I gave up on having a weight goal as soon as my boot camp instructor told me that, based on the change in measurements and percent fat, I had lost 5lbs of fat and replace it with muscle. It’s hard to use a goal weight when you have no idea how much your muscular body weighs.

HOWEVER, I do weigh myself. It allows me to at least monitor progress. Because my goal is to simply be able to wear my wedding band again. I took it off during the last half of my pregnancy with Nikki and haven’t worn it since. I’m close, I could get it on but I fear I wouldn’t be able to get it off again. It’s hard to tell how much weight on the scale I have to lose because you never know where your body will choose to burn fat. From your feet? From your ass? Or in my case: MAH BOOBZ. I still have a nice pocket of fat around my midsection that hasn’t shrunk at all, while my arms and legs look AWESOME.

My point of all of this? It’s easy to get discouraged each time I step on the scale and don’t see a drop. Especially when I ran 35 miles last week. So I tried to find some comparison pictures. Which is hard because I can’t wear most of the bottoms I used to wear anymore. Why this isn’t enough is BEYOND ME. I can’t wear the skirt in the first picture above anymore because it will fall off me. WHY ISN’T THIS ENOUGH?

Anyway. I can still wear some of my older shirts because I was probably wearing them when I shouldn’t be anyway. So I took this picture to compare my body in the two shirts. IT IS SO OBVIOUS I’VE LOST WEIGHT.

But that DAMN SCALE. And don’t tell me to get get rid of it, because I’m physically incapable of it. And don’t tell me not to step on it, because I have to. Just remind me that this picture and the fact that I ran THIRTY-FIVE MILES THIS WEEK, on top of 4 days of boot camp, THAT is what is important. So, I can step on it all I want, but I need to take that number and put it in the bag with the clothes I can’t wear anymore. Because it’s about as useful to me now.

What were you doing one year ago today? Do you remember? I do. I was waking up very early in an over-priced hotel in Nashville so that I could put on some short shorts and run 26.2 miles. Yep. One year ago today, I completed my first marathon.

I hope to some day try it again. I performed very poorly, compared to what I expected. I had run 20 miles three weeks before and hadn’t stopped to walk but through my water breaks. I didn’t start to get blisters until mile 18. So, these two things made me pretty optimistic that I’d run the majority of the distance if not all of it.

But, something about the roads in Nashville or the mood of my feet had me working on my first blisters at mile THREE. By the time I crossed the finish like, I had walked almost 10 miles of the 26 (if not more) and had at least one spot on each foot with THREE layers of blisters that had popped and reformed. It was AWESOME.

I do blame a lot of that on the fact that I was unable to really commit to the training program. If I were to tell people thinking about training for a marathon anything it would be: Prepare your family and make sure everyone is okay with you being gone a lot. I did not, so I just missed a lot of the training runs. Having a small child who was still nursing made it harder for me to make all of my runs as did having a husband and a son who also needed me. I just didn’t commit 100% since we were also trying to have a baby at the same time. It’s hard to motivate yourself to ditch your family four-five nights a week when you might end up being pregnant and not even run the marathon.

But – I would also tell everyone who is reading this that if I can do it, anyone can. I am not a runner. I am not even an athlete. I learned to enjoy my long runs because they made me very proud, but you can ask anyone who has seen me run. I actually walk faster. However – with the right program, your body learns to do more and more as the weeks pass and before you know it – your running double digits and freaking out about it.

I think the half-marathon is the distance for me. For now. I won’t train for another marathon until I’m done having kids and the ones I have are all at least potty trained. Until then, I want to try to at least run one half-marathon a year. Because that’s also a distance I feel proud about, but not one that takes me away from my family an unreasonable amount of time.

So, I look back today and feel proud. I crossed the finish line. Maybe in the bottom .000009 percent of the group with only a handful of people behind me – but I finished. And I’m proud every time I see that medal hanging on my china cabinet.

