My 'Bonkproof' heart.

 #TeamWickedBonkproof

A couple years ago, Team Wicked Bonkproof was a twinkle in Caleb's eye. He's a pal (and outrageously phenomenal runner) I've known through Dailymile for years. Once upon a time he offered to help me out with a training plan. At the time, my expansive knowledge of training consisted of: run. So of course I took him up on his offer because are you kidding me?

Fast forward a few years and dozens of races, and Team Wicked Bonkproof is for real. We've become a legit thing.  Coach Caleb has wrangled more than 70 of us from all over the world -- no joke. Like, entirely different continents. Together we make up this giant collection of rad people under the direction of one pretty rad coach.

I've known some of these people for what feels like all of time, while others have quickly melted into my little bonkproof heart. Either way, I love this particular group of people like a very large, talented and dysfunctional family. I do. I want to put them all in a pouch and carry them with me everywhere, which may or may not be borderline creepy and/or illegal.

I'm proud of what Caleb's accomplished, mostly because of the teammates I've gained out of the deal, and partially because my running has improved. But whatever, details.

Each week Caleb spotlights a different "teamie" on his site, and today it was my turn. Not gonna lie, it felt a little like the week you were chosen in kindergarten to decorate the bulletin board with photos and factoids about yourself because it was your week. IT'S ALL ABOUT ME, PEOPLE. BACK UP OFF MY BULLETIN BOARD.

You can see the whole thing here (and you should, because I said so) , but I've included the Q&A below. Go on, read. Learn. And next time you see me sporting my Team Wicked Bonkproof singlet on race day, you'll know why. BECAUSE WE'RE MADE OF MAGIC.

When did you start running and why?

I was on my 7th grade track team and never stopped. I hated track pretty hard, but once high school cross country happened, it eased the pain. I don't know why I started or why I never stopped. It just makes me happy most of the time. I didn't run my first marathon, though, until I was 23. The first thing I said when I crossed the finish line was, "I'M NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN." I've run 13. So, oops.

What is your current "big goal" as a runner?

Speed, I think. I'm working on speed for an upcoming half marathon that I think I'd like to try and PR. It's gonna take a lot of work, and that's kind of scary, so we'll see. I've got a marathon a month and a half later, so hopefully I can carry that speed into that, too. Goals are hard. I tend to make them, then freak the hell out. Just ask Caleb. [Editor's note: No comment!]

What is your proudest running accomplishment to date?

Crossing the finish line of the North Face 50 Miler in 2011. I think I happy-cried for the last mile, and I felt awesome, which seems impossible. All of my best friends were there making a "power arch" with their arms into the finish chute, and my friend Amy threw an actual handful of glitter directly into my face. That basically sums up everything about that day. I'll never ever forget it. Ever. Look, I might weep just thinking about it.

Do you have any funny running habits (superstitious behaviors, lucky gear items, etc)?

I have a little stuffed pony named Penelope that comes to the majority of my races. When I run trail races, I strap her onto my CamelBak so she can play, too. I also have a tiny porcelain unicorn that my mom gave me in the middle of my 50-miler that also never misses a big race. I usually tuck it into a pocket when I run. If you know me, the fact that ponies and unicorns are my luck is not the least bit shocking.

Who is your running hero and why (Coach Caleb is not an acceptable answer)?

Probably my friend Marty. He's run some pretty extraordinary races, and just does it. He doesn't win, he doesn't beak records, he doesn't complain, he just runs. He's sort of the backbone of my running circle. The dad, sort of (never mind that he's only 4 years older). He takes care of us -- makes sure we have the right nutrition, the right pace, the right plan, the right course, the right gear, enough water. We've run probably hundreds of miles together, and I've yet to die. It's become a thing, actually. My mom always asks, "Is Marty running this race with you?" She only asks because she knows if Marty is there, I'm not gonna die. I ran my second attempt at a 50-miler with him last year, and it was absolute hell. I'm pretty sure we were in actual hell. We DNF'd that day at mile 40. When you go through hell with someone, you form a hell of a bond. When we made the decision to call it quits, nobody cried, nobody second-guessed, nobody regretted. We just immediately sat on the ground at the aid station and ate cookies because, well, at least we were still alive.

What's the best piece of running advice you ever received?

In an attempt to keep us from clenching our fists, my middle school track coach once told us to run as though we're holding Pringles between our thumbs and forefingers. I never forgot that, mostly because I love Pringles.

Anything else you want the world to know about you as a runner or person?

I hate butterflies. I think that's pretty pertinent. 

On being free and together, simultaneously.

I'm pretty good at listening. People come to me, and I offer all the right words and advice that sounds pretty when spoken, but will never happen in practice. I know because I'd never take my own advice. I know what should happen, what is supposed to be done, but no one ever does the wise and rational thing. At least I don't, anyway. People want to hear the right words because the right words are comforting. But once we feel better, we want to go back to bad habits and self-inflicted suffering. Or is that just me?

