A Guest Blogger's Tips on How to Stay Motivated & Healthy

As I mentioned Friday, my friend Jill has kindly agreed to be a guest blogger today while I'm on vacation. Thanks, Jill! She has three young children and a busy life, which means she needs to run well and run fast. She just ran a 3:01 at the Vermont City Marathon (I'll toot her horn, since she won't) and has some great advice for other runners...


For runners of all levels

Running is a very personal sport. These are some of the things that work for me – maybe they can help you, too.

Plan ahead. I have 3 children, a dog, a husband who works lots of hours, and a busy schedule. I usually have my running schedule mapped out at least 2 weeks ahead of time. This enables me to plan my runs around my kids’ activities, school, events, etc. I book sitters or child watch at the gym, or plan to run early in the morning before my husband leaves for work. I normally do my long run on the weekend when my husband is home. I find that if I have a plan ahead of time, I can make sure I am free for family time. I do still feel guilty (occasionally) about my time away, but having a plan and not missing important family events helps. Running is MY time, and I believe without it I would not be a good wife, mother, friend, etc.

Running is like brushing your teeth. Make running a part of your daily/weekly routine. Then you have no excuses for not doing it. If for some reason your run cannot happen as planned, try to make it happen at some other time during the day or night. Try to have a fall-back plan in mind. Mine is normally the treadmill, especially in the winter.

Camaraderie. Read other runners’ training logs and blogs for ideas and motivation (a great place to start is Kristina’s, of course). Try to do your long runs with friends and/or local running groups. There are many good running clubs – check the USATF website for a local club: www.usatf.org/clubs/search. Many of these clubs have both recreational and more competitive activities with runners of all levels.

Commitment. Sign up for races ahead of time. Have a goal, which could be simply finishing, or finishing with an ‘a’ or ‘b’ goal time.

Injury prevention. Always do a warm up (slower running to start – I usually do about 1.5 – 3 miles, depending on planned run or workout), stretch, cool down (slower running at the end of your normal run or workout to bring your heart rate down and stretch out the muscles). Also, try to be consistent in your week-to-week mileage. Keep a running log and track your weekly mileage. If I am ramping up my mileage, I would not increase my mileage more than a few miles/week. Try to do it gradually. I am a big believer in the ice baths. You do get used to them after a while – really! I do them twice/week (15-20 min.) during marathon training (once after a hard workout or race, and once after my long run). They help me recover quicker, and also assist in preventing injury. Always listen to your body. If something feels not quite right, you are better to rest it/treat it in order to avoid a larger problem down the road. Nip it in the bud. Finally, nutrition plays a large part in recovery and staying healthy. Some of my post-run favorites include chocolate milk, granola with yogurt (I have a great recipe for homemade granola if anyone is interested!), bananas, and frosted mini wheat cereal with milk. I also always drink watered down Gatorade before and after a run.

Happy running!
Jill T.

Mrs. Tubby and Big Ears Go On Vacation

As if in response to yesterday's post lamenting the disappearing evidence of my Boston marathon, look what I found in a do-not-bend envelope crammed into my mailbox this afternoon:

I do kind of wonder what one is supposed to do with a marathon certificate. Perhaps make it into a car magnet to stick to the side of my station wagon? Xerox it to make a wallpaper border for the treadmill room a la Hilde of Trading Spaces? I could also take it to the grocery store and have them scan it onto a cake. Every week. Most likely it will find itself wedged into the filing cabinet somewhere among Brian's grad school rejection letters, the mortgage agreement, and our marriage certificate, all of which I keep bugging him to throw out because they're morbid and depressing.

To save our family from destruction-by-sarcasm, we have decided to take a vacation to the Cape, the closest destination we can reach without paying over $400 in fuel. Actually, we were generously offered the use of a family member's house for the week, an offer that we seized like Britney grabs at crazy (and Mel Gibson).

Henry keeps asking when we leave for the beach, though he did manage to take a break from hounding us to develop a nasty case of mystery hives yesterday. Henry of the Hives is not a happy hootenanny, I have learned-- but bedtime with my baby boy on Benadryl is absolutely beautiful.

