Unlike my first running of the IrishFest 5K, I didn’t witness an unofficial “Escape The Cops 5K” on my way to the starting line. This year’s race also wasn’t at night like the one two years ago was, so they did not hand out any glow sticks :( But by God, there were bagpipes!

I sat on a folding chair waiting for the race to start, when a thirty-something man in a grey shirt and square-frame glasses came up and said, “Excuse me, but do you know what pace you plan on running?”

“I have no idea,” I told him honestly. I haven’t been tracking the distance I’ve been running while training, just the amount of time I spend running. “Maybe a 12-minute mile pace?” I said optimistically recalling my average pace a year and a half ago.

“Do you mind if I pace off of you? I haven’t run a 5K for almost two years and it would help a lot if I could pace myself with somebody.”

“Sure,” I told him.

“I just thought I’d ask you…because you still have a jacket on,” he said, though I wondered if he really meant, “because you’re heavier than most of the other freakishly lean and well-muscled people here.” It was about 60 degrees out, yet many of the hardcore athletes were only wearing their running shorts and t-shirts. Either way, it made for the second time someone has propositioned me to be their running buddy because I’m a slow runner; the other person was a woman on the nature trail about 2 or 3 years ago.

So that is how J1m H0gan and I ran the IrishFest 5K together, though I have obscured his name in case one day an employer Googles him and decides they simply cannot hire a slow runner for a job. For the first 25 minutes, we did intervals of 4 minutes of running and 1 minute of walking. Then for the rest of the race we did intervals of 2 minutes of walking and 3 minutes of running, finishing in 44:12, which is over three minutes faster than my last run, which goes to show I perform much better when it’s not hot and humid with no water stations in sight. I brought my own water bottle this time too, and the cool weather was much more pleasant for a three-mile run. I wasn’t sure if I’d like running with someone, but it made me accountable to stick to the intervals I’d set. Otherwise, I might have chipped 20 or 30 seconds off the running intervals because no one would have known one way or the other.

My best 5K time ever was 31:17, and I remember at the time thinking it was still rather slow because the fastest runners could finish in about 15 minutes. Comparing it to my current time of 44:12, it looks downright speedy, and I finally understood my aunt who once commented on how good that time was. I suppose it’s like how I used to look at old photos of myself from high school, a time when I felt HUGE, and realized I hadn’t been that fat at all.

I improved on my last time, which was my goal, and ultimately I’m only competing with myself. After the 5K I went online and signed up for another race scheduled in about a month called Run Like Hell. It’s held at night on the day before Halloween and the participants are encouraged to dress up for the occasion. Looking at last year’s photos of people dressed as everything from a school bus to the three little pigs, it appears to be a hell of a lark. Anyone got an idea for a costume that might win me a prize, but that I can also run comfortably in?

I visited a bookshop in Chapel Hill called The Bookshop, a feat of creative naming I have not seen since my 6-year-old self named my stuffed dog “Doggy.” The Bookshop did not feature dogs, but two cats instead.

Red was hanging out in Kiddie Lit trying to get a catnap when I paparazzied him. I strolled further down the seemingly endless, narrow hallway that comprises the Bookshop, wondering if I’d entered a TARDIS. At the very back, in North Carolina books, I found Elmo.

Elmo gave me a look that seemed to say, “Fine, take my picture and then beat it.” The kitties had beds and scratching posts in the bookshop window with a sign that asked patrons to please not knock on the glass. While we were there, someone entered with their dog who was not on a leash. They were promptly told to beat it before a cat vs. dog battle could ensue.

I wish the book stores in Indianapolis had cats. For now, I have to settle for the independent pharmacy on the north side that has a parrot.

Normally when I take a vacation, I take a vacation from exercising too. I know I’m not supposed to, but eh, I’m on vacation and I’ll do what I want. However, I’m gasping through running the IrishFest 5K on Saturday morning, so taking a week off before the race would be a very bad idea unless I owned an Irish wolfhound to carry me across the finish line. (I don’t.)

I’m visiting my brother and his wife, and their house is near a trail that was built on an old railroad line, much like the Happy Fun & Fitness Trail near my old apartment is. This trail is amazingly similar to my Happy Fun & Fitness Trail, except for the little things that make it seem like a cloning project that went slightly awry. This trail has more curves and moves up and down on the z-axis creating something I’ve heard are called “slopes.” Us Indiana folk are not familiar with these “hill” things. Thus the huffing and puffing increased cardio workout. I nearly stumbled over a turtle on the side of this trail, which I’ve never seen on the trail in Indiana. Also, the people here seem to be friendlier than Hoosiers. I got Hello-ed at least three times during my 25-minutes on the path by a mom with a stroller, a white-haired walking man, and a twenty-something with a UNC t-shirt. Must be that Southern hospitality.

