A Lawn Mower Is Not Necessarily a Lawn Mower

It's sort of funny how weed whacking the lawn got me to realize what the actual problem was with the lawn mower. 

Because I actually liked weed whacking it. I liked seeing how well it could look under the worst of circumstances, and I liked the workout. I didn't actually hate the physical task. I hated the equipment that was required under normal conditions.

My problem was with this stupid lawn mower that I bought when I bought the house because it was very highly rated, and everyone I asked who owned a home said that you needed a good gas mower, and I figured that as long as it had a key start -- because I knew I couldn't do a pull start -- that it would be fine. 

So I researched and researched, and bought the best one in my price range with a key start. I thought I would be all set. Lawn care is an American and homeowner right of passage. I would be the awesome single woman taking care of her own yard.

Except for the part where the key start has not always reliably worked because I am too stupid to use a lawn mower. It blew a fuse because I tried to get it to do too much. I leaked oil into the filter when I tipped it over, not realizing that the fuse was the real reason it didn't work. Because none of the service people originally looked at the key start (hence the fuse problem) when testing it, I was convinced that because they could get it to start and I couldn't, that it was all my fault. 

I've regretted not trusting my gut and getting an electric one ever since. 

So mid-May felt like a perfect storm of two good things. 

1. I realized I didn't mind the yard work, but I hated the lawn mower.
2. An alum posted on the homeowner's group about switching to an electric mower, and the other comments were positive. 

I started researching, and actually liked what I found. The model I was looking at was decently rated, with batteries that were compatible with what I had. It's better for the environment, and although it's expensive, the electric ones don't require gas, and all of the small engine things that drive me absolute batshit. There were the typical cautions about size that it can easily mow and the battery power -- but everything talked about 1/4 acre lawns being ideal, and my entire lot, including the house, is on 1/4 acre. Score.

Plus, I found it awfully telling that the manual for the new one was a total of 17 pages... compared to the 26 pages of English instructions for the old one.

The alum explained that part of why she was switching was because of her rage against the patriarchy. That she could never get it to start. 

I commented in agreement, but then realized that it wasn't the patriarchy I was raging against. 

Instead, it was the pure incompetence I felt every time I had to interact with the damn thing.

• I could barely push it. It took me a year to figure out how the self-propel feature worked (and then the mansplainer told me, while trying not to laugh). 
• It doesn't start reliably with the key, and I could never get the pull start to actually work. Because I may be able to propel myself in a heavy kayak through water, and I can bench lift 50 pounds, but I cannot get a stupid lawn mower to start. 
• I had to ask the mansplainer to help with the engine, and while that was nice once, then it just starts to get embarrassing.
• It doesn't fit in the Jetta, so any time it needs to be serviced, I'm paying $80 just for that, on top of the service fees. 

It makes me feel like I'm an awful horrible human being who missed some giant life lesson somewhere. I hate it. And I hate how it makes me feel. 

So it's time to fix what I messed up four years ago. I don't blame me entirely. I took the advice of others who had owned homes and mowed lawns, and had practical experience. I read Consumer Reports. I did the best I could with the knowledge I had.

When in reality? Really should have trusted my gut. What worked for them didn't work for me. And it's OK to acknowledge and accept that, and to start to make it right. 

I'm not saying the new lawn mower will be perfect. But at least now I can close that chapter and stop feeling horrible every time I look at a lawn mower. 

The Good, the Bad, and the Mediocre

It's been a dramatic spate of days over in the kingdom. 

Riding out that perfect storm? Not so easy after all. I didn't think it would be. But I didn't think it would be that hard. 

And it turns out that when I panic, everyone who knows I'm panicking 

Which is how I spent a lot of time as a patient in various settings over the past 10 days or so. Which showed me a deeper time and appreciation of what it means to be on the receiving end of health care in this country. 

The Good

It's really awful that the Endo is leaving at the end of the fiscal year -- AKA, just a few short weeks away. But, it is likewise understandable. 

