I Believe {Bigfoot 50K Recap}

“How long do you think you will be out there?” my husband asked me the morning of the race.

As I talked to him on the phone, a flurry of activity was going on in the room at the lodge. The air thick with pre-race nerves.

“Hopefully, less than 8 hours,” I replied.

Bigfoot! I know him!

Running the Bigfoot 50K was a “last minute” decision for me in that I registered for it without time for a complete training cycle. I had ran a 50K in June but switched to the half marathon distance at Fort4Fitness.

I did my best to build off my fitness and got in some solid long runs. However, church and family commitments meant that cutback weeks were CUTBACK weeks. I didn’t know how that would translate on race day.

I always knew that I could drop down to the 10-mile distance at the race, which was at Salt Fork State Park in Eastern Ohio, but I always felt drawn to the longer event. Maybe it was because most of the Ignite Team, an ultra group in northeast Indiana of which I'm a part, was doing it and, hello, FOMO but I think it was because I knew I wanted the challenge. Needed it.

When I I lined up at the start on the chilly morning in early December, I was verge of tears because, yo, there is crying in trail running. Once we got started, all the fear and worry seemed to fade.

The race was three loops of about 10.5 miles. For the first few miles of the first loop, I found myself in a strong pack led by none other than one of my Ignite teammates. It was nice having someone set the pace and determine the trail hills. But by the start of the big hill, the Bigfoot hill, I found myself bouncing between other runners. I would run with a person for a bit and then find myself on my own for smidge.

I came in from the first loop in about 2:10 and it gave me a good gauge of how to pace the remaining loops. I figured if I could do 2:20 for the second and 2:30 for the third, I could finish around 7 hours. The eight hours that I quoted to Mark out of fear seemed more like a worst case scenario than a probability.

And funny enough, my loop splits were on point with that prediction. During the second loop, I got behind a few runners who seem to seamlessly transition between running and walking for no particular reason. With mine for a bit, figuring that it would keep me control, but after a while I decided to pass the pair. Looking back, I'm guessing they took the early start, which gave them nine hours to finish but took them out of the running for age group awards.

From there I fell in line with Eddie the Yeti, who is a far nicer person than me. I got a little too close to him and nearly pulled off a shoe. Instead of getting frustrated with me, he and I ran together, and it was a privilege to get to hear part of his story. He had found running 15 years ago and, for all intents and purposes, it saved him from life in the fast lane.

There was a peace in the second loop because there was no doubt that I could complete the race. I just had to stay positive and focused, which has been a goal for 2017. And I learned the hard way in that loop to keep eyes - and mind on the trail. About mile 18.5, I started to think about food and beer a little too much and fell. My knee felt off for a few minutes but it was fine once it stretched out.

Between the second and third loop, I decided to change – taking off my jacket and long sleeve and putting on a different shirt. It cost me about 5 minutes but it was nice to be dry.

Beyond that lengthy stop, I minimized my time at the aid stations. I filled the bottles in my my new Nathan Howe hydration pack but relied mostly on Honey Stinger gels and chews that I had brought. Except for the pickles. I did like the pickles!

I started the third loop with an elapsed time of 4:35 and knew the last loop would be a grind. I focused on positive self talk and moving forward. My youngest had been saying “Mommy Superman” on repeat that morning when I was talking to my husband, and I just repeated that in my head. I knew that he was not actually calling me Superman but instead excited that he had found the action figure but you take what you can get. Especially when he thinks it is fun to say “Spit in your face.”

I kept a good eye on splits during the loop, hoping that I could eke out the sub seven finish. I was a little unsure as I approached the last uphill section of the loop. It was technical - rocky and rooty - and seemingly forever but, in truth, more than a half-mile. Once I got to the pavement, the parking lot of the lodge, I knew it would be close but doable if I could run it in.

I never thought I would say this but I really had a ton of fun out there. I loved being to see my fellow Ignite teammates on the course and just be.

STATS
Race: Bigfoot 50K
Location: Salt Fork State Park, Lore City, Ohio
Course distance: 31.5 miles
Course elevation gain: 3,832 feet
Finish time: 6:59:28
Average pace: 13:30
Age group place: 6/10 (39 and younger)
Gender place: 14/45
Fuel: Six packs Honey Stinger chews, two Honey Stinger gels, a handful of chips, pickles and Nuun
Essential gear: Brooks Pure Project jacket, Nathan Howe vest, Sugoi subzero tights

Another Dam 50K {A Race Recap}

With my Nathan handheld filled with water and having taken two salt pills, I headed down the now familiar bike path at Englewood MetroPark.

Rays peeked through the towering trees, the morning sun having matured into an afternoon blazer. The small field of participants at the Another Dam 50K had spread out in the 4 1/2 hours since the race start, and it felt like it was just Kim and me as we headed out for the fourth and final loop.

Our conversation had seemed to quiet, the day's effort settling in, but there was nothing that needed to be said. In those moments, as we made the turn toward the dam  (another turn on that dam road), we knew that we were going to do it. We were going to finish this race, a 50K -- something that seemed so audacious at times in the previous 16 weeks.

The day before the race, checking out the course with the best friend and crew chief a girl could ask for.

Anther Dam 50K is a low-key race at a park just west of Dayton, Ohio. I was attracted to it for its timing - just far enough out from the IT100 that I could pace Joe and still have my own race -- and its price. The race has a no-frills option of $15, and I paid $25 to get a T-shirt and finisher's prize (a technical shirt that states on the sleeve that I did the whole dam thing).

Soon after I registered, my friend Kim found herself signing up and in the month or two leading up, my best friend from Nebraska volunteered to drive in and help crew. While the 50K gets a rap for being a glorified marathon, the 5 miles that sets it apart cannot be underestimated and her presence proved invaluable on Saturday.

I couldn't settle my stomach. My nerves. My emotions.

Race morning, I wavered between tears and nausea. Blueberries in the bagel that I hoped would be plan were unsettling and the words of encouragement from my running buddies were so kind that I could feel them reverberate in each breath.

I think it was fear. The unknown. The build-up to this one day.

But once Pattie, Kim and I arrived at the park at 7:15 a.m., 45 minutes ahead of the 8 a.m. start, I had started to settle. The air was comfortable but not as cool as I'd like and the sun offered a welcome greeting. After a week of fretting about potential thunderstorms, the day's forecast offered another challenge - heat. The high was predicted to be in the mid- to high 80s and with a goal time of 6 hours, I knew that I would be finishing in the heat of the day.

Thankfully, my ultrarunning friends have taught me much. First, control what you can and don't worry about the rest (including weather). The only thing you can do is control how you react to those variables. Second, Joe sent me a message that morning to get ahead of my hydration, drinking early and often.

So I filled my pack with water and my handheld with Nuun Performance and gathered with Kim and the other participants.

With a long white beard and relaxed attitude, the race director reminded me of Lazarus from the Barkley Marathons. But I wonder how many people now make that comparison to every trail race director now.

He lined us up and gave a quick few words and with not so much as a horn, bell or cigarette lighting, he unceremoniously sent us off into the woods three minutes ahead of schedule.

"I don't have GPS," I declared as I fumbled with my watch, not accustomed to an event that starts early. So much a road runner, I tell you.

Prior to the race, Kim and I had discussed a plan. We would run together as much as we could but there was no shame in falling back or surging ahead depending on what the day dealt each of us. And so I ran alongside my friend on the bike path on the first part of the course, which was described as a figure 8. (In reality, it looked like a crazy path with a middle finger at the top.)

We ran over a small foot bridge and turned right. We wound on paved trail and turned left onto a trail. There was some mud, some grass, and I breathed a sign of relief that my feet were home. My eyes darted right and left, trying to take in the sights but also looking for the orange flags that marked the 7.6-ish mile course.

We came out into an open green path and followed it briefly to more pavement before taking a sharp left.

A dam left.

Englewood, we learned, is known for five dams and part of the course is on a gravel path that runs parallel to one of them. It was open, hot, endless and the most grueling part of the course. But it was also flat, and Kim and I found ourselves moving at a decent clip amongst the crowd of runners.