The thing about being a good listener is that sometimes I want to talk, not listen. I want to be listened to. It's partially my own fault. I don't actively seek someone to listen. Instead, I sit and stew and write a blog post. I knew this blog served a purpose. Thanks for listening, internet. I owe you a beer.

So here's the thing -- no one wants to be alone. Not really. I like to flaunt my freedom and my ability to answer to no one and nothing and leave bras on the kitchen table and not shower for two days, if I don't want to. But when my bra is on and I'm showered and there's no one to talk to -- damn. Is this it?

I keep myself busy with great friends, and I wouldn't trade that for the world. But when the bonfire's burned out, the race is over, the weekend visit ends, do you know what you are? Alone.

And no one really wants that.

Sure, there have been times (time and time and time again) when all I wanted was my space. MINE. GIVE IT TO ME. GO AWAY. I'm selfish, I know. I feel crowded and antsy when I start to lose control of my space and time. But the cure for that is balance, and maybe I've never found my balance. I've yet to grasp the concept a healthy mix of alone and together. I think they also call it a functional relationship. Whoever "they" are. Instead, I go about wanting what I can't have to avoid the functional LIKE A CHAMP.

A year and a half ago I made the decision to walk away from a relationship. A dysfunctional relationship, of course. But when I walked (Ran, really. And slammed things), I walked away from closure. Absolutely none, not even a real goodbye. No closure, too much history, and incredibly wild emotions. All of that became my undoing six months later when the opportunity for closure presented itself. Of course I took it. Of course I wanted to say goodbye. Of course it opened Pandora's Box, and I fell hard down a rabbit hole of feelings and angst for the rest of, well, ever. Literally forever. You can only torture yourself for so long, though. In the very, very, very end, I walked away. Again. Which took an amazing amount of willpower I had no idea I possessed, so really, high five to me. Way to go, self.

However, I continue to want what I can't have. But not him, necessarily. Everyone else. The unavailable. The unrealistic. The are-you-goddamn-kidding-me. I've come to believe I actively seek out situations I know can't work, I just don't know why. It's certainly not because I want to be alone. But it can't be purely coincidental that I continue to be alone and mad at myself for it. I choose these situations for myself. I fail at choosing.

So this is the part where I tell myself to stop making that choice. To put myself out there in the emotionally available pond where the stable fishes swim. The single ones, too. To grow a backbone. To accept a good thing when a good thing happens. To stop pretending that being alone IS SO MUCH FUN, YOU GUYS, TRY IT. Because it's not. Not really, anyway. 

I know there is a way to be both. Free and together. I just don't know how to get there, exactly. I'm happy, don't get me wrong. I love my life. But "happy and alone" is old news. I'm over it. Don't tell my cats, though. They're gonna be so pissed.

But probably what I'm going to do is not take any of my sound, rational advice, and continue to choose wrong and swim in shark-infested waters because, hey, I've made it this far, haven't I? 

You can never say I'm not consistent.

393 Miles of Memories

I ran my 30th half marathon yesterday. It wasn't my best. It wasn't my worst. The course was tough as hell. In fact, I've never felt worse in the final miles of a half marathon. The weather was perfect. It started and ended outside the capitol building in my beautiful city. The medal's pretty sweet.

Those are all things. Facts. The pieces of information I'll forget in another couple years as the race tally grows. 

But the night before I joined friends for an amazing home-cooked meal. We laughed, we drank wine, we nervously chatted about goals. We met early the next morning outside the coffee shop, full of energy. We slapped high fives and shared smiles and giggled quietly during the National Anthem like assholes, but we couldn't help it. It happens.

I made a new playlist for the race -- full of hip hop tunes from 15 years ago that make me bop my head and laugh at ridiculous memories. Warren G? Snoop Doggy Dogg? Coolio? Come on, you guys. It's amazing.

Somewhere in the middle of the race, I ran past a local race director, who's come to be one of my favorites in the running community. He knows me as "Krittabug," and never fails to address me as such. He had it printed on my race bib once. I waved excitedly and he blew a kiss into the air. Another few miles later, he'd be at the top of an awful, awful hill, and he'd grab my hand and help pull me along. I was hurting, but still smiling, grateful for that moment.

About a mile from the finish, I quit running. Just quit. That doesn't happen often, but I was done. I started walking, silently cursing while being passed by other runners and doing mental math on just how long it was going to take me to walk that final mile. Basically, "dammit" was the answer. Out of nowhere I felt a tug on my hand. No words, just an encouraging pull. I looked up to see the sweet sight of a friendly face. I began to run with her, one of several friends I knew running that day. Together we were miserable. But together we kept running. And together we finished.  

In the finish chute I immediately found my friend, who hit the PR she'd been dreaming of for years. I felt awful, but smiled as I hugged her because I know that feeling. I know her joy. Minutes later our other friend finished, feeling about as miserable as I felt. I put an arm around her and we joined the others, bitching about hills, but smiling because it was over.

