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telarynOkay, so based on this morning's Bay News 9 Weather on the Nines report, I was splitting some fine, fine hairs when I decided to pile into the car and drive down to the training walk this morning.
I do not regret this decision. I actually got eight hours of sleep last night -- no meager accomplishment when your wake-up time is 4:30 in the freakin' morning!
I also indulged in more food than was probably intelligent last night, all with an eye towards "well, I'm going to do sixteen miles tomorrow, so it's all good."
Bloody hell if I was letting *that* sit on my hips until D*Con.
But anyway, I got down to Pinellas Park with about fifteen other women, most of whom I think are afraid of our walk-leader (aka, the "Perky Cheerleader From Hell"). We stood around in the light, cool, drizzle and groused about how it wasn't smart to be there, and what we really needed to do was verify that PCfH wasn't going to show and then go back to bed.
Hah. Like PCfH would be stopped by a little rain. All the heavy lightning was in north county and likely to stay there. What's a little rain?
So she showed up. And told us that since she needed to hit the bathroom in the Wal-Mart anyway, she would "leave it up to us" whether we wanted to have the walk or bail.
We'd pretty much decided to bail, even though no one really wanted to be the first to admit it, when a woman pulled into the parking lot. She lived in Wimauma, and was walking in the Chicago walk in less than two weeks.
Wimauma is approximately an hour away. Which means that she got up even earlier than *we* did.
Shame is an incredible motivator.
In all honesty, for the first fourteen and a quarter miles, the walk was *glorious*. Light drizzle, quickly stopped. Overcast, almost zero humidity, cool breeze, feels like temp of 85.
If they were all like this, sixty miles wouldn't be a lick of problem. I hung back on the pace for most the trek, walking with the stragglers until I was sure I wasn't going to have any unexpected problems.
Caught a fresh burst of energy after the last pit stop, and was doing fairly consistent 15-18 minute miles on the way back. Then I stopped at the last pit stop (if you don't pee at *every* pit stop, you're insufficiently hydrated).
After the last pit stop is the long bridge across the intercoastal. In full sun, this is hell. Today? It was actually pretty pleasant.
And then we heard the hissing noise. It sounded at first like approaching bicyclers. Then PCfH risks a look over her shoulder.
"Um, I don't want to alarm you guys, but we're being chased."
So the two of us walking with her look over our shoulder to see the leading edge of a black-cloud thunderstorm heading straight for us.
Crap.
Now I was walking fast (for me), but at fifteen and a quarter miles, running is no longer an option.
So I got caught. We all got caught. By the time I hit the top of the last overpass I was walking in ankle-deep water, I was so caught.
I could feel the second my shoes and socks gave up the wicking ghost. One moment we were still warm and dry, if a little heavy from the building water -- the next, it was like somebody had poured a ton of cold water into my shoe.
I panicked a little at this point, thinking "Oh Fuck NO" about the possibility of crippling blisters. They tell you and tell you that getting your feet wet is the fastest way to end up with blisters and screw the training schedule -- if I'm too blistered to work D*Con, I'm screwed!
Then I calm down, logically think it through, and realize that the worst threat of blisters is probably once the "getting wet" process stops and shifts to simply "being wet".
Not really a problem in the time I have left.
By the time I reached the finish line, the rain was pounding on my clothes so hard that soap suds were showing up on my pants legs. Water was actually pooling in pockets of clothes, and I was realizing that even though having my cell phone in my pocket was a *bad* idea, there was really nowhere else I could safely shift it at that point.
Hit the finish line, dove into my car, and FIRST THING (even before I grabbed my towel) stripped off the soaking wet shoes and socks. Now, hours later, I have a couple of raw spots on the tops of my feet, but no signs of blisters. *crosses fingers*
My shoes are still soaked. I'm going to have to see if they can survive a tumble in the dryer if I have any hope of walking tomorrow.
