Chapter Three Food My legs aren't cooperating today. Last night in a moment of celebration I ate an entire highrise Jack's pepperoni pizza. Sure, I shared my crusts with my reliable bestie Joey (the dog), but otherwise, I downed the entire pizza. I woke up sluggish but confident that I had officially carbo-loaded for today's six-mile run. By now, I'm pretty used to six-mile runs. I'm still slow but I don't start with the overwhelming doubt that I won't finish. Today I'm having doubts. Once on the road, I'm confident my blood will start pumping and this sluggishness will be replaced by heart-pumping goodness. After mile one, I find that isn't in the cards for me. It's about this time that my stomach starts to move. At first, I feel things sloshing side to side. As I push myself up a rolling hill, my innards seem to be pushing upwards too, begging to find release. I pause, catching my breath, welcoming the notion of ridding myself of these extra carbs. Despite my noble efforts, nothing happens. I have no choice but to continue running. By mile two my stomach settles as a heavyset ball, bound in my gut, happy to have ceased jostling around. At mile three, I turn around, confident that I'm going to finish. But then, gravity takes over. What was jostling around and begging to go up must now go down and out. The large lump in my stomach presses down harder, begging for release. My head starts racing. With three miles left to go, the only "release point" is over two and a half miles away. "Ugh!" I exclaim to myself, knowing that holding this ball in my gut will be nearly impossible. And, of course, I'm running in a residential area where I have no place to hide. I run faster, quickly discovering that such movements are not good for keeping things settled. I slow down, knowing that the longer this run takes, the less likely it'll be that I'll outpace an embarrassing conclusion. The next forty minutes are an exhausting, humiliating combination of short spurts of running followed by doubling over and showcasing my best turtle waddle, begging the gods to let me make it to the privacy of my home. I don't make it. The warm sensation runs down my leg. This instant relief is immediately followed by absolute defeat. My bright blue running shoes are now spattered with a muddy substance that reeks of bad eating habits. Why would anyone in the world do this to themselves? As I approach the house, my husband is relaxing on the deck. He jumps up, "how'd the run go?" "I don't want to talk about it!" I exclaim, stomping past him toward the bathroom, holding back tears of humiliation. I stand in the bathroom looking at the mess surrounding me, knowing that my husband is on the other side of the door. I cannot face him. I hop in the shower, fully clothed and start rinsing my pants, shoes and socks as the tears flow freely. Over and over I ask myself, "why do I do this to myself? I'm not a runner. I am a plus-size girl who thinks eating an entire pizza is normal. Real runners don't do this. I'll never be one. Ever. I'm done." Once I'm convinced that all the evidence has been washed down the drain with my salty tears, I'm faced with yet another conundrum. I'm stuck in the bathroom with a single towel and a pile of shit-stained clothing. Between me and my room, and dry clothes, my husband stands at attention waiting to understand what's caused this recent outbreak of crazy. I slowly crack open the door and peer into the hall. I see him at his computer. I cannot sneak past. "I'm done running," I say, holding back more unexpected tears. "What happened?" Two simple words. I realize the y only option that will allow him to truly understand how done I am with this horrific sport is to be brutally honest. "I pooped my pants! That's what happened." Silence. My husband's head spins as he calculates which words of support and wisdom he can shed on this moment, knowing it counts. "Shit happens," he says with a grin. All of my humiliation and running rage is immediately redirected at this man. I literally hate him. "This isn't funny! Your wife just pooped her pants by our neighbor's house. What if someone saw me? Do you have any idea how horrified I am?! I'm never, ever, ever running again. I'm done." I say with all the pride a towel-clad, tear-stained, defeated woman can muster. "No you aren't. So, you had a bad day. Tomorrow will be better. But you'll keep running," my husband says. He's right. I know he's right. And he knows that I know he's right. This is just one of the many ways over the years that he'll show up for me in my running journey, providing me the fuel and encouragement I need to keep going. But right now, I hate him. The thing is, tomorrow is a new day. As much as I hate to say it, the next day is better. As is the day after. Nothing worth doing in life comes easy. The same rings true with running. I didn't become a runner when I dropped $150 on a pair of real running shoes. Nor did I become a runner when I woke up one day and said, "I'm going to train for a half marathon." Truth be told, I'd still call myself a runner if I hadn't finished that race. I certainly didn't become a runner, in my mind, when I hit rock bottom, squishing my way home and praying that someone would end my misery. I became a runner when I hosed myself up, laced my shoes up and returned to the road telling myself, "you can and will do better." I became a runner, when shit happened, and I showed up anyway. Eating Tips I have absolutely NO credentials or expertise in nutrition. I do have the motivation of never wanting to crap my pants again. Over the past ten years, I have read every running and diet article I could get my hands on, with a focus on reducing indigestion, avoiding muscle cramps and dehydration, and having enough energy to not pass out. Beyond that, I live in a world of moderation where nothing is off-limits. I eat meat. I eat sugar. I buy non-organic fruit and vegetables if the organic ones are cost-prohibitive. I enjoy full-fat potato chips. But twenty-four-hours prior to a long run (which for me is 6+ miles) and then during and after the run, I do try to follow these basic rules. For me, it really works: Day before: Drink lots of water. I aim for 100 or so ounces. At least one of my water bottles includes a packet Nuun. I swear by the stuff. If it's early in the morning, I'll do a Sport+ (after 3 pm, it'll be non-caffeinated.) Avoid high fiber foods at all costs. This includes salads and, most importantly, baby carrots. Baby carrots do bad things to my stomach during a run. Munch on pretzels, or if I'm craving something sweet, a moderate-sized Rice Krispie bar. Night before: My focus is to eat a heavy, simple carb dinner with a small portion of protein. My go-to meals include: White spaghetti noodles with a homemade meat sauce. Swedish pancakes (made with white flour) topped with syrup and scrambled eggs on the side. Grilled chicken sandwich on a white bun and lots of pretzels. At this point, I avoid things like mayo, cheese, bacon or anything else that makes a chicken sandwich incredible. Before Run: Nuun Sports+ Black coffee with a splash of almond milk ½ bagel with creamy peanut butter Banana Plain water During run: Water at least every two miles Jelly beans (I stock up at Easter. Starburst ones are particularly delicious and much more cost-effective than the sport beans you can buy at a running store). Ibuprofen After run: Banana Water Large latte or Coke Ibuprofen Simple recovery protein/carb combo. Think: peanut butter toast. Race Day: Same as long run, but I do treat myself to a coke two to three hours before the run. If due to traveling, my breakfast is more than three to four hours before start time,I may eat a Nature Valley peanut butter granola bar about an hour before I run. Water at all of the stations. In a half marathon, I'll allow myself a shot of Gatorade at one or two stations, if needed. I really try to avoid energy drinks while running and instead eat cheap jelly beans. I'm pretty confident no other running book will support this recomendation. After the Race: Same as my after run plan. I also enjoy a whatever-I'm-craving celebratory treat meal. This often equates to potato chips...