While he naps in his drug-induced coma, I am charged with packing all of our belongings (don't rob our house; there's nothing left in it). This includes Henry's favorite books of late--the complete (and completely outdated) works of Noddy--a series that I had when I was a kid and that he dug out at Nani Camp. Noddy is a little wooden doll whose friends include a bear couple named Mr. and Mrs. Tubby and a garden gnome named Big Ears. There is an updated version of the Noddy phenomenon, but the books Henry found are from the 1970s and, fortunately for all of us, out of print. The racial stereotypes of the book's Golliwog community leave much to be desired, and Henry's request this morning to use our dirty laundry to represent the Golliwogs shows we need to ramp up his multicultural education stat.



I'm also not particularly pleased that he's assigned me to the alternate roles of Mrs. Tubby and Big Ears.

How did I get there? I can't reel myself back, so I'm just going to cut and run. (Oooh, I actually got around to mentioning running!)

If I can get online next week, I'll send you a virtual postcard, but in the likely event that I don't think of you while frolicking in sand and surf, I've got a guest blog post lined up from a friend who is the mother of three young kids and just ran a 3:01 marathon in Vermont. She's also a gorgeous blond. We love her despite these obvious flaws ;)

Off to weep at the sight of my bathing suit...

Where We're Going, We Don't Need Roads

Like Marty's family photo in Back to the Future, the elements of my April marathon continue to disappear. First it was my running shoes, and then I was told my favorite black shirt was lost to the marathon Goodwill box. Poof!

This weekend, I lost my bestest running hat--the one I wore for the marathon and which tells my story in three words on its front: Run U Mother. I can get a new one, but I was fond of the sweat stains; they were milestones.

I have no clue where I lost it. I wore it Saturday to the hayride (see below), and since then, it's been gone, gone, gone. I think I left it at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance...


And then last night, I lost a marathon toenail. Here I am doing something I swore I wouldn't ever do: posting a pic of my gnarly foot (no, my foot isn't filthy; it's a tan line from my flip-flops). Unlike the hat, I'm not very sentimental about toenails; in fact, I kind of like shedding them. Gross, I know.

In general, though, I hate losing stuff. I'm supposed to be the organized one, and when I lose stuff, I have to give up my self-righteousness and indignation when Brian can't find something. Those are a wife's most precious assets. Essential to a functional marriage, really.

What I would really like is to lose the weight I gained during the final weeks of marathon training. Or maybe some time in my splits--I'd like to lose that. What I need is a bolt of lightning...

Jane Eyre: Governess and Fitness Expert

I'm rereading Jane Eyre and found this little gem the other day:

It is vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it... Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.

It must have been a bitch to run in all those petticoats.

In other news, see Brian's photo of me in my Deena Kastor costume* in today's article at the Complete Running Network.

*I wish

Tangents

A mathlete, I am not. I was never very good at trig or calculus, spending much of second period my sophomore and junior years mastering the art of sleeping with my eyes open. My poor teacher, Mrs. Gladfelter, did her best with me, but my ineptitude with quadratic equations and tangents could not be overcome. I went to college right after 11th grade, in fact, to avoid AP Calculus. I knew that course would be a disaster and might, ironically enough, prevent me from going to college altogether. Instead, as a college sophomore I took a course we called "Math for Plants," where we learned about Euler circuits. Don't ask me to explain one--"plants," remember? If they'd have had Math for Protozoa, I would have taken that. It's true that I've since developed an aptitude for statistics, so I'm not entirely an unfortunate gender stereotype.

But I digress. I was intrigued the other day when my friend told me that marathon courses are measured by tangents, as opposed to following the curve of the road, and somewhere in the back of my mind I heard Mrs. Gladfelter saying, "straight lines...wake up!" Using tangents to measure courses means that most races I run are actually advertised shorter than they really end up being.

The USATF is straight up about disclosing this measurement factoid; it's a system they call the Shortest Possible Route (SPR). It seems to me that Rosie Ruiz could argue she was just going for the SPR when she "won" Boston, but that's neither here nor there. Nor is she.

The rather cheeky USATF Web site explains that in the "primeval dawn," courses used to be measured by following the curve of the road, about one meter from the curb, so that the assessment looked like this:



Then, the 1976 Montreal Olympics started to use tangents (much like this blog post does) to determine a course's length to account for curves to the left or right, but still staying about one meter from the curb:



Now races measured by the USATF (and presumably other organizations) follow the SPR method, which uses tangents while hugging the curb closer at a distance of 30 cm:



Riveting, isn't it? Are you sleeping with your eyes open? It's detention for you! Go see Mr. Melesky! (My teachers had awesome names, didn't they?)

