Yesterday was global Bra Squad Day, an idea from Kelly Roberts that basically means: go outside. Exercise. Just wear your bottoms and a sports bra.Celebrate your body for what it is and what it can do and how strong it is.

I thought it would be a great idea to take up this challenge because it seemed like it would push me to think about my body issues. I confess that at the beginning of my hike, I thought no…I can’t do this. Maybe I should just take a picture and then put my tank back on. But Kendell, who was hiking with me, decided to join me; I looked back and he, too, was hiking with his shirt in his hand.

Still, it probably didn’t hurt that we didn’t see one other person on our hike. (Maybe because we started hiking at 11:30 on a really hot and sunny summer day?)

As I hiked, I thought about my body and how I feel about it. I tried to think of a time when I didn’t feel a barrage of critical thoughts about it, and realized as I kept going back through time in my memory that it was a moment before I hit puberty. Twelve or thirteen, then; I was sitting outside on our patio, reading in the shade, and I got up because I wanted to do some cartwheels. (I never said I wasn’t a strange child.) As I cartwheeled around my yard, I remember thinking I love that I can do this! It’s almost like flying! I felt light as air and strong all at once, overjoyed at what my body could do.

Of course, gymnastics is hardly a sport that emphasizes positive body image. As I entered puberty I was highly conflicted: I want to stay small but I was also deeply envious of all of my friends’ boobs. I kept waiting and waiting and waiting, being hopeful…but boobs never really happened for me, at least not much, and I have always been self-conscious of that part of my body. (Except…I also am grateful that I don’t have to work too hard to find a sports bra that prevents any bouncing; I’m not sure I could do that with bigger breasts.) Even though a smaller chest meant I still had that gymnastics build.

But what I was always bothered by is my thighs. No way around it: they are not petite. They are strong, but I definitely don’t have a thigh gap. I still remember the sting when one of my gymnastics teammates asked me why I couldn’t vault and tumble like Mary Lou Retton, since my thighs were actually bigger than hers. When I look back at the photos I have of me at gymnastics meets, I don’t see a girl with extraordinarly large thighs. Just strong legs, but in my head? In my head I was castigating my thunder thighs the whole time.

Isn’t that a shame? At that time of my life, I could fly, just a little. I could jump hard enough to fight just the tiniest bit against gravity. I could do a beautiful switch leap. I could still do the splits, not only on the ground but in the air. I could do a back flip on the balance beam, and an ariel. I had enough lung capacity to tumble and to dance. Plus, I was strong. I could do thirty pull ups and fifty dips and a hundred sit ups.

But what I felt was my boobs are too small and my thighs are too big.

A thought that, I confess, has never left me.

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I felt OK about my body in my twenties. Maybe I was just too busy to really pay attention, but honestly. I never exercised, I drank at least 32 ounces of soda every single day, I baked all the time, and my body just stayed the same size. (Except for pregnancies, of course…but I managed to gain less than 22 pounds with each of them.)

But then, the January before I turned thirty arrived. Kendell had been laid off and we didn’t know how we’d cope, so I decided to go back to school. I had three young kids and a husband without a job. I had started running by then, but not consistently. And, BAM. In two weeks I discovered my first grey streaks in my hair and I gained ten pounds, and I haven’t been the same since.

Now, it does matter what I eat. Now, I only have soda very, very rarely (and I’m honestly just fine with that). Now, if I let a week go by without exercising, I immediately start gaining weight.

Sometimes it feels like my body betrays me, over and over. I still have disappointing breasts and large thighs. But now I also have a big lump of fat on each side of my spine that bulge over my sports bra (I call them my back boobs with as much affection as I can…but really, I hate them and I don’t even know why I have them). My belly is almost irreversibly soft, and I am starting to grow a good pair of bat wings, and I have a little roll of fat over each of my hips.

Plus the skin on my knees is starting to get wrinkly.

And sometimes I just want to shake my own body. I mean…I feel like I treat it fairly well. Sure, I eat more sugar than I should. But not even close to the amount I ate in my twenties. I exercise with far more dedication than I did in my twenties, too. But every year, a bit more weight sticks around.

