Shut up and run: A (frigid) half marathon report, and a thank you to editors everywhere

This will be short: I ran the F3 half yesterday. It was cold and windy and icy. I ran it in 2:09:35, which is pretty good for me considering the course, on the lakefront path, was the messiest it's been in ages. There is something very cool and un-girl-like about having mud splatters all over your running clothes!

This was F3's fifth annual race -- I've run it now for the past three years, the previous two were cold and snowy, but this year probably had the toughest conditions I can remember. There was ice, snow, mud, slush, puddles and an oh-my-goodness a stiff north wind that you spend half of the out-and-back race running into.

F3 is short for three "f" words -- freezing, frozen, um... I think those of us who ran it know the appropriate "f" words for yesterday.

I whined to my friends all the way to the race, but once I got there, I mentally told myself to just shut up and run. A lot. I've run in worse, I reminded myself.

I am so sore today. My nearly 3-year-old daughter starts "Advanced Aquababies" today at our gym and I can't wait to go in part so I can stand in a warm swimming pool.

***
Something else happened yesterday. My first newspaper editor, Pete, was buried in the town in Iowa where he'd been a journalist forever. He was only in his mid-50s. Way too young to go.

I spent 16 years of my career as a reporter. A political science major, I never studied journalism, nor intended to become one in college. The accidential journalist, I've joked.

It was 1990 when I graduated, and I needed a job. And this small-town daily paper in Iowa needed a cops/courts reporter. Pete hired me and had to teach me the basics -- how to write a lead, what the heck inverted pyramid was, what the hell constituted a news story. I was green as heck. But I also would never have become a reporter had I not been hired for and taken that job.

And, naturally, I had the best-read page in town. Every single crime and ticket got printed on that page. Even seatbelt violations. You would not believe how some people will flip out at the thought that you will run their name next to "failure to wear seatbelt". I remember people begging me to keep their names out. Pete's policy: no exceptions.

Pete's death made me think about editors that I've worked with over the years (including the awesome one I'm married to.) I was able, through the wonderfulness of most every editor who has torn his or her hair out dealing with me and my stories, work my way up to the Sun-Times, where I spend many years before moving into public affairs/media relations. (Um, if any of you are reading this, thank you, I owe you!) Editors are annoying and nagging, but they're golden and immensely important influences. I wouldn't be where I'm at today without them. (Yeah, yeah, I know some of them, if they're reading, are smiling smugly. Turds.)

Pete and I had PM'ed each other three days before he died, after he posted that he had a growth on his larynx and faced a cancer diagnosis. I told him how sorry I was and that I was thinking of him and his wife and kids, and told him what he already was doing -- keep writing about it. His last words to me were "I can't help myself".

RIP, Pete. I'm sorry you were silenced so prematurely.