Borrowed bike.

The number 15.

Last Thursday I decided to take my borrowed bike out for my maiden voyage. It was 2 p.m. and 112 degrees. I wasn't worried about the heat because I live here, in the desert, year round. I figure I'm accustomed to the heat. My training schedule for last week called for one ride, 5-8 miles. I decided to do 6 miles. Four different times during the ride I had to get off the bike and seek shade, I was dizzy, panting, and would have cried had I thought someone was around to rescue me. It took me an hour to finish the 6 miles.

Today I headed out on the same 6 mile ride at 10 a.m. and only 97 degrees. It took me only 35 minutes to complete the exact same ride, stopping once at midpoint to get off the pedals and drink some water. Today I learned the value of 15 degrees.

Motivation, or lack thereof.

I know I should be running, instead I am sitting in my air-conditioned living room reading a book about running. It was 117 yesterday, and today's high is 113. I am not the least bit motivated to open my front door.

The good and the bad.

First the good news... tonight I found a bike. Another teacher at my school who runs a few half-marathons every year is going to start running again in a week, and won't need her bike. Bonus, she said the frame is too small for her, so it should be perfect for me!

The bad news... I'm afraid of failing. I'm afraid of starting this thing and not being able to finish. And if that happens, what will everyone think of me? More importantly, what will I think of myself?

Even weiner dogs like to run.

Once, while I was in elementary school my mother decided to spend the day at her friend Carol's house, she took my brother and I along with her. Being told to "Go out and play", Aaron and I headed to Grandview Park, a few blocks away. I don't remember what we did at the park, or how long we were there. What I remember is the run back to Carol's house. It was all downhill, and my brother and I were running. Wind in the hair running. Feet thumping hard on the sidewalk as gravity was pulling us down the hill faster than our legs could carry us.

Towards the bottom of the hill there was a man washing his car in a driveway across the street. No, this is not a story where he sprays us with a garden hose while we run by (although that is a fear of mine). His child was also in the yard with him, playing with a Weiner dog. That Weiner dog caught sight of Aaron and I running down the hill and charged us from across the street. Aaron laughed, I screamed, and we ran faster. I don't know if the momentum of running downhill made us believe we could out-run a dog, but it never occurred to us to stop running. The dog chased us, barking ferociously, as only little dogs can do. We kept running.

Apparently my brother ran faster, because the dog jumped up and caught me by the hand. His jaw was locked around my palm and he was growling. I stopped running and I was jumping around, shaking my hand up and down in the air, but that Weiner dog held on. I yelled out "Help me!" to my brother, who had also stopped running, and was hysterical with laughter. Aaron finally came to my rescue and kicked the dog. The dog yelped, let go of my hand, and took off running for his yard. Aaron and I ran the rest of he way back to Carol's house.

Who will win?

Me, or the pavement? It's definitely going to be one of us ... I hope it's me. Stay tuned if you want to follow my training schedule as I prepare for my first half-marathon.