All of this is to say that the USATF comes right out and states the following:

Now, the rules require us to produce courses which are at least as long as the nominal race distance. Therefore, we always resolve uncertainties by choosing the option that produces the longer final race course.

The 1976 measurement didn't utilize any Short Course Prevention Factor (SCPF). Nowadays, to help ensure that courses are at least the nominal distance, an SCPF of 1.001 [km] is built into every race course measurement.

Short Course Prevention Factor?!? WTF, SCPF?

Would you complain if your marathon was 26.199999 miles? If so, what gives, man?

Let's think back, class, to my realization that my Garmin, Big Red, told me I ran 26.6 in Boston at a time that would put me under 4 hours at the 26.2 point. I'm not harping (okay, maybe a little), but if you combine the SCPF with my delirious weaving around the road according to the most random tangents ever seen, you probably arrive at a 26.6 mile-marathon.



The USATF scares me in much the same way that my gym teachers (fine: and math teachers) did, so I won't take a stand against the SCPF. However, if an Euler circuit will get me to the finish line faster, I suggest they look into it.

You can go third period now. No homework.

Marathon Mamas Unite

The other day MSNBC and the Today Show ran a story about a woman who gave birth to sextuplets and vowed to run a marathon when they turned one. Blessed with babies she described as easygoing, good sleepers (and probably a crapload of help), Jenny Masche was able to train for and run a 5:30 at the San Diego Rock 'n Roll marathon in June.

When I started this blog, I wanted to just call it Marathon Mama, but that URL was taken (by someone not using it--thanks for that) so I added a "the" to the name. I kind of regret that decision now because to me it suggests that I've cornered that market when I'm about the least qualified to use the title. I have three friends with 10 kids between them who run crazy fast marathons. These are marathon mamas. And then you have celebrities like Kristin Armstrong and rock stars like Paula Radcliffe and Catherine the Great. These are marathon mamas. And so is Jenny Masche.

My point is that I reconfigured my blog banner to reflect my belief that the marathon mama is a genus and not a title held by one person. Neither is it a competition for bragging rights as to who juggles the toughest demands of family and running. Women compete enough, and that's just not how I want to roll.

Are you a marathon mama? Take this quiz to find out. If you answer "yes" to at least 8, you may be a marathon mama, too:

1. You've ever confused electrolytes for Electrolux.

2. You won't eat chocolate or banana-flavored GU because they remind you of meconium and colostrum.

3. You've contemplated loading your fuel belt with juice boxes before going to the playground.

4. Your children spend time-outs running strides.

5. You've reached a level of exhaustion to actually believe that pushing a human skull through your vagina was easier than finishing a marathon.

6. You can run 15 miles without losing your breath but find yourself winded after sprinting behind a toddler through the aisles at Target.

7. There's more stability in your shoes than in your parenting.

8. You used the Ferber method so you could resume your 8 p.m. running schedule.

9. When your child fell off his bike into a ditch, you told him to take 800 mg of Advil and "walk it off."

10. There have been 2 occasions that you didn't care about your hair: holding your child for the first time and finishing your first 26.2.

My Dirty Little Secret

I spit a lot when I run. Like a camel but without the skill for projection. I've also taken to blowing my nose without a receptacle, shall we say. But again, I have no aptitude for it. I often christen my shoes or anoint my shoulder in the process.

I'm not proud.

I blame it on my Episcopalian upbringing, although it's possible that I missed the day in Sunday School when the teacher demonstrated how Mary Magdalene spit on Christ's feet when she washed them.

It could also be the pie in my armpits that is rendering me too wholesome for shooting mucus. Let me explain. I recently bought new deodorant that is scented like Vanilla Chai, or so they claim. I don't know what made me go for something that makes you smell like a morning with The New Yorker at a Starbucks in Harvard Square. It certainly doesn't make me smell like a runner.

Right Guard. Speed Stick. Those are appropriate smells for a runner. They smell like fitness, not a Venti non-fat soy latte.

Do you think that if I used men's deodorant I would be able to spit properly? Or would I just start losing my sense of direction all the time?

The Secret deodorant website (there's officially a site for everything) tells me that I have a "scent expression" and that they can forecast it for me by answering a few questions. My scent expression? What does a blend of fatigue, boredom, and exasperation smell like?

If I'd known I needed to take a quiz prior to selecting the scent to mask my BO, I would have been matched with Tropical Tango ("light and carefree, like a Hawaiian sunset"), based on discerning queries about whether I'd rather be a mermaid or a forest nymph (mermaid, please).