I worried about the pace, in the 9's and far from what I had predicted. My goal was to run each of the four loops in 90 minutes, about an 11:45 pace, and we were more than 2 minutes faster. But I told myself not to get ahead, to think about the end game, and relax into it. There would be trail hills to walk (the organizers promised three significant inclines) and those would make up for it.

When we got to the turn, we found ourselves on a park road and running on a downhill. A glorious, shaded downhill. And so we continued at a solid pace albeit hot but it felt good.

And so it would go for that first loop. Over foot bridges and on dirt trails, across grass and up hills to gorgeous waterfalls. Just when things became mundane, the course would take a turn and we would find ourselves in new surroundings where the earth was cracked or the tree cover waned and shadows interrupted a bright, curving path.

Before we knew it, in about 1:20, we found ourselves at the start/finish area, with one loop down and three to go. Our best ever crew chief was there to help, and I decided to ditch my pack. My back was hurting from the weight and with the a handheld and good access to aid stations, I decided that I would be OK without it.

The dam road. It's the place, I decided, that would make or break your race. And on the second loop, I decided that I needed to make it my race.

While I love(d) running with Kim, my frequent check-ins with pace and worry were wearing on me. I needed to run my pace, whatever that may be, and let her run hers. I needed to be selfish, to only worry about me, and allow her the same opportunity. So I told her that I was going to fall back and wished her well.

There's something about taking the pressure off that allows you to relax and, in that second loop, I did. My stride felt more natural, my stance taller, my body stronger. More able.

But to keep it that way, I had to be diligent with fueling and hydration - especially since I had ditched the pack. My goal was to take in 200 to 300 calories an hour and drink any time I even remotely thought about it. During the first loop, I had a pack of margarita Clif Shot Bloks and Nuun Performance and the second loop was Cherry Cola Honey Stingers.

There were two aid stations -- one at the start/finish with water and a sport drink that will go unnamed and one at the middle of the figure 8 with all kinds of trail goodies. I made my first stop in the middle of that second loop, refilling the handheld and slurping some of the refreshingly cool water. I also poured pickle juice into a cup and threw it down the hatch. Having been reminded the hard way during a particularly brutal training run, I wanted to be mindful of my salt and electrolyte intake. And so I continued this ritual of sorts through the third loop.

"This is the dumbest thing I have ever done," I declared when I stopped at the picnic table after the second loop.

Looking back, there was no reason for me to say this. I was still running strong, still feeling good. Even having slowed down during the second loop, I had still finished it around 1:25. I think, mentally, I was getting tired. And when having discussed the race the day prior, I had projected that the third loop would be the hardest.

So there I was, taking two salt pills that Pattie so kindly got out, ready to take on the third loop. The part that I had told everyone would be the worst.

If running will teach you anything, though, it is that you can't ever declare that it will be one way and think it will be. While I was ready to fight and switch gears, I found myself cruising the third loop.

Well, sort of.

In the weeks prior to the race, I had a couple of tumbles running on trails. Part of it was rooty and wet conditions, part of it was laziness in picking up my feet. Joe instructed me that I would have a "dam" good race but I needed to pick up my "dam" feet.

It was great advice and if I had a mantra of any sort on Saturday, it was "Pick up your damn feet." And yet, I didn't. I fell once, on dirt, in the first loop but got up almost as quickly as I fell. In the third loop, I wasn't so lucky. On one of the wooden plank paths, running on autopilot, my toe got caught in a tiny gap and I flew forward. Thankfully, if there is a thankfully, I fell toward my left side - my good side and did so quickly that I couldn't brace myself. My knee and palm took the brunt of it and when I stood, I worried that this dumb thing could have taken me out.

It was  a short jog to the aid station, and I was able to rinse it off and assess. I was going to live! And live to run the rest of the race. I took a drink of water, poured some on my head and hat and grabbed a cup of pickle juice before going on my way.

I slowed up a bit just to see how things would feel but once I realized that the fall wouldn't affect my gait, I continued plugging forward. I walked the hills near the two waterfalls on the course (one up and one down) but was still running strong.

As I pulled into the aid station for the second time on the third loop, I heard a sweet, "Hey." I looked up and saw a beautiful girl.

Kim.

"I know you!" I said with enthusiasm, so excited to see my friend.

She was heading out to finish the third loop but I had caught her and after pouring water on my head, hat and drinking some, I set out to find her. On the flat bike path, down a hill from the dam road, I ran past her. Slowed. Drank from my handheld. Got caught. And gained company for the final mile in.

"What do you need?" the volunteer at the start/finish aid station asked.

"Do you have Mountain Dew?"

Mountain Dew. Once my drink of choice, I hadn't touched full-calorie soda in years and even a diet soda since last July. But somewhere on loop three, after trying one of the new Gingerade Gu's, I decided that solid calories were not my thing. I needed calories, though, and I decided it was time to embrace trail running and drink soda. Pepsi was gross but I could swallow the Mountain Dew. Flat and warm, it was calories and caffeine to keep me going.

I had a small cup at the picnic table before heading to Pattie the last time. I sprayed down with sunscreen and took two more salt pills. When she asked me how I was feeling, I said that it felt like I had run 23 miles but I was good.

Kim and I headed off quickly with the quiet understanding that we were going to do this. But we also knew that this loop would be different. It was hot, and we could feel it. And with the dam road just a mile away, promising an unrelenting sun, we knew that it could be slower and a lot less pretty.

I just didn't know how unpretty but soon I would.

I'm not sure whether it was the heat, the caffeine in the Mountain Dew or just the Dew itself, but my stomach started to feel funny. Nauseous. Sort of. And my heart, it was racing. The racing heart, I thought, could be contributing to the nausea.

I had been prepared to walk more in this loop but soon I found myself telling Kim, again, to move ahead. I needed to walk whatever this was out. If anything, I could get my heart rate down enough to feel good.

I walked much of mile 26, collecting myself at the aid station, and moved forward with a run walk. My plan was to do a 5:2 interval, which was pretty doable given the course. Unlike other trails I have been on (and despite what my elevation chart on Strava showed), I felt like this course was really runnable with very few trail hills. In fact, I think that was part of the challenge - so.much.running. (Imagine that!)

When I look back, one of the things that I most proud of is that I didn't get overly pissy during this time. I had accepted the reality but did not resign myself to less than what I could do.

Surprisingly, even though it was my slowest loop, the miles clicked by and I was surprised how quickly I found myself back on the bike path, heading to the finish. So kind as to end on an uphill, I walked to where the tree line started to give way to grass and parking lot and then I ran.

I ran the dam thing.

With the clock reading 6:06, just 6 minutes slower than my goal, and the mercury at 86 degrees, I sat down on a bench happy.

Volunteers asked me if I needed anything -- water, pizza -- but in that moment, there was nothing.

In The Pines

There's no hill named for me. There's no stretch of trail where my legs move to an unwritten rhythm sacred to that space. There's no spot, no fork in the trail where I had to decide whether grit or defeat would lead me.

But when I joined the trail running crew at Chain O Lakes State Park for the Fat Ass 50K, the big lead up to the Indiana Trail 100, as I traversed the unfamiliar course, I was introduced to Mike's Hill. And Jennifer's Hill. Sandy's Puddle. Joe's Section. The High-Five Tree.

These were parts of the course where the veteran trail runners liked to stretch their legs. To test them. These were parts of the course where they are reminded of a darkest moment but also how they took a step forward, toward the light.

There was an honor in the introductions, as if being led through a secret world hidden by trees and separated from my regular running life by miles and circumstance.

It revealed itself slowly with each footfall, each turn, each deep breath of fresh, crisp air. Tree lines and hills. Dirt paths and grassy fields. Foot bridges and old school houses. There was so much to see, so much to explore that it was hard to focus on the miles ahead. The sound of the wind rustling the bare branches, the voices of the blue birds as they flew from tree to tree -- all a welcome song from the worried refrain that plays in my head when I run 20 miles.

On this magical day, I was ready to claim it all for me. This place, this route could be mine if I just found a way to make my way there as I train for the Another Dam 50K.

But just as I was ready to stake my claim, the brown dirt turned red with rusty pine needles. The clean air took on a sweet fragrance, perfumed by the towering pine trees to the right and left. In an instant, I left that secret world. The one where my trail runners reside and build their lives.