Because damn, she is awesome. So of course she would get recruited away from here. The good people looking for advancement and balance usually do. (Last year was a doozy -- Endo V1, and Dr. BIEL, within just a few months of each other.)

After receiving a panicked message from me Friday morning (after I sent Therapist 3.0 a panicked email, asking if it was appropriate to message the docs looking for help, and getting a response of yes, do it), she explained her stance, but offered immediately to get me in Monday morning. 

Come Monday, we spent a good 20 minutes discussing the issue, and my issues overall, and what we needed to look at as next steps. I felt listened to, and while I was still upset, I could understand her perspective -- and likewise, I felt like she understood where I was coming from, and put words and feelings to why this was all so awful. 

Part of what came out of that conversation was the decision to get me in with Sports Medicine primary care. 

Despite my saying that no, no it wasn't an emergency, and I just needed to see someone before my next race, they scheduled me for an appointment just 72 hours later. Score one awesome point for them.

But considering they're really the clinical money making arm for the network, also not surprising. 

The true good came from the appointment with the Sports Med doc. I'd previously seen her after a concussion in 2012, and had a sense that she would understand these nuances and concerns without being preachy, dismissive, or overreactive. 

That sense was right. 

We spent another 20 minutes or so discussing my concerns, and how to plan and mitigate moving forward. Lots of science. An explanation that while I didn't like it, at least I could understand it. I could understand the science and methodology going on, and from a physical perspective, could comprehend. 

She had her concerns, of course (they all seem to, these days), and made a similar suggestion to what PT had made a few weeks before the half. I explained my concerns with that recommendation, and she offered to call the other provider, explain my concerns, explain the situation, and have him contact me directly if they both agreed that he could be helpful. 

And the outcome? Still no call from the new provider, but I was willing to go along with the plan. Because if you tell me the methodology, I can understand what I need to do among it all.

This is how you provide good patient care.

The Mediocre

Oh, primary care. 

I'd sent my GP a similar message that I sent the Endo. Sure enough, like her, he wasn't comfortable accommodating the request without a visit. Fair enough.

The first problem? 

No appointments for 20 days unless I wanted to see another provider. And with something like this, and in the emotional state at the time, waiting 20 days was not an option.

The second problem?

No follow up. I never responded to his message, and likewise, he never followed up, seeing if things were better. 

And the Endo's office doesn't get an entirely free pass on this one. 

She ordered labwork, and I knew thanks to the patient portal that the results were back in Monday night. I saw some things that made me side eye, but decided that I'd not worry until the office contacted me. Because why invite trouble?

Late Wednesday morning, I get a call from her staff nurse, requesting a call back. I call back, get her voice mail, and leave a message.

Here we are, Monday, and I've still heard nothing back.

Maybe they changed their minds. Maybe the nurse was on vacation Thursday and Friday. But again, why not follow up? Why no call back of "Hey, this is what's going on" or "Hey, our error, no need to touch base."

How do providers think that is OK? Why do we as patients accept this as typical? 

The Bad

When things are bad, they are very very bad. 

Thanks to the combination of the laptop-toe injury and the fact that I've got fewer years of un-medication-induced normal menstruation than I do fingers, my gynecologist agreed that doing a Dexa scan wouldn't be the worst thing ever. 

The results came in, and I was concerned. 

Much to my surprise, the gynecologist's office called the next day. 

Now, admittedly, the gynecologist was one of the ones who congratulated the weight loss, so I shouldn't have had high hopes for this encounter with her office. 

To them, I think, I'm still just another fat girl in a box. Since I'm not anorexic, there must not be a problem. I don't know what was going through her head, or the nurse's head. Or if anything was at all. 

The nurse explained that they'd come in, and that yes, there was osteopenia, and I needed a second scan in two years. She then rattled off the boilerplate instructions for next steps: calcium, Vitamin D, and weight-bearing exercise. (And since these were almost word-for-word what was on the bottom of the results slip, I'm pretty confident that they were boilerplate.) And to have a good weekend. 

end scene

Solid instructions. I suppose. But obviously not coming from a place of "We know the patient." 