Nowhere in the quiz do they ask you things like "Would you like to just not pay your taxes and see what happens?" or "Do you ever--just a little bit--want your child to fear you?" These answers might say more about the real me, who needs to be masked by a powerfully deceptive scent.

Anyway, I'm stuck with Vanilla Chai pits for a while, until I give Tropical Tango a whirl. In the meantime, I fear that at a race in the not-too-distant future, another runner will smell me and assume Dunkin Donuts is a sponsor handing out munchkins. If that runner is you, my scent will definitely not intimidate you into quaking in your Asics, although you might rightfully fear that my errant spit and snot could land on your shirt.

Identity Crisis

I just did something totally out of character, something that has rocked my sense of self to its core and triggered an existential crisis well beyond anything I experienced as a self-pitying teenager.

I stopped running to give someone directions.

And it wasn't someone on foot. Or someone lying in a ditch with a gaping head wound, asking for the best way to Lowell General. It wasn't even a hottie, unless by "hottie," you mean "hot flash-y."

I didn't stop my Garmin (i.e., Lola). Something just compelled me to help this lady and her charge find their way to the Butterfly Place (take a right at the end of Nutting, then a left at your first light).



Maybe the June sun has thawed my frigid New England demeanor. Shit, I hope that's not it.

Maybe it was the kid's propeller hat (no joke) that shot me back to my youth--er, my grandfather's youth--when life was simpler and a recreational jogger would pause his mp3 player and GPS device to lend a hand to a wayward tourist in need before finishing his run to the general store for some sodie-pop.

Maybe it was navigation by osmosis, and Garmin transmits signals into a runner's blood stream to compel her to channel for them. "Google maps told me the wrong thing," said the driver. And like a bolt of lightening, Garmin pulls a Jedi mind trick and sets her course right.

Maybe my marathon-tapering weight gain has softened my heart along with my "abs" and "glutes."

After giving the directions, I even shouted a "Have fun!" as they went merrily on their way toward their super duper destination. What's wrong with me?


I can't wait for winter. Or anything that will restore antipathy and angst to my soul and allow me to blame the universe for my suffering. I think I'll go stub my toe.

You Must Not Hop on Pop

Ladies, if you're looking for great ways to screw up your husband's Fathers Day, I'm your one-stop shop. I recommend starting the process by needing him to drive 800 miles in two days; that will probably put him in a fantastic mood. It's also a good idea to have your child act truly foul--so bad, in fact, that the kid informs to his dad that he would prefer to give his homemade Fathers Day card to his uncle instead. Finally, top it off with a gift of Twizzlers. While the gift was not ultimately my fault--he was supposed to pick out what he wanted and didn't--it certainly did not offset the mood that had been established by the driving and the card debacles.

At least I didn't ditch him for a long run yesterday. That would been the icing on his crap-flavored cake.

Brian is, in fact, one of the most outstanding fathers. Everybody says so--not just me. He is one of the few men I know who would actually like to do more of the Henry work and is annoyed when Henry always asks me for help. Since Henry's birth, Brian has posted 2,016 photos of his son to Flickr. It wouldn't surprise me if Henry thought his father has a lens for a nose.



Sure, someone else took the above photo, but do you see that string hanging out of Brian's back pocket? That's his camera.

When we arrived to pick up Henry from Camp Nani, Henry was napping. I went to the porch to hang out while Henry slept, and Brian went upstairs to lie down with him so he'd be there when Henry woke up. Sure, Henry asked for me almost immediately, but Henry idolizes his dad more than Brian might think. Why else would the kid say that when he grows up, he wants to "read books" and "pour drinks?" He is his father's son (and a Montessori child).

Spend My Tax Dollars to Pay for Hill Repeats in Gym Class

A couple months ago I was on the phone on a Saturday afternoon and my doorbell rang. I live in the sticks and no one ever rings my doorbell, so I was a tad nervous about who would be at the door. I went to the door to see a guy who was somewhere in the 18-22 year-old range wearing cargo pants and a painter's cap over some shaggy brown hair. It wasn't hot outside but he was sweating buckets and out of breath.

My first thought, of course, was "Here's where I die."

