The Hills Have Eyes… And they are Squinty and Mean No comments yet
The score was Johnson Ferry: 1, Me: 0.
Some hills are just hills, but some are Hills (with a capital “H”). Johnson Ferry at Columns Drive is definitely a Hill. 
I ran it during my 12 miler, and I was set to face it again for an 18 miler. Leading up to Saturday’s run, I’d been living on a solid diet of Olympics. I love the Winter Olympics: bob sledding, biathlon, cross-country skiing, snowboard cross, even curling. My television never strayed from NBC for those ten days (given NBC’s usual programming line-up, this was a huge change despite my obvious 11Alive loyalties). So, I entered Saturday inspired and ready to treat Johnson Ferry like that cocky ice skater from Russia—Take that!
By now, you’re thinking: it’s a hill, what’s the big deal? So it’s time to admit I have a thing about Hills (not the little hills, just the Hills).
I’m not nervously uncomfortable of them the way I am of revolving doors and garbage disposals. They just keep beating me. I can’t run them at the pace I should be. I fall behind on the hills and catch up with my runner partners at the top, but as the runs get longer it’s getting tougher. There are lots of things I can do to improve my hill performance next time, but right now, I’m about to start ramping down on my running: no time to start a new strength training plan.
So I just have to gut it out.
And you know what? I did. Maybe it was the pocket full of jelly beans I nibbled at the later water stops. Maybe it was the extra hours of sleep I squeezed into my week. I’m not saying it was super-fast or that I didn’t fall behind. But I did it, and I felt good. So, in my book, that makes it 1-1.
This week, I had a chance to spend some time with 11 year old Lindsay Simmons. She just celebrated her first post-chemo birthday. She’s the honored hero for the ING Team in Training. I could write a whole blog about how listening to her talk about cancer was both heartbreaking and inspiring. But, at heart, I’m a photographer. I tell better stories with pictures and sound, so you can
I celebrated an early Christmas with my two little nephews last week. I am still recovering, but I did pick up some running advice along the way. 
Purell is the Nectar of the Gods. I thought my sister (and all those moms) with bottles of Purell attached to everything were going a little overboard. I mean, I didn’t have that wimpy hand sanitizer when I was a kid and I turned out just fine, right? So, during my week with the nephews, I washed my hands religiously (like I always do), but I didn’t really partake in the 6-times-daily Purell rub…. And I got really, really sick. There are few things more frustrating to a runner than being sidelined. After six days without running, I’ve changed my mind. I’m willing to do anything I can to get better and stay well for the rest of my ING Training. So, pass the Purell, please.