HOT...In The Ciii-Tay

I don't care what anyone tells you. Dry heat is still hot. Once the temperature crests triple digits, humidity or not, you still risk spontaneous combustion by running in that nonsense. And why would I even consider running in said nonsense? Because I'm now an official Las Vegas resident, and that's what Las Vegas residents do. The dumb ones, anyway. Or at the very least, the masochistic ones.

I quickly realized that the smart ones run in one of three alternate situations:

1. The butt crack of dawn

2. Whatever you call really stinkin' late at night (perhaps "the camel toe of eve"?)

3. On a treadmill, in a temperature controlled environment, with something flipped on the tube that you can manage to safely watch while pounding the fake pavement

After registering last week for the Inaugural Las Vegas Half Marathon, I realized I was going to have become a smart Las Vegas runner if I had any hope of living to see my 30th bday (this Friday, thankyouverymuch).

So I tried out Option 1 (The butt crack) with my friend and fellow RnR LV trainee, Lindsay, back on Tuesday. The verdict? Man, I'm out of shape. Also, this was the first time I had to run with a hydration belt for a paltry 3 miles. Normally that baby doesn't come out until I'm ready to clear at least a 10K. Did I mention my little water bottles were near bone dry between the two of us? Definitely packing more water the next time I try that.

After healing my "hadn't touched my running shoes in two months" collection of injuries, I embarked on Option 3 on Sunday. In my neighborhood's workout facility, I found the temperate thermostat setting of 70 degrees to be quite pleasant. But despite an enthralling showing of a Scary Movie-esque basketball spoof, I couldn't help but wish I was outside- blazing sun and all.

Since I'm not disciplined enough to run late at night (munchies call), and I get bored pretty quickly in the confines of a community gym, looks like it's time to embrace my inner early bird. Hold the worm, please.

Ghosts of races past

OK, I admit it. Running a Half Marathon in 6 weeks was a tad bit on the aggressive side as far as goals go. The lengths one will go just to add a new medal to the running shrine on their garage wall. I swear it seemed like a really amazing idea after watching the Biggest Loser contestants tackle their very first half marathon in 200lb+ bodies. Of course, that scheme was hatched in the warm glow of the DVR. Then the harsh light of day showed up and someone’s tune changed real quick.

Instead of subjecting myself to a morning of pain and misery, speckled with a colorful assortment of inappropriate words sure to be muttered under my breath, I decided to welcome back organized races with something a little more low key and attainable.

It’s been almost 2 years since I last ran in the Union-Tribune’s Race for Literacy. Time to support those little readers-in-training again! My registration is locked and loaded (and going to a cause that I can feel good about).

Here we are again old friend. You, me, chip timing and a small men’s t-shirt waiting for us at the start.

Race Registration Bailout

As the “down economy” drones on, I’ve got to thinking about some stuff. The government keeps shelling out loot to all the banks. But what about the lowly casual runner? What are they doing for us? We need some registration fee relief, Mr. President. Have they forgotten about our need to chase our PRs? Lame.

My already swollen collection of event t-shirts has made me feel a little guilty about ponying up registration fees to enter an official event. I mean really, I can just as easily station a couple of strategically located water cups and random “Go Michele” signs down a deserted stretch of highway for a similar effect. So what if the route is void of spectators. Isn’t that what iPods are for? I’m telling you, my little iPod Shuffle can get me through just about any wall that the lactic acid in my legs can build.

Does this mean no more organized events for me? Unfortunately, I’m not that strong. Some of my prized t-shirts are fading and ready to go off into that giant Goodwill bin in the sky. Lately I’ve been feeling that familiar pull of Active.com and its endless database of registration fees. And quite frankly, I’m looking forward to someone actually holding out the water for me instead of having to bend over to pick it up (there are too many things that can go horribly wrong when you bend over after 10 or so miles).

Stay tuned…I might have a new t-shirt in my not-so-distant future and some open auditions for “Go Michele” sign twirlers.