In other weather-related news, another year, another D*Con, another "catastrophic storm" threatening. Fuck you, Ernesto, and the tropical wave you rode in on.
I do not regret this decision. I actually got eight hours of sleep last night -- no meager accomplishment when your wake-up time is 4:30 in the freakin' morning!
I also indulged in more food than was probably intelligent last night, all with an eye towards "well, I'm going to do sixteen miles tomorrow, so it's all good."
Bloody hell if I was letting *that* sit on my hips until D*Con.
But anyway, I got down to Pinellas Park with about fifteen other women, most of whom I think are afraid of our walk-leader (aka, the "Perky Cheerleader From Hell"). We stood around in the light, cool, drizzle and groused about how it wasn't smart to be there, and what we really needed to do was verify that PCfH wasn't going to show and then go back to bed.
Hah. Like PCfH would be stopped by a little rain. All the heavy lightning was in north county and likely to stay there. What's a little rain?
So she showed up. And told us that since she needed to hit the bathroom in the Wal-Mart anyway, she would "leave it up to us" whether we wanted to have the walk or bail.
We'd pretty much decided to bail, even though no one really wanted to be the first to admit it, when a woman pulled into the parking lot. She lived in Wimauma, and was walking in the Chicago walk in less than two weeks.
Wimauma is approximately an hour away. Which means that she got up even earlier than *we* did.
Shame is an incredible motivator.
In all honesty, for the first fourteen and a quarter miles, the walk was *glorious*. Light drizzle, quickly stopped. Overcast, almost zero humidity, cool breeze, feels like temp of 85.
If they were all like this, sixty miles wouldn't be a lick of problem. I hung back on the pace for most the trek, walking with the stragglers until I was sure I wasn't going to have any unexpected problems.
Caught a fresh burst of energy after the last pit stop, and was doing fairly consistent 15-18 minute miles on the way back. Then I stopped at the last pit stop (if you don't pee at *every* pit stop, you're insufficiently hydrated).
After the last pit stop is the long bridge across the intercoastal. In full sun, this is hell. Today? It was actually pretty pleasant.
And then we heard the hissing noise. It sounded at first like approaching bicyclers. Then PCfH risks a look over her shoulder.
"Um, I don't want to alarm you guys, but we're being chased."
So the two of us walking with her look over our shoulder to see the leading edge of a black-cloud thunderstorm heading straight for us.
Crap.
Now I was walking fast (for me), but at fifteen and a quarter miles, running is no longer an option.
So I got caught. We all got caught. By the time I hit the top of the last overpass I was walking in ankle-deep water, I was so caught.
I could feel the second my shoes and socks gave up the wicking ghost. One moment we were still warm and dry, if a little heavy from the building water -- the next, it was like somebody had poured a ton of cold water into my shoe.
I panicked a little at this point, thinking "Oh Fuck NO" about the possibility of crippling blisters. They tell you and tell you that getting your feet wet is the fastest way to end up with blisters and screw the training schedule -- if I'm too blistered to work D*Con, I'm screwed!
Then I calm down, logically think it through, and realize that the worst threat of blisters is probably once the "getting wet" process stops and shifts to simply "being wet".
Not really a problem in the time I have left.
By the time I reached the finish line, the rain was pounding on my clothes so hard that soap suds were showing up on my pants legs. Water was actually pooling in pockets of clothes, and I was realizing that even though having my cell phone in my pocket was a *bad* idea, there was really nowhere else I could safely shift it at that point.
Hit the finish line, dove into my car, and FIRST THING (even before I grabbed my towel) stripped off the soaking wet shoes and socks. Now, hours later, I have a couple of raw spots on the tops of my feet, but no signs of blisters. *crosses fingers*
My shoes are still soaked. I'm going to have to see if they can survive a tumble in the dryer if I have any hope of walking tomorrow.
In other weather-related news, another year, another D*Con, another "catastrophic storm" threatening. Fuck you, Ernesto, and the tropical wave you rode in on.
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