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So taking my shirt off? Exposing all of that flesh to anyone who might wander by? Even just sports-bra’ing it with only my husband around made me terribly uncomfortable.

Except, I came around a curve and there was a breeze on that side of the mountain, and I felt a little bit cooler without an extra layer.

I realized that without a shirt I felt more present in my activity, because more of my skin was experiencing the air, the heat, the whisk of a breeze.

And that helped me think past my insecurities, past my various fat blobs.

Instead, I started thinking about what my body has done since I turned thirty and lost control. I survived teaching for two years (which seems cerebral but actually requires a bunch of physical energy as teachers never sleep). I had one more baby and nursed him for an entire year. (Those small boobs? It goes against all laws of physics, I swear, but I had tons of milk.) I learned to run for longer distances, half marathons and even one full. I took up hiking and discovered that I had a previously-unknown talent: I can hike uphill really fast for a long, long time. I kept moving even with intense back pain for five or six years and five painful ankle sprains and two enormous bunions and one toe with capsulitis and skin that blisters just from the glancing pressure of someone looking at it. I discovered that one of my greatest pleasures is moving my body through the world.

So really: why don’t I love it more? Why do I berate it, and wish it were different? Why can’t I see it, yet, as beautiful even if it doesn’t meet the world’s version of beautiful?

All of which are a lot of deep thoughts brought on by taking off my shirt in front of my husband, I suppose.

But I do feel like I gained something by participating in this exercise. It made me realize that despite thinking I am OK with my body, I’m probably mostly not, and that my habits of thinking go back for decades; they are tangled up in some pretty deep emotional issues (I mean…I haven’t even discussed the way my mom’s body issues influence mine). And that maybe the answer isn’t in going to the gym more, doing more push-ups, or eating fewer cookies. Maybe the answer is in focusing on the positives, on reminding myself that running and hiking are privileges that not every body is given, on seeing some of the “failures” as evidence of strong things I have done.

I’m not sure I will ever be able to love my body like I should, or quiet the myriad voices pointing out my flaws. But life is, even though this is a cliché, a marathon and not a sprint. I still have time. And I intend on using that time by moving, even if my flesh does jiggle.

You get out of it, sometimes. Sometimes the dark place is a place you’ve left behind you. Sometimes you forget the details of this landscape.

But always a part of you knows that all roads leading away eventually lead toward.

Or sometimes something just shoves you, a carelessly mean thing someone said, a person you barely know who turned away from you on the street, the sight of a beautiful house you will never live in.

Or maybe it’s just biology, a lingering illness, not enough sleep, too much sugar and caffeine, not enough sunlight, some dark shifting of chemicals when you sleep too much.

Whatever.

You find yourself back here, in this dark place. Which is full of everything dark, each dark thing made into a black jellyfish that blooms almost invisibly in the darkness. Shame, guilt for things you did yesterday and decades ago, embarrassment. Memories of all the other times you were here again. Anger, despair. These are not ephyrae, but fully formed, a fluther of dark medusae.

Words mingle with the dark things in the dark: your mother telling you to cheer up, wear something yellow, stop moping. Some religious person or other telling you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, sadness is selfish, you would feel better if you just helped other people more. A doctor explaining how your prescription might work and how it might not. A stranger telling you you’d be prettier if you just smiled. Your own voice, acknowledging that you’ve failed again, falling back down here. That you are selfish.

Mostly, though, what I find here over and over is that core knowledge of myself, the thing I first discovered in sixth grade during the six or seven months I was friends with all of the popular girls, the ones with wealthy parents and big houses and all the clothes they wanted. It has filtered down all of my life, evidence like sediment constantly building up: happiness is for other people.

Sure, I come back here to this dark place over and over because I failed, because I am selfish, because I’m weak.

But I also end up back here because it’s what I deserve.

From the darkness, everyone else’s lives look so bright. Look at them, laughing with their daughters, teaching their sons how to catch a ball, running with their friends. Living their blessed, light-filled lives.

