The healing powers of milking my sob story for all the commenter sympathy I can get are a potent force. Which is why you might see me throwing around words like "pneumonia" and "devastated" for some time to come. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's pouting, perfected over years as a little WASP girl with no decent traumas to speak of.
I like to exploit people's sympathy, because what's the use in sadness if you're not going to get something out of it? Sometimes, I read the get-well cards in the grocery store and pretend people are sending them to me. Okay, not really. Still, my brooding on back-up marathons mostly revolved around taking advantage of people's sympathy, so it's a good thing so many of you offered me lodging. I was mightily disappointed no one in Lebanon ponied up a guest room for the Beirut marathon, so I guess I'll have to work on my middle eastern shtick. Without Beirut as an option, below is where my brain traveled over the last week to find myself a Plan B. If I could get frequent flier miles for every mental destination, I could race all of the world majors without ever paying for a flight.
Palm Beach, Dec. 7 [too hot]
Hyannis, Feb. 22 [but it's 3 months away]
Memphis, Dec. 7 [too much money for plane, car, hotel, and race]
Dallas, Dec. 14 [timing is weird with the taper and pneumonia*, plus the course looks like Dolly's boobs]
Honolulu, Dec. 14 [oh, how I almost called you Rachel! But there was the timing issue and the $200 fee, plus too hot for my New England bod]
Memphis [see above]
Houston, Jan. 18 [8,000 person wait list. Need I say more?]
Dallas [the booby course]
Hyannis [ran it twice in perfect weather, which means it will be a whitewall of hellacious stormy suckdom this year]
Space Coast, FL, Nov. 30 [even booked the hotel before I decided I'm still recovering]
Hyannis [due for suckdom]
Phoenix, Jan. 18 [the cost of flight, race, hotel, and car]
Hyannis [suckdom]
Phoenix [thanks for the flight, Mom and Dad, but there's still the race, hotel, and car...]
Phoenix [thanks for the race, Gran, but there's still the hotel and car...]
Phoenix [thanks for the lodging, generous and assuredly normal blog reader and new BFF from Phoenix who is also trying to BQ with a 3:40]
And there it is. PF Chang's Rock 'n Roll Marathon, Phoenix, AZ, January 18. Brought to me by four different benefactors. Better start running again.
*Can I get a collective "awwwwww..." for that?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
It was...
...walking pneumonia. At least that was my new doctor's best guess after the fact, since I got the antibiotics from a phone consult with my previous doctor and only saw the new one this past Wednesday.
Don't I feel so much better about not running the marathon? I may be a malingerer with most other commitments, but running isn't usually one of them. Nonetheless, I was feeling like I'd wimped out in my decision not to race, so the diagnosis of pneumonia was fantastic. The doctor probably thought I was a freak for being so ecstatic, but I didn't want to hear I'd just had a bad cold and could have toughed it out. Hooray for pneumonia!
The upshot of all of this is that now that I've picked a back-up race and find myself on the longest marathon training program in history, I have turned into a complete germaphobe. I carry a mini-Purell in my pocket everywhere and with my dad and Brian both sporting head colds on Thanksgiving, I've become insufferable about disinfecting myself. My hands are already cracking from three days of Purell treatment.
And does anyone know where you buy those face masks that everyone in Japan wears? I seriously want a supply.
I am going to be such a joy over the holidays. No hugging. No mistletoe. No parties. There will be no human contact until after the marathon. I've found Henry a lovely temporary foster family and put a personal ad in the paper for Brian. Groceries will be delivered, as will the Christmas presents.
Thank God for my blogging friends. I love you the mostest. You know what they say...virtual friends are healthy friends. And that's all I want for Christmas this year.
Don't I feel so much better about not running the marathon? I may be a malingerer with most other commitments, but running isn't usually one of them. Nonetheless, I was feeling like I'd wimped out in my decision not to race, so the diagnosis of pneumonia was fantastic. The doctor probably thought I was a freak for being so ecstatic, but I didn't want to hear I'd just had a bad cold and could have toughed it out. Hooray for pneumonia!
The upshot of all of this is that now that I've picked a back-up race and find myself on the longest marathon training program in history, I have turned into a complete germaphobe. I carry a mini-Purell in my pocket everywhere and with my dad and Brian both sporting head colds on Thanksgiving, I've become insufferable about disinfecting myself. My hands are already cracking from three days of Purell treatment.
And does anyone know where you buy those face masks that everyone in Japan wears? I seriously want a supply.
I am going to be such a joy over the holidays. No hugging. No mistletoe. No parties. There will be no human contact until after the marathon. I've found Henry a lovely temporary foster family and put a personal ad in the paper for Brian. Groceries will be delivered, as will the Christmas presents.