Fortunately, he was clearly winded from climbing our driveway so I knew I could outrun him with no trouble, at perhaps an 8:00-pace if we're going to get technical about it. Also lucky for me, he didn't want to butcher the family--he just wanted me to help him get on the ballot for the House of Representatives, probably for his senior capstone project in Civics class. But I refused to sign his list because he didn't tell me his name, he didn't share his platform, and he didn't make the effort to dress like someone who's running for office.

I also refused to sign because the guy couldn't climb my driveway without hyperventilating. Maybe this is wrong--even prejudiced of me--but I think that if you want to have the stamina for a campaign for public office, you need to have the stamina to walk up a hill. Whether it's Capitol Hill or my driveway.

Even Ted Kennedy would have the common sense to stop and catch his breath before ringing my doorbell. The "candidate" at my door was tall and lanky and not carrying around any extra weight so there was no reason he shouldn't be able to walk our hill.

It's not like I'm asking him to run the Comrades on an "up" year; I just think he should be able to ask for my support without requiring an oxygen tank and a medic. Part of me wanted to ask him if he needed to sit down with some Gatorade, and part of me wanted to put him on my treadmill and yell like a drill sergeant, "You want to run for office?!?! Let's see you run! Run, soldier, run!!"

I learned yesterday that I'm not the only one who would like my representatives to be healthy.


Blue Cross agrees with me (on this issue, not on my belief that a monthly deep tissue massage should be covered without even a copay). They've sponsored a program to encourage fitness among our public servants in the House and Senate through which the various representatives and their offices compete to accumulate miles walked during the course of the work day. BCBS has equipped them with pedometers (cheap ones, so they're not considered a bribe--no Garmins for them!), and many of these congresspeople and their staff are logging some serious mileage by taking the stairs or walking when they could be cabbing it. The Republicans are winning the contest: [insert joke about lying and cheating here.]

Maybe I should have helped to send this guy to the ballot box; it may have helped his fitness. But I think I'd be better off lobbying the school committee to step up their phys ed requirements in our local schools.


Your random running advice of the day: Don't eat crab dip the night before running 8 1/2 miles of hills. It's unwise.

Results of the poll coming this weekend...

Friendly Competition: A Poll

I was only half-serious when I named my Virtual Training Partner after a school nemesis, and this morning I realized that if I keep the name, I will start most mornings with blood boiling and some seriously vintage resentment. Not to mention I am the kind of person who performs less well when competing and would prefer to think of my VTP as what she is--a partner--and not some childhood rival. There's a place for competition, but I feel strongly that there are some ground rules, and one of them is that it takes two to tango 'round the track.

You might have read the article in this month's Runners World about the two moms who decided to run the Nike Women's Marathon together last year. I thought the article would be a kind of sisterhood-is-powerful essay, but instead I came away from it annoyed and disappointed. One woman (Dimity) was running her first marathon, and the other (Sarah) had run three in the past. The former faced some serious injuries in her training but went for it on the big day, running to finish as most of us do on our first time out. She wouldn't be competing with her more experienced friend and seemed to be soaking in the experience for all it could give her. Sarah decided, however, that her raison d'etre for the race was to "beat" Dimity, and she repeated this theme like a mantra in her narrative of the race. I found this totally appalling.

I ran Boston for 17 miles with three other women who I'd trained with on an off for four months, and at the turn onto Comm Ave, it was every woman for herself. Two of us finished under 4, I finished right around 4, and fourth member of our group--tougher than the rest, I'll add--walked it in severely dehydrated at 4:20. Never would it cross my mind to feel like I'd "beat" her or that my other friends had "beat" me. We all faced physical and psychological demons that day, and we all earned a medal. Competition would never factor into the equation of our experience.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-competition, and I'm not suggesting we toss out the clock and just cruise together. If you have a friend with whom you mutually accept some level of competition, that's one thing, but if you compete with someone who is not competing with you, I find that tacky. And I find it petty to compete with someone of less experience who is out there with an injury trying to enjoy an experience with a friend.

I adore my running partners, and they make me a better runner, not because of competition, but because we celebrate each other's successes and get each other through our disappointments. We're not a bunch of Pollyannas in trainers; we just respect each other in a way that doesn't allow for competition.

With that in mind--are you still reading? good for you!--I've come up with a few names for my VTP that will keep me running hard and level-headed.

Lola from Run Lola Run, one of my very favorite movies

Mills, after my college statistics mentor who would certainly appreciate the kind of data the Forerunner can generate

Rosalita because "together we're gonna go out tonight and make that highway run"

Help me choose!

