I was tagged by Lil Runner a good while ago, but had a backlog of reviews to post, so here is my belated tag list...
4 Favorite Memories of 2008
Boston Marathon
Watching the women's Olympic Trials in person
Bruce Springsteen at Gillette Stadium!!!!
Running hills with Henry
4 Favorite TV Shows from 2008
Lost
Weeds
Big Love
Olympic Marathon coverage
4 Places I loved in 2008
Wellfleet, MA
Hopkinton, MA
York, ME
Lexington, MA (for you, Annie)
4 Favorite Foods in 2008
Starbucks Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate
My mother's Christmas dinner
Anything eaten after a 20 miler
Peanut M&Ms
4 Running Events I loved in 2008*
Running 18 miles with Anne in the pouring rain
Running with Johna
Running with Kevin
Running with Linn
*have run with other great company already in 2009
4 Things I liked in 2008
Surge in blog readership
Running with people way out of my league
Brian starting a great new job
Electricity
4 Things I'm Looking Forward to in 2009
Writing this ever loving book
Covered Bridges Half-Marathon
Bruce at the Garden in April!!!
More frequent hair cuts
And can I just say that Marcy's post and all of the comments that followed redeemed almost every middle school trauma I may have had?
Even though you expressed your lurve for me immediately following a reference to fellatio. Or perhaps because of that.
Anyway, I luv you, M, and if you start stalking me, well then I'm gonna stalk you right back and we can go to the courthouse together to file our restraining orders. There's so much fabulous creepy love on the interwebs, and I'm honored to be a part of it.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Beyond the Epic Run
Some people get to go to movies, even, like, in the nighttime. I'm not usually one of them, what with the whole bed, bath, and beyond exhaustion thing I've got going on. It kind of sucks because there's one I want to see on Monday, and no, it's not Hotel For Dogs, even though I'll probably have to sit through that one at some point.
I was invited to a pre-screening of the documentary Beyond the Epic Run, which will be showing in Arlington, MA for people who have lives after 7 p.m. or can get baby sitters and whatnot.
According to the press release, the film is "about a Swiss couple who live their dream to run around the world. Together, Serge and Nicole Roetheli leave on an epic adventure that leads them out of Europe, through Africa, the Middle East, Asia and the United States, testing their boundaries, strengthening their minds and challenging their bodies. Running the equivalent of a marathon every other day, Serge, the endurance sports runner, runs over 25,400 miles in five years, while wife Nicole rides her Yamaha motorcycle."
It sounds pretty awe-inspiring. Here's the trailer:
Why can't I have a drummer play beside me on my runs, man?
So if you're local to Boston, check it out Monday at 7:30 p.m. at the Regent Theater, 7 Medford St., in Arlington, MA. Not sure if you have to RSVP to secure tix, but you might want to email mike [at] beyondtheepicrun [dot] com to find out.
If you can't make it, the film will be released to more theaters in April.
I was invited to a pre-screening of the documentary Beyond the Epic Run, which will be showing in Arlington, MA for people who have lives after 7 p.m. or can get baby sitters and whatnot.
According to the press release, the film is "about a Swiss couple who live their dream to run around the world. Together, Serge and Nicole Roetheli leave on an epic adventure that leads them out of Europe, through Africa, the Middle East, Asia and the United States, testing their boundaries, strengthening their minds and challenging their bodies. Running the equivalent of a marathon every other day, Serge, the endurance sports runner, runs over 25,400 miles in five years, while wife Nicole rides her Yamaha motorcycle."
It sounds pretty awe-inspiring. Here's the trailer:
Why can't I have a drummer play beside me on my runs, man?
So if you're local to Boston, check it out Monday at 7:30 p.m. at the Regent Theater, 7 Medford St., in Arlington, MA. Not sure if you have to RSVP to secure tix, but you might want to email mike [at] beyondtheepicrun [dot] com to find out.
If you can't make it, the film will be released to more theaters in April.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Where Is Facebook Rehab?
We're getting 10 inches of snow, followed by ice, followed by rain, which means I've spent the day stuck at home with a 4 year old and conversations that go like this:
Henry: What comes after people?
Me: You mean, what chases people?
Henry: No, I mean first there were dinosaurs, then monkeys, then people. What comes after people?
Me: Computers
To avoid these conversations, or perhaps to address that particular one, I've plugged Henry into Wall-E so I can shovel the driveway twice, since I don't know how to use the snowblower. I thought running was supposed to give me overall fitness? I might have some decent gams, but running does not equip me for a couple hours of squat-and-snow-toss.
While I'm shoveling and, to be honest, during my entire alone time the last three days while Brian is in California, I can't seem to avoid giving myself constant third-person Facebook updates in my head. I think the DSM-IV calls this dissociative identity disorder, but I'm starting to forget if I'm the subject or the object of the updating, which probably qualifies me for some psychiatric intervention.
Do you get wireless in rehab?
Kristina hates snow.
Kristina doesn't know how to use her own #%$&ing snowblower.
Kristina would like to rent your husband to clear her driveway.
Kristina can't stop updating herself.
Kristina needs to get the hell off Facebook.
Make. It. Stop!
What happens if I quit Facebook? Do I instantly lose 97 friends, acquaintances, and random people who think they know me but who I couldn't reject? Is it like Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and quitting Facebook makes you forget the memories that go with each person?
You know it's becoming a problem when your child asks for a glass of milk and you tell him to hold on a second while you see if anyone's written on your wall. "Stop whining, sweetie, someone just poked me."
Here's a curious Facebook head-scratcher for you to analyze. My mother is on Facebook. But she hasn't friended me. If you're a Freudian, you can now see the origins of my status update dissociation problem.