I am at the beach! That is why I posted that depressing entry yesterday, which I actually wrote two weeks ago while pinned to the couch by the gravity of massive depression. I feel much better now, but on Monday morning I needed to post something, and that was all that was in my queue, so Bummed Out Monday it was!

I am in Nag’s Head, North Carolina, checking out my pier.

You can tell it’s my pier because not only is my name on it, but it’s spelled right. I made sure the sign-painting people didn’t misspell it. However, Hurricane Isabel did a number on my pier a few years ago (more like Hurricane Is-a-Bitch), so I hired some contractors to fix her up.

It will be 2011 or so before I can invite y’all over, but keep your calendars clear for when we open up again! And remember, you read it on the Internet, so it must be true!

Recently Rebecca asked in the comments of an entry:

By the way, have you been able to lose any of the weight you regained when you were attacked by the Killer Headache? Do you think you’ll ever talk about the subject? Since many (if not most) of us were drawn to this site by your book and or diet adventures, I think you’d have an eager and receptive audience. And, as a long-time maintainer of an 85 pound loss (more than five years, and holding…) I’d be interested in what you have to say about “rebounding.”

Weight loss? Oh, right, weight loss. I would still like to lose my headache weight, and I do think about losing weight every day, but lately my thoughts have been more preoccupied with figuring out how to live with my constant headache. I have a chronic illness. I will probably always have a chronic illness. I have good days. I have bad days. When I wake up in the morning I don’t know what kind of day it will be, but I soon find out.

On good days, I make my oatmeal and drink my coffee and go to my office. I work happily on my projects, either designing webs or writing words. I probably go for a run before lunch and come back refreshed and think, “I can do this! I can beat this thing! The headache won’t get the best of me!” and I eat something healthy, like a nectarine or carrot sticks. Then I go back to work and by the evening I feel a sense of accomplishment, though my head probably hurts a lot by now from working on the computer all day. Then I watch some TV and when I weigh in the next day I think, “I’m doing so much better. I can really lose the weight now!”

On bad days, I make my oatmeal and drink my coffee and go to my office. I stare at the monitor for a few seconds, then turn on the TV to watch the end of Good Morning America and the beginning of Regis and Kelly. I might read stuff in my Google Feed Reader. I read my emails but don’t have the energy to put together a proper line of thought to reply to anyone. I sigh. I slump. The act of getting out of my chair and walking outside to check the mailbox feels like I am walking through the deep end of a pool, expending all my energy to travel oh, so, so, so, slooooowly, when all I want to do is collapse and float to the top. I tell myself I should exercise because that will release endorphins and make me feel better, just like the doctors have told me. But I don’t want to exercise. I want to lie down on the couch, or my bed, so I do. I’m not really tired enough to nap, but being unconscious sounds really appealing. I feel guilty because if I don’t work, I won’t get paid, and I won’t be able to afford food to eat.

Eating sounds really, good actually, and I’ll start to fixate on something delicious that could momentarily make me feel better, like a Mint Cookie Milkshake from Steak N’ Shake or the Pumpkin Spice Frappucino from Starbucks that just came into season. I tell myself, “No, you shouldn’t eat that. You want to lose weight.” Then I disagree with myself and say, “Who the fuck cares? Life is a ball of shit and I want some fucking ice cream.” I go back and forth with myself for an indeterminate amount of time. Sometimes I’m good and don’t eat the milkshake, if only because the thought of driving half a mile to Steak N’ Shake seems impossible. Sometimes I find the energy and purchase some ill-gotten goods at the grocery via the self-checkout line so no one judges my purchase. By the end of the day, I’m thinking that if a meteor were to hit the planet and cause all life to go extinct, I would be ok with that.

Then I go to bed and wake up the next day, which is either a good day or a bad day. Who knows which it will be? There is only so much I can do to control it. I take my pills. I try to exercise. I try to eat healthy. I drive past the Krispy Kreme and don’t’ stop (except when I do). I’m still fighting it (except when I’m not). On good days, losing 30 pounds seems easy and natural and completely achievable. On bad days, I don’t care about my weight at all, and I’ll take being fat if it means I can have some cookies.

I spend most of my energy trying to maintain an equilibrium. I’m happy if I simply feel ok during the day, not necessarily happy or energized, but not depressed and miserable. That’s how it is with chronic illness. You’re never cured, you just manage it the best you can.

So, yeah, weight loss. Weight loss is great. Woo-hoo, weight loss! To those of you losing weight, I salute you, but it’s not the focus of my life right now. I am just trying to get by, an hour at a time.