The Ice Woman Cometh

At least once a week, I pull on a bathing suit, hat, gloves, two pairs of socks, and my favorite Polartec fleece from middle school (oldest thing in my closet). I fill the tub with cold water, dump in the contents of our freezer's ice bin, and grab my watch and a week's worth of catalogs. Then I ask Henry to count to three, which he does, like this: "123" when I'd much rather he went like this: "One, two, thhhhhhhrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee..."

I hold my breath, and I get in, muttering my go-to mantra: "Screw running. Screw running. Screw running." As I enter the tub, I suck air between my teeth, so loud that Brian usually says, "C'mon, Henry. Let's leave Mommy alone for a while."



And then I'm okay, happy with my stack of Garnet Hill, Athleta, Boden, and Crate and Barrel. I pick out the Christmas presents I'd get if I had a bazillion dollars and read the fascinating description of the new Cuisinart slow cooker. I wonder if my life might be a bit happier with a pair of zebra print flats and Eileen Fisher sheets that we can't afford. At some point, I yell to Brian, "Cashmere lounge pants! Cashmere lounge pants!"

Brian thinks this entire scene is very funny, though he won't humor me on the lounge pants, so at some point, he grabs a camera to capture a photo of a woman who looks like a skier who just threw back a few too many beers at the lodge. A woman who could use a pair of lounge pants.

I get out of the tub, and Henry pats me on the bum because he's in that phase and recoils in shock. "Mommy, your bum is COLD!"

And then I chase Henry around the house, threatening to sit on him with my ice-cold bum. I can tell Brian is thinking, "Why don't you ever sit your bum on me, ice queen?" (Is it gauche to say Brian is a little bit frustrated by marathon fatigue?)

Ah, the ice bath. Quality family time at its finest.

My Deluge a Trois with Kyle & Anne

It was sultry.
It was wet.
And we had no protection.

It was 18 miles this morning with the intrepid Anne and Tropical Storm Kyle.

Friday afternoon I was feeling not unlike George Bailey when all his friends pony up to pitch in, having received three offers for running company this morning. Anne the Snake Enchantress and Tree Root Victim read my post and immediately volunteered to run 10 and bike 8 for my 18 miler. And one phenomenal local reader likely creeped the hell out of her husband by asking him if he'd run 18 miles with the lady whose blog she reads. I'd have loved to be a fly on the wall for that spousal request, but low-and-behold, I now have a running partner lined up for next weekend, when we'll have 19 miles to discuss the weirdness of the scenario. We both have a week to google the other person to make sure neither of us is a freaky cyber stalker.

But I get ahead of myself. So Anne and I decided to run this morning when the weather was supposed to have improved, but I woke up to rain and an email from her that said: IT'S POURING! Are we doing this?

We agreed that we'd get gangsta on Kyle's stubborn 3-day storm and give it a go. I drove to Lexington, refusing to acknowledge the rain by leaving my wipers on the lowest intermittent setting, squinting the whole way down 128.

The run itself was actually a lot of fun, more fun and comfortable than any long run in recent memory--even after I fell across the dirt on the Minute Man trail and got my comeuppance for downing Anne on one of my trails. Running with Anne, it occurred to me, is like running with a podcast of a Tom Perrotta novel written by Wendy Wasserstein. You're riveted by stories of suburban drama and all of a sudden, you've tripped on a rock and find yourself splayed on the ground near the spot of Paul Revere's capture for consorting with Pocahontas, wondering if this is the exact place he gave the Emancipation Proclamation. My history might be kind of rusty.

And running with Anne also gets you a far better goody bag than most races. I left her house with a box of Luna Moons, samples of La Mer cream, and some hand-me-over cashmere, among other treasures. So what was to be a tedious and miserable 18 miles alone in a downpour ended up being a total blast.

I don't even give a damn what my splits were. I was finally running for fun again and cruised the entire 18 soggy miles with an amazingly selfless friend.

I wonder if I can clone her and sell the new Annes to other hapless and lonely marathoners...

Cowgirl Up, Pinto

I knew the day would come eventually, and Sunday is gonna be it. I have to run long all by myself. 18 miles. Alone. With nothing but the voices in my head to keep me company. Voices that squeak things like, "Running is for fugitives," or "Oooh, look, a Starbucks! Pumpkin Spice Lattes are now in!"

I know I've been spoiled so far with the babysitters and the bike pacing and the friends willing to deal with me for hours. I tried various options for company but came up empty, and was this close to posting an add on Craig's List before it occurred to me that this might result in the kind of running friend that I have to run from.