I was home. Underneath the evergreen in the front of my grandma's home, a childhood Christmas tree planted when my mom was a child. Playing underneath, tripping on pine cones and climbing its sturdy branches. I was in a world where the future was abstract and the possibilities endless, accompanied on imaginary adventures by my  brother and cousin.

In that small stretch, just near the turn around, at a place they call Rally, I knew I couldn't put my name on the park. It wasn't all for me. But that spot, where the pine needles blanket the ground and cones ornament the line, I knew I could have that.

From the Mat

At the beginning of the year, when the calm of ocean apathy becomes full of waves of possibility ... when the will to change laps up on the shore ... when the horizon, the future, seems so much more attainable than it had just days prior ...

At that time, I thought about what I wanted for myself in 2017. Working and, for all intents and purposes, living in a gym, it is hard to escape the goals of health and physical fitness. I watch guys stack plate after plate on Hammer machines so that they can push 400 pounds with their legs. I see them curl 75 pound dumbbells. I see a crunch on an incline bench performed with such ease to the point of fury that I wonder why I can't do those things.

It's hard not want some of that. To draw up ideas in my head of how to do that.

But looking at my schedule, the docket of classes becoming intertwined with a training plan, I had to be smart. And SMART - specific, measurable, attainable, realistic and time bound.

It's not attainable nor realistic to add leg days or heavy lifting. There's just no time. But there's not the will nor the power - not necessarily mentally, but in the fibers of my muscles that so often speak to me as I get out of the van seat and jump down to the asphalt parking lot of the YMCA.

In those conversations with my legs as I walk closer to the doors, I found my answer. It wasn't trying to be a complete badass or prove that by lifting heavier I am a more competent trainer. No. In those conversations, I realized that I needed to find a way to quiet those muscles. To calm them.

Yoga.

Yoga is one of those things that I always say I want to do but after poring over schedules and plans, I dismiss because of time conflicts and price. But with my new schedule, this new life that I am slowly building, I discovered that there's this magic time of day between 1 and 2:30. At times, I spend it working on freelance pieces or creating menus for a recent foray into home meal delivery. But even then I tell myself that all I need is 20 minutes.

And so after my lunch, I sit on the couch and lose myself in an episode of "Girls" or "Big Little Lies" before cueing up YouTube on the Xbox. Yoga with Adrienne is my favorite channel, and I scroll through the library of videos searching for a 20-minute session that will hopefully loosen my hips and lengthen my hamstrings.

I don't roll out a mat or change my clothes. I don't reach for blocks and bolsters. Hell, half the time, the dog is laid out on our clearance Target rug to the point that I'm sequestered to a 3-foot-by-4-foot space. But I sit there. I pull out the flesh from underneath my sit bones and breathe.

In. Out. In through the nose. Out through the nose. Inhale. Exhale.

As I find myself in downdog, midway through a video, I find myself peering under the couch. A V-Tech ambulance. A keychain that Miles won during an American Heart Association fundraiser. The zip pouch where I attempt to store my crochet hooks. I say "attempt" because with two boys, anything is free game and anything that can be held is instantly a sword.

My head rotates to the right, catching glimpse underneath the TV stand. A Pampered Chef catalog. A tangle of cords and pieces of forgotten mail.

I return to center, focusing on the effort to ground myself between my thumb and forefinger to drive my hips a bit higher -- a loose term considering my lack of flexibility. I blame 50K training.

My practice isn't perfect. It's not serene. It's not always regular. Busy weeks, I never make it to the rug. Others, when I find myself groping for something, I find that seated position two times, three. Sometimes even four.

But it's there.

A small seed that I am starting to water. Feed. I can see it sprout, pushing up through the loose grains of dirt. Straining to find the sun.

60 Seconds to Zero

I measure my life in a minute. 60 seconds.

It's the time it takes for me to warm up the day-old coffee dregs in the carafe in the microwave. The time it takes for it to be drinkable. Hot but not too hot. The perfect complement to the early-morning snack on the laminate counters.

A minute doesn't seem that long. As we get ready for school, just one minute turns into five and we're soon hustling out the door trying to get in the drop-off line before traffic backs up on the street.

But in those early morning hours before I run, the 60 seconds seems to stretch. To drag. I can fill them with a trip to the bathroom or get dressed. I can put almond butter on a banana with such perfection and still tap my toe as I wait for the timer to tick down.

I watch the green digital numbers blip. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. And then there's a quick panic as I press stop. For that minute, it cannot end with a bell or a ding or any kind of alarm. Because it's that minute, the quiet minute, that lets me keep the sense of peace.

The idea.

The rouse.

Stopping that microwave allows me to continue on with that early-morning ritual quietly, in the shadow of the moonlight that comes in through the kitchen windows that desperately need covering. I can eat my snack, drink my coffee, read the news on my iPhone guilt-free. I can head out the door for a run - 6, 8, 10 miles these days - and believe that it is only me.

The family, sleeping above the ceiling, lays unaware. Of me. My effort to slip out the door. The open microwave door.

So Much WTF

They say it's better to show up to the starting line undertrained rather than overtrained. Apparently, adrenaline can carry you through the miles where as too many miles can hinder your performance and put you at risk for injury.

And if that is true, I totally nailed my race this weekend.

The WTF (Winter Trail Frosty - get your minds out of the gutter) is a trail race at Eagle Creek Park in Indianapolis, with a quarter marathon option and a half marathon. My super cool trail running friends had all ran the race last year and returned muddy but happy. So when plans were being made to make the two-hour drive to do it again, I knew I had to join.

As things played out - agreeing to pace Joe for the IT 100 and signing up for Another Dam 50K - the race seemed like an even better idea because it would get me on the trails, get me a long run and give me more time with the crew at the IT.

But I didn't count on missing a week of training thanks to the flu nor going nearly a month between my longest run (11.5 miles) and the race. I also didn't plan on showing up with the remnants of the flu - mostly a hacking cough - though I probably should given my past two races in Indianapolis were less than stellar because of illness. (I had a cold for the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon in November and a stomach bug at at the Indy Mini in May.)

There I was, though. At the starting line on a cold and blustery day - the first in more than a week - swallowing a cough and staring at my Garmin, about to run a half marathon completely unprepared. I was nervous but I reminded myself that I have doubts at every race and the most important thing was to get time on my feet and experience on the trails.

At 10 a.m., the race started, taking us down the parking lot and around into the trail. The pace felt hard. Fast. And I was sure that I would not keep up, even though I was hoping to stick with some of the guys from the group. I looked down at my watch.

WTF. Seriously, WTF.

Sometimes, when I want my kids (read: Silas) to leave me alone, I throw them anything electronic to play with. Including my Garmin. I was paying for it now, as the watch was in bike mode and displaying my pace in mph. It's really helpful, especially if you are not good at running math and rarely run on the treadmill and only know that 6.0 is a 10-minute mile.

But who needs help, really, when you feel like ass in the first mile and know you need to start dropping back? Certainly not me.

Before I get overly bitchy and WTF is me, I had fun with my trail running buddies and enjoyed the course. It was two loops that took you through the woods, down steps, up hills and across a landbridge. Well, the landbridge wasn't so fun. It was a windy day - 20+ mph - and you were between two bodies of water. No protection. Just you, the water and the wind. Even though it was flat there, about half-way through the loop, I no likey.

The rest, though, was great. And the best part about being in the woods for nearly 2 1/2 hours is that I didn't hear "Mommy" once much less 15,000 times, which is about the current pace.

And I made myself think about that when the race started feeling tough in the second loop. It was partly my legs lacking the pep, which could have been due to my lack of experience on the trails or lack of endurance. Tough call. It made me want to walk, which left me coughing like a five-pack a day smoker, which left me feeling ... well, like WTF.

More than that, it was the mental weakness that plagued me, and I allowed it to dictate my outlook and fortitude. If I learned one thing, it's that I need to rediscover my inner bad ass and embrace the hell out of her before June 3.

The Starting Line

"No marathons in 2017," I told Mark.

Marathons are too much work. They take too much training. They make me too cranky. And with the change in my career, I wasn't sure how much time I could truly devote to training.

But on a fantastically temperate November day, on an early morning run, I talked about how I had thought about doing a 50K in December. When I had been working it out in my head, I was piggy-backing off my training for the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon. I could never pull the trigger, though, and on that day I said I was glad. I was burnt out, and I didn't feel like going for another long run ever again.