Thank God for my blogging friends. I love you the mostest. You know what they say...virtual friends are healthy friends. And that's all I want for Christmas this year.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A Race Report and a No-Race Report
I went to Philly anyway and almost raced anyway. But I didn't. After only making it a mile before wilting on a Friday attempt to run, I was afraid of the outcome if I tried to race. I may have a hard exterior, but inside, I'm all nougat. I just don't have the nerve. The excitement of the expo tempted me, but on the advice of a friend, I drank several strange cocktails and ate wild boar Saturday night so I wouldn't be able to run Sunday morning.
Instead I cheered for my dad, who thankfully is still talking to me after I roped him into running the half-marathon and then proceeded to sideline myself with bronchitis and fear. Here's the old man's race report:
Observations of a first-time old-timer
I say to myself, what did I do to be given a 23-degree day to run my first and very possibly last half marathon?
Running shirt, nylon shell, sweatshirt, gloves, mittens over the gloves, running hat, ear warmer…
Over the starting line and hit the stopwatch (forgot the charger for the nifty 405 so it stayed in the hotel room) – The plan of attack: hit mile five in 45 and mile 10 in 1:31. Not lightning speed but slow and steady should get me there upright and still running…and just maybe in less than two hours.
[Editor's note: It was so cold the starting gun wouldn't fire, so the official just shouted "3, 2, 1...Go!"]
Dumped the sweatshirt at mile one, the mittens came off at about mile three and cruising along with the crowd that’s supposed to be running at my planned pace.
Lots of guys pulling over to pee on the supports under the highway overpass and women behind parkway bushes at about mile three.
Two young women next to me arguing over personal issues and their relationship – developed into screaming battle, ending on the sidewalk and clearly the end of the day for one or both. I’m thinking, this marathon stuff is getting interesting.
Hit mile five in 39. Uh oh. That’s a little fast (8-minute miles versus the 9:10 I planned on.) but I figured now I have a nice cushion.
Fun trip through the city and onto a few mild rises in elevation on the other side. Thinking to myself, that hill they talked about wasn’t that bad after all.
Minutes later, the real hill reeling up ahead of me. Who ever thought a hill of that size at mile nine was a good idea?
Hit mile 10 at 1:32. Where the heck did I lose my six minute cushion and then some?
[Editor's note: I told you to go slow at first, Dad! It's like talking to a wall sometimes, people.]
Ice all over the street at the 11-mile water stop. Lots of slipping but no one taking a dive, that I could see.
A big boost in morale when the art museum comes into sight at mile 12.
[Editor's note: The museum boosts his morale, but apparently his screaming daughter at mile 12.5 goes unnoticed. The screaming daughter with bronchitis. Nice. Very nice.]
Final stretch - I hear the announcer report: one and a half minutes ‘til the clock hits two hours. Oh shit.
[Editor's note: You made your bed...]
I can’t believe I actually have a sprint left in me.
Cross the line, hit my unofficial stopwatch and… 2:01. Thinking: after two hours of this, missed goal by a minute? Are you kidding?
[Editor's note: Did anyone notice how he hasn't mentioned me once?]
Look at my dad smoke his little blue twin! Dad was 13/52 in his division.
My great experiment to turn an anti-runner into a runner met with moderate success. Dude does not want to run another half-mary, but his doctor and his wife were so thrilled with the results of the training that he says he'll keep running shorter distances.
The ironic outcome of my dad experiment is that while he became a runner, I somehow coughed out my brain and lobotomized my running cortex. Running 500 miles in four months just for the hell of it may have something to do with it. One minute I want to sell Henry to hop a plane to Florida to run a marathon next weekend. The next minute, I want to amputate my feet. As a result, my blog might be off-air for the rest of this week. No one wants to live in my mental circus.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Instead I cheered for my dad, who thankfully is still talking to me after I roped him into running the half-marathon and then proceeded to sideline myself with bronchitis and fear. Here's the old man's race report:
Observations of a first-time old-timer
I say to myself, what did I do to be given a 23-degree day to run my first and very possibly last half marathon?
Running shirt, nylon shell, sweatshirt, gloves, mittens over the gloves, running hat, ear warmer…
Over the starting line and hit the stopwatch (forgot the charger for the nifty 405 so it stayed in the hotel room) – The plan of attack: hit mile five in 45 and mile 10 in 1:31. Not lightning speed but slow and steady should get me there upright and still running…and just maybe in less than two hours.
[Editor's note: It was so cold the starting gun wouldn't fire, so the official just shouted "3, 2, 1...Go!"]
Dumped the sweatshirt at mile one, the mittens came off at about mile three and cruising along with the crowd that’s supposed to be running at my planned pace.
Lots of guys pulling over to pee on the supports under the highway overpass and women behind parkway bushes at about mile three.
Two young women next to me arguing over personal issues and their relationship – developed into screaming battle, ending on the sidewalk and clearly the end of the day for one or both. I’m thinking, this marathon stuff is getting interesting.