Funny thing is? If you look at me walking to my car this afternoon, you would see me walking just as oddly as I was a year ago. But this time it’s the pregnancy waddle, and not the blisters-on-my-feet or can’t-bend-my-knees walk. Either way – just as attractive.

I don’t know where to begin breaking down Mr. McClelland’s article and the way it angers me. But, we’ll start with this paragraph which might have upset me the most:

Like Oprah, Bingham deserves praise for luring insecure, overweight novices off their couches and into running shoes. He’s also terrific for business. In the last 15 years, the Chicago Marathon field has increased tenfold, to 45,000. But with this change in the running culture, the average finishing time for men has dropped from 3:32 to 4:15 — not far from the Oprah Line, or my own performance. Last month’s Chicago Marathon had to be shut down mid-race, because undertrained five- and six-hour marathoners couldn’t handle that much time in the 85-degree heat.

First of all – if you don’t know who Bingham is – take a quick moment to go here. Damn. The site’s down. Save it for later. Essentially he mainstreamed the marathon by making everyone believe that if he could do it? Then they could. He sells t-shirts on his site that say things like “Who Cares If I’m Slow.” (Which, for the record, is a depressing thing to see mobs of people passing you wearing.)

So, essentially this author is first saying that the droves of novices that Bingham brought to the sport is a bad thing. But he’s also saying that the disaster at the Chicago Marathon is the fault of the novices? Pardon me for saying so, but when I read the reports about that marathon being cut, there were just as many seasoned runners in those first-aid tents as there were novices. And I know one of those runners who did not want to quit. (For the record, she finally became a marathoner here. Go tell her congrats.) And I hate the contempt in the voice of this author for those people. For MY people. I finished my marathon in an embarrassingly slow time. I mean, Oprah would have run laps around me. But does that mean that my participation lessens the integrity of the sport?

He ends the article with this:

If the marathon is populist enough for everyone to pin on a number, it’s also populist enough for everyone to kick ass. If you’re running the New York City Marathon this weekend, remember, it’s a race. True, no matter how hard you push, you’re not going to win a gold medal. But maybe a kid in high school will, someday. If the pack can drag the best runners back, we can push them forward, too.

You know what? Who is this guy to try to act like that just because my time is slow doesn’t mean I’m kicking ass? Anyone who crosses that finish line is kicking ass. This guy wants to blame the lack of a US marathon hero on the masses of us novice/walkers on the course. And that makes no sense. Yes, the average has gone down. But that’s mathematically expected when more novices jump in. I can’t imagine the woman in the front of the pack in Nashville saw me in the back of the pack and thought, “You know? That curly-haired girl is going slow. I’m going to slow down too.”

The idea that anyone in our increasingly unhealthy culture can actually point negatively to the newfound popularity of marathon running makes me laugh. And I love that he’s passive aggresive about his insulting with such wonderful statements as:

I just didn’t get it. After my knee injury, I’d returned to the 5K. I pushed myself into the pain zone, puked after races, and fought my way back down to 20 minutes — a far more satisfying feat than a four-hour marathon. I was doing all I could do, with what I still had. Yet here was a man whose legs would carry him 26 miles, and he was content to stop for walking breaks.

Mr. McClelland, I apologize that those of us out there who take walking breaks are such a bother to you and your bum knee. It is unfortunate you blame us “Penguins” (It’s a Bingham term) for the low average like it’s a black mark on your precious marathon. I’m sorry if this newfound love for running by couch potatoes over the country takes away the pride you feel in that 26.2 miles. But you know what? I just have to say one thing to you: Screw You. It is not anymore your race than it is mine. I am proud of you for finishing at whatever time you can finish. I look at the first person who crosses that finish like with admiration and respect. Actually? I am in awe of anyone that finishes faster than Oprah because I knew from the day I started training that her goal was too lofty for me. In other words? Before today I would have seen you cross that finish line at your best time and thought, “Man. He’s fast. I wish I could be fast like him.”