Or at least for a month.

"I guess the 50K will wait until 2018," I said. "I told Mark no marathons in 2017."

And then, in sync, my friends uttered a single truth: a 50K isn't a marathon.

#word

I let it go. I did. I promise.

Of course, that was until I agreed to pace my friend for a 20-mile loop when he attempts the IT 100 in April. If I was going to get in shape for him, I reasoned, I should do something for myself, too. Being in shape to run 20 miles for him would basically put me in marathon shape and if I was in marathon shape, I could basically be in 50K shape.

(Don't you love runner's logic?!?)

It only took 15 minutes of searching to find Another Dam 50K in Englewood, Ohio, on June 3. Not only was it within a reasonable drive and fit in with my schedule, it cost $25 to register. I can't even run a local 5K for $25. And when my friend agreed to do it, too, I knew it was meant to be.

Training began this week for the race. Well, technically it began last week, but I had flu thanks to my kids. (Next time, I'm quarantining them in their room with a mini fridge stocked with Nuun, juice boxes and fruit snacks.) I'm following a plan (in theory) from Competitor that was written by a fellow Team Nuun member and will require to (finally) consistently run five days a week and tackle hills. Lots of them.

Note: The course claims to be flatish but the loop has three hills and you run the loop four times. That's 12 hills for those who don't like math. And 1,200 hills for those who don't like hills. Also, this race is in southern Ohio. I grew up in southern Ohio. It is not flat.

I'm still in the holy hell what have I done stage of training, daunted by the long runs and 4:04 a.m. alarm. But I'm also in the still hacking up a lung stage of the flu (legit flu, not the stomach bug or a cold), and I'm guessing that as it starts to let up so will the doubt.

2016

I just couldn't do it. It wasn't for lack of trying -- I had changed the speed, the incline. I had taken a pause to sip some much-needed Nuun and then another to wipe my face.

But after 1.68 miles, I hit the red stop button on the treadmill at the Cincinnati YMCA, grabbed a spray bottle and threw in the towel. Literally.

As I walked out of the aerobics room and toward the bathroom, my stomach angry from the previous evening's party food, the wellness attendant politely wished me a happy new year and waved good bye.

Good bye. Good bye, 2016.

The run -- if you can even call it that -- on Dec. 31 was not how I wanted to end the year. While the general consensus is that 2016 was no better than a case of the trots, when it came to running, 2016 was a very good year for me.

I ran 1,375 miles - an all-time high.

I set a PR at every distance I raced. I dropped my 5K time from 25:17 to 25:15 and then 24:47. I dug deep at the Carmel Half Marathon and bested my half marathon time from 2010 (1:54:12) with a 1:53:20. And then, not only did I make my return to marathons -- I ran two and PR'd both times.

I tackled trails and ran Ragnar Cascades with Team Nuun.

I ran some of the most challenging courses (Running Between the Vines) and iconic races (Indianapolis Mini Marathon). I raced at my best and worst (also they Indy Mini).

I made new running friends, cemented old running relationships.

And, most importantly, I found a confidence in my running that I had been missing for longer than I care to admit.

So, yes, it was a very good year.

But as I hung my head in the hallway, trying to decide my next course of action, I couldn't help but feel my angry stomach drop. The year deserved a better run and the strong, almost fearless girl I discovered in 2016 did, too.

Things don't always have the perfect ending, though. It's one of life's great lessons. One that we have to learn over and over ... and over again.

As we also have to learn over and over and over ... and over again, it's all in how we respond. So I faced that oh-so polite wellness attendant and walked back in. I raced past the treadmills and pondered the spin bikes before finding myself in a sequestered stretching area with Body Bars, Bosus and bands. For 20 minutes, I did a HIIT-style resistance workout that annihilated my glutes and set my triceps on fire.

And I was able to prove to myself that even when things aren't looking the way I pictured, I have strength and resilience -- and maybe that was what 2016 was really about.

The Change

I walked into my first newsroom at the age of 18. Eager and excited, I was certain that I was meant to be a journalist.

My heart pitter-pattered as I listened to reporters make phone calls, and the sound of a fax machine made it skip a beat. And the song of a police scanner gave me goosebumps and caused a rush of adrenaline.

I spent that summer, my first after high school, typing honor roll, dean's lists and marriage licenses. It was far from a glamorous life at the group of weekly community newspaper but it was something and I was sure that that something would lead to something else.

And it did. From that June on, I never spent more than a summer outside a newsroom. I wrote stories and edited copy. I covered government meetings, court hearings. I wrote feature stories and news pieces. I became one of the youngest editors-in-chief at the daily student newspaper at Bowling Green State University in Ohio and kept the position for nearly a year. My fist job out of college began the day after I graduated and I followed the work to Fort Wayne.

When I joined the morning daily in 2004, I was excited to be at an operation with a respectable circulation and have the opportunity to grow. There was good journalism happening, veteran editors and reporters and an atmosphere of curiosity, excitement and security. And grow I did. I quickly moved into middle management and thrived on the challenge of the work.

But somewhere down the line, things changed. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the business. Maybe it was both.

My passion to discover and share the news dulled and the work became just that – work. The eager, excited girl who got her start at the Western Hills Press had been replaced by someone weighed down by office politics and growing responsibilities that were a direct result of the decline of print media.

It wasn't until my office experienced its first round of layoffs at the beginning of the year, though, that I really accepted that I was no longer where I was meant to be. I was no longer where I wanted to be, doing what I wanted to do.

Of course, that knowledge didn't make anything simple. Working wasn't just a choice; it was something I had to do – personally and financially.

At first, I thought I would just find a traditional job, 40 hours a week Monday through Friday, that would make use of my skill set. Writing, editing, social media. I figured I could jump into public relations, marketing, content management. However, it was much harder than I imagined and I found myself continually frustrated that I was not finding the right fit. I doubted myself, my abilities – all the things that had seemed so certain many years ago.

The thing is, though: The obvious plan might not always be the right one. And the right plan might not be the perfect one.

One day, when things seemed particularly frustrating, I sent an email. I had spent months thinking about sending that note to our pastor, putting in my application for youth director, but it always seemed far-fetched. I was a journalist. I was a working woman. I was a mom who could not stay at home. I was not the model of Christianity. I was not a leader of children. I was not a mom who could work part-time and stay at home.

And yet, I am.

Because the email I sent that day was the missing piece in the puzzle I had been trying to solve. When I snapped it in, everything else came together. My family, my passions, my life outside a newsroom.

So, on Nov. 4, I worked my last day as a full-time journalist. It was ... is .. bittersweet.

I know, though, that I am doing the right thing. And what is it I'm doing? I'm the youth director at church, leading the junior and senior students. I am a freelance writer, contributing a weekly column to the newspaper as well as other features. I am a wellness coach/personal trainer/LiveStrong coordinator/fitness instructor at the YMCA.

I am someone who followed her heart, rebuilding that fire she had at 18. Only this time, it's not to tell someone else's story. It's to write my own.

A Reason to Clean

I loved the shorts from the first moment I set eyes on them at my local Kohl's store. A vibrant floral print with a tropical flair, they were bold and pretty – and a grand departure from the Nike Tempos I typically wore.

But I resisted buying them last summer. I had no great need for the shorts, and I could never line up the sales and coupons the way I liked. My willpower, which seems to be nill at Kohl's, was quite remarkable.

Then, as if someone had noticed my fortitude, I was rewarded. In the late fall of last year, I found one pair ... in my size ... on clearance ... for 80 percent off ... and I had a 30 percent off coupon. It was mean to be.

To boot, we had unseasonably warm weather last fall (and winter) and so I was able to wear the shorts a couple times before packing them away.

A photo posted by Kimberly (@foot.notes) on Nov 4, 2016 at 6:35am PDT

Or so I thought I packed them away in the plastic storage bins that line my cinder-block basement walls.

When I switched out my running clothes at the first sign of warm weather in the spring, the shorts were nowhere to be found. I shrugged it off, assuming they were in a bin that I had decided not to unpack. Maybe I would find them when I switched to winter ... again.