One thing is clear from this affliction; I can read the writing on my Wall. I need another marathon. If I had a race to preoccupy me, I would be much less concerned with
narrating my entire existence in single pithy sentences.
Alright, I haven't updated my status in the last 90 seconds, so I better go and do that.
Kristina is a freaking head case.
Henry: What comes after people?
Me: You mean, what chases people?
Henry: No, I mean first there were dinosaurs, then monkeys, then people. What comes after people?
Me: Computers
To avoid these conversations, or perhaps to address that particular one, I've plugged Henry into Wall-E so I can shovel the driveway twice, since I don't know how to use the snowblower. I thought running was supposed to give me overall fitness? I might have some decent gams, but running does not equip me for a couple hours of squat-and-snow-toss.
While I'm shoveling and, to be honest, during my entire alone time the last three days while Brian is in California, I can't seem to avoid giving myself constant third-person Facebook updates in my head. I think the DSM-IV calls this dissociative identity disorder, but I'm starting to forget if I'm the subject or the object of the updating, which probably qualifies me for some psychiatric intervention.
Do you get wireless in rehab?
Kristina hates snow.
Kristina doesn't know how to use her own #%$&ing snowblower.
Kristina would like to rent your husband to clear her driveway.
Kristina can't stop updating herself.
Kristina needs to get the hell off Facebook.
Make. It. Stop!
What happens if I quit Facebook? Do I instantly lose 97 friends, acquaintances, and random people who think they know me but who I couldn't reject? Is it like Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and quitting Facebook makes you forget the memories that go with each person?
You know it's becoming a problem when your child asks for a glass of milk and you tell him to hold on a second while you see if anyone's written on your wall. "Stop whining, sweetie, someone just poked me."
Here's a curious Facebook head-scratcher for you to analyze. My mother is on Facebook. But she hasn't friended me. If you're a Freudian, you can now see the origins of my status update dissociation problem.
One thing is clear from this affliction; I can read the writing on my Wall. I need another marathon. If I had a race to preoccupy me, I would be much less concerned with
narrating my entire existence in single pithy sentences.
Alright, I haven't updated my status in the last 90 seconds, so I better go and do that.
Kristina is a freaking head case.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
No Stinkers
If you use Map My Run as your log, you might have noticed a freaky new feature when tracking your workouts. There you are, clicking away at the usual stuff--distance, quality, effort, etc--when all of a sudden the log gets all up in your bizness by asking you to rate an aspect of your run that doesn't seem to be well-served by longitudinal study.
Workout Odor
In other words, are you a fragrant spring blossom or a repulsive stink factory?
As if there were any doubt, I myself am always fresh as a daisy, when I don't smell like chai. Even last week, when I wasn't running and therefore forgot to shower for a couple days (sad but true), I was a dainty rose petal. It is a total coincidence that Brian hopped a plane to California this morning.
So my first impulse when seeing this feature on Map My Run was frankly to take offense that they might think my workout odor could potentially fall into the category of "intolerable." Me, intolerable?
Hey shut up, you back there.
If you do find that your workout odor necessitates regular tracking and the data shows that you're a repulsive stink factory, why not give WIN detergent a try? (said the bubbly voice-over with more than a hint of irony)
This being the Chinese New Year, I know for a fact we are entering the Year of the Ox, but given all the blog reviews lately, I'm tempted to think it's the Year of the Sport Wash. At first I was just going to plagiarize the reviews of WIN detergent already posted by others, but my conscience and "career" as a writer got the better of me (hate when that happens). So instead of my usual--buying more clothes at Target when my drawer came up empty--I reluctantly did some laundry.
Which meant I had to go down the stairs to the washing machine. Such. a. chore.
Which meant that I had to wait until my post-marathon quads were willing to make the schlep. Or until I could nag Brian into being my WINning washer man.
The latter Won.
If you want a much more thorough review than mine, consult Joy. Laundry bores me, and writing about laundry isn't much better. But I took the free sample, so I'm gonna write about it.
If you want to know if WIN can a) de-stank week-old marathon clothes, b) refresh some pee jammies (Henry's, not mine, thank you very much), and c) remove a stain from a melty piece of chocolate that fell onto a certain anonymous air traveler's new race shirt, I'm your girl.
a) De-stank the marathon clothes?
Yes it can.
b) Refresh the jammies?
We have a WINner.
c) Remove the chocolate?
Outta luck.
Not that WIN claims it can take out chocolate stains, but in case you're noshing on a Milky Way on that next long run, I'd go for the Stain Stick. prior to taking the WIN for a spin cycle. But if you pee in your running shorts--and who hasn't, right? (too much information?)--go for the WIN.
And there you have it. WIN works on the nasty wasty clothes of a fragrant spring blossom.
Hurry home, sweet Brian. I have another load to do.
Workout Odor
In other words, are you a fragrant spring blossom or a repulsive stink factory?
As if there were any doubt, I myself am always fresh as a daisy, when I don't smell like chai. Even last week, when I wasn't running and therefore forgot to shower for a couple days (sad but true), I was a dainty rose petal. It is a total coincidence that Brian hopped a plane to California this morning.
So my first impulse when seeing this feature on Map My Run was frankly to take offense that they might think my workout odor could potentially fall into the category of "intolerable." Me, intolerable?
Hey shut up, you back there.
If you do find that your workout odor necessitates regular tracking and the data shows that you're a repulsive stink factory, why not give WIN detergent a try? (said the bubbly voice-over with more than a hint of irony)
This being the Chinese New Year, I know for a fact we are entering the Year of the Ox, but given all the blog reviews lately, I'm tempted to think it's the Year of the Sport Wash. At first I was just going to plagiarize the reviews of WIN detergent already posted by others, but my conscience and "career" as a writer got the better of me (hate when that happens). So instead of my usual--buying more clothes at Target when my drawer came up empty--I reluctantly did some laundry.