Because this patient? It's in my medical record that I have an eating disorder. It's in my medical record that I am Vitamin D deficient, and that I am on weekly prescription supplementation (which ironically, gets finished this weekend). It's clear that no one actually bothered to read my record before calling me with the results. 

Maybe I'm overreacting, but I can't imagine in what universe it's OK to tell the eating disorder patient to up her weight-bearing exercise, and to not give further instructions as to how exactly I'm supposed to come up with this calcium and Vitamin D.

And damnit, it's exhausting having to always be the advocate.

It was a good thing, I suppose, that I was in a better headspace this Friday afternoon than I had been the previous week. Because I could squeak out that well, I'm a distance runner, so the weight-bearing exercise is not a concern. The nurse had no response, and again wished me a good weekend. 

If I hadn't been in a better space? That's a nice excuse that the office just gave me to keep pounding my bones and joints into the ground. Nice way to keep continuing the female athlete triad there. 

But that's what happens when you've got an office who puts the patient in a box.

The patient experience in this country, in this region, should not be like this. 

Give the Girl a Paddle

I've spent almost six years believing that I couldn't kayak. 

In the summer of 2011, Birdman -- the guy I was dating very seriously at the time -- and I had a Groupon to Kayak Pittsburgh, so we tried it. Where "tried it" equaled "we got fitted for paddles, we got in a tandem kayak, and he told me I wasn't very good." Because I couldn't keep up with his paddling. Which, in retrospect, should not have been a surprise, considering I'd never paddled in my life. And he had nearly a foot on me. 

So like many other things in our relationship that he implied or flat out told me I wasn't good at, I simply believed over the past six years that I couldn't do it. 

But desperate times call for desperate measures, so when I started looking for a non-foot-using cardio activity, a friend suggested rowing. In my head, rowing was like paddling, so back to Kayak Pittsburgh I went. I signed up for a beginner's class, and eagerly anticipated that Wednesday evening. 

I was apprehensive, for sure. I was the only single woman there, and the one with the least experience. And the only one the boat outsized. 

"You're tiny!" one of the volunteers exclaimed as she checked my footing. "I'm really not," I said. 

She paused. "Well, let's just say that you're tiny compared to the boat."

And then it seemed to take a while for my brain to click about which way the paddle was supposed to face. And for me to figure out how to get going straight once we were in the water. And I felt like I couldn't keep up with the rest of the group. And I felt like the only idiot.

I was convinced that Birdman was right. Because so far, this wasn't good.

It turns out that like most other things, Birdman was wrong about this one.

"You've got good form!" my new BFF said as we were heading onward. 

I stared at him like a deer in the headlights, and shook my head no. "You don't believe me," he commented.

"No, I really don't. Because I don't see it."

Just like how I didn't see how "tiny" I was compared to the kayak, I suppose. 

"You're really ready," the guide said as we headed further out, and I noticed how I, another guy, and the trip leader were much further ahead of anyone else. So he showed me some refinements, and I kept paddling. I joked that after all of these weeks not being able to run, apparently I had some pent up cardio in me.

We got to the tunnel, and it was still just me, Other Dude, the trip leader, and this other guide, my new BFF.

"Are you keeping an eye on them?" the trip leader jokingly asked as we waited for the rest of the group.

"Keeping an eye on them?!" my new BFF laughed. "I can barely keep up with [CollectingBlues]!"

Apparently I can paddle. 

"I still can't keep up with you!" my new BFF said. "Right. I need to remind myself that this isn't a challenge," I teased him back.

And that was how the second hour of the class went. Me, my new BFF, Other Dude, and the guide leading the way. With me getting to lead the class through the tunnel in both directions. 

"You've been out before," my new BFF insisted as we circled the island to head closer to the dock.

Not really, I explained. This was my second time. 