We took pictures. We drank beer. We sprawled out on the capitol lawn, already talking about the next race.

These are the memories. The friendships. The camaraderie. The facts. The pieces of information that I will remember. This is why I've run 30 half marathons, and why I'll run another 30. Not the numbers. Not the time on the race clock. Not the weather or the courses. 

When all is said and done, I'll have my tally of races and my medals, but I wouldn't have any of them if I didn't have the memories to keep me coming back.

2013 Madison Half Marathon

Warning! May contain: ice cream, road rage, and HPV

I'm only blogging right now to keep myself from eating ice cream.

This is what life has come to. And you know what? That's not even the whole truth. There are two things keeping me from eating ice cream right now: typing this sentence and the fact that I'm not wearing a bra. To go get ice cream requires going into public. To go into public, I need to put on a bra. And no. No, I won't do it.

And so I blog. To keep myself from eating ice cream. So here we are. 

Krista, why don't you go eat some goddamn ice cream? you ask. BECAUSE ICE CREAM. You know, it's food. Therefore it's bad for me, seeing as though that's the latest diet trend. All things being bad for me, that is. Don't drink milk, don't eat sugar, don't eat bread, don't eat yogurt, don't eat meat, don't eat cake, DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. 

Needless to say, I'm still not eating ice cream right now. Peer pressure. Also I was having a fat day. No need to make it worse.

In other news, I finally made the decision, four years later, to move out of my neighborhood. I've lived in this particular apartment for three years because it's cheap, it's close to downtown and lakes and bike paths, and because I hate moving more than anything that I've ever hated in my whole life.

Unfortunately, I'm slowly losing my mind. I work on the other side of town, resulting in 11 miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic each morning and night. My road rage has probably taken years off my life. I've avoided moving across town because downtown Madison is full of lakes! and things! and it's pretty! But my neighborhood is also full of lunatics who drag toilets down the middle of the street and yell obscenities at themselves. I have a new downstairs neighbor who SLAMS EVERY DOOR and talks loudly about gynecological visits while sitting on her patio and who doesn't remember meeting me when she first moved in because she was, and I quote, "so fucking high."

You guys. No.

And so I'm moving. August 1st. It's a beautiful loft apartment with everyday amenities that have been absent from my life for years. Air-conditioning, for example, and a door whose doorknob doesn't regularly fall apart. 

So I have two more months to sit and wait and learn more things about my neighbor's Human Papillomavirus. I'll keep you posted.

Inspiration found

All the words have been spoken and all the emotions have been felt. There isn't much new to be said about what happened at the Boston Marathon yesterday. I felt sick the moment I heard about the bombs, and it escalated with each terrifying video and every horrifying image.

I found out rather quickly that my friends and teammates in Boston were safe and sound, but so many people weren't. Their lives were literally torn apart. I can't get the images out of my mind. The blood-soaked sidewalks, the mangled limbs. The screaming from the live footage is such a terrible sound, and I just want to believe it's not real. Fake blood. Artificial injuries. Actors. 

How are people supposed to remove those images and sounds and moments from their memory? How do those innocent people recover? Is it even possible? It hardly seems fair.

The people who received the brunt of the attack were spectators. Moms, brothers, sons, dads, sisters, friends. A runner's support system. Those are the people who help make the marathon worth it. I think of my parents, who never miss a big race. I imagine seeing their excitement and feeling their pride. They have been my light in every single race they've spectated. And some asshole extinguished the light in Boston yesterday. It's unimaginable. A runner's dream to run the Boston Marathon turned into anguish and fear and despair, wondering whether family members were safely waiting at the triage center that used to be a finish line.

To hate whoever did this isn't enough. Nothing will be enough, really. The running community is a family, and this tragedy hit too close to home for so many. Those are my people. Our people. But as the day progressed, my Twitter and Facebook feeds began to fill with camaraderie. #RunForBoston became a tag across the internet. Runners throughout the country hit the pavement last night in honor of shattered lives. Runners did what runners do in solidarity and support -- they ran. I ran last night, wearing a shirt that says "Run Forever" on the back. But now we know forever isn't real. 

This attack may have burnt up the hopes of hundreds yesterday, but it lit a fire in the hearts of just as many.

This morning I registered for a November marathon, which goes against everything I've already said and felt this year. But that was before I felt this -- sadness, motivation, anger, resilience. Runners are resilient, and in our own way we're going to help our collective broken spirit get back on its feet. We'll run for Boston, we'll run for the injured, we'll run for those who died, we'll run for those who didn't make it to the finish line yesterday, and we'll run for those who will never have a chance to start.

My crossing of the marathon finish line later this year won't make a bit of difference to the people in Boston. But I can do my small part in my small corner of Wisconsin to honor them for 26.2 miles, a distance so familiar to me, and a distance I so often take for granted.

No one can live forever and no one can run forever, but we can live right now and run while we can. It's been said probably hundreds of times already, but it doesn't make it any less true: when you mess with one runner, you mess with them all.

We love you, Boston.