Which meant I had to go down the stairs to the washing machine. Such. a. chore.
Which meant that I had to wait until my post-marathon quads were willing to make the schlep. Or until I could nag Brian into being my WINning washer man.
The latter Won.
If you want a much more thorough review than mine, consult Joy. Laundry bores me, and writing about laundry isn't much better. But I took the free sample, so I'm gonna write about it.
If you want to know if WIN can a) de-stank week-old marathon clothes, b) refresh some pee jammies (Henry's, not mine, thank you very much), and c) remove a stain from a melty piece of chocolate that fell onto a certain anonymous air traveler's new race shirt, I'm your girl.
a) De-stank the marathon clothes?
Yes it can.
b) Refresh the jammies?
We have a WINner.
c) Remove the chocolate?
Outta luck.
Not that WIN claims it can take out chocolate stains, but in case you're noshing on a Milky Way on that next long run, I'd go for the Stain Stick. prior to taking the WIN for a spin cycle. But if you pee in your running shorts--and who hasn't, right? (too much information?)--go for the WIN.
And there you have it. WIN works on the nasty wasty clothes of a fragrant spring blossom.
Hurry home, sweet Brian. I have another load to do.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The SPI Who Loved Me
A couple weeks before the marathon, I was hooked up with the people at SPIbelt who offered me a free belt to use in the race and review on the blog. Knowing that it's always smart to try new things in a marathon, I said "Heck, yeah!"
Coincidentally, the SPIbelt rep who contacted me was also running PF Chang, and as I told you all before, I let her know that the ultimate endorsement would be the presence of that belt in my finish line photo. If there was any discomfort from it, I knew I'd ditch it along the way because I had pockets in my shirt and shorts.
I'm actually kind of surprised that any photos of me were identified because the belt did obscure my number a little (as did my hand in that shot), but otherwise it was the best option I've used in a long race. Other options like waist packs that clip onto your shorts tend to flop around too much for me, and loading up my pockets with gels makes me feel like I could be running with my shorts around my ankles at any moment. In fact, there was a shirtless guy in our pace group whose shorts kept migrating downward for this very reason. I would've lent him my SPIbelt because 20 miles of his rear was not the Arizona vista I was promised, but I wanted to keep the belt for myself.
So there's an extra endorsement: the SPIbelt is worth 3 hours of some guy's bum in my face.
You can wear it around your hips if that's your preference, and as you can see in this photo of me (Those are my abs. Really. Definitely my abs. Not lying at all.), you will instantly have an amazing 6-pack if you do. That said, I discovered in a trial run that the fabric on my split shorts bunches up in the belt if I do that, and unlike the bum-flasher guy, I prefer to keep my rear end to myself. So I wore it around my waist, which did feel a tad dorky, but the belt is so sleek that it wasn't too much of a fashion crime. There was no chaffing at my stomach, even with my belly button ring (learned something new about me, didn't ya? That's a story for another day).
The pouch looks small but easily holds 4 Gus, and I bet I could've gotten my cell phone in there to call a cab (or a shoe store) at mile 21. The "buckle" is some serious clippage, and the elastic of the "strap" would probably work as a Thera Band if you need one. The pack comes in enough colors that I stared at my screen for a good ten minutes picking one. There are also belts for kids, arm bands, and belts with extra pouches.
Thumbs up on the SPIbelt. My only gripe is that it doesn't come with a pen that conceals a video camera and dart shooter. Nor does the belt remind you to restore your electrolytes. Can the next iteration maybe have an alarm for that sort of thing?
**********************
I used an online random number generator to pick the winner of the Bart Yasso book, numbering each comment from 1-63. And the winner is...
Comment #29 from Scheri! Congrats to Scheri!
Email me so I can mail you the book: marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net
*********************
And if you find yourself still needing just a little bit more of me after my epic posts this week (you kind of worry me if that's the case), I'm on Open Mic Friday at the Runners' Lounge. Somehow I managed to make it sound like I enjoy running, so check it out.
Coincidentally, the SPIbelt rep who contacted me was also running PF Chang, and as I told you all before, I let her know that the ultimate endorsement would be the presence of that belt in my finish line photo. If there was any discomfort from it, I knew I'd ditch it along the way because I had pockets in my shirt and shorts.
I'm actually kind of surprised that any photos of me were identified because the belt did obscure my number a little (as did my hand in that shot), but otherwise it was the best option I've used in a long race. Other options like waist packs that clip onto your shorts tend to flop around too much for me, and loading up my pockets with gels makes me feel like I could be running with my shorts around my ankles at any moment. In fact, there was a shirtless guy in our pace group whose shorts kept migrating downward for this very reason. I would've lent him my SPIbelt because 20 miles of his rear was not the Arizona vista I was promised, but I wanted to keep the belt for myself.
So there's an extra endorsement: the SPIbelt is worth 3 hours of some guy's bum in my face.
You can wear it around your hips if that's your preference, and as you can see in this photo of me (Those are my abs. Really. Definitely my abs. Not lying at all.), you will instantly have an amazing 6-pack if you do. That said, I discovered in a trial run that the fabric on my split shorts bunches up in the belt if I do that, and unlike the bum-flasher guy, I prefer to keep my rear end to myself. So I wore it around my waist, which did feel a tad dorky, but the belt is so sleek that it wasn't too much of a fashion crime. There was no chaffing at my stomach, even with my belly button ring (learned something new about me, didn't ya? That's a story for another day).