It was amazing, and empowering. And damn, it was so much fun. I couldn't believe that I easily landed the kayak back on the dock. "Remember this: You aimed perfectly into something this small!" the trip leader said, complimenting my form.

I beamed from the time I got my stuff off, and all the way home. I'd been told that I couldn't kayak, and not only could I kayak, but I could kayak better than most of the group. I'm not saying that I'm grateful that I couldn't run these weeks, but I'm glad that it forced me to try something new.

And 90 minutes after getting home? Still beaming like a fool. 

This girl can paddle.

Popcorn With a Side of Shaming

Much to The Dietitian's chagrin, I happily consider movie popcorn to be a full-fledged meal. 

Movies and popcorn just go together for me. It's supposed to be awful for you, but a small is a perfect size, and it's delicious. I feel relatively guilt free that it's less than 400 calories, considering a small was only 360, per the sign AMC used to have, I never actually devour the whole bag, and I only put a drop of butter on. I always figure that math is close enough. 

(And then The Dietitian inevitably sees the food log, makes a gentle comment about "Only popcorn for dinner?" and I shrug her off. She's used to that last part by now.)

This became an issue when I last went to the movies earlier this month. My local and preferred AMC no longer sells small popcorns. I didn't know this until I got to the concession counter and asked for a small popcorn. 

Which...  Problematic to say the least. This was dinner, and a certain number of calories were budgeted, and now I had no idea what I was dealing with. But I saw on a sign what the medium was, and figured I could eat 2/3 of a bag, and get around the same amount as I'd planned ... and could determine that by eating to a certain mark on the bag. Although I wished that I had a Sharpie to mark it better. 

And this was before the movie even started.

So I totally own that by the time Popcorn Chick and her friend walked up to my row and came in, that I was already on edge. 

And then they shoved me over the edge. 

"Oh! That looks good! Are you going to eat all that by yourself?"

... 

Some people don't have the sense of a gnat, and instead decide that thoughts should always be vocalized. 

I stammered that no, I was only going to eat part of it. And then I laughed that well, I'd run the half on Sunday, so if I wanted the whole thing, I'd certainly earned it. 

And then thought, "Bitch. I could outrun you. And maybe you should use some self control."

Because, in that awful moment, I pulled my own judgment card. If you are twice my size, you especially do not get the right to make comments on my food. 

The awful thing? That because Popcorn Chick decided that she had to make a comment on what I was eating, and what her perception was, now I was wondering whether I really needed even that 2/3 of a bag that I thought I could eat. 

But, I took comfort in knowing that I'd run my half, and I was half her size, and damnit, it was my popcorn. 

And meticulously ate to the line that I'd marked in my head.

Yet, somewhat ironically/horribly/however you have it, left the movie still hungry.

I figured the Saga Of Popcorn Chick was over, until I went to my bathroom, did my thing, and came out to wash my hands. And there was Popcorn Chick and her friend.

I'm not sure if Popcorn Chick really had an issue with me that I just didn't know about, or if she really didn't realize that I was the same person that she'd made the comment to, or if that comment history had since left her brain. 

I go to the sinks, and she points and me, and says to her friend that she hadn't been "that flat" since the 1970s, and that she was "so glad that wasn't in style now."

I've never dried off so quickly in my life. I don't see myself as small, and while maybe to her I seemed "flat," that's not my perception. And it certainly would never have occurred to me that a completely stranger would call out my size as anything to comment on, especially when I've not done or said anything to provoke it -- and indeed, hadn't said a word to this woman since laughing off that I ran a half marathon, and could eat the whole bag if I wanted. 

But who does does that?! 

Popcorn Chick, apparently. 

To sum up: 

1. Publicly commenting on what an absolute stranger is about to eat? Not OK. (Although if you're a friend or a family member, and you pull the same stunt, I'm likely to give you this rant when it actually happens.)

2. Body shaming a stranger in a bathroom? Also not OK. 

And if you're body shaming the stranger whose food you questioned at the start of the movie? Make up your damn mind. 