Opinion Polls & Market Research

The Garmin 405: Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

I am holed up in the one room in our house with air conditioning for a second day. Our thermometer yesterday afternoon read 132 degrees, which I know is a smidge off, but it was still miserably hot. There are so many metaphors for humidity to choose from, but the most apt description of my condition is that I feel like I'm looking at the world from the inside of a Nalgene bottle filled with broth. And to extend the metaphor, the bottle is definitely green because the air in my town is a swirl of pollen right now. My driveway is green. My white car is green. My counters are green. My skin is green. And my lungs, I'm pretty sure, are green.

One of my few moments outside yesterday afternoon was to retrieve my Garmin package from the back door. After an evening of study, I can tell you it will take a while before I know what the hell I'm doing with that thing and right now, it seems like I need an advanced degree to figure it out--and not in developmental psych, because I have one of those. I still haven't determined how to grab a satellite signal, but I trumped my mom on her first day with the 405 by figuring out how to get it off Central time. I admit, however, that it took me about two hours to figure out that you don't actually turn off the watch, unlike the previous models.

Here's what I do know:

1. You can't sync the 405 wirelessly to a Mac until Fall 2008 when they will release Mac-friendly software. The stinkers at Garmin don't print that on the box or in the manual, and you have to look deep into their website to figure it out, so I'm telling y'all that as a public service.

2. As shown above, the face of the watch is about the size of my knee cap. It may look like a watch, but no woman I know would wear it all day. They did make the band a better fit for small wrists, though, since I don't have to wear it on the tightest setting anymore.

3. It is a lot more comfortable than the 305, which chafed my wrist bone at very long distances (20 miles+) by the way it wraps around. No one else I know has that problem, so I think I just have nasty skeleton wrists.

4. The bezel and screen are really freakin' cool. Sophisticated analysis, I know. Consider it a gift from me to you.


5. The charging clip thingy is also really awesome. My acumen and reflection astound you, don't they? I'm sure Consumer Reports will hire me to write any day now.

6. I am quite excited to race that little stick figure who is my virtual training partner. She looks like a total bitch whose ass I'd like to kick. I'm trying to figure out what to call her to get me fired up when I run. I think I've decided on Rachel, a classmate who once thought it would be fun to encourage all of my friends to ignore me for most of my sixth grade year when, of course, a girl doesn't really care so much what other people think of her. So mean, she's a cliche, and I'm so lame, I haven't forgotten it.

If I can figure this thing out today, maybe I'll take Rachel to the track behind the middle school tomorrow.

Oh So Quiet

While Brian and I work, Henry is spending this post-school/pre-camp week with my parents in Pennsylvania--his first sleepover for more than a night, which we're calling Nani Camp. You'd think this would amount to a second honeymoon for Brian and I, and we fully intend to spend every dinner at a restaurant, but otherwise, we're bored and quiet.

Sometimes I wonder to myself what my life would be like without a young child, imagining nights at jazz clubs and days spent kayaking. But the truth is that before Henry, I simply watched a lot of TV and went to bed maybe a half hour later than I do now. Henry broke us of our TV habit, and we rarely stay up to finish a movie in one night. I never went to clubs before, and I don't own a kayak.

Since dropping Henry off with my mom, I've mostly been wandering and looking for something good on TV. We did finish all of Gosford Park last night (even though it's about the fifth time I've seen it, I still don't know who half the characters are), but we were both up crazy early for not having a child in the house. Brian was off to work by 6:15, and by 6:30 I was on a pre-heat advisory run through some pea soup conditions.

I miss Henry. I miss him so much I called him before he even arrived at my parents' house. Then this morning, I sent him a care package to Camp Nani:



If the child wants to live with me until the day I die, I will gladly provide a room.

How Runners Will Save the Economy

Word on the street is that last month showed improvement in the U.S. economy in terms of orders for manufactured goods, primarily in the domain of "core" durable goods. I know nothing about economics--I majored in Women's Studies for crying out loud--but I did just learn that "core" goods include electronics.

I also know from first-hand experience that the Garmin 405 flew off the shelves when it was finally released after many delays, and that this hot number has since been back-ordered for months. My mom was due to receive one for her birthday in April and only just got it last week, after trying several different retailers who all reported they couldn't keep them in stock.

I have a theory, therefore, that the "surge" in the economy can best be attributed to the running community, our love for navigation, and our compulsion to know distance to the hundredth of a mile. There are even some runners who own two of these suckers, which I'd totally mock if I weren't about to fall into that category.