The pouch looks small but easily holds 4 Gus, and I bet I could've gotten my cell phone in there to call a cab (or a shoe store) at mile 21. The "buckle" is some serious clippage, and the elastic of the "strap" would probably work as a Thera Band if you need one. The pack comes in enough colors that I stared at my screen for a good ten minutes picking one. There are also belts for kids, arm bands, and belts with extra pouches.
Thumbs up on the SPIbelt. My only gripe is that it doesn't come with a pen that conceals a video camera and dart shooter. Nor does the belt remind you to restore your electrolytes. Can the next iteration maybe have an alarm for that sort of thing?
**********************
I used an online random number generator to pick the winner of the Bart Yasso book, numbering each comment from 1-63. And the winner is...
Comment #29 from Scheri! Congrats to Scheri!
Email me so I can mail you the book: marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net
*********************
And if you find yourself still needing just a little bit more of me after my epic posts this week (you kind of worry me if that's the case), I'm on Open Mic Friday at the Runners' Lounge. Somehow I managed to make it sound like I enjoy running, so check it out.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Making With the Funny Stuff
There's something you should know. What I posted yesterday was the funny version of my race report. Did that not come across? I even deleted the video from the beginning of Little Miss Sunshine with the homely little girl in glasses practicing her pageant wave in front of Miss America on TV. That's pretty much the kind of marathoner I feel like.
Jokes, Pinto, jokes.
Mental note to self: must work on ratio of humor to hopelessness.
Well here's something worthy of a belly laugh:
Just look at those nice even splits after mile 22. Beauty.
And if that doesn't do it for you, consider Henry's response to my marathon time:
Henry: How long does it take you to run a marathon?
Me: A little less than 4 hours.
Henry: [blank stare.]
Me: That's like watching Nemo two times in a row.
Henry: Mama, I'd just fast forward it.
Me: Good idea. I'll do that next time.
Thanks for all of your good cheer and marathon suggestions. If you haven't commented with a suggestion (and an offer of your futon on race day) and want to be entered in my drawing for Yasso's My Life on the Run (to be held tomorrow), feel free to add your comment to yesterday's post by noon EST Friday.
One thing is clear from your comments: the running community looks after its own. The boost you gave me yesterday was far better than the malt liquor and heroin I was considering, so I just drank vodka last night. A new running cocktail resulted (I have a tendency to create cocktails after races). May I present to you...
This morning I was conducting an interview with a great woman who leads a running group of ex-pat mothers in London and within 30 minutes, she'd offered me a spare bib and her guest room for the London Marathon in April. Holy Paula Radcliffe, if I had the means for the flight, I would very seriously consider it. Maybe I'll sell Henry's old toys. Or Henry. (KIDDING!)
Without a jaunty trip across the pond, I have to stick to the fall marathon plan so that I'll have time to write some book chapters this spring.
The other project that will keep me off the roads and out of trouble is an exciting venture from Tom and Amy at the Runners' Lounge. If you've not heard, they're compiling a first-of-its-kind book of essays from runners for runners. And it's time for me to break out my musty old Strunk and White because I've taken on the role of editorial task master.
As such, I'm asking you to join our ranks and contribute to the book. The details:
The book will be comprised of individual articles around 500-600 words (not as long as you might think) from writers who answer this question(s):
You’re in a conversation and you just caught someone’s attention by mentioning you’re a runner. They’re interested in running but you only have a few minutes to tell them what you know.
What would you advise them about what consistently and predictably works for your running?
What would you say to explain what running means to you?
OR
If you could tell them what you know now that you wished you known then about running, what would it be?
Additional guidelines for submission, contact info, and prompts to get you started are found on the Runners' Lounge web site. You need not be a blogger to contribute, so please share your wisdom, wit, and/or wealth (that last one is just to get me to London).
And as your potential editor, I swear I won't make you memorize the Chicago Manual of Style. Fine, not all of it. But if you're having some trouble typing that first word, here are some tips:
1. Go for a run. Almost all of my blog posts occur to me while I'm running, so take a few miles to give it some thought.
2. Write without finality. If you start writing by thinking every word is engraved on the page, you won't get anywhere because of the pressure. Relax and just write what you want, then edit later.
3. Check out Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. It's the best little book on writing. And everything else.
4. Drink a Phoenix Rising. I also often blog while over the legal limit.
Please join our collaboration on this project. The running community takes care of its own, remember? You don't want all of those new runners out there in tennis whites, do you?
Tomorrow I'll have the winner of the Yasso book and a review of my SPIbelt. (I'll review the WIN detergent next week when I can actually walk down my stairs to do laundry.)
Jokes, Pinto, jokes.
Mental note to self: must work on ratio of humor to hopelessness.
Well here's something worthy of a belly laugh:
Just look at those nice even splits after mile 22. Beauty.
And if that doesn't do it for you, consider Henry's response to my marathon time:
Henry: How long does it take you to run a marathon?
Me: A little less than 4 hours.
Henry: [blank stare.]
Me: That's like watching Nemo two times in a row.
Henry: Mama, I'd just fast forward it.
Me: Good idea. I'll do that next time.
Thanks for all of your good cheer and marathon suggestions. If you haven't commented with a suggestion (and an offer of your futon on race day) and want to be entered in my drawing for Yasso's My Life on the Run (to be held tomorrow), feel free to add your comment to yesterday's post by noon EST Friday.
One thing is clear from your comments: the running community looks after its own. The boost you gave me yesterday was far better than the malt liquor and heroin I was considering, so I just drank vodka last night. A new running cocktail resulted (I have a tendency to create cocktails after races). May I present to you...