Hit mile five in 39. Uh oh. That’s a little fast (8-minute miles versus the 9:10 I planned on.) but I figured now I have a nice cushion.
Fun trip through the city and onto a few mild rises in elevation on the other side. Thinking to myself, that hill they talked about wasn’t that bad after all.
Minutes later, the real hill reeling up ahead of me. Who ever thought a hill of that size at mile nine was a good idea?
Hit mile 10 at 1:32. Where the heck did I lose my six minute cushion and then some?
[Editor's note: I told you to go slow at first, Dad! It's like talking to a wall sometimes, people.]
Ice all over the street at the 11-mile water stop. Lots of slipping but no one taking a dive, that I could see.
A big boost in morale when the art museum comes into sight at mile 12.
[Editor's note: The museum boosts his morale, but apparently his screaming daughter at mile 12.5 goes unnoticed. The screaming daughter with bronchitis. Nice. Very nice.]
Final stretch - I hear the announcer report: one and a half minutes ‘til the clock hits two hours. Oh shit.
[Editor's note: You made your bed...]
I can’t believe I actually have a sprint left in me.
Cross the line, hit my unofficial stopwatch and… 2:01. Thinking: after two hours of this, missed goal by a minute? Are you kidding?
[Editor's note: Did anyone notice how he hasn't mentioned me once?]
Look at my dad smoke his little blue twin! Dad was 13/52 in his division.
My great experiment to turn an anti-runner into a runner met with moderate success. Dude does not want to run another half-mary, but his doctor and his wife were so thrilled with the results of the training that he says he'll keep running shorter distances.
The ironic outcome of my dad experiment is that while he became a runner, I somehow coughed out my brain and lobotomized my running cortex. Running 500 miles in four months just for the hell of it may have something to do with it. One minute I want to sell Henry to hop a plane to Florida to run a marathon next weekend. The next minute, I want to amputate my feet. As a result, my blog might be off-air for the rest of this week. No one wants to live in my mental circus.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
My Marathon Season in One Photo
The elevator in my hotel in Philly.
See? Don't I have a good sense of humor about all of this?
Weep, sniffle, moan.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The View From the Bench
Because the qualitative version would be too boring or revealing or depressing, here's how it's all played out quantitatively:
1: preschool-aged child in my house
2: people in my house with respiratory infections
4: types of prescription drugs between us
100.5: my highest fever
8,245,901: coughs on Wednesday night
5: pounds I have lost this week
5,834: marathon decisions in 4 days
3: number of coachy guys advising me throughout this season
0: times they have agreed on my training
3: number of coachy guys urging me to run a different marathon because I've trained too hard to throw it away on Sunday
1: coachy guy who is letting me run a slow and pleasant half on Sunday with my dad
600: dollars it would cost me to fly, stay, and race somewhere else in December
0: possibility of me spending our December heating budget on a marathon
93: days until the Hyannis Narathon
I can't tell you how much it has meant to read your comments, advice, and support this week. Special thanks to Kevin, Jack, and Nate who finessed my panic like the pros they are.
A DNS is far preferable to a DNF, or even a finish that is wildly off the goal I busted my ass for. I didn't run four 20-milers to finish over four hours. I earned that 3:40 and will hopefully grab it on the Cape in February.
Henry will live in PA with his grandparents until March.
1: preschool-aged child in my house
2: people in my house with respiratory infections
4: types of prescription drugs between us
100.5: my highest fever
8,245,901: coughs on Wednesday night
5: pounds I have lost this week
5,834: marathon decisions in 4 days
3: number of coachy guys advising me throughout this season
0: times they have agreed on my training
3: number of coachy guys urging me to run a different marathon because I've trained too hard to throw it away on Sunday
1: coachy guy who is letting me run a slow and pleasant half on Sunday with my dad
600: dollars it would cost me to fly, stay, and race somewhere else in December
0: possibility of me spending our December heating budget on a marathon
93: days until the Hyannis Narathon
I can't tell you how much it has meant to read your comments, advice, and support this week. Special thanks to Kevin, Jack, and Nate who finessed my panic like the pros they are.
A DNS is far preferable to a DNF, or even a finish that is wildly off the goal I busted my ass for. I didn't run four 20-milers to finish over four hours. I earned that 3:40 and will hopefully grab it on the Cape in February.
Henry will live in PA with his grandparents until March.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Lungs. Who Needs 'Em?
Not me, for one. Marathon runners don't need lungs, do we? It's all about the quads and hammies, is it not?
Breathing is so last week. Wheezing is the new breathing. I think I sound sexy, like Kathleen Turner. Brian would probably say I sound like Kathleen Turner locked in her garage with the car running. But he can't really hear how sultry I sound because, as luck would have it, he's sick, too. So is the kid. Got a vendetta against someone? Send the guy to my house; we'll circle him and spew phlegm.
