it was saying, until a travel-heavy week and the memory of Doug's blog post served as a Rosetta Stone for runners.

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.

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.