The Phoenix Rising
shot of vanilla vodka
6 oz. grapefruit soda from Trader Joe's
spash of orange juice (triple sec might also be good)
parasol
This morning I was conducting an interview with a great woman who leads a running group of ex-pat mothers in London and within 30 minutes, she'd offered me a spare bib and her guest room for the London Marathon in April. Holy Paula Radcliffe, if I had the means for the flight, I would very seriously consider it. Maybe I'll sell Henry's old toys. Or Henry. (KIDDING!)
Without a jaunty trip across the pond, I have to stick to the fall marathon plan so that I'll have time to write some book chapters this spring.
The other project that will keep me off the roads and out of trouble is an exciting venture from Tom and Amy at the Runners' Lounge. If you've not heard, they're compiling a first-of-its-kind book of essays from runners for runners. And it's time for me to break out my musty old Strunk and White because I've taken on the role of editorial task master.
As such, I'm asking you to join our ranks and contribute to the book. The details:
The book will be comprised of individual articles around 500-600 words (not as long as you might think) from writers who answer this question(s):
You’re in a conversation and you just caught someone’s attention by mentioning you’re a runner. They’re interested in running but you only have a few minutes to tell them what you know.
What would you advise them about what consistently and predictably works for your running?
What would you say to explain what running means to you?
OR
If you could tell them what you know now that you wished you known then about running, what would it be?
Additional guidelines for submission, contact info, and prompts to get you started are found on the Runners' Lounge web site. You need not be a blogger to contribute, so please share your wisdom, wit, and/or wealth (that last one is just to get me to London).
And as your potential editor, I swear I won't make you memorize the Chicago Manual of Style. Fine, not all of it. But if you're having some trouble typing that first word, here are some tips:
1. Go for a run. Almost all of my blog posts occur to me while I'm running, so take a few miles to give it some thought.
2. Write without finality. If you start writing by thinking every word is engraved on the page, you won't get anywhere because of the pressure. Relax and just write what you want, then edit later.
3. Check out Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. It's the best little book on writing. And everything else.
4. Drink a Phoenix Rising. I also often blog while over the legal limit.
Please join our collaboration on this project. The running community takes care of its own, remember? You don't want all of those new runners out there in tennis whites, do you?
Tomorrow I'll have the winner of the Yasso book and a review of my SPIbelt. (I'll review the WIN detergent next week when I can actually walk down my stairs to do laundry.)
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sky of Longing and Emptiness: PF Chang Race Report
So. Grab a cup of coffee (or wine), this is a long one.
There are places in this country where it is apparently quite warm in January. These places are not where I live and train in conditions that sometimes shock people. When visitors fuss about our cold, I smile, but I don’t get their discomfort.
I think our blood is different.
As it turns out, I like running when it’s 25-40 degrees. And if you read my post about my last 22-miler, you’ll remember how well that went. My body was happy, strong. I averaged 8:44 and ran mile 21 in 7:52.
As it turns out, my body is about as adaptable as a St. Bernard spending Christmas in Miami.
All day Saturday, I looked at the blue sky, the sun, the palm trees, the cactuses, and the desert and marveled at the contrast to where I live. Where I live looks like this right now:
That's my back door.
What does one do in desert? One drinks water, right? Lots and lots of water. When you think desert, do you think “Better eat some pretzels?”
Me, neither.
A 50-degree temperature change from one 20-miler to the next makes a difference in what happens at the 20-mile mark. Things — spooky, foreign things — happened in my body, and I didn’t recognize their implications until it was too late and I was reduced to shuffling — damn that shuffling. There was no wall to break through. The only wall was behind me, and I was tied to it and forced to pull for 6 miles.
So Kevin once shared a story with me about one runner's pithy retort to the typical race report rationalizations of why a race went sour. To those weather/nutrition/injury/illness/clothing problems, he simply quipped: “So you're faster than you really are?"
I’m totally with that guy. You’re as fast as the day makes you, no excuses. You don’t get to say you’re faster than you perform because that’s not how it works.
But I’m not as fast as I really am.
I started the race with the 3:40 pace leader, John, who I’ll begrudgingly admit was from Minnesota—also not known for its 70-degree Januaries. I was glued to John. I obeyed John like he was the Boss. I ran in John’s shadow like his little sister.
John 3:40, I loved you, man.
John 3:40 got me to the half feeling solid, with something like 40 seconds in the bank. I was positive, optimistic, trying to decide if it would be inappropriate to outkick him at the finish line after he’d paced me the entire course. I was on track, step for step, positive but without hubris.
At mile 14, John looked around at his flock of women under 35 and said, “I know what this is. These are the Babes Going to Boston. That’s who I’ve got. I’m gonna get as many babes to Boston as I can.” I smiled. John was taking me to Boston.
John 3:40, I wanted to be your babe.
Needless to say, John 3:40 probably leads the most coveted group of all the pacing teams: women under 35. We followed him like skanky girls waiting backstage for Steve Tyler.
John 3:40, what I would give to be among your finish line skanks.
Around mile 16, my left calf said, “WTF? Where’s wintah? I am your leg and Jesus, it’s hot today. How ‘bout some watah?”
Oh no, I am so not pulling a Nitmos. I don't get cramps. Ever. My calves make it through just fine, always.
With almost a minute in the bank, I reasoned, “I’ve been drinking at every stop because that’s what smart people do in the desert, but more water would be fine! They’ve got plenty! Cups and cups and cups of water. It cost me $110 to run this race and with that cotton t-shirt as disappointing as it was, I should get my money’s worth in water!”
As we made our way through the teens, I drank the water. I poured the water over my head. And then I drank some more. Totally loving the water.
