What happens when I’m in the running zone and someone disturbs me? Regardless of whether it’s a complete stranger or my partner of several years, the result is often flailing, screams, and a wild defense mechanism.

The gap in my blogging can be attributed to the fact that I got a new job that is making me roughly 1,000% happier than my last one. I’ve been a bit busy getting settled into the new gig but it’s been a rewarding, exciting experience thus far. My coworkers are fun, my bosses provide great guidance, and I’ve been given a lot more responsibility. The job has a couple of notable perks, too: The CEO has completed several Ironman races (dude has an endless pool in his garage for training. for crissakes) and thus understands my dumb-ass hobby. The executive team is very encouraging of fitness, meaning I can come in a bit later if I’ve worked out in the morning, take a mid-afternoon break to run, or leave early if I’m meeting my team for a workout. This is great news for Moobecca as I am currently trying to get back on the training bandwagon, having signed up for a mid-September marathon in hopes of posting a respectable run time as well as shedding some of this flab that has suctioned itself onto my ass.  THE OFFICE IS DOG-FRIENDLY OMG YESSSSSSSSSSS I love dogs to the point of rescuing a milky-eyed derp dog during a hill repeat workout. Every time one of the office dogs strolls by, I am incapable of resisting the urge to scratch behind their ears and pet them for about four straight minutes. Since my grinch boyfriend won’t let me get a dog of my own, I’ve resorted to living vicariously through Skipper and Madison, the two pooches who come to work on a regular basis. Speaking of Skipper, this is him: He’s the CEO’s dog. Oftentimes Skipper looks very forlorn and sad, as if he just spent 10 hours listening to “Cat’s in the Cradle” on repeat. I always try to give him some good scratches to coax a smile out of him, but he is like an emo goth teenager trapped in a dog’s body. My boss, Brendan, casually mentioned one day that he took Skipper for a run around Lake Union. I perked up and said, “So he’s a running dog?” and Brendan said, “Oh yeah, he loves to run. You can take him sometime if you want!” And that was when my job transitioned from being “pretty awesome” to “supremely awesome.” You bet your balls I was gonna take Skipper for a run. On Monday, when I realized Skipper was at the office, I drove home and grabbed some exercise gear so I could take him for a run. He was lazing about all day but when I entered the room decked out in run shorts and a tank top, he bolted up and ran over to my feet, wagging his tail with a level of excitement I had never seen from him. I was so pumped. LET’S DO THIS, DOG. (Random aside: that previous declaration highlights the importance of comma placement in sentences.) As I was making my final pre-dog-run preparations, I asked one of my coworkers who’s also Brendan’s nephew about the one running-with-a-dog wild card: pooping. Me: “Should I bring a bag or something in case he poops?” Conor: “Nah, he probably won’t…weeeeell, actually, you should bring one, yeah. Just in case.” Me: “How many bags should I bring? He’s not going to be like a Play-Doh Fun Factory of poop, right?” Conor: “I would think one is enough, I dunno.” I brought two since I wasn’t innately familiar with the inner workings of Skipper’s butthole. We left the office and I proceeded to trot up the street. I was a little nervous since I had...

