Jenny Sheets, Miscellaneous

The Lookout
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Monday, March 11, 2013 - 10:49am Jenny Sheets

On Training with Pringles and Powerade.

Up until a couple of years ago, I believed runners were a subspecies of some sort of mutant beast—half prehistoric animal, half futuristic robot. In my mind they ran all day and all night, consuming little food or water. They were engineered to run endlessly on nothing more than energy gel packets and protein shakes.

Thanks to this delusional mindset, I trained for and ran my first (and only) marathon two years ago with dozens of caffeinated gel packets, sucking back the glue-like goo with disgust, and suffering through hunger pangs and mental images of cheeseburgers and milkshakes. How did real runners do this day after day? 

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Wednesday, February 20, 2013 - 11:15am Jenny Sheets

Discovering new trails and enjoying old favorites. 

Growing up in the Midwest meant that every summer my family packed up the dogs and coolers full of food, threw us kids in the back of the old Saab, and made the long, flat road trip out to Montana. We slowly left the sweet, humid smell of the plains and climbed up into the crisp mountain air, full of the scent of pine trees, weathered creeks, and wild flowers. As a family, we would roll down the car windows and collectively take a ritualistic breath of mountain air.

Years later, after having lived in southwest Montana for some time, I find it interesting how quickly the nose and mind adapt to a constant smell. I rarely catch the scent I remember so well from my childhood, but when I do, I close my eyes, think back to those cherished moments when my family traveled out West, and say the same words I said for years: "Ahhh, smells like the mountains."

My brother and me as kids visiting Montana

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Monday, January 28, 2013 - 12:15pm Jenny Sheets

Finding motivation on those cold winter days.

My eyes weren’t even open yet and I felt a pounding in my skull and a tongue on my face. I slowly woke from a deep slumber and realized the pounding was a result of the previous late night, and, luckily, the tongue belonged to my dog. I was only two weeks into my New Year’s resolution to train for the Bridger Ridge Run, and I pulled the sheet back up over my head and rolled over. 

“Get up!” my boyfriend yelled, tearing the comforter off me. I had made him agree to be responsible for getting me out of the house, especially on days when I didn’t want to leave the bed. Today was one of those days. “You’re supposed to be running,” he said with an evil smirk. I crawled out of bed, slugged around the house, and an hour later had only made it as far as the couch. 

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