A Postcard from Minnesota
 
 
I’m in disguise. And short of asking stupid questions in the supermarket (is a nickel five cents or ten? Who put M&M’s in the trail mix? What is GORP?*); nobody has noticed I’m a legal alien. Dropped into a new city, I’m keeping the head down and learning fast:
1.       Driving in a new city and on the other side of the road.   There are only two rules (the same and only ones all beginner drivers should be taught): when manoeuvring through four lanes of on-and-off-ramps; COMMIT and DON’T PANIC. A week in, I’ve released the white knuckle clench on the steering wheel and I’m cruising in me Camry, baby. I still don’t know where I’m going. God bless Joanna Lumley who has been soothingly accompanying me on my kamikaze first week on and off the Interstate-94 via the Garmin SatNav. 
 
2.       I don’t know how to work an insinkerator. What do they do? Why won’t mine drain? I’m frankly a little afraid of it.
 
3.       So much for my engineering skills – part 2. I didn’t realise that only some appliances have the 230 to 110V transformer inbuilt. Hence after enduring a week of Bad Hair; I am the proud new owner of a garish pink Revlon hair dryer.
I’m living uptown. Uptown Minneapolis is hip and funky and has a delightful blend of alternative and commercial; garish and tasteful. It’s a fun mixture of vintage stores, alternative types, old fashioned diners/ bars (the Bryant Bowl) and new commerce (Mac and Northface).   Minneapolis is a city of runners (and adventure racers and triathletes). Don’t even start me on the six packs at Core Power Yoga. Trotting in and out of my apartment block in sports gear, I feel right at home.
Wednesday morning – with the Galway team here and stuff planned for the evening, I’m determined to get a quick run in anyway. Everything seems to start ridiculously early here; 6:30 starts at work (AT DESK and AWAKE) are not uncommon. Hence a 6am run doesn’t seem that odd. I’m still half jetlagged, which means it’s easier to fool my body clock into thinking it’s time to get up. Ha. Wait two weeks. It’s bright after six and there’s almost no traffic. American’s don’t jaywalk. It’s easier to dodge oncoming traffic though in trainers, and they seem less intent on killing runners, but it’s a nice traffic free run up Lake St., less than a kilometre to the top and to the Chain of Lakes. I turn right – which turns out to be the Lake of the Isles. I’m incognito. The thing I love about running when you’re away or abroad is that it’s universal; everyone grunts hello and presumes you know exactly where you’re going.
 
Thursday night – I’m tired and sticky and hot. (Hot! It’s only the end of April!) I stick on my shoes for a late run, an easy six miles. Out of the apartment block and right up past the junction with Hennapin where all the action and commerce is. I swing left around the edge of Lake Calhoun. Although it’s twilight and losing light rapidly, the path around the lake is busy with dog walkers and runners and bikers. By the time I hit 5km, I can hardly see my watch or beyond my feet but there are still lots of people out walking and running. Turning back, it’s cool and the wind has picked up across the lake to give that soothing lap of water. The downtown Minneapolis skyline is like a baby Manhattan across Lake Calhoun and I lift my face into the cool night breeze and revel in the peace of the water.
 
I swim in the Y on Friday (that’s the YWCA to you. Empowering women! And men can use the gym there too!) I sing ‘Who are the people in your neighbourhood?’ walking home. It does look a little like that in places.
Saturday morning I make a cheeky call and leave a long message – turns out there’s a half marathon in Minnetonka; a nearby and beautiful suburb, with, yes, lots more lake. Hello, lady director. I’ve just landed in from Ireland and I’d like to run in your half marathon even though it’s full and there’s a waiting list. No chance.
 
Failing that I take off around my increasingly familiar neighbourhood for a tempo run; turns out it’s only nine km to circle both Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles. It’s blowing a gale but nice and mild. I hate tempo runs. I nod at the nice man who’s jogging with a fancy McLaren stroller and recognises me on the second pass.   I think of what the legendary Minnesotan runner Ron Daws said before the 1968 marathon – when asked why he ran, he replied “because it feels so good when you stop”.
I had promised myself when this trip materialised that the first thing I would do after my first long Saturday run would be a trip to The Egg and I for a proper uptown diner brunch. So I’m tucking into a huge omelette when I get a call from the Lake Minnetonka half marathon director. Of course they would kindly offer a lone Irish woman a late entry to make their race all international and everything. Score! 
 
Therefore my first Sunday morning in Minneapolis I’m up at six for an 8am half marathon race start along with 3000 new friends. I’m ashamed to say I took the easy option and decided to take the scenic route.   Instead of racing hard I hung out with the hot 1:45 pacers (helloooo gentlemen!) and had a bit of a party (seeing as I had some breath to spare). I even wore my Irish flag shirt (although apparently there are so many people in Minnesota claiming to be Irish that you need to explain to people that no, you’re not New Jersey Irish....)   I trotted round in a slightly underwhelming but stress free 1:43; got my first US race tee of the season, a medal and a bizarre variety of post race snacks. Oreos! Dry Golden Grahams! Pearson’s salted nut rolls – mmmm, they were good. I soaked the legs in Lake Minnetonka afterwards.
I think it’s going to be a good summer. And I haven’t even hit the trails yet.
 
 
*Good Ol’ Raisins and Peanuts. A Minnesota scout staple, apparently.

Lake Minnesota Half Medal