A Combination of Unfortunate Events

I knew that the past few weeks would be rough. 

1. I was scheduled to have my cycle start in the days preceding the half. (I am currently being outvoted as to whether this counts as a true period. I maintain that it's regular, and that it is blissful because it's two days of spotting then done. The Team says nope, spotting doesn't count -- and sadly, the gynecologist agrees.) This would mean a bump up in water weight. Which... Just because I know it's going to happen doesn't mean that I have to like it or accept it.
2. Tapering was to begin three weeks before the half. Reduced workouts in an effort to keep my legs fresh. I disagreed with the Dietitian's timing on this one, but she's a runner, and the physiotherapist agreed with the timing, so I grudgingly went along.
3. To also try to stay fresh and go into the half ready, the Dietitian was urging me to make more of an effort on the food game; "Nutrition is a thing!" she said at the last appointment. So I was trying to eat at least a little closer to what my phone said I was burning. 
4. And then, in the final step of roughness (pun possibly attended), I broke my toe in spectacular fashion. No high-impact cardio the week before the marathon -- so although I'd planned on barre and some short runs during that final taper week, those were thrown off the table.

A combination of things that were guaranteed to drive me up the wall -- and then a water weight bump on top of it that I simply could not control. And no cardio to try to combat the anxiety from having to eat more.

But it turns out that what is worse than PMS/cyclical water weight fluctuations is that combination of taper weight gain and PMS/cyclical water weight fluctuations. 

The Dietitian had cautioned me a while back that tapering would be hard. 

The tiny, insignificant detail (cue "Love Actually" moment here) that she left out was to caution me about the weight gain that apparently was common with tapering. I'm not blaming her -- I'm sure that it had never crossed her mind, because to most people, a weight gain of 2 to 4 pounds is not cause for alarm.

But when I'm already expecting a bump with my cycle AND THEN IT KEPT GOING. 

Yeah. 

That was not expected. Or welcomed.

I think in the back of my head, I knew it was coming. I'd remembered reading somewhere that runners usually saw a weight gain during taper week. For whatever reason, although weight-related things usually stick in my head, this one seemed to take more of a moth approach, and flitted back out. 

Until 48 hours before race day, when I went into an absolute panic over the number on the scale. (On the upside, at least I'm not the only one?)

And I started spinning. 

Why wasn't the cycle gain following what it always did? What the hell was I doing wrong? Were five days of no cardio seriously having that bad of an effect? Wasn't lack of cardio supposed to lead to weight loss, since my muscles weren't supposedly retaining water for repair? And seriously, I couldn't have eaten that much, and even though I wasn't as active as I had been, I wasn't going over what the phone was saying -- or even getting close. 

Then it came back (and I started Googling): This is a thing, and it's a thing that I can't control, and I may still be panicking, but it is not time for drastic actions. 

Lesson learned: Bodies suck, sometimes. Water weight sucks, always. And even knowing what's coming doesn't make it easier to tolerate.

A Data-Gathering Year

The first year I started an inground garden, my best friend, sensing the ever-present anxiety about things I can't control, told me to think of it as science. 

This first year was to be a data-gathering year. I would see what worked, what didn't, and what I wanted to do again. 

The first year was a smashing success. 

This year, I decided it was time for another year of firsts. My first asparagus, my first grapes, and my first attempt at potatoes.

I have no clue what I'm doing. But I'm going to have a lot of fun trying. With blackberry bushes in bloom like these, how can gardening not be fun?

Grapes became interesting late last year, when I was at a wine flight, and one of the presenters explained that they were growable in our zone. I don't actually like grapes, but I do like a challenge. 

So in they went, near the trellises on the back of my property, and I crossed my fingers. The instructions from Burpee said six to eight weeks before I'd see new growth. And look what appeared only five weeks later?

My garden is good at acceleration. 