A friend has offered to buy my 305, thus making it possible for me to buy a 405 for half the price. It's due to arrive any day, which I know because I've been compulsively tracking it on the UPS website. Why does it take so long to get here from Utah?

Until my friend adopts her little red buddy from my Garmin shelter, I will be the owner of two Forerunners myself. I'm hoping they get along, and the 305 doesn't feel insecure in the company of a peer that does not look like a Casio calculator watch from 1983.

My parting from my 305 is a bit bittersweet. Not only have I heard of some difficulty with getting the 405 up and running properly, but Big Red (I just picked that name; feel free to change it, Judith) will take with her the following from April 21:



That's a screen image I'll be sad to hand over.

Unless, of course, it will be replaced by something like this in November:

26.2 miles
3:39:59

Regardless of how I do with the new model, I'm satisfied with blowing some of my stimulus check (whenever it comes; Mr. Bush: hello, where's my dough?) and doing my part to boost the economy.



Where's your watch, Rosie? You could "do it" a lot faster if you had a virtual training partner with wireless syncing capability.

Runners, we will do our part by way of Garmin.

And shoes.

And clothes.

And fuel belts.

And Balega socks.

And Strassburg socks.

And The Stick.

And so on.

Ka-ching!

Tagariffic

I'm not usually a glass half-full kind of girl, so I'd like to pause a moment and appreciate that yesterday was a good day. I could probably list the top-10 worst days of my life rapid fire, but I'm not good at taking note of the good days. I'm looking into Zoloft. Or crack.

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary, which is usually not something we celebrate with great pomp. In fact, I forgot completely, until I heard the NPR guy say the date. Then I forgot again, until Brian sent me flowers while he was away at his conference. Awwwww. You still have to take me to dinner, though, dude.

So that was quite nice. And then I kind of had a superhero moment at work when a report I authored saved the account of a client who had left. Snaps for me.

Since Brian is out of town, I get to have my favorite dinner of all time, which he refuses to eat. Pancakes! Brian has this thing about breakfast food at breakfast. Sure, he'll eat cold pizza at 9 a.m., but he won't do pancakes at dinner. So in his absence, Henry and I whooped it up with Aunt Jemima.

And then, my sense of hope was completely restored from the despair we've endured for the last 7 and a half years.

Finally, I read a blog comment from a reader who has one of the best titled blogs out there, and she'd tagged me! I know some people think of tagging as a chore, but it just warms that attention-grabbing, validation-seeking side of me. Plus, I'm honored to be tagged by someone who dares to push 3 kids in a jogging stroller. I am so not worthy.

Here are the rules:

Each player answers the 5 questions on their own blog. At the end of your post you tag 5 other people and post their names. Go to their blogs and leave a comment on their blogs telling them they've been tagged and to look at your blog for details. When they've answered the questions on their own blog, they come back to yours to tell you.

1. How would you describe your running 10 years ago?

1998.... I was sitting in a stats class that I was a TA for, and this guy walks in all sweaty. I asked why he was so sweaty, which hopefully didn't come off as bad as it sounds now, and he said that he'd run 6 miles from home to class because his car died that morning. I looked at him totally incredulous and said, "A person can run 6 miles? How awful for you. Are you okay?" The guy, I knew, was a track star in school.

Suffice it to say, 10 years ago, my running was not exactly what it is today.

2. What is your best and worst run/race experience?

Best: The Hyannis Narathon Relay, as a matter of fact. Everything clicked in that way we've hopefully all experienced. It felt brilliant. Better than just about anything else. Yeah, that too.

Worst: Oh, I've written about the frogs before. They totally sucked. But the hands-down worst running experience was bailing on the 07 Boston Marathon with an ITB injury at mile 16. The lowest I've felt in a long, long time. Another injured guy on the sag wagon said to me, "There will be other Bostons." He was right, even though I wanted to say "Boston can bite me" at the time.


3. Why do you run?

I've answered this one in different ways in the course of this blog, often trying to be poetic or metaphysical.

Here's the truth: bathing suits. I run because of bathing suits.

4. What is the best or worst piece of advice you've been given about running?

Best: Get fitted for shoes by someone who knows what they're doing. Amen.

Worst: No pain, no gain. Moronic thinking.


5. Tell us something surprising about yourself that not many people would know.

I'm pregnant.