If I might be so bold, I'm the sickest of all of us, which led me to think it's bacterial and not viral. I'm the only one blessed with a fever. Fever in the morning. Fever all through the night*. It does not make me happy or optimistic**. I tried to determine what karmic transgression I made to earn this, but there were so many to choose from that my fever spiked, so I gave up.
I spent all day yesterday trying to talk to my doctor, who finally returned my call at 7:30 last night to prescribe a "z-pac." I was still sweating something fierce with the fever*** all night, but dare I say I feel about a nano-percent better today.
Brian won't let me make a marathon decision before Thursday. I refuse to face another DNF in my running career, so I won't start a marathon if I don't feel 100%. I'd rather have a DNS and find another marathon in December (lucky Brian).
*Fever!
**The 31 comments of support made a decent dent in my defeated attitude, but a miraculous recovery would be very much appreciated as well. Come on, God, be the 32nd caller and intervene already.
***Fever!
Breathing is so last week. Wheezing is the new breathing. I think I sound sexy, like Kathleen Turner. Brian would probably say I sound like Kathleen Turner locked in her garage with the car running. But he can't really hear how sultry I sound because, as luck would have it, he's sick, too. So is the kid. Got a vendetta against someone? Send the guy to my house; we'll circle him and spew phlegm.
If I might be so bold, I'm the sickest of all of us, which led me to think it's bacterial and not viral. I'm the only one blessed with a fever. Fever in the morning. Fever all through the night*. It does not make me happy or optimistic**. I tried to determine what karmic transgression I made to earn this, but there were so many to choose from that my fever spiked, so I gave up.
I spent all day yesterday trying to talk to my doctor, who finally returned my call at 7:30 last night to prescribe a "z-pac." I was still sweating something fierce with the fever*** all night, but dare I say I feel about a nano-percent better today.
Brian won't let me make a marathon decision before Thursday. I refuse to face another DNF in my running career, so I won't start a marathon if I don't feel 100%. I'd rather have a DNS and find another marathon in December (lucky Brian).
*Fever!
**The 31 comments of support made a decent dent in my defeated attitude, but a miraculous recovery would be very much appreciated as well. Come on, God, be the 32nd caller and intervene already.
***Fever!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Goals are Dumb
After Nicole asked why I want to run a 3:40 marathon, I decided it would be a good time to reflect on goal setting and why, deep down, I believe that goals are dumb in general and my 3:40 goal is particularly stupid.
First, goals, in general, are dumb because failing to meet them makes you feel bad. Why would I want to feel bad? As I tell Henry all the time, improvement is overrated, especially when it's hard. Speed work or watching TV? I think the choice is obvious.
Second, there is no psychoanalytic source for my 3:40 goal. I wasn't spanked 340 times as a kid, nor did I cry for 3 hours and 40 minutes over my first boyfriend (though I'm certain he cried that long over me). So, emotionally speaking, a 3:40 is about as significant as a spatula.
However, the Boston Athletic Association (the Harvard of athletic associations given their strict admission policies and similarly outrageous fees) says I need a 3:40 to run their dadgum* (sp?) race on Patriots Day.
Which brings me to my third point on the subject of why goals are dumb: I don't really want to run the Boston marathon again. I just want to qualify. And to be honest, I only want to qualify because I worked so hard over the last four months. The marathon owes me. On race day, I'm going to be a fiery warrior with entitlement as my best weapon. Like Joan of Arc, only neither admirable nor deranged (okay, maybe a bit deranged).
How bass ackwards is that motivation for a BQ? It's like looking into your newborn's face for the first time and falling in love because you puked for 3 months and then got fat for 6.
If I do qualify, I know I will run Boston, in 2010. But it's not like I want Boston so bad I can taste it, which is a good thing because Boston--the most fabulous city in the world--tastes like filthy snow and old beer. Or so the drunk snow eaters tell me.
Because I'm not sure the entitled warrior persona really suits me--the entitled WASP is more my style--this is probably the hardest I'll ever work for a marathon and so I'll run for that absurd 3:40.
However, in light of the stupidity of goals, I think it's wise to set some more. Here they are:
1. 3:40
2. 3:41
3. 3:42
4. 3:43
5. etc. all the way up to 3:58
6. Beat Sarah Palin (3:59)
7. Finish in time to make my flight home at 4:00
8. Burn enough calories to eat a cheese steak at the airport
9. Injure myself at mile 26.3 so I don't have to run that 50k in January
10. Resist the temptation to slap a flight attendant when she tells me to return to my seat after stretching in the aisle for the duration of the flight.
9 days and counting...
*I never used that word before meeting Brian.
First, goals, in general, are dumb because failing to meet them makes you feel bad. Why would I want to feel bad? As I tell Henry all the time, improvement is overrated, especially when it's hard. Speed work or watching TV? I think the choice is obvious.
Second, there is no psychoanalytic source for my 3:40 goal. I wasn't spanked 340 times as a kid, nor did I cry for 3 hours and 40 minutes over my first boyfriend (though I'm certain he cried that long over me). So, emotionally speaking, a 3:40 is about as significant as a spatula.