But you know what? No longer. I’ll be proud of the person before you and the person after you. But of you? I’m not going to waste my admiration on someone who thinks people like me are not kicking enough ass. I’ll save it for the person who comes in dead last. Do you know how hard it is NOT to give up when they’re closing the course behind you? I’ve been the last one in a race before and had the cops picking up the cones behind me as I slowly crept towards the finish line. It was my first half-marathon and I poorly paced myself and ended up in a lot of pain. And also in last place. It hurts. It made me embarrassed and ashamed and worried that jackasses like you were rolling their eyes at me as I hobbled down the road.

But you know what? Luckily the people on my race weren’t like you. Many kept at the finish line until the last person crossed, cheering us all on. Many ran backwards when they were finished to encourage those of us still on the course. They patted us on the back and commiserated in our agony. They didn’t look down on me for walking a small bit. They let me in their club of finishers. They told me to be proud. And I was. And I’m sure as hell not letting you take that away from me. Or from Oprah. She ran her marathon in 4 hours and 29 minutes. Scoff at my time all you want, but don’t knock hers. That chick is fast.

But – during the marathon? I learned something very very interesting. Something I hadn’t learned up until that point because I did most of my training in cold weather. The marathon was my first long run in severe heat. Which means it was the first time I spent 7 hours straight sweating. Let me tell you what happened…

At one point, maybe around the halfway point, I was wiping sweat off my face and my skin felt very grainy. Like I had walked through a dust storm of some sort. I just ignored it since I had bigger concerns, like the triple blisters on my feet. After my brother (a true athlete) joined up with me around mile 19, I wiped my face again and said to him, “My face feels like it’s covered with dirt. What’s up with that?”

And do you know what he told me? (And yes, you all probably already knew this and I’m going to feel really stupid.) It was SALT. Salt on my face. Evidently, there’s salt in sweat (which I knew that – duh) (or maybe not) so when you sweat a lot in the sun, the moisture evaporates leaving the salt behind on your body. I don’t know if I’ve ever had my face covered in salt before, but I did on Saturday. It was in my eyebrows, my hairline, and behind my ears. I was like a giant potato chip. It was incredibly disgusting.

Evidently, salt is really important when running long distances. I kinda knew that before the marathon, which is why I tried one of those Accelerade drinks at one of the aid stations. I described the taste of it later as “A mix between urine and dirty butthole.” It was the nastiest stuff I’ve ever tasted. But – I couldn’t stop drinking. My body wanted that shit (and I’m assuming the salt in it) in a DESPERATE way. I’ve never had my body make decisions for me before in such a demanding way. My mind was thinking, “Don’t drink it. It tastes like ASS.” But I kept grabbing it at every aid station. They even had a table part of the way in that had only salt packets. There were girls screaming, “SALT! SALT!” to the runners as they were running by. It was all quite a learning experience.

So – that’s your running lesson for the day. Salt is important. And it does not come out of your eyebrows easily. The End.

Okay – first off? Let’s just say that the phrase “I ran a marathon” is not exactly accurate. A better choice of words would be “I ran more than half of the marathon and then hobbled the other half.”

I got to the start line at 7am, but they were doing corral starts and we were put in a corral based on how fast we said we’d run. I assumed that we would all start at the same time, it would just take those of us in back longer to actually cross the start line. Nope. They actually started each corral separately. I started at 7:40am, which means my mile 1 time was almost 1 hour. That’s a pretty depressing start to a race.

Luckily, my Dad, son, brother, and future sister-in-law were there to cheer me on. I got to hug LilZ right before I started which was the boost I needed. I saw them again at mile 8 (I beat them to mile 3 because I was SO DAMN FAST.) and stopped for a second to eat some of their food. I had been feeling really light headed. Probably because it got very hot very fast.

My longest run of the training has been 18 miles. That day I got blisters around the 14 mile mark, which is pretty typical for me. I went into yesterday expecting the same, and knowing the last half of the marathon would be pretty painful. Little did I know? That something about yesterday would inspire my feet to blister at mile 4.

Mile 4 of 26.2.