How do you make sense of any of it? Of the discrepancies between human lives, of the gulf between have and have not? When I am not here I am able to make peace with the smallness of my life, with my “modest” home and my budget vacations in cheap hotels, with my faltering relationships.

But when I am here in the dark, I remember. I remember what I fail at, over and over, is schooling myself to stop expecting happiness. To learn to expect nothing. To never trust in hope.

So here I am, in the dark. Maybe it isn’t really a place but a place I carry within myself. I still, eventually, get out of bed. I do the things I am supposed to do: make the food, wash the clothes, scrub the bathroom tiles with bleach. It stops being a place, external or in; it becomes a talisman, a pendant, a dreadful bead caught on a loop of thin metal, weighing me down, banging against my sternum. A dark thing that keeps beat with my heart in a deadly sort of metronome. But I try to pretend it’s not there, I try to read books that seem full of words I don’t know, I eat raspberries that taste like dry leaves and dirty water, I take the medication or I don’t take the medication. I go through the motions.

My sister calls, as if she knows somehow I’m back in the dark even though I would never tell her, and I can’t talk but I make a joke, I laugh, I tell her goodbye. I might sound like a human being.

I go to a store, look at beautiful things.

I walk home.

It’s still there, beating against me.

I am writing this not because I want anyone to feel sorry for me. I am posting it not because I am a dramatic, needy bitch who wants attention just because she’s, you know, sad.

I’m sharing it because even though I am alone in the darkness, or I am carrying the darkness by myself down an empty street in bitter sunlight, I also know I am not alone. I also know there are hundreds of us in the darkness. And I know that the power and strength of the darkness lies in its ability to convince each of us that we are alone in the dark.

I need to be honest: I don’t think I will ever be completely free of the darkness. It is a part of me like a scar.

But it also is sometimes bearable, it is sometimes a place that’s far away or only a small stone on a chain I can unclasp from my neck and put into my pocket.

So many of us are carrying this stone, are being swallowed by darkness, are writhing in the stinging black tentacles.

If you’ve never been here, it probably does look dramatic. Silly, selfish, weak.

And I hope you never have to know what it’s like.

But I also hope we can somehow help each other. That we could extend grace and acceptance instead of criticism.

And, more than anything, acknowledge. That depression exists. That it isn’t failure or weakness but a health issue. That it requires help from others, just like heart disease or a broken femur.

I am not alone in knowing this darkness. But the people who have helped me when I was down in it have taught me, and I know now, thirty years after first falling in, how to crawl out again. Even though right now it is feeling impossible to do it again; even though there is that constant doubt that I matter enough to save myself.

I will keep trying because the darkness is larger than just my darkness, and because I am feeling alone right now but part of me knows I am not alone and because if you are reading this, lost as you are too, and feeling alone, I want you to know that you, also, are not alone.

(This post inspired in part by Dyenna Schedgick, who was also brave enough to write about her depression and in doing so gave me the strength to write about mine.)

I know most runners seem to do their long runs on the weekend, but for my training for this marathon, it worked out better to do them on Mondays. That way I am running while Kendell is working and not bogging down the weekends with lots of running time. I would like to say that Mondays have been perfect for my long runs, except I don’t really know: I’ve had so much sickness that I’ve hardly done any!

But when I got back from my weekend in Colorado, I began thinking about my long runs again. I felt like I had to decide: actually try to commit to running a marathon or decide that the combination of sickness was too much and drop out. Since I’d already paid for my marathon entrance (not an inexpensive fee!) and scheduled some of our activities in San Francisco—but also mostly because the thought “you’re not strong enough to do this thing” makes me want to do the thing even more—I decided I wanted to commit.

So last Monday came, and I had decided to pick up where my half marathon ended, meaning I’d start adding miles to my “base” of thirteen. (It’s not really a base. I am fully aware that I am not exactly training properly…but I am trying to make it work with the time I have left.)