I have no clue what I'm doing about potatoes. Potatoes seemed like a logical next step in the quest of "only eat what comes from the garden." I like sweet potatoes, and they seemed easy, in how potatoes go, so why not?

I am grateful for the Burpee instructions here. They said that the plants may appear wilted, and the leaves bleached. So that made me feel better about what appeared when I opened the box, and I saw that they looked like I'd killed them. In the garden they went, and we'll see if they actually bother to perk up. If they don't, that's OK -- I can buy new, since they weren't horribly expensive. And it forced me to till out a portion of the garden and get a head start on the next part of growing.

On the other hand, I find the asparagus simply adorable. 

Lookit the little mini asparaguses! 

I had no idea what I was getting when I planted asparagus. The root stock doesn't look anything like it, and all I knew was that I was to dig a trough, plant them, and wait. 

Like, did you know that if you let them grow and get woody, they get little ferns? I didn't know that, but now I do!

I had waited to make a commitment to asparagus. Asparagus is a perennial (hence why it's in the herb garden), and not only that, but you're not supposed to pick it the first season -- and you can only minimally pick the second and third. If you go for asparagus, you need to be in it for the long haul. 

And I wasn't too sure about that until this past fall. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about Pittsburgh, and whether I was going to stay in the house if I needed to leave the area. But then employment things changed in November, and I knew that I could stay.

I think we're both here to stay. 

About Those Glittery Shoes

Yup. This is a thing that I'm going to do. 

I think that I've come to the conclusion that I like the idea of running half marathons more than I like training for half marathons. 

Maybe because, more so in spring and summer, there is other stuff around the house that I'd rather do (note all of the garden posts lately), and the weather can be iffy. Rain is still my dealbreaker, of course. 

But a Princess Half? The Princess Half? 

That I've been looking forward to since I started running, and since I got the dimwitted idea in my head about doing half marathons. 

It sounded like such a fun time, and their cutoff time is a much more forgiving 16-minute mile than Pittsburgh's 14-minute mile. I maintained sub-13 for the half, and expect to do even better at Presque Isle in July (and thus get the proof of time for a sub 2:45 total) -- but what I like about 16 is a) the recognition that I'm going to probably be faster than more people, and b) the understanding that if it really, really sucks, I can just walk most of it and I'll still be fine.

Especially since the Dietitian says it's flatter than Pittsburgh, and indeed, looking at an elevation map confirms that with some minor elevation changes, it's almost entirely flat. (Yes, I still fact check her.) Flat, I can do.

Flat, with a tutu, I can especially do. 

Yes, I'm the Crazy Neighbor

A year or so after I bought my house, a former boss gently told me that if I didn't think I had any crazy neighbors (and I didn't) that the odds were pretty good that I was the crazy neighbor. 

She's totally right. 

My poor neighbors. They're the ones who have to tolerate the crazy girl who does urban agriculture, and ripped out a chunk of lawn for the purpose of putting in blackberry and raspberry plants. Who had a landscaper rip up a perfectly good section of lawn (in my defense, next to the other section) to put in a large garden. That then was surrounded with a fence system resembling Fort Knox, because damnit, the rabbits and deer were not going to win. 

And now, they're neighbors to the crazy girl who just weed whacked her yard. 

You see, I hate mowing the lawn. I'll handle edging, and fertilizing, and all that extra stuff, but mowing is my Waterloo. It's that combination of sweat (ironic, I know), a heavy machine to lug, and the whole small engine crap that my brain just doesn't understand. 

On the upside, my father likes it, and my parents are local. So a few years ago now, when I was hitting my frustration point and sobbing to my mother about the stupid lawn mower not working again, he came over to help, ended up doing the whole thing, and offered to keep doing it.

I'm crazy, not stupid, so I agreed. In return, I give them produce from the garden when I have it, and they're willing to accept it. 

At the end of last season, my father couldn't get the lawn mower to work, and I said not a problem, I'd have it serviced this spring, and all would be good.