Just kidding!!!

I'm afraid of squirrels.


I tag Nitmos so that he'll hopefully read the book I suggested.

Is Nothing Sacred?

There are a few truths that runners seem to take for granted. Running up hills is harder than running on flat ground, for example. Also: it's a good idea to tie your shoelaces before running. Most people agree on this.

Here's another one: ibuprofen helps with muscle soreness. Not so fast, says the New York Times. Not only that, but apparently carbo loading before a big race is of questionable value, and that ice bath that runners often tout? No scientific proof that it works.

The article, published June 1, manages to debunk most of the habits I've accumulated in the past few years of dedicated distance running. When it comes to things like ice baths, I'd prefer not to rely on anecdotal evidence, given the agony involved, but it would seem that is exactly what I've been doing. I do think the ice baths have helped me, but now that I read they may be a load of hooey, I'm not so sure I'll torture myself like that again soon.

It's not like the article was in the National Enquirer. I mean, it's the New York Times. It's just that now that I've had all of my truths exposed, I don't know what I can count on anymore. Perhaps Benjamin Linus is a good guy. Maybe there is a God.

Here's how the Times shakes things down (or up, depending):

On carbo loading: Carbo-loading before a long run does not "stock muscles with fuel." Exercise actually tells muscles to absorb more fuel in the form of glucose, which becomes stored as glycogen. So, carbo-loading doesn't do anything for this insulin response because it occurs prior to a run. In addition, consuming carbs as a way to benefit recovery (and therefore, be better prepared for the next workout) immediately after a hard run--at least one gram per kilogram of your body weight--is important to restoring the glycogen you used up while running. It has to happen right away, though; if you lolligag even a few hours, your "ability to replenish that fuel drops by half."

Carbs also aren't the magic power source that we seem to think they are. This is a sad thing for me to learn, since I do love me some bread sticks. In reality, protein is what you need. "The latest research shows quite definitively that protein spurs even more of an insulin response than do exercise and carbohydrates alone." The protein helps muscle repair after a workout session, to get you ready sooner to go out again.

The lesson? Back off the pasta bar before the race, and head straight for the grill afterwards. Or, as the article's cited scientist suggests, a chocolate milk ready and waiting will give you protein and carbs following a tough run. This, I can handle.

On ibuprofen: A 2006 study of ultramarathoners who took ibuprofen showed no clear impact of it on muscle recovery, soreness, or inflammation. I'd like to know more about this one--perhaps there are diminishing returns for Advil when you're a nut who runs 30+ miles at a time. If the body isn't supposed to be made for more than 20 miles, it would then be arguable that no amount of Motrin will help your muscles after 30 miles. However, there are medications, I'm sure, that will help you with your sanity for trying to run that far.

On ice baths: Although ice helps with a strain or other injury, little evidence is available to show it aids in muscle repair for conventional soreness after a tough run. In fact, a British study last year found that people who took ice baths actually experienced more pain later than those who sat in tepid water.

I've found it helps in the short-term (like for an hour or two) but my soreness returns later.

You know what does help enormously? Ice in my post-run mojito. And as long as I keep drinking them, the ice continues to aid my muscle relaxation. Much more practical than continually returning to the bathtub.

So the NY Times can take away my pasta. They can take away my economy-size Advil. They can even have the ice bath. Just don't take away my cocktail.

Quality Time

Brian's away at a conference until Thursday, so I'm single-momming it for a few days. In my world, this translates to overuse of the word "patience" with Henry and some preservative-loaded meals. His trip is well-timed to heighten my gratitude for his contributions in the week preceding Father's Day, lest I forget and just get him some new white t-shirts to replace the dozen with holes that currently occupy his top drawer. When Brian's around, I never have to take Henry to a public restroom or bear his 40 lbs. on my shoulders on a walk around Cambridge--both of which I did today. Hoisting him into trees and carrying him into the house when he's a napping sack of rocks are also both usually Brian's domain. I was feeling bad about not getting to run today, but these tasks at least gave my upper body a workout. I forgot the camera for his tree-climbing exploits along the Charles River, but I did manage to grab the camera after this afternoon's blanket fort fell down:



The blue eyes are mine, but the rest of that cherub is his father. The most beautiful boy in the world, objectively speaking.

Henry and I are having fun, but as he put it this evening, "It's not as nice to have dinner with just two people." Remind me again, Brian, why we didn't go to Myrtle Beach with you?