Running a half marathon when you’re recuperating is one thing. I knew there would be support from other runners, the energy of the race itself, and water stops, and that would get me through.

But running 14 miles when you’re recuperating felt like an entirely different thing. I don’t have a running friend, so I’m out running on my own. And there are definitely no convenient water tables randomly set up! I was nervous and unsure. But I plotted a course entirely around parks and trails with drinking fountains, got up way too late to decently start running 14 miles on a summer morning, and started my run.

Fourteen miles. The last time I ran that far was when I was training for the first marathon I ran, back in 2011. And sure, 14 isn’t much more than 13.1, but still. It’s mostly a mental barrier. One I just wasn’t sure I was up for. But I have forgotten how the miles still slip by, and before I knew it I was halfway done. There’s something rejuvenating in thinking “yes! I’m halfway there! only seven miles left!”

I felt OK on my first really long long run. I actually felt really strong for the first ten miles. The last four were harder, but nothing like the runs I boinked when I was really sick. And isn’t that strange—those two really miserable sick runs taught me how it feels to really struggle. The last four were hard, but not that hard, so I knew I could finish. And I did!

Today I went out for my second long run. I’m adding just one extra mile each Monday, so today was 15. And again…I was nervous. Not for that one extra mile, but for the entire run, because yesterday Kendell and I hiked long, and I was still tired from that. (The tiredness, along with random times when the cough just shows up again for no reason I can understand, will last throughout the three-ish months of whooping cough recuperation.) I wasn’t sure I had it in me to run 15 miles. So I gave myself permission: At 5 miles, if I was feeling awful, I could turn around.

But…again, I surprised myself by feeling OK. I did take the miles really slow. And I stopped for water at every drinking fountain along the way. And I was pretty worn out (and even slower) on the very last mile.

I finished though. I felt horrible when I was done—hobbling with worn-out legs and as if I had used every single scrap of energy I had in my body. At first this discouraged me, because sure…I finished 15 miles. But if I am this trashed at 15, how can I expect to finish 11 (.2) more? In six weeks’ time?

But as I thought about it, I realized that probably that horrible trashed feeling happened because I hiked so long yesterday. And it didn’t happen until I’d stopped running, which means that very slowly I am getting stronger.

I’m still not 100% certain of how this marathon will go. I told Kendell last night that probably my only goals will be A. finish, and B. finish before the time limit (six hours). San Francisco is a hilly marathon and I will still be recuperating. So those seem like reasonable goals. (Although there is still a little voice in my head reminding me that up hills=downhills, so maybe I could finish in…but I don’t think it’s fair to myself to have any time expectations.)

But with every long run I manage to finish, I gain a little bit more confidence.

And hopefully saying that out loud won’t jinx my next long run!

To write this post I decided I need to know exactly how many marathons I’ve run. Even though it doesn’t really matter, I realized when I was running my last one that I don’t know how many I’ve done. Here’s my tally, in totally random order:

• Hobble Creek: x3
• Different halves down Provo Canyon: x2
• Halloween Half in Provo Canyon: x2
• Halloween Half in Little Cottonwood Canyon: 1
• Moab Other Half: 1
• Snow Canyon Half: 1
• Provo City Half: 1
• Nebo Half: 1
• Prospect Park Half: 1

So…13 half marathons so far.

(And one full marathon.)

(And three Ragnars.)

I think I started thinking about this during half marathon #14, when someone asked me how many full marathons I’ve done, and I was embarrassed to answer “only one.” Thirteen halves (14 now!) isn’t very many, considering I’ve been running for 18 years now.

(Reminding myself of what I wrote in my last post. How many marathons/halves/ultras you’ve run doesn’t make you a runner. Just running does. But I’m still feeling like I’m sort of lazy and unambitious.)

Anyway.

My fourteenth marathon was in Louisville, Colorado, which is just outside of Boulder. It was held in conjunction with the Skirt Sports ambassador retreat (which I’ll be writing a different post about). It was called the Skirt Sports 13er because “it’s not HALF of anything.”

