Love, Jimmie

I’m ready to make a commitment to you guys.  I’m stating it here so that you know you can hold me accountable and nag me about it as you see fit.  I’m fairly certain you know I would nag you if the shoe were on the other foot.

 I’m going to run the ½ marathon in September, the Women’s one.

Now I’ve said it and posted it.  I have to do it.  Lynnette wrangled a promise out of me (think along the lines of Major Payne with a pinch more sweetness) and while I will most likely curse her every time I set foot on the Greenway and die a thousand slow deaths as I’m running to some Cee Lo Green, I’m pretty excited about it. Thank you, Lynnette.  You do know that I really do want to do this.

The last weekend in April was the Music City Marathon and a bunch of my friends ran it.  I trained for it for a little while but I ran out of steam before I ever got there.  Besides, the one I had originally planned to run was the Women’s one and I believe I only have one in me.  If I’m going to run all that way and train all that much, I’m going for the prettiest t-shirt; clearly the pink one with the girlie logo on it is far better than the blue one they gave away at the Music City Race.

Freddie and I, both of whom had toyed around with the idea of running the Music City Half, decided we would bike down to the Titan’s stadium which is where the half marathoners would finish their races.  I wanted to see my friends run in and hopefully snap pictures of them so they didn’t have to pay $39.95 for their photos.  Highway robbery . . .

I got up early and drove over to Freddie’s house to borrow one of her bikes.  Now with the exception of our trip to Jacksonville, I had not been on a bike in YEARS, probably ten of them.  And the bikes we rode in Jacksonville were lovely with no gears and nice cushy sheep fur-lined seats.  We pedaled around, about six miles or so.  It was a leisurely ride, fueled by pomegranate and pineapple mojitos, and it was on the beach.  You can’t get much better than that.  It practically wasn’t even a bike ride. 

The bike ride to the Titan’s stadium was not at all like that. Firstly, it was far too early for mojitos of any kind but we rallied. We had oatmeal instead.  Secondly, the bike seats were not sheep fur-lined but the real deal pieces of granite the bike seat manufactures are so fond of.  What’s so wrong with a tractor seat, really? These seats were tiny and wedged themselves perfectly between the bones of our butts so as to cause maximum discomfort.  And thirdly, the ride was twice as long, twelve miles total.  Oh, and there were gears, lots of them.  What am I supposed to do with gears?

I grumble but honestly, the ride was really nice.  The Greenway, which has a trail that leads directly to the stadium, is beautiful in the spring.  Honeysuckle and English Rose line the walkways and the smells wafting around are amazing.  The pathways are shaded in places and sunny in others.  And as bikers, we are the fastest things allowed on the Greenway and the breeze from the speed was just lovely. 

We pedaled down our chosen path and I do believe we passed the eventual winner of the full marathon.  We also passed the men who would place 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th.  We yelled encouragement to all of them and were ignored but didn’t take it personally.  When you are in that kind of zone, I doubt even a naked Lady GaGa will break your trance.  It was pretty exciting for us to whizz past them, knowing that they were working so hard and really accomplishing something very nice for themselves. 

Anyway, we arrived in the crowds and made our way towards the finish line, no easy feat.  I read somewhere that approximately 33,000 people ran that race so you can imagine how many supporters and spectators were there.  And I saw lots of people run in, gobs of them, but not one of our friends.  Freddie and I stood in awe of all of those people and watched them stretch, cramp, eat goo and generally look healthy. We decided that if we ever ran one of these big races, we were going to do it in a tutu like some of these other ladies.  At least I am.  Might as well sweat in style.

I took this picture while we hung around.  I just love Nashville. 

After a while, we gave up on seeing anyone we might know so we hopped back on our bikes and took off for Freddie’s house again.  My butt was doing okay so I thought nothing of it.  I was really quite proud of the fact that I had already biked six miles and not made a complete fool of myself by face-planting on the asphalt at the stadium, although it was touch and go for a minute there.  We pedaled away and this time, had to ride on real streets with real cars.  And I did just fine although I’m pretty sure that Freddie tried to kill me on that one hill but since I lived, I forgive her. 

I did lie face first on Freddie’s floor for a little while before I drove home.  But I was fine.  I could still move anyway, and I counted that as a great accomplishment.

Before I complain a lot about my sore butt, I should throw in another little story. 

Martie and Coach and family came up that night to go to a Sound’s game. Also lovely.  I took this picture while we hung around. I just love Nashville. 

And the next morning, I sweet talked Coach into helping me move stuff around in my bedroom so that I could start painting it.  (Actually what I did was stand on a chair in front of him and try to unscrew my curtain rods. When he realized what I was doing he shoved me off the chair and took over.  Heh heh.  Not my first rodeo . . . .) I painted on my own after they left which generally involves a lot of arm and back work.  But I was fine.  I could still move anyway, and I counted that as a great accomplishment.  Plus the paint fumes helped.  Sorry if I drunk dialed any of you that night. 

Monday morning rolled around as did my 4:30 am alarm.  Let me tell you how much fun it is after biking 12 miles on Saturday and painting for 6 hours on Sunday and then lying prone for 7-ish hours to try to leap out of bed like a young, spry person.  I hear you over there laughing! I minced gingerly around my house for a while, prancing like some Arabian horse, and knew that there was no way I was going to plant my butt on a stationary bike for 45 minutes voluntarily.  No way.  I didn’t care how good the music was.  So I skipped the gym which is terrible, I know!

Skipping the gym then led to other instances of skipping the gym which led to the conversation that Lynnette and I had over the ½ marathon and here we are again.  Me, making a commitment to you.  And to Lynnette.  I’ve missed her and I’ve missed Jane and I’ve got to stop missing the gym.

Gah, I’m such a whiner.

So now that we are back to the whining, feel free to nag me about my training. Also feel free to give me advice.  I’m running this bitch.  I’m going to do it.  And when I’m done, I’m going to need you to listen to my whining (again) and tell me that I look pretty despite the huffing and puffing and that no, I didn’t look like a water buffalo at all while I sprinted down Broadway.  And also that no one saw me fall down and certainly no one got of a picture of that.  I know that all of you will borrow bikes from Freddie and will pedal down the Greenway to watch me run in and try snap my picture but will give up eventually because you can’t find me. And I will be okay with that.  Because your butt will hurt like mine did and I will laugh at you when you try to leap out of bed like a young, spry person.  You can come back here to whine about it if you like. 

I’m so nice.