But then two of my workout tanks came up missing. They weren't anything special. In fact, the GapFit styles were rather ill-fitting and I rarely wore them. Still, I wanted to know where they were.

And on one randomly free Saturday, I set out to find the tanks. I cleaned up the floor of my closet, and put the toys that seemed to occupy the space back in Miles' room. I put away belts and hung hats. I cleared the top of the dresser that is in the closet and put pieces aside for a future garage sale.

Finally, it was time to pull out the piece of furniture. My eyes darted quickly around for the coral and aqua tanks but they were nowhere among the mess.

Mess.

In the pile, I found my shirt from the Go Girl Triathlon, myriad T-shirts ... and THE SHORTS. I found my favorite shorts. In November. When It would be unlikely that I could wear them. Obviously, I didn't care. I was just happy to have them.

"Who cares about the tanks?" I thought.

And then again, the universe must have sensed my shift because a week later, without intending to, I found the tanks.

I was organizing my summer running clothes, including putting said shorts in a bin, when I began pulling out the drawers of the dresser and dumping them on the bed. (Rule No. 1 of cleaning: You must make a bigger mess before achieving success.)

When I pulled out the last one, there were some items that had been pushed over the back of the drawer and fallen to the bottom ... including the two tanks. I was shocked. SHOCKED, I tell you. They were right under my feet the whole time.

So I picked them up, gave them a good shake and a hard look ... and then threw them in the bin with the other summer items. We'll see if they are still ill-fitting in 2017.

#BeMonumental {A Race Recap}

"Only those who dare to fail greatly can achieve greatly." 

– Robert F. Kennedy

When I set out to train for the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon, I set a big goal. A scary goal. I dared to work for the one thing I've always wanted when it came to the marathon – a sub-4 finish.

Beginning on July 4, I ran race pace miles at 9:09 (often faster) and tempos at 8:30 or, again, faster. I ran midweek medium-long runs and I never skipped a long effort. When the training plan gave me a distance range, I always erred on the side of running farther. I knew that if I wanted to dare to dream big that I wanted to show up to the starting line on Nov. 5 knowing that I had done the work. I wanted to feel confident that there wasn't one more thing I could have done to better prepare myself for the 26.2 miles that lie ahead.

However, what I didn't factor in was showing up less than 100 percent.

On Halloween night, just five days for the race, I felt the niggle in the back of my throat. You know the one – it's caused a bit of sinus drainage and a sure sign that illness is coming. I was determined not to let it affect my race so I did everything I could to ward it off - zinc, hydration, essential oils. But come Friday night, after a stressful week, I had an annoying dry cough and loads of uncertainty about the race.

Nonetheless, I tried to remain positive and repeated the things my friends all said to me. I reminded myself of the training I had done and not to get ahead of myself. I lined up with the 4:00 pacer per the plan and prayed for a good day.

And a good day it was for a marathon. It was high 30s, low 40s at the start and in the 50s at the finish. There winds were calm and the few clouds in the sky offered just the right amount of protection.

But with the first step across the mat, I knew those things – the external factors – wouldn't make or break me. There was nothing short of a miracle that would make me that day.

I felt tired. My chest felt tight. My eyes seemed glassy and glazed. My heart rate seemed high and I couldn't catch my breath. And that was just the first mile, a 9:40 – the pace group slow because of the crowd of 20,000 runners on the streets of Indianapolis.

As hard as it felt, though, I tried my best to stick with it. The pace, the group, the race. I told myself that I would hang until mile 5 and see how it felt.

At mile 5, it still felt hard and I knew I needed to slow down if I wanted to cross the finish line. The pace group was running hot, more than likely trying to make up for the first mile, so I decided to let them go. However, as the sign bobbed farther and farther ahead, my legs didn't seem to lag. Miles 6-8 were all sub-9. It seemed like the more I tried to slow down, the more my legs had something to prove.

My new goal became to run through mile 10.5 strong. I am incredibly blessed to have a group of women to train with on the weekends, and all of them came down to Indianapolis to support me in the race. Their plan was to be at miles 10.5 and 17 to cheer me on and, maybe, 20 depending on traffic. They all believe in me so much and I wanted to do them proud.

So the grind continued.

While the miles between 8 and when I saw them (11.5, actually, because of logistics) were slower, I was staying as strong as I could. I was taking Gu every 5 miles and had taken salt at 7. I was staying hydrated thanks to my Nathan pack and Nuun. And there were points when I really thought I could maybe pull it off.

Then mile 13 came. I took my first walk break then, sipping as best I could from the pack and trying to, as I say, get my shit together. I turned a corner and approached a group of residents spectating. The one man commented that hydration is important, that it was good to take it in, and encouraged me to sprint the next mile.

"Hmph," I thought. "That is definitely not going to happen."

And with that acknowledgement, my mental race began to slip away. The walk breaks – 45 seconds to a minute – became nearly regular each mile and the idea of a time goal seemed ludicrous; finishing seemed like it would be a miracle. When I saw my friends again at mile 15.5 and they asked how I was doing, I just shook my head. It wasn't just that I didn't even have the energy to fake it; there was a part of me, too, that wanted to prepare them for a lackluster finish.

I handed off my hydration pack, which had become annoying at this point, and soldiered on for what I was sure would be a death march.

But for as disappointing and frustrating as the race felt, I had moments of fight. Moments when I decided that I was not going to let this day, this body, be in charge. Around mile 18, I thought there might be a chance that I could run a 4:15 – a finish time that I had quoted much of the summer when asked what I'd be happy with. Miles 19 and 20 came in at 9:14 and 9:20.

As a reward, I gave myself a short walk break but my mile 21 split was slowed further by a fuel station stocked with orange slices, pretzels and other goodies. While most of it did nothing for me, the oranges were a God send and I strolled as I gobbled up two. An 11:26 split meant that much of the time I gained in the previous two miles was gone.

Still, I pushed forward. I kept thinking if I could just run even as my buddy Joe had instructed that the race might not get away from me. However, my legs had no interest in running a 9:30 or even 9:45. They wanted to move faster, run the race for which they were trained, but the body didn't have it. And so I'd slow to a walk and see my split flash in the 10's and sometimes 11's if I stopped for water.

I spent the last miles of the race bouncing between disappointment, disgust, defeat and determination. It was a hard place to be, and I think it was made more difficult because my experience at Fort4Fitness five weeks earlier was such a stark difference. I had felt so in control and strong and, most importantly, I was proud.

I was none of those in the final miles of Monumental. In those miles, I felt as if I was failing greatly. Not just myself but all of those who believed in me, trained with me, supported me. And that was where I struggled the most. It wasn't just that my finish time would be so far off my goal, it was that I would disappoint them.

Looking back it days later, I know this isn't true. Because as I headed down the straight away, I could hear their cheers. I could hear the congratulations. I could hear the friendship.

It didn't matter that I hadn't blown it out of the water. It was that I dared to try.

Finish time – 4:18:54, a new PR.

Freedom, Not Fear

I saw the lights of the pick-up truck in the cool, dark morning long before it drove past me. Heading south toward the intersection of the street and the park, I assumed the driver was a groundskeeper or the like. It's not unusual to see someone unlock the bathroom facilities or head on the park path toward the club path in the early morning.

But as I made my way to the outer edges of the park on a pre-dawn run – a solo outing that life necessitated – I was a bit surprised to see that the truck didn't turn right into the park and nor did the driver stop at the bathroom facility. With each step I took, I waited to see the headlights come toward me and the driver leaving the area, certainly having made a wrong turn.

Unnerved. Unsettled.

I could feel a heaviness grow in my abdomen as I passed the truck, parked off the road and under some trees – beyond the parking area, beyond the baseball diamonds, beyond anything notable. Even in the middle of the day, there are few reasons to park there. And yet, there was the truck.

My breathing grew labored, my pace quickened and my chin took up residence on my shoulder. "This is it," I thought. "This is it."

I shouldn't have ran this way, I chided myself. I should have headed north on the road alongside the park. I should have stayed in the neighborhood. I should not have taken this section of trail that is unlit and leading away from the park. I know better.

I just needed to get to the cut off, where I could slip from the trail onto a sidewalk that led me into a tony neighborhood. A safe neighborhood. A place where I would never think to look over my shoulder.