So unless one of you local internet stalkers pipes up before Sunday, it's just gonna be me...

and my tears. Salty, salty tears streaming from my eyes for 18 miles, sure to dehydrate me into whimpering for help from a soggy ditch somewhere that only the occasional pick-up truck with a skeevy driver will pass. If you don't hear from me by Monday morning... well, never mind, I'm sure Brian will easily find a new mother for our little cherub.

Cue the violins.

Of course, things could be worse (she said, bowing in the injury-prevention prayer corner).

Nathaniel 3:40

When I told Over Pro Nate about my Great Blister Explosion at the half-marathon, obviously due to wearing a pair of 9-miles-old Mizuno babies, his response involved the word 'Never' and five exclamation points.

Gotcha.

It's now clear to me that in the great sitcom that is my common sense approach to training, I'm Dauber to Nate's Coach.

Since I can't convince the 2:14-marathoning Nate to run Philly using my name (apparently he has principles), I asked him to help me prevent more exclamation points by naming the 7 Deadly Sins of Race Preparation. If he won't run for me, he might as well blog for me.

He claims they're in no particular order, but #1 would appear to be a dig at me. Some people are so cruel.

1. Trying something new on race day
Not even a lucky breakfast of eggs benedict, sushi, and Red Bull, coach?

2. Going out too fast
So I guess no fartleks in miles 1-3 to warm me up on the chilly November morning?

3. Going too fast on easy runs
But they're the easy runs. Hel-lo, use your common sense, Nate.

4. Not going fast enough on hard runs
Um, McFly, these are the hard ones. Really, who is this guy who calls himself the 7th fastest marathoner at the Olympic Trials?

5. Not taking care of minor sorenesses/injuries right away letting them become real problems down the road
Okay, you don't have to get mean about it. I was just trying to be stoic.

6. Running too hard during the taper
Seriously, have you learned nothing about me, coach? "Taper" = sit on my ass and watch my cosmo taper down in the martini glass.

7. Wearing anti-persistent
My anti-persistent smells like Chai, so I will add my officially diagnosed scent of Tropical Tango to the grocery list. Nothing persists like the smell of mangoes in a stifling Argentinian dance hall.
Update 9/26: So we like Nate's coaching but not his spelling. Apparently it was meant to be "antiperspirant" but I thought he was giving some Yogi Berra-coachy pun when he said it's a sin to use "anti-persistent."

And there it is, the gospel according to Nate. I will acknowledge that his advice seems sound. Gotta throw the guy a bone every now and then. He's in charge of my physical and mental stability for the next 8 weeks.

Went the Distance, Now I'm Back on My Feet

After my massage appointment this morning, Mike "The Elbow" Toomey* said, "Your body is definitely more beat up this time. You've been tight before, but I could tell today that you're beat up."

Using his massage voodoo, The Elbow remedied my woes and implicitly confirmed my suspicions:

Over Pro Nate is trying to kill me.

Fine, The Elbow wasn't really referencing my training plan or implying Nate is abusive, but I've gradually come to realize that my coach's program is not Qualify or Die Trying--it's Qualify and Die Trying. He intends for me to cross that finish line with a 3:37 and pull a Pheidippedes right there at the base of the Rocky steps.

And ever since Sunday's race, I'm feeling like I'm in good shape to achieve both goals he's set for me. Pacing? Good. Corpse-like functioning? Yep. Right on target.

Here's a good example of how run-down and tortured I feel. Last night Brian and I watched The Last King of Scotland, the movie about Idi Amin's reign of terror in Uganda. During the scene where the guy is hung from the ceiling by meat hooks, the regretful thought crossed my mind:

"At least that guy gets to be unconscious."

The best I've been able to do to aggravate Nate in return has been to ask him idiotic questions such as, "Is it possible to BQ without perhaps so much running?" He laughed.

I wasn't kidding.

I've also tried to frustrate the hell out of him as much as possible, for example by wearing new shoes for a race and subsequently torturing my feet. There's nothing like self-defeating behavior to really get under a coach's skin.

I'm trying to get myself refocused and reenergized for the worst 5 weeks of my athletic life because I think that feeling like a tiger is not helping. And by "tiger," I mean my insatiable desire for red meat and long naps, not "rising up to the challenge of our rival."

I asked The Elbow, who is also a running coach, to suggest a strategy for dealing with burnout. He gave a response a girl can really get behind: "If you're running a lot and feeling burned out and you have an hour to run or to nap, take the nap."