I always feel like every race teaches me something about running and about myself, and this one was no exception. I’m going to start with the negatives first and then get down to what really matters.

The two things I didn’t love about this race were 1. I prefer a non-looped course. The route for the 13er was two loops on the trails of Davidson Mesa. I realize this is simply personal preference, but having done two looped races recently (my fall half in Brooklyn was four loops of Prospect Park) I can be certain that I like a course that doesn’t loop. For me, I want to see as much of the place I’m running through, especially if I’ve traveled to get there, so a loop gets a little bit frustrating. That said, two loops is definitely better than four! And the mesa does have some really pretty views of the mountains. 2. More porta potties. I’m not sure I’ve ever run a race that had enough porta potties. Especially out on the course; I try to achieve peequilibrium (the state of taking in enough water that you’re not dehydrated but you don’t have to stop to use the bathroom) but when I don’t, waiting for a bathroom is torture. Dear race directors: Always get more porta potties!

But I loved everything else about this race.

Part of the course was a loop around a little pond, and that was definitely my favorite part. There were geese all along the trail—I even had to clap some of them off the trail so I could get around them. This little detail brought me happiness because it made it feel more like running in nature. I said hello to the geese and a few honked back at me!

I wasn’t sure how I would do on this race, since I was recuperating from pertussis and the longest run I’d done in preparation was just under 9 miles, and I’d done it three weeks before the race. I took ten days off of any exercise, and in the week before the race I managed to run three 3.5-ish mile “long” runs. (I wanted to do four so at least I would’ve done a total of 13+ miles, but I had a bad day.) I wouldn’t recommend this training “program” to anyone, especially if it is your first half marathon. For me, I knew I would be slow but I decided to give myself the grace to accept that and just had the goal of finishing without having any coughing spells.

(I kept my inhaler in my pocket just in case.)

For almost all of my running years I’ve kept a pretty consistent pace that’s between 9 and 10 minute miles. I always set the goal of finishing a half in under two hours; sometimes I’ve made it, but the majority of my halves I’ve finished in just over two hours. My PR is 1:38, which I did at the Nebo Half, which is entirely downhill so it’s not really a true statement of what I am capable of. (But I still claim it as my PR time!) When you’re running at that speed, you’re basically at the back of the middle of the pack, with runners who run the whole race without walking breaks.

For this half, I did repeats of run for 10 minutes, walk for 3 minutes. I walked through every water stop; I drank water (and one exceptionally delicious cup of ice-cold lime flavored Nuun which was delicious) and had either a block or my one Gu at each water stop. This put me farther back than the end of the middle of the pack, and while I was trying to extend myself that grace I mentioned, I started getting frustrated because I kept passing and then being passed by the same people. I also didn’t really find anyone to run/walk with me because my intervals were odd. So another thing I learned is just how much of a little energy spark I get from passing people. (I say that without any bragginess intended, as A—I get passed plenty of times myself and B—I firmly believe that we’re really only racing against ourselves, or at least most of us who aren’t winning races.) It feels like a different way to measure your progress than only counting miles, so it helps me to feel like I’m accomplishing small goals in smaller intervals, if that makes sense.

So one of my take-aways from this race is a goal to  get myself back into good enough shape that I can run a whole half marathon without taking walking breaks again. I won’t even start working on this goal until September, when I should finally be over the pertussis.

But here is the best thing I learned from the 13er: when the focus of the race is camaraderie, encouragement, and positivity, it helps every runner. Even this one suffering with irritated lungs!

All along the course, women were cheering each other along. When people passed me they often said “you look great” or “keep going!” or something else encouraging. When people passed going the other way (because there was also a 10k and a 5k, and because the first mile or so wasn’t part of the loop) everyone was so positive and kind.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever run a race quite like this one, with women so encouraging of each other.

At the end of the race, you came around the corner and could see the finish line, and there were other runners cheering. Up to that point, my mantra had been “don’t cough, don’t cough,” but hearing all of those women cheering and shouting and encouraging me to finish strong made my mantra change to “don’t cough! Don’t cry!” because it seriously gave me a lump in my throat. It was one of the most beautiful and positive running experiences I’ve ever had.