Except silly me didn't realize that it would take six weeks or so to get serviced. Because apparently while I don't care about lawn care all that much, other reasonable people do.

Meanwhile, the yard was looking pretty atrocious. It's a sign that if it's bugging me, it's probably horrifying my neighbors. And making the house look neglected.

Not wanting to spend money on a simple reel mower (because really, what was I going to do with it, and there are other things I'd rather spend my money on), and not wanting to research and find a company to come do it -- never mind pay them -- and not wanting to deal with a mansplaining neighbor, I looked around at what I had. 

I had a weed whacker. 

In my head, this was a viable solution. It's used to trim around edges that the mower can't get to, and it's got a decent battery life, so why not? 

The overwhelming result I got when I posted to my college's homeowners' Facebook group was along the lines of "crazy girl, don't do it." But not for good reason -- just for time reasons, and the whole idea of "It's not going to look as good."

Time, I have. And looks? I'd be happiest if I could rip out the yard and put in a giant series of raised vegetables beds (except that it would be awful for resale when that comes time). I wasn't going for perfect. Simply "This is not a wildlife refuge."

So off I went. 

Totally surprised. In 45 minutes -- the length of time before the battery died on the weed whacker -- I had finished the front yard, and about half of the back. It's not perfect by any means, but it is good enough. It looks like it's been maintained (except for that remaining back half that'll get done the next time I'm home from a run or class while there's still 30 minutes of daylight left). And it doesn't look like a wildlife refuge. 

Besides, let's be honest: The mansplaining neighbor practically scalps his yard when he mows. Mine is always going to look scraggly next to his. 

I'm sure I looked like a drunken toddler as I was doing this. Because there I am, walking back and forth in my yard, waving this tool back and forth, and probably not making very straight lines. (Again, going for "not a refuge" instead of "perfect lawn maintenance".)

It's a good thing that there were no neighbors out, and that the son of my other neighbor only managed to walk outside just about when the battery died. (He's the one who told someone on the phone once that "the crazy lady is talking to her plants again." He already thinks I'm crazy. I figure hey, at least I'm not living with my mother.)

But you know what else? It was a damn good workout. My arms were quivering by the time the battery on the weed whacker ran out -- to the point where I could barely pick up a cracker almost 20 minutes later. 

I'm not saying I'll turn to this as a sole means of maintaining the yard, but it certainly was a creative solution that actually worked!

Reframing: A Constant Work in Progress

I had very moderate expectations for the half, even before the incident involving the broken toe. 

Most importantly, I had to finish. I had a secondary time goal in mind -- getting proof of time for the Disney Princess half -- but that was truly secondary. I simply had to finish. 

After the incident with the toe, my goals became even simpler: Finish the race, in the maximum time, without having to take a DNF because I couldn't walk or run anymore.

As I've said many a time, I do not consider myself a runner. I have no shame in doing the Galloway run-walk-run method, and I think because of that, I simply do not see myself as someone who runs. I run, sure, but I'm not a runner -- I walk with that, and I'm pretty sure that I still could not run a race from start to finish. And I'm likewise OK with that, since my timings with the walk breaks are far better than anything I ever got with trying to run straight through.

But something happened during the half that shocked me. 

First, that I not only came within spitting distance of getting that proof of time, but that I blew through my training run paces. And that I was below the max time with loads of room to spare. DNF was not even in question.

Hell, now I certainly consider myself a runner. A crazy runner, definitely, but a runner for sure. Who else would go through the issues involved in covering 13.1 miles on a displaced toe fracture?

Then, after the shock and awe was over, I started looking at the official results. 

I'm a numbers person. So while my times were amazing for me (I still am not fast -- but for me, I was fast), I also wanted to see how I looked compared to other runners. 

I knew going in that if I could be in the 5th percentile for age and gender, I'd be thrilled. I wouldn't be last, by a long shot, and for a first half, on a day that was having unpredictable weather, that would be good enough to get me started. I wouldn't be an outlier. 