Let's hope Nate approves my 3-hour nap substitute for the 18 miles this weekend.

Tomorrow I'll post Nate's 7 Deadly Sins of Race Preparation. Stay tuned...

*Highly, highly recommended to anyone in the Boston area. He'll fix what ails you with a technique I call Physical Therapy for Lazy People. He could do great evil with those elbows, but I'm grateful he's opted to use his powers for good instead.

A Blogiversary

Today my blog turns two, which means it will probably hold its breath, stomp its feet, and then writhe on the floor at any moment. I am celebrating the accomplishment of two years of this major time suck by cheating on it with another blog. Today I've posted my first official blogging gig over at Athleta's new (and of course totally rockin') blog called Chi. Use that link if you want to see a photo of me looking like a raving lunatic*, or go straight to my article.

Speaking of infidelity.... In reflecting on what the Marathon Mama has meant to me, I'd have to say that it has served as a writing outlet, a source of running accountability/motivation, and to be honest, my only opportunity to cuckold my husband. I've tried to cheat on him, but apparently Bruce Springsteen takes his marriage more seriously than I do. If you're a wife in the same predicament, I recommend getting a blog. It's close to the fun of cheating, without the broken vows or risk of disease and abandonment (crossing fingers on that last one).

Not only does my blog allow me to neglect my husband, it's been a fabulous way to ignore my son. There's only so much maternal satisfaction a woman can be expected to have, and lately, that's amounted to about 20 minutes a day. My blog has filled that void and is surprisingly potent for drowning out the "Mommmmmmmmy! I'm trying to tell you something! I have to go to the bathroom!" It's like he's not even there.

There are times, though, when I regret the title of my blog. Damn that love of alliteration. I am honest when I say I'd never be training for another marathon and attempting to BQ without this blog (and all of yours). There is a point in nearly every day when I think, "5k Mama. 10k Mama. Even Half-Marathon, Half Mama." But nooooooo, I had to get uppity and alliterative and go for the big one. Curses.

So happy anniversary, you damn blog. Please continue to be good to me. I don't want to be forced to cheat on you with Twitter. She's loose and fickle.

*I suggested the photo to them and they're too nice to tell me I looked completely nuts, so they used it.

One Morning in Maine

Without a doubt, the best--if not the most curious--compliment I've ever gotten was from a friend who said in his Tennessee drawl, "Kristina, you're built like a brick shithouse."

He was just trying to boost my ego after dragging me to a Bikram yoga class in which I was posing next to some of the longest, leanest bods outside of Are You Hot? (best. show. ever.). But I grabbed at his inaccurate kindness and have delighted in my resemblance to a high-quality outhouse ever since.

This weekend, I met Kathrine Switzer, who gave me the second best compliment I've ever received, and she didn't even mention septic tanks.

"You look like a marathoner," she said when I asked her to sign her book for me at the packet pick-up for this weekend's half-mary. I hoped that she wasn't referring to my hair, which you can see desperately suffered from shampoo fatigue brought on by several consecutive days of running.

My response to KSwitz was to bumble like an idiot, trying hard to resist the temptation to ask her what it was like to be the first woman to run the Boston Marathon before the era of wicking fabrics and the Bondi band.

While my mind was working overtime to edit my mouth, I kept one eye on Henry who was leaning towards the abyss that is 2 p.m. without a nap in sight. After he called to me from the interior of a circular clothing rack, he busted through the shirts, bringing down several in the process. Then he helped a complete stranger unravel a knotted extension cord while I paid Dame Switzer $30 for my book, not knowing that I could have bought it on Amazon for $6. Whoops.

Still, I got an autographed copy, and Kat inscribed it with a lovely sentiment that effectively conveyed she is not a regular Marathon Mama reader.

Kristina!
You're the 'Marathon Momma' and you know that this is magic--it gives us everything, especially ourselves. Go for it!
K Switzer
9/21/08
Maine Coast 1/2

I of course forgive her spelling of "Mama" because she paved the way for female race bandits everywhere. As an aside, I am a dyed-in-the-organic-cotton feminist who thinks women's races are an empowering sea of short pink skirts, but the irony that she was headlining a race excluding men was not lost on me.

She wrote an inspirational inscription worthy of a pre-race pep talk, which I can confidently claim because I heard her say "It gives us everything, especially ourselves" into a mic before the race started this morning. It's all good. I'd still give my left ovary to look like her when I'm that age. She's built like a brick shithouse.

Oh yeah, so I also ran a half-marathon this morning. It was such a relief to be in another race with only women. One does get sick of hearing the tired question, "Does my mustache make me look fat?"