However, the Boston Athletic Association (the Harvard of athletic associations given their strict admission policies and similarly outrageous fees) says I need a 3:40 to run their dadgum* (sp?) race on Patriots Day.
Which brings me to my third point on the subject of why goals are dumb: I don't really want to run the Boston marathon again. I just want to qualify. And to be honest, I only want to qualify because I worked so hard over the last four months. The marathon owes me. On race day, I'm going to be a fiery warrior with entitlement as my best weapon. Like Joan of Arc, only neither admirable nor deranged (okay, maybe a bit deranged).
How bass ackwards is that motivation for a BQ? It's like looking into your newborn's face for the first time and falling in love because you puked for 3 months and then got fat for 6.
If I do qualify, I know I will run Boston, in 2010. But it's not like I want Boston so bad I can taste it, which is a good thing because Boston--the most fabulous city in the world--tastes like filthy snow and old beer. Or so the drunk snow eaters tell me.
Because I'm not sure the entitled warrior persona really suits me--the entitled WASP is more my style--this is probably the hardest I'll ever work for a marathon and so I'll run for that absurd 3:40.
However, in light of the stupidity of goals, I think it's wise to set some more. Here they are:
1. 3:40
2. 3:41
3. 3:42
4. 3:43
5. etc. all the way up to 3:58
6. Beat Sarah Palin (3:59)
7. Finish in time to make my flight home at 4:00
8. Burn enough calories to eat a cheese steak at the airport
9. Injure myself at mile 26.3 so I don't have to run that 50k in January
10. Resist the temptation to slap a flight attendant when she tells me to return to my seat after stretching in the aisle for the duration of the flight.
9 days and counting...
*I never used that word before meeting Brian.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Wordless Wednesday
Caption this.
Duuuude, don't bogart that juice box.
Picture retake day is November 21.
I don't know, though. This one is so authentic.
Duuuude, don't bogart that juice box.
Picture retake day is November 21.
I don't know, though. This one is so authentic.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Yes I Can
This post isn't meant to be as bombastic as it might seem.
I've been around more running men this season than usual and I can tell they want to slap me upside the head much of the time because I get into this annoying stereotypically feminine, self-deprecating mode. They've all said that my fitness is there, and I just need to screw my head on right to achieve a 21-minute PR and meet my goal of a 3:40 in Philly.
Case in point: when I was bemoaning my lousy 22-mile run a couple weeks ago, I overlooked the fact that we held an 8:15-8:30 pace for most of the run. It was only the last couple miles that were bad.
Somewhere in me—the place that thought originally to train like a maniac to meet this goal—I know I can do it. If I could set the goal, clearly I believed I could meet the goal.
I’ve followed a customized training plan that seems ludicrous to most people who have heard about it and backed off the plan when it wasn't working for me.
I wouldn’t have treadmilled an 18-mile speed workout (most of it at MP) on a Wednesday morning if I didn’t think, somewhere in my head, that I could run a 3:40 marathon.
I wouldn’t have run four 20-mile long runs instead of my usual two if I didn’t think, somewhere in my heart, that I could hack those 21 minutes off my 4:01 PR.
I set my 4:01 in Boston (a difficult course) using a self-designed training plan characterized by no speed work and no short runs longer than 5 miles.
Philly is a faster course, and I'll have a pace leader.
I can run a 3:40.
Yes I can.
...and to snap me out of my reverie: "Mama! Can you please wipe my bum?!"
Must go. See ya later.
I've been around more running men this season than usual and I can tell they want to slap me upside the head much of the time because I get into this annoying stereotypically feminine, self-deprecating mode. They've all said that my fitness is there, and I just need to screw my head on right to achieve a 21-minute PR and meet my goal of a 3:40 in Philly.
Case in point: when I was bemoaning my lousy 22-mile run a couple weeks ago, I overlooked the fact that we held an 8:15-8:30 pace for most of the run. It was only the last couple miles that were bad.
Somewhere in me—the place that thought originally to train like a maniac to meet this goal—I know I can do it. If I could set the goal, clearly I believed I could meet the goal.
I’ve followed a customized training plan that seems ludicrous to most people who have heard about it and backed off the plan when it wasn't working for me.
I wouldn’t have treadmilled an 18-mile speed workout (most of it at MP) on a Wednesday morning if I didn’t think, somewhere in my head, that I could run a 3:40 marathon.
I wouldn’t have run four 20-mile long runs instead of my usual two if I didn’t think, somewhere in my heart, that I could hack those 21 minutes off my 4:01 PR.
I set my 4:01 in Boston (a difficult course) using a self-designed training plan characterized by no speed work and no short runs longer than 5 miles.
Philly is a faster course, and I'll have a pace leader.
I can run a 3:40.
Yes I can.