And yet, my right calf joined the chorus. “We’re hot, woman!” They began to tighten up, apparently not very satisfied by the water. So they convinced my feet to grow.
If you’ve ever been pregnant, you might have reached a point when all of a sudden, it occurs to you that your shoes are two sizes too small. “How did that happen?” you think. You don’t notice them swelling and then one day, you realize the fabric on your shoe is pushing on your toes from all sides and maybe your toes actually curl up because there is just no more room.
That can also happen when you run a marathon.
You can hit the nearest shoe store to size up when you’re pregnant, but Zappos don’t deliver to mile 18.
By mile 19, it occurred to me that my toes could quite possibly pull an Alien and bust through my shoes. And I would have been totally cool with that. If I’d had a knife, I’d have cut the fabric right off the top of my shoe.
At mile 20, both calves were so contracted and cramped, I felt like they were hiding from the race. “Maybe if we just get real, real tight and make two little balls, she won’t even know we’re here,” they said to each other.
Yes, my body parts talk.
My quads, hamstrings, and glutes were good to go, but everything below the knee was pissed.
Shortly after mile 20, the switch flipped. I push through a lot of walls on a long run; there is never just one. Mile 20 wasn’t a wall. It was a power outage. For the first time, I was behind John 3:40 instead of at his elbow.
And then he was gone.
Everything screeched to a halt. I was still running, yet everyone but the walkers streamed around me like I was a tree planted in the middle of the road.
By the time I realized that maybe I needed salt and not water, it was too late. I ate the salt packet that a medic along the course was holding out, but my calves and feet wanted a Supersize box of fries, not a dash to flavor my Roctane. I hadn't had any Cytomax because that stuff upsets my stomach and I always figure the Gu covers the electrolytes. Just an amateur, I guess.
The 3:45 guy passed me. My brain screamed bloody murder. Enough anger to push through any wall, but my power was out. I refused to walk because I knew the second I stopped to walk, my calves would call it a day and I’d never resume a running pace, no matter how slow. I didn’t even walk through the water stops.
The 3:50 guy passed me, his flag held more like a relay baton because he’d lost his entire entourage. Christ. I can’t even run it in with the poor 3:50 bachelor.
Instead of writing eulogies for my family and friends, I started to write my own.
Loving mother. Foolish runner who wanted more than anything to transcend mediocrity through marathons. Died on a long stretch of road in Phoenix. Had potential, rarely did much with it. Made a good quiche.
Miles 23 through the finish are a blur, sadly not because I was picking up the pace. Two Springsteen songs came on in a row, as if my iPod sensed my grief and wanted to make a last ditch effort with “Cadillac Ranch” to give me some pep. I sang along.
Open up your engine, let it roar. Tearing up the highway like a big old dinosaur.
Not today.
I just kept going, one orange cone after another. After “Cadillac Ranch” came “The Rising.” I didn’t sing.
Can’t see nothin in front of me
Can’t see nothin coming up behind
I make my way through this darkness
I can’t feel nothing but this chain that binds me
At several points, I wished I could know my exact mileage. About 15 minutes later I remembered I had a Garmin and could find out whenever I wanted. I guess the brain needs salt, too.
Lost track of how far I've gone
How far I’ve gone, how high I’ve climbed
On my back's a sixty pound stone
On my shoulder a half mile of line
At mile 26, a guy in the crowd looked at me and yelled, “Four minutes to four hours!”
And that’s when I found my salt. Salty tears streaming down my face, making salty rivers in the salty crust on my face. I wouldn’t even get a five-minute PR.
3:57:54
All those treadmill speed workouts. Two long runs a week. Seven 20-milers. Most people agree that the Boston Marathon is around 10 minutes slower than a flat course. I cut four lousy minutes with more training than I ever would have thought possible.
I crossed the line without any pride whatsoever. I couldn’t care less about my finish line photo. I saw the long queue of runners waiting to have their picture taken with their medals on and walked right by without thinking for a second that I wanted to join them.
A medic saw me looking disoriented and took me to the medical tent. She asked how often I drank water during the race. “Every stop from mile 2.” Her eyes got wide, and she asked if I took any salt. I couldn’t remember when, but told her it was somewhere in the early 20s. “Too much water. Not enough salt. And your body isn’t used to the heat.”
I stumbled around for a little while, looking for Jessica*, who had finished well ahead of me. I had no clue how I’d find her family in the sea of people with my brain functioning on reserve battery power. I was elated when I spotted her gorgeous little red-headed boys sitting in the grass.
And that’s kind of where the race ends. I took good care of my salt deficit with some margarita love that night, but there’s no uplifting resolve at the end of this one. I entered the training wanting to see how fast I could get if I ramped up the preparation tenfold. I expected I might get close to 3:40, very confident I’d beat 3:45.
Today, of course, is supposed to be about hope and humility. And I’m not self-important enough to wallow over my silly race results while we're in the middle of history. So I’m working on the hope. But deep down in my greedy, vain little dark place, I’m tired of having to be self-deprecating. Just once, I want to be cocky and plaster that BAA unicorn on my blog.
If you've made it through this race report, you already have more endurance than I do. I just wanted to add a major thanks to all of you, particularly my pacers Kevin, Jill, Linn, Anne, Judith, Johna, and Brian. And my commenters also get special thanks for constant encouragement that must get tedious to type all the time. I know I'm a Murphy's Law marathoner and that I kind of force to you tell me to keep my chin up. And thanks for the memories, Nate. It was actually kind of fun to pretend I could be a good marathoner and train out of my league for six months.