Beneath a sky "bluer than The Simpsons opening credits," as Brian poetically put it (look out, Rilke), I did my best to prove all of my speed training has made an iota of difference. This obviously means that I started too fast and had trouble finding a pack of women so that I, too, could Run With the Wolves. I spent most of the race on my own, until mile 8 or so, when a pack of akimbo girls cut me off and pissed me off to equal extremes.

I found my groove again by mile 10 and cruised along the ocean for a mile and a half when I felt something explode under a toe on my left foot. For the first time, a blister developed and popped in the course of a single race. I did not like this. I rather hated it for about a mile when I suppose the entire thing had drained to a sore base, and I pushed into the last half-mile. Suffice it to say, I am not at all Inspired by my shoes and am trying to figure out what to do in that department.

So if you're still reading this unnecessarily long race report, you may be holding on just to know how I did in the end.

1:43:34
12/90 in age group
54/601 overall
PR by 2 minutes
7:50 pace

For only being in its second year (I think), the race was flawlessly executed by the race directors and volunteers. Ovation for the organizers. Below are some pics. To see more, including shots of the gorgeous town of York where the race happened, go to Brian's flickr page.

Mile 10, before my toe rebelled:


Mile 13, after my toe rebelled:

I Got Inspired

I've run out of puns for my Nirvanas, so I switched shoes.* Now I can make different lame jokes. I got the Mizuno Inspire, half the cost and half the weight. And sassy. I wanted something sassy. I think they scream "Miami Vice: Marathon Drug Bust," don't you?



This weekend continues my estrogen overload race series with my third consecutive all-women race at the Maine Coast Half-Marathon. So far, my ethnography of these races has come to the following conclusions:

a) Less smelly
b) Better free stuff
c) Fewer opportunities to draft behind giant testosterone vessels
d) More violent plowing of clueless walkers by runners
e) Frequent substitution of the phrase "You go, girl" for "Yo' mama"

I'm aiming for another half in the 1:45 zone because my 1:45:40 PR was in a relay and therefore not on the books.

Happy racing and running this weekend, everyone!



*The ridiculous weight and cost also had something to do with it. At almost two pounds per shoe (w/orthotics) and $140, I was in the market.

Please Hold While I Fartlek

I usually come up with my best blog posts while running, which I realize often amounts to a tally of dead frogs, so I'm not so sure that "best" is a solid, objective measurement. Nevertheless, imagine what I could generate if I could blog and run simultaneously. As in:


[Please don't sue me NY Times--the photo is just so priceless.]

This is the sort of thing I dream about when I'm not dreaming about global economic disintegration and sharing a birthday with Colin Firth. Oh wait, that's real.

Anyhoo, the NY Times posted an article to their web site yesterday about a doctor who fashioned a treadmill under his desk and walks all day, albeit at 1.4 mph. Now a commercial version is available and companies are installing them.

The article mentioned Mutual of Omahaa and GlaxoSmithKline (seriously, no spaces in that name?), but I suspect that the customer service reps and product designers at Garmin might be using the $4,000 Walkstations as well. I have reason to believe that when I was on hold for over an hour and a half, the geniuses at Garmin were trying to figure out how to lower the elevation on their mills so that they wouldn't sweat on their watches*.

There are several mill workers (not that kind, that'd be dangerous don't you think?) who blog their rather impressive multitasking and offer DIY instructions for making your own if you don't have the spare change to buy a Walkstation:
www.treadmill-desk.com
www.treadmill-workkstation.com
www.bookofjoe.com/2007/10/treadmill-works.html

I think this is a revolution, and users say it's made them better workers. Can you imagine Xenia digging up stuff while getting in her speed work? We'd know once and for all how dinosaurs went extinct (I don't actually know what Xenia digs up). Frayed Laces running next to a fish tank while she challenges conventional knowledge about marine life? Nitmos breaking the land speed record by watching internet porn while he runs?

*By the by, my dad has "hacked" his 405's sweat problem by wrapping a trimmed Ziplock bag around his wrist, with the zipper side flipped up to keep the sweat off the bezel. He says it works. Nothing like wearing a baggie to keep a $400 watch functional.

Accomplishment #17

I've run 32 miles in four days.

I know this isn't exactly competition for Karnazes and that it may not even be a whole lot to my running posse out there, but friends, I. Am. Tired.