...and to snap me out of my reverie: "Mama! Can you please wipe my bum?!"
Must go. See ya later.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Long Run Mental Weirdness
Yesterday at 7 a.m., I ran a flat, straight 16 miles on the Nashua rail trail. All by myself. I'm such a big girl. I felt really good for miles 1-11, and the little coach devil on my shoulder was trying to convince me to go for the 20 he'd scheduled, but by the time I reached 16, I was so tight and tired that I nodded to my unofficial taper adviser (Kevin) perched on the other shoulder and called it a run.
I was a little concerned that a run this short could leave me feeling so spent, but here's how I reasoned my way out of it. I was bored and had nothing better to do than get stiff and tired. The foliage on the trail was beautiful, but frankly by mile 11, I didn't care. Were you outside in Pepperell, MA on Sunday around 8:15 a.m? Perhaps you heard someone yell "My kingdom for a cowbell!" Yeah, I heard it, too.
The path is lovely but monotonous, so by the millionth orange leaf, I really would have been thrilled to see a billboard or perhaps inhale some exhaust. The few times I saw another person on the trail, I became a sudden extrovert and crammed as many pleasantries into the nanosecond it took us to pass.
"Hi!how'sitgoing?coolmorningisn'tit?haveagreatrun/walk/bikeandenjoyyourday!"
Do you ever get bored with nature and wish for some good, old-fashioned store windows to check yourself out?
Where does your mind go?
I have a major confession to make. When I get this bored and need a distraction, I write eulogies for my loved ones.
It's not as bad as it sounds. I like to think about sweet, quirky things they've done or said and compose a tribute. But still, it's kind of morose, I realize. I pretty much stick to Brian and my parents and when they do eventually kick it, they're going to have awesome funerals. As long as I keep running marathons so I can edit the eulogies a little more.
Please tell me you think of weirder things when you're bored on a run.
(photo credit: jgodsey on flickr)
Friday, November 07, 2008
A Fairly Selfish Mom Considers the Fit Family
When it comes to running marathons, I am a self-serving sort of person who will sacrifice a good deal to train. Running lets me be selfish in a masochistic way, and it's the masochism that buys me the time for long runs and speed workouts. In other words, if I told my husband that I needed three hours on a Saturday morning to seek out the perfect pair of jeans, he'd snort, say something about cleaning the gutters, and I'd be playing dragon-attacks-dump-truck in a sandbox instead. If I tell my husband that I need three hours to run 20 miles, I get the time.
The upshot of this is that no one else in my family ever exercises in a regular, deliberate routine. Brian squeezes in a run here and there, and Henry... well, we think very liberally when it comes to Henry's fitness.
(please recall my note about giving up on my hair for the next few weeks.)
This is all to preface my review of Fit Family with a major caveat about the reviewer (that would be me). Heidi Hill, the author of the recently released book and reader of my blog, graciously mailed it to me to review, apparently knowing my penchant for sarcasm and lust for empty calories. A toast to her gamble!
If the book I'm writing is meant to be a motivational course in the social psychology of motherhood and running, Hill's book on family fitness is Active Family 101. I mean this in the best possible way. As a foundation for building a healthy family, the book is an incredibly comprehensive resource when it comes to each activity it covers: hiking, biking, running, cross-country skiing, swimming, dance and yoga, and strength training and stretching. Its explanation of nutrition is also thorough for the Whole Foods family and those who aspire to have one, as we all should. The time-management discussions are likely most useful to parents who are just beginning a fitness transformation in their families, as I think many of the ideas in this area are probably common sense or quickly realized by parents who have been active for a while on their own. To be fair, there is no panacea for the multiple demands on our time or the dilemma of child care, so it's not like Hill is overlooking creative tricks. I admire her for not giving my advice on deciding which parent gets to go for a run: "I birthed a human from my nethers. I run first." (Note to readers: this totally works.) And I won't fault her for neglecting to include a section on the sport of bubble chasing.
Fit Family is an accessible, well-organized guide that gives equipment advice and practical checklists for successful family adventures and to my knowledge, no other book on the market is available for this purpose. The book is well worth having to remind yourself that your children might need stuff on your outings, a simple notion that I usually forget. The book even made me consider yielding a few minutes to my husband and son to do something active.
Now if you're looking for an inspirational cultural study on the quiet little revolution in family and sport that we can attribute to mother-runners, well, I'm working on it...
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
This American Land
It's been a good week.
Regardless of whether or not your guy won, you have to love democracy. Democracy is good stuff. Unable to come to a decent bet with Kevin last weekend, yesterday I voted like I meant it. Apparently some other people showed up to vote as well. A functioning, record-breaking free election is as refreshing as a Chicago marathon water stop, is it not?