Somewhat more selfishly and cattily, I didn't want to be horribly slower than the small handful of people I knew who were running. I figured I'd be slower than they were, for sure, since they were actual proper runners and all that. But I didn't want to be miserably slower.

But back to the post-race analytics. 

First, the percentiles, since I am a geek and a dork. 

Overall, I nailed 15th percentile, among all runners. Totally not an outlier. Not fast, but not an outlier.

Where things get awesome were with age/gender division, and with gender overall. 18th percentile for age/gender, and 19th for gender overall.

Blown. Away. 

Sure, not a huge improvement from my target, but improvement is improvement. I'll take any improvement that I can, considering that the odds are pretty good that most of those people were running on broken bones.

Second, looking at the other people. 

And this is where I was shocked. 

One didn't finish. 

The next, a medical provider I see whose running advice I'd trusted, since she is a "real" runner, was in my division ... and finished at a slower time than I did, and with a slower pace than I kept. (Although who knows. Maybe she was running on a broken toe, too. We all have our histories.)

And then another individual, who I knew had been running for years, way before I even started -- and whose running expertise I had admired from afar. It turns out that I was far outpacing her -- and kept that outpacing. 

The numbers said it. Maybe I was just having a good day, and they were having a bad day. But I wasn't last, and I wasn't slowest. And even with my unconventional method, and the broken toe, I held my own.

I guess I am a real runner now. Or if nothing else, at least I'm not a poser like I worried I would be perceived.

The Start of the Longest Four Weeks Ever

I think the orthopedist could see the panic on my face. 

"OK. So I can be good until Sunday. But when can I go back to barre? When can I start running again? Is it OK to swim?"

"You can go swim today, if you want," he said. "But the rest..."

Four weeks. Four weeks with no cardio that wasn't swimming. I could do the race, but then I was benched. 

That was when I think the panic became obvious. 

The idea of no cardio for a month was horrible. I can only get into the pool a few times a week. So that would leave at least three days with nothing -- and even that was dependent entirely on if there was even lane space. After all, I took up running because I couldn't get lane space. 

I actively avoid trying to take rest days. I'll skip maybe once or twice a week, if I have a literal schedule conflict or if I've logged my mileage in normal activity, but I don't really take rest days unless I have to. Like when I was going through some awful fatigue, and could not get myself to the gym or barre because I thought I was going to fall asleep at the wheel. Or when I was sick, and the Dietitian and Therapist 3.0 equally put their feet down about how going to the gym wasn't the best idea when I was dealing with a Typhoid Mary level cold. 

A month of rest days. 

Nope nope nope. 

Even typing that out, days later, still makes my heart race. Because what was going through my head was largely "OMG. Now I can't even eat, because I'm not going to burn anything off."

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, either the ortho had actually read my full record, or, since his department works with people who are sports-minded, he took time to recognize the panic and work through it. 

You can do other stuff! You can do lots of core work, and arms, and you can modify planks as long as you don't put pressure on the toe. And you can still swim. 

Just... you need to take it quiet for putting pressure on your foot for four more weeks. I understand that you're going to run on Sunday, but you really need to let it heal. 

So core work it is. I've got decent handweights at home (even the physiotherapist was amazed at the stuff that people typically only used at the gym, and I was saying "I've got this at home. Can I do it there?"), and LA Fitness has a decent set up, for the days when I try to swim and can't, or when I'm feeling particularly slug-like. I used to lift, when I noticed that both Dr. Big-Important-Expert-Lady and Dr. New Person had awful bingo arms (I feel moderately guilty about saying that about Dr. BIEL, since I actually liked her, and not at all about Dr. New Person of the "you're so fat you must binge" infamy), and I knew that I never ever wanted to have arms like that. 

Core work isn't awful.  And if it leaves me more toned, then it's worth it.

But still. There's a note on my calendar for when my four weeks are up, and I can get back out on the trail, and back to the barre. 

Faster. Stronger. 

Or something like that.