I did my 16 on Saturday and was fairly wiped by the pace I maintained, took Sunday off, and then got Over Pro Nate's mileage for me for the next few weeks. He emails me my schedule every 3 weeks, which is a system I like because then I wouldn't have known on Friday that this week I'd have to run 25 miles before Saturday and probably wouldn't have done that long run at MP. You follow?

I am a get-it-over-with kind of girl so I decided I would run 8 Monday, 8 Tuesday, and 4.5 Thurs and Friday with some hill repeats thrown in there somewhere.

It's Wednesday, and in the words of one Ernie Muppet (that is his last name, right?), I'm "rarin' to snooze."

The great thing about 32 miles in 4 days is that it gives me one of my major accomplishments in life so far, which in fact isn't 32 miles in 4 days.

Yesterday, I ate an entire 10-inch pizza all by myself. In the middle of the day.

I know the menfolk out there probably laugh at this accomplishment but most women know that the psychological barriers a gal must bust through to eat an entire pizza is considerable. Sure it was thin-crust and meat-free, but I ate a whole pizza by myself.

I'd say this feat ranks on my list of accomplishments just behind Anna Karenina (#15) and Harold and Kumar Go to Guantanamo Bay (#16), both of which required more stamina from me than my last visit to the track.

When Brian got home from work and saw the pizza box and cutting board with only crumbs as evidence, he looked at me--clearly impressed by my achievement--and said, "Did Henry eat a spinach and feta pizza with you?"

"Nope. I ate it. The whole thing. I can eat a whole pizza for lunch. Aren't you impressed?"

"Wow."

"What did you have for lunch today?"

"Two slices."

Smack down! No offense, sweetie, but I rocked your two slices. I laugh at two slices. Maybe tomorrow I'll eat two pizzas. And then lift a freight train.

Sloughing

I couldn't post yesterday because I was doing some relational exfoliation and risked some major online vitriol if I clicked the New Post button on Blogger. Today I used my anger to fuel a solid run and found that my own bitterness tastes a lot better than Gu and, frankly, works just as well.

What I realized when I loofah-ed was that the relationship had come to be toxic for me, one where I was invisible and without a voice. It came to a head after I blogged an oblique, anonymous expression of sympathy for this person who was having a hard time, only to be charged with "using" their issues in my "blog narrative." Given that I've never been allowed much space in our relationship, it came as no surprise that this person would take on my outlet for speaking honestly about my life. I'm sad that my sympathy was misconstrued as exploitation, and that any attempts at humor on my part were met with indignation. I don't take myself very seriously and forget sometimes that there are people who do crank their lives to 11.

It occurred to me yesterday after several weeks without communicating with this friend that, over that time, I have become a faster and stronger runner, a better writer, and a more positive person. I don't feel inadequate like I used to, and while I might bitch and moan on my blog, in general, I feel good and grateful to have y'all as an amazing network of encouragement.

Sorry I had no funny stuff in me today, but I needed to get this off my chest before resuming my regular observations of running in the exurbs. If it helps, I snotted on my shoe during my 8-miler this morning and got home to find I'd locked myself out of the house. See? I didn't hand in my idiot card when I refused to be a relational lapdog. I'm just as dumb as ever.

But at least I know how to use a credit card to break into your house.

Acknowledgements

9/13/08
16 miles: 8:22 avg. pace
target marathon pace: 8:22

Thank you to Brian the Sherpa for pacing me on your bike, even after you fell over into the dirt when your shoelace got caught in the gear. My second companion in a week to go down. Who dares to join me next?

Thank you to the most foul Roctane Gu for your propulsion capabilities, matched only by my restraint of my expulsion capabilities after ingesting it.

Thank you to Kenny Loggins for "Footloose," Ricky Martin for "She Bangs," and the J. Geils Band for "Centerfold." I'm not proud, people.

Thank you to Jill for waving and hollering out your car window at mile 13.5, risking town gossip and a new nickname as That Crazy Lady With Really Good Hair, all to cheer me up a miserable hill in the final miles. You're fast as lightning and you yell loud. You're my inspiration.

Thank you to Henry's sitter for agreeing to watch the neighborhood hyperactive potty mouth for 2 hours, 13 minutes, and 47 seconds, during which time the parents of your charge were unreachable by phone. [You all tip your sitter, right?]

And thank you to Henry, the reason for any and all negative splits. I'll always rush home to you, little man.

Trend Setting

Cruising around the interwebs for a pair of capri tights now that the weather is turning cooler, I stumbled on the biggest outlet find since Brian found the perfect pair of red leather pants (too bad it happened in the days before camera phones).

My Philly marathon outfit.