After we chucked the original bet, Kevin took advantage of my post-run delirium and hoodwinked me into a new bet, based on his confidence that I will BQ at Philly. I'm not sure if I can accept it, however. It's risky. If I qualify, I have to run the Fat Ass 50k in January, which coincidentally happens around President Obama's inauguration. If I don't BQ, he'll (Kevin, not Obama) run the 50k in a running skirt. I think I get the short end of this one, don't you?
I know the holidays will take care of the fat ass, but can I manage five loops on a 6.2-mile course? I figure, though, if I can love my country as much as I do this morning, maybe--just maybe--I can run 30 miles in January. What better way to celebrate the inauguration than to spend six hours running this American land?
I was so encouraged to get your emails to join my project on mothers who run and hope more of you will contact me as well. The fact that there are already so many mother-runners with a story to tell means this project has legs. I'm going to plug it at the end of my posts for a little while to get some more of you on board. Even though I'm writing it, I consider it a collaborative project. Won't you join us?
Regardless of whether or not your guy won, you have to love democracy. Democracy is good stuff. Unable to come to a decent bet with Kevin last weekend, yesterday I voted like I meant it. Apparently some other people showed up to vote as well. A functioning, record-breaking free election is as refreshing as a Chicago marathon water stop, is it not?
After we chucked the original bet, Kevin took advantage of my post-run delirium and hoodwinked me into a new bet, based on his confidence that I will BQ at Philly. I'm not sure if I can accept it, however. It's risky. If I qualify, I have to run the Fat Ass 50k in January, which coincidentally happens around President Obama's inauguration. If I don't BQ, he'll (Kevin, not Obama) run the 50k in a running skirt. I think I get the short end of this one, don't you?
I know the holidays will take care of the fat ass, but can I manage five loops on a 6.2-mile course? I figure, though, if I can love my country as much as I do this morning, maybe--just maybe--I can run 30 miles in January. What better way to celebrate the inauguration than to spend six hours running this American land?
I was so encouraged to get your emails to join my project on mothers who run and hope more of you will contact me as well. The fact that there are already so many mother-runners with a story to tell means this project has legs. I'm going to plug it at the end of my posts for a little while to get some more of you on board. Even though I'm writing it, I consider it a collaborative project. Won't you join us?
Monday, November 03, 2008
500 Posts Toward My Book
This is my 500th blog post. I wasn't actually going to mention it, since it probably paints me as a hermit spinster who only leaves the house to run, which I suppose is not too far off the mark (aside from the spinster bit). So I bring it up less as a pat on my own back than as an intro to where my thinking is these days.
I started the blog in '06 and 500 posts later, I've become kind of riveted by the mothering-running phenomenon. Not only is it not uncommon, mother-runners are kind of a force to be reckoned with. We're everywhere. We run, and some of us run kind of fast. Whether we won the NYC marathon yesterday or cried when we saw it on TV (hello, that would be me), runner-mothers are an impressive community.
In August I quit my job to write a book about how running and mothering intersect and how each changes the meaning of the other.
The purpose of the book is to illustrate the ways that running and motherhood transform each other. The book looks at the connections that mother-runners draw between these two aspects of their lives, in terms of their day-to-day experience, identities, and sense of community
For the book, I need to interview as many runner-mothers as I can, and I'm hoping that you'll complete an interview with me to be part of the project. I think the book has a lot of potential to be a supportive and motivational resource for moms who run as a community-in-print.
To participate, you...
need to be a mother with at least one human kid, whether from your own uterus or adopted.
need to identify yourself as a runner or someone who runs (or ran) on a regular basis. Any kind. 5k. 10k. 50k. Half-mary. Marathon mama. Ironmaiden. Recreational. Treadmill. Road. Trail. Once a week. Seven days a week. Etc. You just have to identify as a mother who has run in some kind of habitual way since the arrival of your children to the planet.
Your participation would mean:
* One 90-minute interview about you, your running, your mothering--by phone or in person if you're localish.
* Interviews are confidential, but I'd like to tape record and possibly transcribe them. You'd have the opportunity to read and edit your transcript after the interviews.
* Book will use pseudonyms (if you want), and none of your material will appear on my blog without your written permission
* My writing for this project does not have the same style of my blog. I will not give you a clever nickname and comment on your life, your parenting, or your running. I will not call you The Man, The Elbow, or Sadistic Coach Guy. If you want to read the type of thing I compose when I write portraits of people, I will happily email you a sample. This project is about how you see you as a mother who runs.
* I can't pay you for your participation, other than to express my undying gratitude and send you whatever leftover Sport Beans I can dig out of my gym bag.
If you're still not sure because I do kind of seem crazy and utterly unprofessional at times, visit my professional web site, which contains my background in qualitative research. I've published some stuff, even on real paper, so there is hope that the book will see the light of day on a shelf at your local B&N.
Email me at marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net to participate. It would be great if you would plug my call for participants to your running friends and blog readers (if you've got a blog), too.
Please?