But as I got closer to that spot, I saw something in the distance. I couldn't tell if it was the fear that, at this point, had consumed me. I didn't know whether it was an animal, a shadow, a tree.

Soon, I knew. I knew it all.

It was a man, the driver of the truck, walking with his dog. He stepped aside and said hello, allowing me to pass.

I wanted to ask what he was doing there, why he was out walking in the dark, but he would be entitled to ask me the same. I had no more right to be on that trail than he did.

Dorothy Beal, whom I met years ago at Hood to Coast and have kept in touch with via social media, recently penned a post for Active.com about what it's like to be a female runner {read it HERE}. The piece paints a frightening image of being followed, harassed, objectified and scared – things that are all too familiar. The stories, the attacks, the fear. And it can change how you run. It can change you.

But as I read the piece, and let it be said that I respect her perspective, all I could think about is that it's a terrible way to feel. I want to feel freedom when I run, not frightened.

And it's a choice I have to make every time I head out by myself.

When I pass someone on a park bench as I run on the outskirts of downtown during lunch, I don't think about him noticing my phone or pricey watch. I refuse to picture him jumping from the bench and grabbing me. Sure, it could happen. However, I think about why he's there. It could be sad or sinister or completely harmless. Just as I have a right to run and feel secure, he has a right to be there and not to be criminalized.

When a passing driver honks, I take a deep breath and keep my composure and pray for his sanity. If my sweaty self is what he thinks is worthy of such actions, then he needs help.

When I pass a man who looks like an "undesirable," ruffled and scuffled, I take a deep breath, continue at my pace and wave. He is a person. He is someone I do not know – and that should not make me scared. It should make me open to accepting his story and his circumstances.

Maybe it's my stepfather who led me to this perspective. Rough around the edges with a gruff voice and thick beard, he would have been someone that made me scared to pass on the street. He didn't dress in fancy clothes, he didn't drive a nice car and he didn't have the best social skills. But there wasn't danger there; there was love and generosity. The other things were created by circumstance – tours in Vietnam, life as a prisoner of war, abuse in the VA system. His experiences were ones no one should ever have to live through and yet he did, and it's no wonder he was the way he was. It would not have been fair to him for someone to boil him down to a demon with male genitalia. It would not be fair to make him a rapist or a thief or a killer.

And, yes, it's not fair that we live in a world where things have happened to make us feel like we don't have any other option. But I am creating one.

So this week, as I ran along the trail and under a bridge, I didn't speed up or head to the trail spur when I saw someone up ahead. I lifted my hand, put a smile on my face and brought the words "Good morning" to my lips. I said a prayer for him and for myself that the day would treat us kindly.

And I continued on.

On The Run

Under the light of the moon and a blanket of clouds, I pressed start and set off.

I ran north. I ran toward a lovely neighborhood and away from my usual haunts. I ran to cross off just one more Monumental training run and away from the blistering pace that I’ve had to keep the past couple weeks. I ran to do something, to feel something.

Something better.

Better.

I didn’t feel good when the alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. on a Saturday. I didn’t feel good when I stared down 5 solo miles before the break of day.

I didn’t feel good that morning when I looked at the weather app and saw that the temperature was in the high 30s. I didn’t have the excited anticipation of seeing my breath and the frosty blades of grass sparkle in the moonlight.

But when I stepped out of the house, I did feel better. The air was cool and crisp and the smell of leaves – yes, they do have a smell – was there as I took a deep inhale. In the fury of the day, it’s not always there but in the early morning, it filled every breath.

And even on that first stretch going north, a stretch that’s riddled with false flats, I did start to feel better. My mind found a space that wasn’t crammed with to-do lists and “oh shits,” and my heavy legs found a slow, comfortable pace that is conducive to shaking out the cobwebs.

With each step, I started to think about the places this run was taking me, the things it was showing me. I thought about the moments I wouldn’t get if I had hit the snooze button or tried to rush the miles later in the day.

I looked at the way the clouds looked blue and painted against the black sky. I looked at the way the moon managed to keep itself in view. I saw the turning leaves of the tree catch fire in the moon’s light and the bare branches hang ominously as I felt the crunch beneath my feet.

I listened to the horn of the train miles away pierce the silence.

I wondered why my neighbors are always awake at 5 a.m. on a Saturday, their front door open and the TV in the corner of the living room turned on. 

I strode past goblins and ghosts, skeletons and tombstones. Not particularly as scenic as a night run during Christmas, I had to appreciate the Halloween spirit.

And then I realized one of the spirited houses wasn't decorated. It had been TP'd.

Such is the pace of life and marathon training. Revel in the space it gives you and find room to laugh when you can.

Taper

Shorter runs, more sleep and all the food. 

After 15 weeks of training, I've hit the long-awaited and well-earned taper as the starting line of the Indianapolis Monumental Marathon inches closer.

It's that spot in training, too, like pregnancy when you feel like you have spent forever training but don't feel ready. The end is now far too close and there is so much work that could have been done.

I only hit 40 miles in a week maybe once. I ran a 5-mile tempo during half marathon training this spring; I wonder whether I should have done 6 or 7 miles for the marathon; I don't remember too many mid-week long runs that exceeded 8 miles.

And yet, as I fret, I know that I followed the plan. There are ridiculous smiley face stickers covering each of the runs – the negative split efforts that required patience and control, the intervals that required a disconnect from my brain and quick turnover; the tempos and race pace efforts; the long runs and then long runs with fast miles. I have retired shoes and stink-ridden tanks.

The spreadsheet in my Google Drive reports that I have ran 464.7 miles since I began training on July 4, my first run of this training cycle a 3-miler on an Atlanta hotel treadmill.

My posting about this training cycle has been sporadic at best. I had hopes to deliver recaps every week but barely manged bi-weekly, if that. Usually it would be an indication that my training was suffering somewhere but it hasn't. It's the other things – life, family, work – that have made it hard to share things but running, thankfully, has been a constant in these 15 weeks.

Rather than try to regurgitate the training runs I've missed and bore you with weeks of logs, I thought I'd share some of the recent workouts I've done. A reminder to myself that though part of me wants another four weeks of high mileage, I will hit the starting line strong.

Negative splits: The plan called for 7-9 miles, blocking the run in three sections – 3, 4 miles; 3, 4 miles; 1 mile. The run came at the tail end of a busy week, and I had to run both my long run and this one over the weekend. Thankfully, I was able to procure company for the Saturday outing. I slowly ran a mile to our meeting place, trying to come in around long run pace. I arrived a bit early and so I continued the slow jog to and from the baseball diamonds. My first two miles were 10:02 and 10:03. But when my friends joined me, the pace quickened. Excited to all see each other, we began talking – always translating to quicker turnover. 9:32, 9:27, 9:16 the splits beeped from my Garmin 230. When the 9:16 came in, I realized that this run would no longer get checked as a long, slow effort but the negative split workout of the week. We ran two 9:15s and then I split to head home. Ready to make that last mile count, to check the last block, I picked it up. 8:29. Not too bad for a week after my 26.2-mile long run at Fort4Fitness. 

Tempo: If there is a run that intimidates me most, it is the tempo. The long, hard sustained effort is, well, just hard. The last big one for Monumental included a warm-up, one mile at race pace (9:09), 4-5 miles at tempo and a cool down. I really wanted to do this run on the treadmill so I could let the machine set the pace and I just had to hold on but a gorgeous fall day couldn't be spent running indoors. My warm-up mile was a little fast (9:29) and as was my race pace (8:48). After that, most of the run was a mental shit storm of self doubt. I had to stop once to tie my shoe and another time just to get my crap together. Still, I was happy to see that the 8 miles were at an 8:42 pace.

The 20-miler: After running a successful 26.2 miles on Oct. 1, I was pretty confident going into my final 20-miler. However, I really had to work for it around mile 13 and miles 17-20, which were on my own, was a battle of my will to get it done and my lack of interest in running by myself. I'm pretty sure I just sat down at one point to tie my shoes. It was too much to bend over, I guess. Or, maybe I was hoping that I'd flop over and fall asleep.

Down on the Farm

Fields of wheat, corn and soy beans. Flat, open spaces for miles and miles. Country music.