Adidas, you've outdone yourself this time. I love it. Capri? Yep. Black? Check. And it's got enough pocket space for a Gu per mile. It also has loops to hold my gloves when I warm up, and an understated logo to help me feel like running royalty. The best part is that it's perfect for layering over a long-sleeved shirt that can be easily tossed if I get hot.

I just can't figure out why it's on sale.






At only $45, I'll even have enough money left over to buy the Laura Ingalls Wildrunner jacket for the pasta party.

Because It's My Day

Today's blog post was scooped yesterday by Half-Fast. But did Vanilla get Bruce to sing his favorite song on his birthday?



Bring on the cake.

What Have You Done for Me Lately?

I've always wanted a reason to quote Miss Jackson (if you're nasty) on my blog, and today I've got it. Check that one off the list. On to this morning's adventure...today's theme: Snakes, blood, and my growing desire to move back to Cambridge.

Running friend Anne earned her Top Friends status on Facebook this morning by driving out to the deep, dark wood to run 6 with me. I've kind of lost my running mojo lately, and a run with Anne is always a good bet for a good run, but who knew we'd have such a thrill ride?

Let's just say from the start that Anne is all things great. She's refined, smart, and most important for a spoiled brat like me, she is supportive. We head out through the garage so I could show her my new bike, and inside the back door I see a darling baby snake wiggling around. And by 'darling' I mean, "Holy Hell, Anne! What do I do?! Are there more? Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

Anne grabs a shovel and tries to cajole the snake onto it, but now the little guy is freaking out. "Uh, hello, you're in my house, Snake. I think I call dibs on freaking out."

So Anne grabs a hoe, deftly scoops him up and flicks him out the back door.

"You need to move to Lexington, my friend," she says. I had to confess to her that last month when Brian was in Vegas, I had to call a neighbor to empty a mouse trap that Brian had set before he left. Maybe I'm not cut out for country life.

Anne, Anne, wonderful snake-wrangling Anne, how can I thank you? How about by taking you for a trail run on which you do this?


Wicked gorgeous quad, my friend.

It's official. The forest hates me and is spreading its animosity to my loved ones.

A tree root jumped up and attacked my friend.

Two years after I had Lyme, a tick gave its cooties to my husband, who is now on meds for the disease and hobbling around in awful back pain.

Snakes are moving into my house. (Incidentally, Brian's response to the snake? "At least that will help with the mice.")

I miss Harvard Square. Sure, we were robbed twice in 18 months, but were there any snakes in our 1200 square foot apartment?

I rest my case.

Run Like a Grumpy New Englander, or How a Trail Race is Like an Idiot Boyfriend

(For your multimedia pleasure, this post comes with a soundtrack if you're so inclined. See sidebar.)

I once dated a Dylan-loving, microbus-driving, poetry-writing bohemian who I very much liked the idea of. As it turned out, I did not very much like his aggravating behavior. He regularly picked me up late, rarely told me where we stood, and was a master of too-little-too late. Whatever. I don't give him a whole lot of thought some 17 years later...until today's Run Like a Girl 8k Trail Race.

I like trail running--this much we know. I liked the idea of a trail race in a Dylan-loving, bohemian sort of way. In fact, the race even had Dylan playing at the starting line. A good sign for my expectations. And my problems with the race may just be a function of Grumpy Type-A New England Road Runner Suffers Culture Shock. I'll also cut them some slack because this was the first year the race was held in Boston.

I don't know if all trail races operate like this one, and I'd like to think not. I expected the race to be a crunchy granola hoedown because I love a good cereal and a Virginia reel as much as the next gal. But I didn't expect that we'd have to wait for the granola to bake before we started and that I'd do-si-do for more than 3 miles before getting water. I'm used to road races that operate like a well-oiled machine, and this race...well, it was like a microbus in need of an oil change. And I've ridden in that microbus.

To put it in the simplest terms, the good:
*Nice schwag
*Nice volunteers
*Nice course
*Nice runners

and the not so good:
* Race started 20 minutes late, on a very humid and warm morning.
* No obvious mile markers on a 5-mile course (Garmin, I'll give you credit this time)
* No water stop before mile 3.6
* Rolled my ankle, eliciting foul language I usually reserve for my blog

Other issues not related to the race: what I like about trail running is being alone in the forest setting my own pleasant pace, instead of churning through my tempos in traffic on the asphalt. When I'm in a race, all of a sudden my pace matters enormously, and I had no fun trying to maintain my speed on that kind of terrain. I learned I am among the more cautious of my gender, and while I passed a lot of women on the uphills, I was passed by many on the downs. I just can't race well on that ground without being clumsy.