I got home to my 26.2 Marathon Stories book from Marcy (thanks, M!) and feel the need to both pay it forward and reward anyone who is still reading this post. I also want to end this whine-fest on a more hopeful note. So if you're interested in my copy of Bart Yasso's new book, My Life On the Run, leave a comment with your suggestion for a fall marathon, and I'll put you in a drawing for it. I'll mail it to the lucky winner whose name I draw on Friday. It's a good, fun read.
*We had a blast the entire time we spent together this weekend, but we didn’t end up running the race together, which is good because it would have been the one negative experience we shared during my stay.
There are places in this country where it is apparently quite warm in January. These places are not where I live and train in conditions that sometimes shock people. When visitors fuss about our cold, I smile, but I don’t get their discomfort.
I think our blood is different.
As it turns out, I like running when it’s 25-40 degrees. And if you read my post about my last 22-miler, you’ll remember how well that went. My body was happy, strong. I averaged 8:44 and ran mile 21 in 7:52.
As it turns out, my body is about as adaptable as a St. Bernard spending Christmas in Miami.
All day Saturday, I looked at the blue sky, the sun, the palm trees, the cactuses, and the desert and marveled at the contrast to where I live. Where I live looks like this right now:
That's my back door.
What does one do in desert? One drinks water, right? Lots and lots of water. When you think desert, do you think “Better eat some pretzels?”
Me, neither.
A 50-degree temperature change from one 20-miler to the next makes a difference in what happens at the 20-mile mark. Things — spooky, foreign things — happened in my body, and I didn’t recognize their implications until it was too late and I was reduced to shuffling — damn that shuffling. There was no wall to break through. The only wall was behind me, and I was tied to it and forced to pull for 6 miles.
So Kevin once shared a story with me about one runner's pithy retort to the typical race report rationalizations of why a race went sour. To those weather/nutrition/injury/illness/clothing problems, he simply quipped: “So you're faster than you really are?"
I’m totally with that guy. You’re as fast as the day makes you, no excuses. You don’t get to say you’re faster than you perform because that’s not how it works.
But I’m not as fast as I really am.
I started the race with the 3:40 pace leader, John, who I’ll begrudgingly admit was from Minnesota—also not known for its 70-degree Januaries. I was glued to John. I obeyed John like he was the Boss. I ran in John’s shadow like his little sister.
John 3:40, I loved you, man.
John 3:40 got me to the half feeling solid, with something like 40 seconds in the bank. I was positive, optimistic, trying to decide if it would be inappropriate to outkick him at the finish line after he’d paced me the entire course. I was on track, step for step, positive but without hubris.
At mile 14, John looked around at his flock of women under 35 and said, “I know what this is. These are the Babes Going to Boston. That’s who I’ve got. I’m gonna get as many babes to Boston as I can.” I smiled. John was taking me to Boston.
John 3:40, I wanted to be your babe.
Needless to say, John 3:40 probably leads the most coveted group of all the pacing teams: women under 35. We followed him like skanky girls waiting backstage for Steve Tyler.
John 3:40, what I would give to be among your finish line skanks.
Around mile 16, my left calf said, “WTF? Where’s wintah? I am your leg and Jesus, it’s hot today. How ‘bout some watah?”
Oh no, I am so not pulling a Nitmos. I don't get cramps. Ever. My calves make it through just fine, always.
With almost a minute in the bank, I reasoned, “I’ve been drinking at every stop because that’s what smart people do in the desert, but more water would be fine! They’ve got plenty! Cups and cups and cups of water. It cost me $110 to run this race and with that cotton t-shirt as disappointing as it was, I should get my money’s worth in water!”
As we made our way through the teens, I drank the water. I poured the water over my head. And then I drank some more. Totally loving the water.
And yet, my right calf joined the chorus. “We’re hot, woman!” They began to tighten up, apparently not very satisfied by the water. So they convinced my feet to grow.
If you’ve ever been pregnant, you might have reached a point when all of a sudden, it occurs to you that your shoes are two sizes too small. “How did that happen?” you think. You don’t notice them swelling and then one day, you realize the fabric on your shoe is pushing on your toes from all sides and maybe your toes actually curl up because there is just no more room.
That can also happen when you run a marathon.
You can hit the nearest shoe store to size up when you’re pregnant, but Zappos don’t deliver to mile 18.
By mile 19, it occurred to me that my toes could quite possibly pull an Alien and bust through my shoes. And I would have been totally cool with that. If I’d had a knife, I’d have cut the fabric right off the top of my shoe.
At mile 20, both calves were so contracted and cramped, I felt like they were hiding from the race. “Maybe if we just get real, real tight and make two little balls, she won’t even know we’re here,” they said to each other.
Yes, my body parts talk.
My quads, hamstrings, and glutes were good to go, but everything below the knee was pissed.
Shortly after mile 20, the switch flipped. I push through a lot of walls on a long run; there is never just one. Mile 20 wasn’t a wall. It was a power outage. For the first time, I was behind John 3:40 instead of at his elbow.
And then he was gone.
Everything screeched to a halt. I was still running, yet everyone but the walkers streamed around me like I was a tree planted in the middle of the road.
By the time I realized that maybe I needed salt and not water, it was too late. I ate the salt packet that a medic along the course was holding out, but my calves and feet wanted a Supersize box of fries, not a dash to flavor my Roctane. I hadn't had any Cytomax because that stuff upsets my stomach and I always figure the Gu covers the electrolytes. Just an amateur, I guess.
The 3:45 guy passed me. My brain screamed bloody murder. Enough anger to push through any wall, but my power was out. I refused to walk because I knew the second I stopped to walk, my calves would call it a day and I’d never resume a running pace, no matter how slow. I didn’t even walk through the water stops.
