During my first night in Mexico, I had dreams of running in my favorite place...on the beach. I was sooo looking forward to lace up my Nike's and hit the sand for a few miles on the following morning. I even slept soundly through the thunderstorm that pounded through the night, evident by the drenched patio furniture on the balcony of my suite. So, when my alarm went off at 7 AM, I was eager and ready to get going. However, it was still pitch black outside and there was no boardwalk or lights to guide one's feet on the beach where I was, in beautiful Puerto Vallarta.
The waiting game ended about an hour and a half later, when the sun began too peek over the horizon around 8:30 AM. I darted out anxiously to the shoreline just a few steps outside my door. It was hot, muggy, sticky, hazy, humid, and every other adjective used to describe tropical, jungle-like conditions. But, I was amped none the less.
With a huge grin on my face, I took my first few strides and the smile on my face quickly transformed into the look of someone in a physical struggle of confusion: someone having an unexpectedly hard time with the task at hand. I was in the process of fulfilling a dream and I seemed to be having some difficulty with something that seemed so effortless in those dreams.
As it turns out, running in sand saturated with rain from a storm the previous night, on a slight down-hill slope toward the water as a result of heavy waves from said storm, is NOT a good combination for a novice, or ANYONE else for that matter, to attempt to run ANY distance.
But I wasn't alone. I even encountered several other runners, some bare-footed who looked like locals, who were struggling almost as much as I was. The sand just gave completely with each step, literally leaving a hole to push/pull yourself out of with whatever quad strength you could muster up with little stability.
It was awful, to put it simply. Not just because I was virtually unable to run; but more so because my dream of finally merging my long-term love of the sandy beach with my new love affair with running, was transformed into a nightmare in one short, fell swoop.
After several unsuccessful attempts to find dry spots or less-sloped areas, I gave up about a half-mile north of the resort. Completely frustrated, I turned around and walked back to the hotel as best I could. Even walking in the sand was difficult. I almost took off my sneakers to get better footing.
Back at the resort, I promptly asked if there was a nearby path or trail I could run on safely, and that turned out to be a no-no. I was directed to a long stretch of unpaved road just outside the resorts front gate. There was not much around the resort except several unfinished, up-and-coming resorts with lots of local construction workers. I wouldn't run past a bunch of English-speaking construction workers, so there was no way I was going to run on a foreign road in a tiny running skirt and a sports bra, amongst construction workers gawking and cat calling in Spanish. But, I digress...
Back at the resort, I found the gym and the dreadmill. Except, with nowhere else to run, the treadmill was actually my savior on the trip.
I ended up running 3 good miles to close out WEEK 8:
- Mile 1 at 5 mph (12:00 min/mile)
- Mile 2 at 5.5 mph (10:54 min/mile)
- Mile 3 at 6 mph (10:00 min/mile)
Sorry for the long post. I totally planned on keeping it short, but I guess the descriptive narrator in me took over.
Almost Thirty
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