So I'll keep trail running just like I still listen to Dylan. But I don't want to trail race just like I don't want to date him. Live and learn. In romance and in running.

At least the weather held out.

Oh, and my results: 38th out of 315.
Time: 42:53
Pace: 8:38
Is this good for a trail race? Search me.

Half of my cheering squad.


I didn't place well, but at least I won this fun sprint at the end. She's enjoying it a lot more than I did, though.

Okay, this makes it look like I actually had some fun.

The Case of the Piss Poor Run and the Stolen Garbage

I am mad. As mad as, for example, a pit bull in lipstick at a youth hockey game*. But not quite as mad as I'll be if my son ever tattoos anyone's name around his ring finger.

I had to run my 14-miler alone today for various tedious and boring reasons that I won't detail (not that it's ever stopped me before). I didn't sleep last night, which is par for the course before a long run so that didn't particularly enrage me. I didn't watch or listen to any of the convention this week, mostly because I was afraid I'd blog commentary that would alienate some readers. So that didn't make me mad today, either.

Here's how it went down. I was starting to get a bit mad by my late-stage long run pace at mile 12.38 when I chugged up a hill and started to go slower...and slower....and slower. Until all of a sudden--and completely involuntarily--I was walking.

WTF? Walking? "Who said you could walk, you shit-for-brains legs?"

But there they went. For about a fifth of a mile, they walked while I tried to scare some sense in them. I threatened extra minutes in the ice bath, and they smirked, "You wouldn't dare." I reminded them of our massage on Monday, and they countered, "But today isn't Monday, is it, idiot?" I even worked my 1-2-3 Magic with them toward a time-out, which was frankly a half-baked and counterproductive solution that almost had us sitting on the curb.

By mile 12.54, I reminded them that we'd left Henry and my mother at each other's mercy this morning**. That seemed to work, but the run was already ruined. My splits were loathsome, and my mood was the pits.

But I wasn't my maddest yet. When I drove around to collect the remains of my water stops, I discovered that someone stole my trash. I have been brooding all day about the fact that I left a bag with my water bottle in it on a corner with a note asking that it not be removed, and someone took it.

Sure, they only took it after I was finished with all of its disposable contents. Sure, it was functioning as litter while it waited for me to pick it up. But I am oddly indignant that someone would steal my bag labeled with a request not to move it. I left a note! It was like someone deliberately sent my email to the spam folder.

Henry speculated the culprit might have been a shark, until he remembered that sharks only eat fish.

So here I am, cranky at my performance, which was largely due to heat and humidity, and pissy about my stolen garbage. Henry asked if I would be having wine with lunch, and I have to admit I had to pause before sighing and saying, "Not today, sweetheart."

When I'm not stewing over the trash bandit, I'm dissecting my poor run to its cartilage. Did my ability (or lack thereof) finally catch up with me? Was today's run the real me? Did the trash thief stick pins in my empty Gatorade bottle when I was at mile 12?

Then I slap myself and look longingly toward the fridge where the vodka lives, waiting patiently for 5:00.

*And there you have it, folks: the only thing I have in common with Sarah Palin.

**Have you ever left a difficult and demanding child in the care of a compulsive knitter? Go ahead, try it. It's a recipe for disaster.

This Should Be Fun

Yesterday I took to the woods for my last trail run before my first trail race, which happens Sunday. I wanted to do four miles on the trails to prepare for my 8k race, but just before I reached the halfway point yesterday, I remembered that there have been two recent bear sightings in my town. Perhaps running four miles alone along a creek on Smoky's turf is not a brilliant idea.

Change of plans. High-tail it out of the woods, Pinto. Hello, negative split.

The whole way out of the woods I was trying to remember the protocol for encountering a brown bear. Do I freeze? Climb a tree? Roar? Run like hell? Call him Paddington and offer to take him home to meet my brother Jonathan?

So I didn't get all four trail miles in and had to finish up on the road. Am I wise? Am I a wuss? I dunno. I admit that a bear encounter would've made for some fantastic blog fodder, but it would have been hard to type it up if I was, say, dead.

Fortunately for me, Sunday should make for some awesome blog fodder because, as it turns out, Hanna will be with me. There are no better conditions for a trail race, I would suspect, than a tropical storm. Super duper!

The National Weather Service is saying this will be an "extratropical storm" by the time it gets to eastern Mass, which I'm hoping will mean that it will rain something better than water. Like margaritas.