I was at work on Monday sneak-watching a live feed of the Boston Marathon as the men’s leaders, a trio of Africans, battled against each other to be the first to cross the finish line and claim victory. For so long, qualifying for the Boston Marathon has felt like a pipe dream, a milestone I would be thrilled to hit but has always felt so far out of reach. When I first started running with Jason along the Burke-Gilman Trail, I would trot along at a 12:00/mile pace while he kept doubling back to me with a barely-concealed look of annoyance on his face. My first marathon was a 4:35, and my second marathon wasn’t much better (in fact, my off-the-bike marathons at both Ironmans I’ve raced have been close to my standalone marathon times). And then my BFG, who has always been a strong runner despite his height and his size, told me he was going to train for the Portland Marathon and try to qualify for Boston. He had run a handful of marathons, each time improving from the last, but for his age group he’d have to qualify with a 3:05 or faster. Jason, who’s always been a more dedicated and more focused athlete than me, hit all his workouts, dropped some weight, and showed up to the start line on a cool, sunny Portland morning looking slim and fit and ready to run his ass off for 26.2 miles. He crossed the finish line in 2:57, earning not only his spot at Boston but a much-admired place in the “Sub-3 Hour Marathon” club. I was inspired. Jason had just shed 22 minutes off his previous best marathon time. He encouraged me to try to qualify too, that I could get there with a little bit of dedication and perseverance. He even promised to not register for the 2013 Boston Marathon and wait until the 2014 signup opened up so we could register together if I were to qualify. So I made my 2013 season goal to run a marathon and hopefully be fast enough and in great enough shape to stamp my ticket to Boston. My training, however, has been frustratingly intermittent. I’ve been depressed. Stressed. Lazy. Gluttonous. Unfocused. I’ve threatened to sign up for three different marathons and bailed each time, never feeling quite “ready” to commit to a specific race. So my goal of running a BQ marathon, or even a PR marathon, has slowly been slipping through my fingers. I thought to myself, “Well, maybe another year. There’s always another year. 2014 won’t be so special.” And then, later that Monday morning, my Twitter feed lit up with news. Scary news. Terrible news. Heartbreaking news. There were two explosions near the finish line at the Boston Marathon. People were hurt. Limbs were lost. Deaths were reported. I sat at my desk, dumbfounded. I IM’d Jason, who I had been chatting with about the men’s finish earlier that morning. He responded with, “What? Are you serious?” As cruel a joke as that would have been, I wish I weren’t. I left work feeling sick, distraught, concerned. Wondering, as I always wonder during large-scale tragedies such as this one, what kind of human being would do something like this to his fellow man. My heart aching for the runners and spectators who were injured, for the family members who lost a loved one, for the victims who were probably runners themselves, now faced with a future where their favorite hobby will forever be altered due to injuries or amputations or psychological damage. But what saddened (and angered) me most of all was this comment...

In an effort to get rid of my food baby, I went for a run “with” Jason last week (“with” meaning we left the house at the same time, then I promptly waved goodbye at his back as he shoomed away). I’m heavier and slower than my lean-yet-nightmarishly-tanned version from last summer, but I tried to stay positive as I set out to conquer the hilly 6.5 mile loop. My pace was slow but steady, and I settled into a decent groove, enjoying the crisp air that was warm enough to warrant running in a t-shirt, yet chilly enough so I wouldn’t overheat. I quickly zoned out into my “zen mode,” where I let the stresses of the day dissolve and let my thoughts wander to and from any number of topics. I used to run with my old iPod “Classic,” but after I left that bad boy on a plane, I got used to running without music and just let my inner monologue keep me company. I trudged on, totally zonked out, and soon approached the Pagliacci on 10th and Miller. I was staring straight ahead down the sidewalk and wiping some sweat off my nose when I noticed someone standing off to the side. I’m not sure if he was waiting for a bus or getting ready to cross the street, but when he saw me his face lit up and he shot his hand up in the air. Confused, I focused on him and my brain, thinking this guy knew me, searched its reserves for a name. Who is this dude? Is he a TN Multisports teammate? Have I worked with him? Brain: “Scanning for recognition…scanning…scanning…scanning…” Me: “…well? Do I know him?” Brain: “…scanning…” Me: “Ugh, brain, you are the worst.” Brain: “Don’t rush me! You’ve got a lot of useless shit in here. Do you really need to know the theme song to The Golden Girls?” Me: “I don’t need your judgment. And I will not thank you for being a friend right now because you’re seriously letting me down here. How the hell we got through college is beyond me.” Brain: “Whatever…anyway, yeahhhh, we don’t know this guy.” After finally establishing I did not know this man who was standing on the sidewalk with his hand outstretched, I hesitated, not exactly comprehending what he wanted from me. My eyes flickered up to his hand, which he held rigid, and he exclaimed, “You rock!” And then I realized that all this dude wanted was to high-five me because I was out running. I smiled, smacked his hand with mine, and shouted, “Thanks!” As I ran off, he called after me, “You’re doing great!” and I grinned all the way down the street. Of course, as I replayed the scene back in my head, my warm fuzzies gave way to intense neurotic shame as I remembered one crucial detail: I scratched my nose to wipe the sweat away, then I used that same hand to high-five him. OH CRAP, HE THINKS I PICKED MY NOSE AND THEN WIPED IT ON HIS HAND!!! HE IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED OFFERING ME THAT HIGH-FIVE, I KNOW IT I AM A DISGUSTING HUMAN BEING!!! I MUST SEQUESTER MYSELF IN MY HOME AND NEVER RUN OUTSIDE AGAIN OUT OF SHAMEEEEEEE And then I couldn’t stop thinking about this scene: So for the remainder of my run, my emotions alternated between feeling happy over a stranger’s random act of awesomeness and embarrassed by the potentially misunderstood nose itch. But ultimately, my happiness edged out over the shame (barely), so I wanted to author an open letter to the Guy Standing in Front of the...

