All bets are off

I am not increasing my mileage much these days, but have instead chosen to focus on my pace. Today's 10 encompassed a dual challenge - I promised myself that I would stick with all the hills on my preset course (max incline 5), and would maintain an 8:20 pace after a half-mile warm-up.

Flicking the back of my ears like an annoying little brother was the knowledge that I would likely have bathroom breaks, but I hoped to keep them to a minimum. Music, as always, would serve as a mental diversion. But what game this time? Mind bets.

I have had the same 64 or so songs on my iPod's running playlist for the last 2 years. If I estimate an hour and half run, how many songs would that be? I guess 23, with 15 being at the one hour mark. Starting off, I even wondered if I could average two songs per mile. My thoughts begin to wander....

Counting down. By mile 8 I am on song 4. Pace is good but tough. I strangely and accurately predict White Stripes will follow the Beastie Boys. A-ha! Ok, let's see if I can predict what will be playing at the one-hour mark. Damn - 7.30 is my first run to the bathroom. Keep it short, get it done. I hate my stomach.

Mile 6, and the incline hovers near 5 for what seems like the whole mile. I start eying the incline dubiously. Could I stop the virtual course and restart flat and keep the pace? No! No! Suck it up. Lean into the hill.

Perk up at mile 5 - Super Bon Bon. Move up the side and let the man go through. Wait - don't lose track. What number is this? Song 12. GodDAMNit I need the bathroom again. I just have to make it to mile 3.5 where I have some downhill waiting. How did I get here? How can I continue to push my pace when each run still feels like a challenge instead of a triumph? Think of each run as a building block. A brick with mortar.

Or is it a building block like J used to play with? I see her chubby hand, swinging drunkenly toward a stack with blue and red letters, knocking them down more often than building them up. Her wrists still have rolls like indentations of tight rubber bands. The image fades.

I am running in the desert. Behind my swishing turquoise running skirt and Bowerman series Nikes drops red and blue blocks, tumbling and falling still on the roadside in the red dirt. Blazing sunlight. There is no ambient noise or moving air of any kind (as in my basement).

Dirty Vegas, song 13, and I am coming out of the desert. I crest the hill and can see Vegas at night - a big bowl of lights beckoning to me. It's the only city I have visited where I was handed a brochure with a selection of prostitutes. Do I look like a likely patron? I would have thought not.

I top the hour ahead, at song 14. With my accurate predictions earlier, I was thinking I would hear Joan Osborne. Instead, mile 8 was welcomed by the Jayhawks. Hmph. Maybe my last song will be Ray LaMontagne. Ray - you look like Jesus, but you can bring it on home to me any day of the week.

Mile 8 was almost all hill again. I found myself gripping the rails a few times. By mile 9, suddenly everything became irritating. The headphones were whipped off. I pulled a Mia Hamm with my shirt. I don't even remember what song number I left off on. I just wanted off that belt.

My last bet? I bet I would finish at 1:24. With distractions gone and a downhill trek for the last quarter mile, I was able to finish without tremendous acrimony. Yes! I yanked the safety plug at 1:23. Done.