In actuality, the wind is predicted to be less strong on the side of Boston where I'll be--15-25 mph--and having taken on the 2007 Boston Marathon Nor'easter Carnival of Suck, I'm not too concerned about the rain as long as I don't have to wade through 10 inches of water.

Practically speaking, though, can anyone tell me where bears go during an extratropical storm?

Transitions

Generally speaking, my almost four-year-old son's sports acumen leaves much to be desired, compared to the other boys around him. Henry is certain that the Red Sox play both soccer and baseball, and football mystifies him. Tennis is not tennis--it is "net," and Henry doesn't get why so few people are on the court. Last weekend, Brian and my dad took Henry to his first baseball game to see the Lowell Spinners, and I think this photo accurately captures everyone's experience of the event:


If he can figure out a way not to fall down all the time, I think Henry would make a great runner. But based on his behavior around the house, I'm not so sure he will be a triathlete. I know I could get him to participate by telling him he gets to write numbers on his skin with a marker. But I also know that the transitions between events are important.

Henry does not do transitions.

It takes me no less than 20 minutes to get him to change activities. I hope to God that this is typical for his age, but knowing from his teachers that he is the only kid who has to cruise the classroom for 10 minutes prior to sitting on the circle makes me wonder.

I try to picture Henry in a triathlon. Assuming they let participants swim with one of those long foam noodles, I see him exiting the water to stare at the clouds for a good 5 minutes, trying to find one that looks like the Hudson Hornet. I see him then noticing a flock of gulls down the beach and while I call to him to come to his bike, Henry takes off in the other direction to catch a bird. Before getting to the bird, he sees a shiny rock. Then another one. And another. And soon he comes running to me with two fists full of pebbles, many of which turn out to be nasty beach trash.



I tell him to get his shoes on for the bike. He says he doesn't want to ride his bike. I say the bike will be fun, and all the other kids are doing it. He says wearing shoes is not his favorite thing. I say that his feet will hurt if he rides without shoes.

I want to wear my Crocs then, Mommy.

You can't bike in Crocs, Henry.

I only like dark colors. My sneakers are light colors.

Your Crocs are pink, Henry.

I want to wear Crocs.

You'll hurt yourself biking in Crocs.

No I won't.

You can have a Hershey Kiss if you put on the bike shoes, Henry.

Okay.

I put his shoes on for him.

And the helmet.

Mommy, I'm a mushroom! Look at me, Mommy! I'm a mushroom that turns into an owl!

Okay! Let's be a mushroom that turns into an owl who can ride a bike!

No, Mommy. I'm putting on my show. I'm putting on my show right here in four minutes. I have to get my show ready.

I need some time to get your costume ready. Why don't you go ride the bike while I do that?

He gets on the bike and rides 10 yards, stops, and tells me he needs the potty. After that is taken care of, he says he doesn't want to ride his bike, so I just pick him up and put him on it, and he starts pedaling away with a smile on his face.



He rides into the next transition, and I say it's time to get off the bike. He says No. I don't ever want to stop riding my bike. Running is not my favorite thing. Running is a bathroom word, Mommy.

I lift him off the bike and go to take off the helmet. I want to run with my helmet on, Mommy. I'm a superhero. Super people wear helmets.

Fine. Let's change your shoes, Henry.

No. I like my bike shoes.

But you can't run in them, Henry.

Running shoes are yucky. They're poop. And pee. And babies wear them.

Only big boys wear running shoes, Henry. Show me what a big boy you are and change your shoes.

30 minutes later...

Okay, Henry, I'll put the running shoes on, and you do the Velcro.

10 minutes later...

Okay, Hen, you're ready to run!

My son takes off running toward the ocean.

Henry! Not that way!

He turns to run back, but stops in the parking lot.

Mommy! This truck doesn't have any hubcaps! Look, Mommy, no hubcaps!

I see that, sweetie. It's time to run, Henry!

I want something to eat. I want it to be snacky. Not lunchy. Lunchy things are not my favorite. I want goldfish. And juice.

Fine.

And I want to be a parrot. A parrot that turns into a cheetah.

Okay, but parrots don't wear helmets when they go running.

The helmet comes off.

And you know what else, Hen? Cheetahs are the fastest runners. They love to run. They love to run down that road right there. And when cheetahs finish running, their mommies give them a big hug. And a treat. Cheetahs get a treat when they run down that road right there.

What kind of treat? A food treat or a toy treat?

For the love of God, Henry, please. Run.

Who's God? What happens to dead people? Will I die some day?

Henry if you run down that road right there, I will play Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders tonight.

And off he goes...