Even if it’s a loop again next year…I’d still run it again. The encouragement overcame my health issues enough that I loved every step of the 13.1 miles.

(Even if my finishing time was an entire hour longer than my half-marathon PR time!)

“Running does not define who we are. It refines who we are.” ~Chris Heuisler

I read this in a meme somewhere a few days ago and the thought has stuck with me. I understand what he is saying: running changes you. It changes you in ways you cannot begin to imagine when you start running. Ways that have nothing to do with physical fitness and weight loss.

Running does refine you.

But…it also defines me.

I might not look like a “real” runner. I don’t have those thin-but-muscled spindly legs or defined abs. I don’t run in tiny running shorts (tiny runny shorts are, in fact, one of my worst nightmares). I don’t look lean and sculpted.

In fact, I look a little bit soft.

And then there’s the issue of speed. If you only qualify as a runner based on speed, then I might not be a runner. Right now, while I’m recuperating from a lung illness, I’m doing a combination of running and walking, so my mile pace is in the 11 minute range. Can I call myself a runner when part of the time I spend running is actually walking? When I’m healthy and not injured, I’m thrilled with a 9.5-minute mile on a flat surface. I’ll probably never be fast enough to qualify for Boston.  Does the fact that my miles are slow mean I’m not actually a runner but a jogger?

Sometimes I am training for a race. Every once in a while that race will be a marathon, but usually it’s a half marathon. I have fantasies about training for an ultra but I’ve never actually done it.

Does the distance you run make you a runner?

Nah.

It’s taken me a long time. But after running for almost twenty years, I can finally claim the definition: I am a runner.

Not because running is something I do, but because it is something I am.

I’m a runner because I run.

Not every day, like some runners. But more than half the days.

Since I’m a runner, if I go on vacation I’m still going to go running. In fact, running on vacation is one of my favorite parts of running.

Since I’m a runner, I buy a lot of running clothes. I read magazine articles about other runners, and about running shoes and running techniques and running routes.

Since I’m  a runner I have a Costo-sized tub of protein powder in my pantry, and lots of nuts, and Kind bars and protein bars and Luna bars. There’s a box of Cliff Blocks in my nightstand drawer and five or six packages of Gu.

Since I’m a runner at least one of my toenails is funky and I almost always have blisters on my bunions.

There are lots of things that define who I am: I am a parent, a wife, a friend. I’m a teacher. I’m a librarian. I am a reader and a writer, a quilter and a scrapbooker. I am a hiker.

But yes: “runner.” I’m also a runner. It defines me.

And it does, in fact, also refine me.

Because I am a runner, I have a better understanding of how to process my emotions.

I’m a better writer because I am a runner.

Because I’m a runner, I understand my own body. I know the names of muscles; I know when I need rest and when I am just being lazy. I know the deep-down ache in my pelvis of running long and the catch in the lungs from running fast. 

I’m stronger mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually because I’m a runner. A better wife, mother, friend, employee.

Because I’m a runner I understand that I can do hard things. That sometimes endurance looks like patience, and that I have more strength in me than I sometimes know. That knowledge doesn’t just help me when I’m still five miles from home and I’m tired but I’ve got to keep running. It helps me when I am grappling with personal struggles. It’s helped me in long, terrifying nights spent in hospitals not knowing if my husband would live. It’s helped me when I got bad news about Kaleb’s heart. It helps me when I am lonely or sad because I know I am strong. If I can run half marathons I can cope with life's challenges.

I love my body more, despite my back fat and my thigh rub, my beginning-to-wrinkle skin, my soft belly, because I am a runner. I know it will almost always take me where I need to go, whether it’s up a mountain or twenty miles down the road. It is my apparatus for being in the world and I am willing to extend grace to the flaws because no one is perfect, no body is perfect, but some runs are perfect and I couldn’t experience them without my body.