My BFG has taken an interest in trail running and has set his sights on tackling the White River 50 mile ultramarathon summer 2013. He’s been running with a teammate of ours who unfortunately was unavailable this past weekend for a trail running dude date with Jason, so I cautiously accepted my boyfriend’s invitation to run “with” him at Squak Mountain. Of course, by run “with” Jason, I mean “trudge far, far behind him” because he ran a 2:57 marathon in October and I have gained back a demoralizing chunk of the weight I lost earlier this year and have been intermittent with hitting my workouts lately. Nonetheless, I knew this excursion would make Jason very happy so I tagged along to tackle a 2 1/2 hour run in the wilderness. As far as trail running goes, I’ve only ever run at Cougar Mountain and Discovery Park (which isn’t really difficult trail running, but it does involve a lot of stairs), so I’m still a bit of a trail running noob. I do enjoy running on trails, though–I feel like a kid again, splashing through muddy puddles and trying to hurdle logs–so I’m making a half-ass New Year’s Resolution to do some more trail running in 2013. Unfortunately, I hate trail running just as much as I’m starting to enjoy it. It’s fun to feel like a child again, but I often forget how stupid and hard trail running can be. In Squak Mountain’s case, since I’ve been feeling down about feeling chunkier and less active lately, what better way to feel supremely dejected about how much fitness I’ve lost since Ironman Canada than to wheeze my way up a goddamn mountain at an average pace of 15 minutes/mile? Seriously, this mountain’s elevation profile is dumb. There were some hills so steep that I resorted to walking them since my walking pace was no slower than my sad attempt to jog. Jason, naturally, gazelled across the trail with his 8 ft long legs while I stub-legged a sad trot behind him, my heart rate in zone 4. I briefly thought of murdering my athletic, chipper boyfriend on numerous occasions as he’d make empty promises to me like “Take this left up here and it flattens out, I promise.” We’d take the left and climb a bunch more while he scratched his head and tried to figure out which flat part he was trying to remember as I glared hate daggers into his back. Or when he said it was really pretty at the top but failed to inform me that the last 0.5 miles were a steep-ass grade covered in frost and snow that I could not remotely run up. When I reached the summit I expected to see something grand like a majestic elk who would congratulate me on my impressive feat and crown me Queen of the Mountain, but instead there were some electrical towers and a lady eating a chunk of cheddar cheese out of a plastic bag. (I was really, really jealous about the cheese.) We turned around to head to the car, except my navigationally challenged boyfriend couldn’t exactly remember where we had parked, and I had been aimlessly following him the whole time so I didn’t know where the hell we were, so we ended up running out of the park and looping back to our car by cutting through a couple neighborhoods. He asked if I wanted to tack on an extra 10 minutes to make it 2:45 and I refrained from punching him in his tall stupid face, saying only “No, I would not like to run an extra 10 minutes,...