There are few things more Indiana than that. Though we have a large metropolitan area (Indianapolis) and Fort Wayne (where I live) is far from a small town, Indiana is and likely always be the picture of America's heartland.

But in the 12 years I've lived here, I've never been to an actual farm. Sure, there's been trips to u-pick apple orchards and farmers markets but a farm where crops are grown on a large-scale basis? Nope.

On Saturday, though, that all changed. Thanks to Green Giant, I got to experience Indiana.

Country music artist Luke Bryan brought his 2016 Farm Tour to nearby Monroeville and its Spangler Farms. For one night (but likely days) the operation was turned into a concert festival with cowboy hat vendors, food purveyors and a massive stage where four opening acts would warm up the large crowd before Luke Bryan took the stage.

While a country music concert isn't normally my scene and I almost said no to the tickets from Green Giant, Mark and I were so glad we went. Our date nights normally consist of one or some combination of the following: dinner at a restaurant, a night at the movies or a trip to Target. Yes, Target without kids constitutes a date night. Sad, eh?

Not sad? The night at the farm.

We arrived about 4:30, an hour and a half before music began. We wanted to make sure we had enough time to park and enjoy the set-up in the daylight.

Stop No. 1: Food. I had promised Mark that there would be food there and we'd be able to scrounge up enough for dinner. Of course, I didn't actually know this but thankfully I was right. There was the typical fair options – barbecue, fried delights and turkey legs. As I've never actually had a turkey leg, I went for it. The night was all about trying new things, right?

Stop No. 2: The Green Giant pop-up. I was there because of that handsome green dude, so I wanted to make sure I popped by early.

They had a cute little set-up with tables an chairs, a kitchen of sorts and folks handing out samples of the latest and greatest from Green Giant. GG recently debuted a new line of products (in Kroger stores in September and coming soon to Walmart) that is helping folks incorporate more veggies into their daily diets.

First up, veggie tots.  I tried both the cauliflower and broccoli and cheese, and I was an instant fan. These are the type of things that I want to make at home (should make at home?) but I don't. On any given night, I have 15 minutes from the time I walk in the door to when dinner needs on the able. Not only do these taste good but Mark could easily throw a bag in the oven before I get home.

There were also samples of the riced veggies, which are made with cauliflower. My kids are carb hounds, and if I can give them a cauliflower version of their favorite side, I'm a happy mom.

The Green Giant line also includes mashed cauliflower and roasted veggies. While it's always best to make your own, it's not always feasible. It's nice to know that I can zip down my freezer aisle and grab something that not only tastes good but makes me feel like I'm doing something right as a mom. (Again, honesty: Those moments can be far and few between.)

Stop No. 3: A nice spot on the grass to catch the show. There were four opening acts but once Luke Bryan took the stage ... it was a night to remember.

(Fe)eling Low {InsideTracker Results}

Saturday mornings were for big breakfasts.

My mom would unwrap the white butcher paper and peel back the plastic wrap before in two quick motions that were almost natural after years of cooking. The fresh sausage would hit the skillet with a sizzle, the fat melting quickly and drops of grease flying above the black cast iron surface.

Growing up, I didn't know any other way. Gravy made with sausage ground that week at the butcher and cooked in a cast iron skillet.

I didn't know about stainless steel or copper, T-Fal or anodized, ceramic or aluminum. It was cast iron that you cooked with. But as I grew older, I equated the cast iron with my lower middle class upbringing and opted for cookware that seemed more modern, trendy.

Then as I grew older still, I found myself wishing for the heavy, sturdy skillets that not only felt nostalgic but imparted so much flavor to the foods I grew up eating. I would gaze at the cast iron in the store, thinking of buying a skillet or two but never finding a good enough reason to get one.

But, recently I did – per my doctor's orders.

The recommendation to cook with cast iron came from my new general practitioner and was among several to address the results of my InsideTracker test. I had the blood panel done, thanks to a partnership between Nuun and InsideTracker, in early September. The tests measured biomarkers important to performance and overall health.

When I took the test, I expected to hear that my vitamin D was low (as it had been during my pregnancy with Silas) but I felt that I was in overall good health. I was eating well, keeping up with most of the healthy habits I established during Whole30, and was at my lowest post-Si weight.

My vitamin D, though, wasn't the problem. Or at least the most pressing one – and there were some pressing issues.

• My ferritin level was 6 ng/ml and a normal level is 11 to 307 ng/ml. According to InsideTracker, 57 percent of those tested have optimized ferritin levels and I was among the 3 percent with a low level. Ferritin is a protein that stores iron, and iron impacts the oxygen-carrying capabilities of the blood. According to the results, my iron stores are at 11 percent and my doctor said the number should at least be 20 percent. My hemoglobin levels are on the very low end level of normal but considered below the optimum level by InsideTracker for my needs and goals.

• My white blood cell count was low, coming in at 3.4 thousand/uL; normal results are 4,500 to 11,000. The lower count could indicate inflammation or other issues. My doctor was not overly concerned about this number. However, I will admit that I did freak out for a moment and spent 10 minutes convincing myself that I had an autoimmune disorder. Nine percent of InsideTracker users have a low WBC; 74 percent have an optimized level.

• My glucose level was 95. The InsideTracker optimized zone is 65 to 81 but my doctor said anything between 70 and 100 is OK. But 101? That is considered pre-diabetic. As someone with a strong family history of diabetes (my mom was insulin dependent and my brother is on an oral medication for the disease), my number was alarming. My doctor, whom I learned is vegan, said you are what you eat. If I am not diligent about managing my sugar cravings, I could very well put myself in a place that I have been trying to avoid: on the same track as my mom.

• While InsideTracker did not identify the levels as problematic, my doctor said that my vitamins B12 and D could use some work.

Here's the thing about InsideTracker – they don't just tell you what's wrong but they offer suggestions how to fix it. And it's not all about taking supplements.

The dietitians at InsideTracker said that I could see improvements in most areas with diet changes. To improve my iron levels, I should incorporate dark chocolate, wheat germ, soy beans and spinach. Wheat germ, granola, chia seeds, avocado and chickpeas could help my white blood cell count. As for the glucose number, beans, wheat germ, squash, fiber cereal, chia and avocado could offer aid.

I'll admit that I was a bit hesitant to make some of the changes because some of them are so anti-Whole30. I liked the control that I had when eating Whole30, as well as the changes to the way my body looked. But I learned from the test that being tired the way I have been is not normal and it's not just because I have a temperamental toddler. If I didn't want to be tired all the time (and I mean all the time), I needed to redefine what's healthy for me right now.

So it's OK to add gluten-free oats to my breakfast rotation and eat hummus in the afternoon. A low-sugar granola isn't all that bad on top of yogurt and, well, hello, dark chocolate.

Most of my changes, though, are focused on adding a green smoothie in the morning for extra spinach, incorporating more greens into my daily eating and planning at least one meal a week that features grass-fed beef from Seven Sons Farm.

I have also started taking supplements, as advised by doctor – iron, B12 and D. I also picked up an odorless garlic supplement, which was listed among potential changes by InsideTracker. There's some evidence that garlic can help with sugar levels but it might just be for diabetics. However, as diabetes is a real hot spot for me, I will do anything that I can to lower that level.

It's hard to say whether the changes have helped. It can take time to build up iron stores – my doctor anticipates that I'll take the supplements for six months – and we've had a string of rough nights thanks to teething. However, I feel good knowing where my health really stands and that I'm doing something to improve it.

Fort4Fitness Inaugural Marathon {A Race Recap}

"Ran a marathon to train for a marathon. And casually PR'd in the process." 

Well, when you put it like that ... but I have to say my Nuun teammate pretty much nailed my day on Saturday.

About the race: Fort4Fitness is the largest running event in Fort Wayne and hosts a weekend of races – Kids and Seniors marathons on Friday night and a 4-Mile, 10K and half marathon on Saturday. This year, Fort4Fitness added a marathon, which would consist of four loops – a bonus loop and then courses for the other races. The bonus loop, around 3 miles, was followed by the 10K, the half and, finally, the 4-mile race. The marathon began at 7 a.m.; 10K at 7:30 a.m.; half marathon, 8:30; and 4-mile, 10:30. These start times might seem insignificant but they come into play later as unless you were running a sub-9 pace, marathoners would be smack dab in the middle of the other races.