I’m a runner because running is what I do. It’s a part of me as deeply essential to my Amyness as my other qualities. I am blessed to be able to run and I am grateful for that blessing.

It defines me, running. It refines me. It teaches me I am a badass one day and it humbles me the next. I would be far less of a person without running. And I hope I can continue running for the rest of my life.

About six weeks ago, after officially signing up (paying all that money!) to run the San Francisco marathon, I sat down and made up my running schedule for the weeks through the end of July. Because of Kendell’s knee surgery and some other family uncertainties, I didn’t give myself as much time as I’d like to be officially training for San Fran, but I still had enough time to make it work. One of the things I was excited about is that the half marathon I’d signed up for months ago, the Skirt Sports 13er, was on one of the bump-back weeks, meaning I’d have run 15 miles the week before the race, so 13 would feel easier and maybe I’d do OK on my racing time.

So I made my plan, and I got started with it, and then God or the Universe or Whomever started laughing at me. I know exactly when it started, and exactly where, too: 4.3 miles into my eight-mile long run, on Sandhill Road just past Nielsen's Grove, I started feeling totally wiped out. I mean, sure, I’d run 4ish miles, but I’m not talking normal running tired, but a bone-deep, muscle-thick weariness. I pushed through (because I was running a big circle and how else would I get back to my car?) but that night, bam! I got hit with a cold.

(The last time I ran and felt normal and healthy and optimistic about my upcoming races.)

It lingered for ten days, and eventually turned into a sinus infection. I kept running during that time, but slower and fewer miles than my racing plan called for.

I had two days where I felt really, really great. I was almost off of the antibiotics, the excruciating sinus pain was gone, my energy came back. On the third day I went out for my scheduled long run. It was supposed to be 10 miles but I dialed it back to eight just because I hadn’t been running as much and I didn’t want to strain anything by jumping in too big.

Five miles into that run, it all fell apart. That bone- and muscle-deep weariness? Came back, but about ten times worse. That was one of the few runs in my entire running life that if I had had a way to not finish, I would have, but again: I had to get myself back to my car. But I had hit the wall so hard I couldn’t keep running. Like, I’d start running and my quads would just refuse, almost like it was beyond my choice. So I mostly-walked the rest of my three miles back to my car.

I almost started crying right then I was so happy to stop moving!

I stretched, I drank my ZipFizz, I drove home, but I was wiped out. After going to the doctor with Haley and Jake (this was the week after her Utah State University graduation) I took a four-hour nap, and woke up to a lovely stomach bug. Not your usual 24-hour variety though. This took ten days to work its way out of my system. I’ll spare you the gory details except to say the only benefit of a 10-day-long bastard of a stomach bug is I lost eight pounds as anything I ate just flowed right through me.

Lovely!

That was a Tuesday. On Thursday we had planned a graduation party for Haley with a bunch of family and friends. I made it to that, washing my hands about one million times during the party just to be safe. Antibacterial gel too. (It was a lovely party and I have thoughts I want to share about it.) I held my new great-niece but very carefully, not getting her close to my face or snuggling her too much. After the party, I was exhausted from the day’s food prep, so I sat down in bed to read almost the second I got home.

And then, BAM. Literally right then, I started feeling like I was getting another cold. My throat hurt and my lungs felt heavy and if I thought I didn’t have any energy before? Well. I entered into the tenth circle of hell, which is where your body feels like it is made of rubber cement. All of the illnesses stick to you and just trying to do normal, everyday activities seems impossible because everything, even your fingers, feel like they weigh two hundred extra pounds.

Although I did go to work and do another 8-mile-long “long” run.

Meanwhile, I also developed a rash. It itched, and if I itched it, it flared into utter misery. Anything that put pressure on my skin caused the rash to flare up, so it was on my waist, back, calves, torso. And also all over my chest, neck, and face. I got so desperate I actually Googled what measles look like, but it didn’t look like measles.