By mile 9 or 10, at least one of them had popped and I had them on the bottoms of both feet. I was still running, but not well, and I was being passed by walkers. But – I was still running and was in a good crowd. However, I noticed almost the entire crowd around me was wearing yellow numbers, which mean they were running the half-marathon. I started wondering how thin the group would get at the 11-mile mark when we split off.

Oh – and hearing them all cheer at the 6.6 mark, “Halfway there!” made me want to smack someone. I was all, “Seriously? Are there no other marathoners around me to cry with right now?”

When the 11-mile split came, they divided us down a closed 4-lane road. The marathoners were running on the left side while the halfers were running on the right. The right side of the highway was packed full of runners. The left side? Was me and, like three other people. That would be when I started getting a wee depressed. I just suddenly felt lonely. Everybody had a running buddy it seemed, but me. I started thinking about how my husband and daughter – half of my family – were 120 miles away. I was thinking about how I had so far to go. How my feet hurt so bad. How much my family would hate me if I quit.

Around mile 13, we turned to a more secluded area. Since the roads were shut down, the only activity you saw were marathoners and anyone at water breaks along the way. Part of the road past 13.1 turned down this greenway by the river. Gorgeous. But so quiet and lonely. That was probably the darkest part of the race. I was still running, but barely. I was upset with my feet for crapping out on me so early. I was upset with the corral start that had me in a group 40 minutes slower than I should be (I felt like if I were 40 minutes ahead, I wouldn’t be so alone.) I kept being passed by pairs of people talking and chatting their way down this lonely stretch of road. I was not in a good place.

I called everyone in my family twice for the next 2 miles or so. I cried to my Mom. I cried to my husband. I called my brother and tried not to cry but he could hear it in my voice. He was going to meet me at mile 20 and run the last 6 with me. After hearing me he said, “We’ll head to mile 19 and just walk backwards until we see you.” I was happy he didn’t tell me to get over it since he’s the man who ran his first marathon AFTER swimming 2.4 miles and biking 112 miles.

Around mile 14 or so, I started walking/running. My feet were just hurting so bad that every pound to the pavement on my blisters made me want to cry. Around mile 15 a girl started talking to me. Jennifer. My angel from Texas. She was all, “The bottoms of my feet hurt. And they never hurt!” and I hugged her and asked her to be my BFF. We walked/jogged together for the next mile or so and then committed to just walking awhile. I felt happy again. We got out of the damn stretch of the course where it was just us and the river and we got back into civilization. I was thanking the spectators and the police men still holding the course for us. I was a barrel of sunshine. Like a totally different person. I was walking, but I was HAPPY.

My brother and his fiance met us at the 18.5 mile mark. That was great. We jogged a couple of feet every mile, but mostly it was me hobbling. We were going to see my Dad and LilZ at mile 20 and I joked I wanted to run toward them so it would look like I had been running the whole time. We ran and then I popped the other blister on the other foot. AWESOME. That’s what I get for showing off.

Jennifer ended up walking ahead of us a short while later, I was going very slow for miles 21-23 or so. Like 22 minute miles. I kept telling myself, “It is not this race that should represent my accomplishment. It’s the 400+ miles I have RUN up until this point to train.” I was trying not to get down on myself for walking so much, I wanted to remember all of the running I had done until that point. But it was hard. 22-minute miles is slower than I walk in normal life.

Around mile 23.5 or so I started feeling the finish line getting close, so I was able to pick up the pace. I think those last 2+ miles were about 18-minute paces. I looked at my watch at one point and thought, “The 25-mile marker should be here soon.” Then, this lovely woman who was still there cheering us on said, “Good job! The 25-mile marker is hiding behind that ambulance right there.” I about kissed her I was so happy. 1.2 more miles.

At the 1-mile to go mark, there was a huge sign that said, “We (heart) Kim!” I told the people sitting next to it that my name was Kim and thanked them for the sign. It was the first sign I had seen with my name all day. I thought I would see more since “Kim” is such a common name. But if I were only going to see one? That was the best one ever.