The plan: As I said earlier in the week, Fort4Fitness was to be a supported training with friends. To keep it a steady pace, I would run with my friends leading the 4:40 pace group (10:40 pace). If I was having trouble, endurance wise, I would back off on the last loop – the 4-mile course.

Pre-race: I was nervous as hell. I didn't feel ready to run a marathon, having only ran 18 miles before and one of my long runs was Ragnar Trail Cascades. I was glad to have my friend Kim there to distract me from the 26.2 miles ahead of us.

It was one of those perfect days. The temperature at the start was in the high 50s, where it was going to stay for most of the day. Clouds blanketed the sky and though the threat of rain had the humidity near 100 percent, it was one of those damp cold days.

The kind of day you want to run. And run I did.

Just shy of 6:50 a.m., I headed to Corral D and lined up with the 4:40 group. Joe shared the pace team's plan to keep the pace around 10:30 and bank a bit of time. While for most races, this strategy wouldn't be recommended but with the anticipation that we'd hit gridlock on the fourth loop when we hit folks at the back of the pack for the 4-mile race.

There was a silent countdown and then the cannon fired. We were off.

The pacers did a great job keeping the pace controlled and smooth on the first loop, as well as engaging everyone around us. There was a new mom who had a 6-month-old at home. A fan of Tough Mudders was running her first marathon. A Michigan man who liked to go on racecations was running his third marathon in as many weeks.

And then there was me. The girl everyone said wouldn't stick with the 4:40 group. But I did. There were times where I'd creep up and have force myself to slow down to let the group catch up. However, I was really conscientious to take it loop by loop, mile by mile.

Splits, 1-3: 10:30, 10:21, 10:10

The first loop seemed to be over in the blink of an eye, and we found ourselves turning right on Baker Street and heading toward the start on Harrison. We were about a minute behind the start of the 10K and once we were on course, we quickly found ourselves weaving around walkers.

With as much politeness as one could have in the situation, the pacers tried to advise the other participants to keep to the right so that we could pass. Thankfully, a course marshal on a bike cleared a path on the left side of the course so that we could make our way south down Calhoun Street.

Again, I found myself creating distance between myself in the pacers. Again, I tried to slow down. Again, I reminded myself that his was a training run. I needed to race smart so that I could recover and continuing training for Monumental. So I did what anyone would do – I turned around and busted out some quick dance moves for the entertainment of the group.

Just before the third mile of the 10K course (and mile 6 for us), we hit a spot that was added purely for mileage. We turned left down a side street, ran a half-block, around a cone and then rejoined the previous course. When we previewed the route three weeks ago, we identified it as an area of congestion – and we were right. But it was probably for the best because, as Stacey said, the group was running hot.

As hot as the pace was for the group, the first two loops felt like a warm-up and I was on cruise control. My mind started trying to go places but I fought it. Fought it hard.

Splits, 4-9: 10:11, 10:22, 10:30, 10:16, 10:07, 10:23

When Fort4Fitness announced the marathon earlier this year, I was skeptical. I did not like the idea of the four loops, and I thought it was a recipe for boredom and DNFs. Surely, passing the turn off to the finish three times would be too tempting for some runners.

However, I really found myself liking it. The loops broke up the race, and I felt like I just had to get through that loop. A marathon is much easier to take on when it feels like it's only 6.2 miles or 13.1.

As we started the half marathon, we again found ourselves navigating walkers but I was thankful to see that the crowd thinned out quickly enough – and by quickly enough, I mean within 3 miles.

But the work to get through it mean that I had lost the 4:40 group. I knew that this could mean trouble. There would be no one to keep me on pace but me. I'm terrible on not running like an asshole, and I have began doing my tempos on the treadmill to stay in the right zone.

Just keep it at 10:15, I told myself. If you're not going to do 10:30, make it 10:15. 10:15 is just fine.

I turned west onto Tillman Road and headed down one of my favorite stretches of the course. It's a fairly wide four-lane road that feels like it's in the middle of the country but is right in the middle of the city. It can be really hard not to open up on the stretch and more so on Saturday because I got a high-five and well wishes from the Fort4Fitness creator, whom I've gotten to know well over the years.

From Tillman Road, the race joins with the Greenway and we run nearly three miles through Foster Park – my home turf. It can be a monotonous part of the race because there's little crowd support and not much to see beyond trees and trees and, well, trees. For me, though, it was like a game of cat and mouse. I saw a pace sign ahead of me and wondered it was the 2:20 group for the half. I did a couple strides to catch up and told myself that I'd stay with them. But, it was the 2:30 group going at an 11-something pace and so I moved on.

I passed my BRF's husband, punched him in the arm (nicely, of course) and continued. I found the 2:20 group tried to slow to stick with them but couldn't, so I ran on.

Earlier in the week, I had been Athlinks-stalking someone and decided to see what my time was from the Columbus Marathon in 2012, my first 26.2 and my PR. (I ran Veterans in 2013 but ran a 4:35.) My time that day was 4:26 and change. As I made my way toward mile 9 of the half and mile 18 for me, I started doing some math.

Let me just say this: Math while running, much less racing, is never a good idea.

I looked at my watch. I looked at overall time. I looked at total distance. I factored in the extra distance I had already accumulated. And even still, if I ran a 10-minute mile, there was a chance I could PR.

Just then, as if the cosmos read my watch, I came up on the 4:25 pacer. I asked him if they were on pace and how he was feeling. They had lost time on the 10K loop but were running about a 10:03. I started to slow down to stick with him but I could tell he wasn't feeling it and so I moved on.

But with the discovery that a PR would be a possibility with a 10-minute pace, I tried to rein it in and stick to 10 minutes as I made my way to the last loop.

Splits, 10-22: 10:12, 10:04, 9:57, 9:51, 9:45, 9:42, 9:50, 9:43, 9:40, 9:50, 9:40, 9:26, 9:35

I like walking. I think walking is good. I think walking in a race is fantastic. I love that Fort4Fitness brings out so many first-time racers and walkers to its events, too. I really, really do.

That said, the last loop was a cluster.

I turned down Baker Street toward Harrison Street where I got the best surprise – my BRF was there with not one but two cowbells. She was there cheering on a host of folks racing (like her husband) but we'll pretend she was there just for me.

I was in near solitude as I made my way down this stretch, nary another marathoner in sight (there were less than 500). I grabbed a Gu and some water and headed toward the mats to begin the last of the race.

But by the time I made the two turns toward Calhoun, I found myself in a sea of walkers, 10 wide headed south. I debated going down the right. Or maybe left. At one point, I wondered what would happen if I spread my arms and just blasted down the middle. But the truth of it was that there was no good way to run it. I was either sacrificing my race or coming off like a complete asshole. At one point, around 1.5 miles into the last loop, I had to walk a block as the congestion at a water stop was impossible to navigate.

I tried to control it but I couldn't: I was pissed.

And when I rounded the corner with 2 miles to go and saw the boys, Mark could see the intensity in my face. He thought I looked strong, and I did feel strong, but really I was frustrated. So I ran with it.

It might have been that annoyance that pushed me through any potential wall because, I'll be honest, I never felt like I hit one. I felt good and capable, and I think my fueling was on point. I took Gu at 5, 10, 15, 20 and 23 and salt tabs at 7, 13 and 21. I drank from my hydration pack through the first three loops and then hit the water stations. Hard.

There were other stations, too. With beer. I had told myself that I would stop at the beer stations in the Williams Woodland Neighborhood during the fourth loop but I was ready to get it done. Beer, sadly, could wait.

Even having moved past walkers for the better part of 3 miles, I was still weaving in the final stretches. I finally gave in and started yelling, "Marathoner on PR pace coming through. Make room for marathoner."

And as I made the turn, I finally got to go left toward the stadium. I had made it. I ran down the drive and onto the red dirt of Parkview Field, the baseball stadium for our minor league baseball team. I had two tenths to go but it seemed so much farther. I stuck to the inside, not antsy to run any more than I could, and picked it up.

I picked it up and took it home ... in 4:23:33 – a nearly 3-minute PR.

Splits, 23-26.2: 9:48, 9:26, 9:53, 9:33, 8:47 pace