So! Rash, stomach, the usual cold issues, nah. I kept trying to run, again slower and fewer miles, but two things made me finally get a doctor’s appointment: that lack of energy (I have seriously never felt anything like it) and the cough. OMG, the cough. It is also something I have never felt before. You know how it feels when you have back spasms, and you can’t make them stop and your limbs kind of twitch uncontrollably? Translate that into your lungs, into a cough. Some of my coughing spells lasted for twenty minutes, and after I would be exhausted.

Of course, the doctor couldn’t see me until Wednesday, and all of this started happening on Thursday night, and meanwhile I was also still dealing with that lovely, lovely stomach issue.

It was a fun week.

But I finally made it to the doctor’s office. His diagnosis?

Whooping cough.

Whooping cough. I’d like to think there’s something sort of bad-ass about the fact that I ran almost nine miles with whooping cough but it was probably just stupid. He explained how the sickness works, and told me in no uncertain terms: do not run until the coughing stops. At least for ten days.

So I filled my prescriptions (antibiotics—which interestingly do not halt the progress of whooping cough once you actually have it but they make you so you’re not contagious and thus can’t pass it on to anyone else—an inhaler, and a big bottle of Mucinex which where have you been all my life?), went home, and crashed.

Not only did I not run for ten days, I didn’t do anything. I laid in bed. I tried to read, but invariably I’d wake up three hours later with my book smashed against my face in uncomfortable ways. I took baths. I coughed. I coughed so much. But the inhaler did keep it in check. For the first four days, I had to lie perfectly flat, with not even a pillow under my head because it was the only way I could sleep without coughing. I slept. I rested. I tried to recuperate.

I felt like crap.

But slowly. Very, very slowly, my energy started coming back. The sore throat eased, the stuffiness got better. I got out of bed and did a few things, but I would be exhausted afterwards. The day I cleaned the two upstairs bathrooms I required a four-hour nap! I eventually made it through an entire day without sleeping once.

And here I am, sort-of on the other side of whooping cough. I’m past the worst of it, but one truth of the disease is that it takes three months until you feel all the way better.

Three months.

That puts me almost into September. That is all of the summer.

That is a time that spans two races I’ve been planning on and already paid for.

So once I started feeling “better” (quotes there because I feel…improved, but not normal) I did what any sane runner with a half marathon coming up in two weeks would do: I started running again.

Very short distances (my longest run was just under four miles) and with several walking breaks (run for 5 minutes, walk for 3 was my pattern) and a pace that is slow for me. But running. I wanted to get four 3.5-mile runs in before the race, because then I would’ve at least run more than 13 miles so I knew I could run 13 miles, but I actually only did two. I did one very slow two mile hike, coughing all of the time, and another faster and longer one a week later during which I didn’t cough at all.

(In fact, it is weird to me that the whole time I was running with whooping cough, I actually NEVER coughed while I was running, even during that long run I did. Not during. But I would cough my head off when I finished my run.)

And then yesterday was my half marathon. Which of course deserves its very own post!

Before I close, though, here’s my PSA: If you haven’t had a DTaP booster in a while, go get one. Don’t be like one of my neighbors, who said she doesn’t believe in immunizations in adults because if she “turned autistic” then who would take care of her kids, and besides, it’s better for your body to get the illness than have the shot. Sigh. Do not be that person. Get a booster if it’s been 10 years or more since you had your last one. I actually had one almost four years ago (remember the forehead cut? Got one then, because the T in DTaP stands for tetanus) so in theory I shouldn’t have caught this at all. And since I have been immunized, my experience with the illness will be easier to manage. It is not worse to get a shot than to get the disease. This disease is awful.

And you know who it is the worst for? Babies under a year old who haven’t finished all of their immunizations because they haven’t been alive long enough to do so. So my beautiful new great niece? I was terrified she would get whooping cough from that brief time I held her. (You are contagious for ten days before you have any symptoms.) She had to have an antibiotic just in case. Thank God she didn’t catch it. But I kept thinking…someone else gave it to me. Immunization works best not just because of the actual immunization; an immunized population protects people who aren’t fully immunized (like a baby) or have a compromised immune system (like I have had for no explicable reason).

Get your shots, people!