My Dad and LilZ were at the 26-mile mark. I asked LilZ if he could run the last stretch with me, and he said “Yes” which was awesome since he’d been walking all day. We ran, I mean, ran to the finish line. My Mom and Aunt were there cheering us on. I crossed the finish line with my son. My husband and daughter couldn’t be there – but crossing that line with my son was amazing. And then being able to do it with the rest of my family watching? Was the most amazing thing. It was as close as it could have been to perfect without MrZ and NikkiZ there. It wasn’t the showing I had hoped for, but the medal represents more than those 26 miles. It represents me not even being able to run half a block a year ago. It’s the 2 half marathons I ran before. It’s the 300+ miles of running I did to train. It represents me – a girl who hates to excercise – a girl who loves her TV and donuts – proving that you can really do anything once you put your mind to it.

I want to run another one someday, after I have a life more conducive to the training requirements. I had to short myself on a lot of runs because where do I find the time for a 10-mile run three times a week? I will stick with the half-marathon distance though. It doesnt take too much to train for that. I want to stick with running, maybe 20 miles a week if I can. And then run one or two half-marathons a year (I love getting those medals too much!) but I won’t do another marathon until I’ve got all of my kids at least in school.

But I did it yesterday. And I have no idea if you all realize how much you were in my heart. Especially those miles 11-14. I kept telling myself that my friends inside the computer were cheering me on. They believed in me. They think I can do it. And if they think I can, then I must be able to because they’re always right about everything else.

Thank you.

(Coming next: A list of things that hurt on me. Starting with my sunburn which is sexy because I now have a sock tanline. SO HOTT.)

This is LilZ here.We just got back from the Country Music Marathon.The only reason I am writing is my Mom,MissZ is laying motionless, watching Jurassic Park, I think it is 3, with her bro’ and his future wife. I am really tired and my feet hurt.:(I know she should be the one complaining, but we have been walking around all day looking at Tennessee and meeting Momma at her mile markers.
We went and ate at the place below our hotel and ate breakfast, then we came up to the hotel room and chilled for a second, other than that, we had no time to rest. OH!And we rode he elevator to the 23 floor.I got really scared. Well, I gotta go watch JP3. See y’all kitkats on te flipflops later!

BUT – this is a good thing because I am now free to discuss the horrible things I’m thinking and he won’t know!

So, I have this marathon on Saturday, right? Have I mentioned that? I wasn’t sure if you knew that. Well – we are leaving for Nashville tomorrow so that I can make it to the expo to get my number and chip and such things for the race the next morning. Unfortunately – MrZ has a work golf tournament tomorrow too. Now – one of the things he loves about this new job – is it’s a group working environment so he’s already made a lot of friends. He is really excited about this golf tournament because no one really plays golf. It’s going to be more of a giant goof-off day because no one cares to take it seriously. If there is anything my husband loves? Is giant goof-off days. So – he’s very excited about this.

I was hoping he would be okay leaving early so we could leave town in time to get to the Expo and explore the course. Unfortunately – he offered a solution that involves both of us doing what we want: Take 2 cars.

This is the very logical solution. He can go to his tournament, and I can go to the Expo. Perfect.

BUT – I want him to come WITH me! I don’t want to do it by myself! I’m scared! What if they can tell the second I walk in that I don’t belong? What if they laugh at me? What if I get lost? What if I have to MAKE A LEFT TURN?!?!

I know it’s incredibly stupid of me and really selfish to want him to miss something important to him just so he can hold my hand through something I’m nervous about – but I can’t help it. I still would love it if he would just drop the tournament and offer to support me through the whole night-before-the-marathon jitters.

But – I’m a big girl. I’m sure there will be people there 50 years older and 150 pounds heavier who will look less like they belong than I do. (Of course – they’ll still beat me – but that’s a whole other story right there.) I can do this without him. If I’m faced with a left turn? I’ll just take three rights instead. If I get lost, or confused, or if I end up at the wrong place – I’ll just blame it on the kids somehow. That’s how I’ve survived challenges in the past. That’s what they’re there for, right?