I started the blog in '06 and 500 posts later, I've become kind of riveted by the mothering-running phenomenon. Not only is it not uncommon, mother-runners are kind of a force to be reckoned with. We're everywhere. We run, and some of us run kind of fast. Whether we won the NYC marathon yesterday or cried when we saw it on TV (hello, that would be me), runner-mothers are an impressive community.
In August I quit my job to write a book about how running and mothering intersect and how each changes the meaning of the other.
The purpose of the book is to illustrate the ways that running and motherhood transform each other. The book looks at the connections that mother-runners draw between these two aspects of their lives, in terms of their day-to-day experience, identities, and sense of community
For the book, I need to interview as many runner-mothers as I can, and I'm hoping that you'll complete an interview with me to be part of the project. I think the book has a lot of potential to be a supportive and motivational resource for moms who run as a community-in-print.
To participate, you...
need to be a mother with at least one human kid, whether from your own uterus or adopted.
need to identify yourself as a runner or someone who runs (or ran) on a regular basis. Any kind. 5k. 10k. 50k. Half-mary. Marathon mama. Ironmaiden. Recreational. Treadmill. Road. Trail. Once a week. Seven days a week. Etc. You just have to identify as a mother who has run in some kind of habitual way since the arrival of your children to the planet.
Your participation would mean:
* One 90-minute interview about you, your running, your mothering--by phone or in person if you're localish.
* Interviews are confidential, but I'd like to tape record and possibly transcribe them. You'd have the opportunity to read and edit your transcript after the interviews.
* Book will use pseudonyms (if you want), and none of your material will appear on my blog without your written permission
* My writing for this project does not have the same style of my blog. I will not give you a clever nickname and comment on your life, your parenting, or your running. I will not call you The Man, The Elbow, or Sadistic Coach Guy. If you want to read the type of thing I compose when I write portraits of people, I will happily email you a sample. This project is about how you see you as a mother who runs.
* I can't pay you for your participation, other than to express my undying gratitude and send you whatever leftover Sport Beans I can dig out of my gym bag.
If you're still not sure because I do kind of seem crazy and utterly unprofessional at times, visit my professional web site, which contains my background in qualitative research. I've published some stuff, even on real paper, so there is hope that the book will see the light of day on a shelf at your local B&N.
Email me at marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net to participate. It would be great if you would plug my call for participants to your running friends and blog readers (if you've got a blog), too.
Please?
Saturday, November 01, 2008
The Fourth 20, Revisited: 22 Miles and I Got Nothin' Left
When I was in high school and studying for exams, I always got to a point at which I no longer cared how I did on the test. I studied until I went mad, finished the pint of Ben and Jerry's, and became apathetic, and then I didn't care if I failed the thing. I was just done, and that was that.
Minus the Ben and Jerry's, that was what happened with my training plan today, after finishing a 22 miler with a very unimpressive final few miles that had Kevin pulling me along with an invisible tether. I was beyond pissed at myself for such a poor finish, losing both my range of motion and my stamina too long before the end for me to be confident entering a taper. I ran the last mile like I'd never run 20 before in my life. Like the training was for naught and I'd be lucky to finish strong in Philly.
But my body just won't allow another 20 miler next weekend. I ran 197 miles between October 1 and November 1, and I guess I found my limit. And so, having done four 20 milers, I shall taper, and the marathon will be what it will be.
There isn't really much to say about it, and my wit seems to have vanished with my endurance at mile 20. The motivational company was there, just not the rest of me. All I can figure is that the little white pop-up thingy has shot out of this bird, and I'm way past cooked. I so wish I could cash in my extra hour tonight on rerunning the last hour of this morning.
But since I can't, I'm gonna drink and then sleep it all off. Fall back, indeed.
(a giant thanks to Kevin for schlepping out here at o'dark thirty this morning to run with Ms. Bitch and Moan)
Minus the Ben and Jerry's, that was what happened with my training plan today, after finishing a 22 miler with a very unimpressive final few miles that had Kevin pulling me along with an invisible tether. I was beyond pissed at myself for such a poor finish, losing both my range of motion and my stamina too long before the end for me to be confident entering a taper. I ran the last mile like I'd never run 20 before in my life. Like the training was for naught and I'd be lucky to finish strong in Philly.
But my body just won't allow another 20 miler next weekend. I ran 197 miles between October 1 and November 1, and I guess I found my limit. And so, having done four 20 milers, I shall taper, and the marathon will be what it will be.
There isn't really much to say about it, and my wit seems to have vanished with my endurance at mile 20. The motivational company was there, just not the rest of me. All I can figure is that the little white pop-up thingy has shot out of this bird, and I'm way past cooked. I so wish I could cash in my extra hour tonight on rerunning the last hour of this morning.
But since I can't, I'm gonna drink and then sleep it all off. Fall back, indeed.
(a giant thanks to Kevin for schlepping out here at o'dark thirty this morning to run with Ms. Bitch and Moan)
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