Every time someone talks to me, my mind immediately processes how what they are saying affects my marathon. You need some breakfast? Really? Well – what should I eat for breakfast on Saturday? You can’t find your shorts? Well – you better find them before Saturday because I’ll be too busy to look for them.

Of course, I’m also wondering how anybody else can think about anything besides my marathon. Things pop up at work that need my attention and I keep wondering why the emails requesting my help don’t say something like, “Oh – and good luck on Saturday!” How is it that other people are able to think about things other than my marathon because I CAN NOT. MrZ has this golf tournament on Friday and he thinks we should take separate cars so he can come to Nashville afterwards. I was all, “NO! We have to ride together!” and I was thinking the entire time, “How can anything else matter but what I want, dammit. I’m running a damn MARATHON ON SATURDAY!”

Self-absorbed much?

But seriously. I’m examining maps and guidelines and pointers and tips. I’m obsessing over the weather (70% chance of storms: THANK YOU MOTHER NATURE.) and what I’ll carry on the course (cell phone? In case I get lost? camera? In case I want to document my pain?) and I’ve printed up the results from last year to try to see how many people will finish behind me this year. (One person. And she’s 82.) It’s a disease and the only cure is to run the damn marathon on Saturday.

So – if I see you anytime between now and Saturday? I apologize if I seem either (a) distracted or (b) insane. Hopefully I’ll be back to normal by this time next week.

When I registered I checked several boxes to order “Finisher’s Merchandise” so that no matter what the weather, I’d always have something with the word “marathon” on it to wear. I assumed they’d give it to me the night before the marathon at the expo. I was wrong. They mailed it to me last week.

The tops are stacked up on the floor in my bedroom and every time I walk past I feel sick. I know I’ll finish, but I’m still worried I won’t finish in time. It took me almost 4.5 hours to run 17 miles last week. The time limit on the marathon is 7 hours. What if I’m still a few miles away at the 7 hour mark? How awful would that be! Well – I’d still finish. Even if it killed me, but it would be sad not to get a medal.

10 days. 10 days until I do something I would have never in a million years dreamed possible. I’m so nervous I feel like crying sometimes. More nervous than my wedding day. I’m terrified and excited and happy and overwhelmed. It looks like my brother is going to run the last six miles with me, and my Dad may run the last 3. Or at least walk with me since I’m not sure I will be running at that point. Either way – they’ll all be at the finish line waiting for me, which is why I chose Nashville over New Orleans. I want my family to see me do the impossible. And they, more than anyone else, know how big of a deal this is for me. They know how lazy and anti-exercise I really am. Having them cheering me on, even if it’s hour 8, will make the pain the hours before worth it.

10 days.

Less than three weeks. THREE WEEKS. I’m starting to get freaked out. My brother is going to run the last 6 miles with me, which is going to help immensely. Although I keep telling him what would help more is if he would run the first 20 miles FOR ME – but he seems to think that would be cheating, or something.

The blisters, though. I’m telling you – I have tried every solution you wonderful people have suggested. I’ve bought expensive socks and weird “non-chaffing” sticks. I’ve used diaper cream and vaseline. I’ve made sacrifices to the gods of callouses and I’ve bought new shoes. The blisters do switch spots depending on their motivation, I guess. There is really no rhyme or reason. The thing I am happy with, is it’s taking longer and longer to get them. Now it takes about 10 miles as opposed to 5 at my half-marathon in Tucson. I think I’ve just decided that I’m destined to a life of blisters. And the whole “You’ll callous” thing isn’t working since I’ve run over 200 miles the last three months and I’ve still not calloused properly. And let me tell you – I won’t even so much as scrub the bottoms of my feet with anything rougher than a washcloth for fear of losing valuable dead skin cells. I’m going to get blisters. There’s just no way to stop it. Which means I’ll deserve an even BIGGER cookie at the finish line.

Or maybe stroller to wheel me home in.