The 3:50 guy passed me, his flag held more like a relay baton because he’d lost his entire entourage. Christ. I can’t even run it in with the poor 3:50 bachelor.
Instead of writing eulogies for my family and friends, I started to write my own.
Loving mother. Foolish runner who wanted more than anything to transcend mediocrity through marathons. Died on a long stretch of road in Phoenix. Had potential, rarely did much with it. Made a good quiche.
Miles 23 through the finish are a blur, sadly not because I was picking up the pace. Two Springsteen songs came on in a row, as if my iPod sensed my grief and wanted to make a last ditch effort with “Cadillac Ranch” to give me some pep. I sang along.
Open up your engine, let it roar. Tearing up the highway like a big old dinosaur.
Not today.
I just kept going, one orange cone after another. After “Cadillac Ranch” came “The Rising.” I didn’t sing.
Can’t see nothin in front of me
Can’t see nothin coming up behind
I make my way through this darkness
I can’t feel nothing but this chain that binds me
At several points, I wished I could know my exact mileage. About 15 minutes later I remembered I had a Garmin and could find out whenever I wanted. I guess the brain needs salt, too.
Lost track of how far I've gone
How far I’ve gone, how high I’ve climbed
On my back's a sixty pound stone
On my shoulder a half mile of line
At mile 26, a guy in the crowd looked at me and yelled, “Four minutes to four hours!”
And that’s when I found my salt. Salty tears streaming down my face, making salty rivers in the salty crust on my face. I wouldn’t even get a five-minute PR.
3:57:54
All those treadmill speed workouts. Two long runs a week. Seven 20-milers. Most people agree that the Boston Marathon is around 10 minutes slower than a flat course. I cut four lousy minutes with more training than I ever would have thought possible.
I crossed the line without any pride whatsoever. I couldn’t care less about my finish line photo. I saw the long queue of runners waiting to have their picture taken with their medals on and walked right by without thinking for a second that I wanted to join them.
A medic saw me looking disoriented and took me to the medical tent. She asked how often I drank water during the race. “Every stop from mile 2.” Her eyes got wide, and she asked if I took any salt. I couldn’t remember when, but told her it was somewhere in the early 20s. “Too much water. Not enough salt. And your body isn’t used to the heat.”
I stumbled around for a little while, looking for Jessica*, who had finished well ahead of me. I had no clue how I’d find her family in the sea of people with my brain functioning on reserve battery power. I was elated when I spotted her gorgeous little red-headed boys sitting in the grass.
And that’s kind of where the race ends. I took good care of my salt deficit with some margarita love that night, but there’s no uplifting resolve at the end of this one. I entered the training wanting to see how fast I could get if I ramped up the preparation tenfold. I expected I might get close to 3:40, very confident I’d beat 3:45.
Today, of course, is supposed to be about hope and humility. And I’m not self-important enough to wallow over my silly race results while we're in the middle of history. So I’m working on the hope. But deep down in my greedy, vain little dark place, I’m tired of having to be self-deprecating. Just once, I want to be cocky and plaster that BAA unicorn on my blog.
If you've made it through this race report, you already have more endurance than I do. I just wanted to add a major thanks to all of you, particularly my pacers Kevin, Jill, Linn, Anne, Judith, Johna, and Brian. And my commenters also get special thanks for constant encouragement that must get tedious to type all the time. I know I'm a Murphy's Law marathoner and that I kind of force to you tell me to keep my chin up. And thanks for the memories, Nate. It was actually kind of fun to pretend I could be a good marathoner and train out of my league for six months.
I got home to my 26.2 Marathon Stories book from Marcy (thanks, M!) and feel the need to both pay it forward and reward anyone who is still reading this post. I also want to end this whine-fest on a more hopeful note. So if you're interested in my copy of Bart Yasso's new book, My Life On the Run, leave a comment with your suggestion for a fall marathon, and I'll put you in a drawing for it. I'll mail it to the lucky winner whose name I draw on Friday. It's a good, fun read.
*We had a blast the entire time we spent together this weekend, but we didn’t end up running the race together, which is good because it would have been the one negative experience we shared during my stay.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Your Daily Dose of Schadenfreude...
..brought to you by yours truly.
3:58:49
Will return when I have something nice to say.
Thanks for your six months of encouragement. It helped a lot more than the speed training and unrelenting 20-milers to shave those 3 minutes off my PR.
Update: Due to slow updating of my chip time on the race web site, my finish time ended up being 3:57:54.
3:58:49
Will return when I have something nice to say.
Thanks for your six months of encouragement. It helped a lot more than the speed training and unrelenting 20-milers to shave those 3 minutes off my PR.
Update: Due to slow updating of my chip time on the race web site, my finish time ended up being 3:57:54.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Jetting
Well, as it's 9 degrees here, I'm gonna go ahead and leave for Phoenix. I've packed every running-related item in my possession, as well as my new Purell holster to freak out the TSA at the airport (not to mention the 6 packets of Roctane).
If you're stalking me on Sunday, you can see the results of my suffering in hours and minutes here. Race is at 7:30 am MST, and I'm #2691.
Thanks for your nice comments this week; you know I devour your love and support. Good luck to Vanilla, Pat, Mr. Doodle and all the other PFers out there--I know there are a slew a ya.
Alrighty, I'm off to rock a bit less than a third around the clock (or a sixth, depending on your interpretation of the song)....
If you're stalking me on Sunday, you can see the results of my suffering in hours and minutes here. Race is at 7:30 am MST, and I'm #2691.
Thanks for your nice comments this week; you know I devour your love and support. Good luck to Vanilla, Pat, Mr. Doodle and all the other PFers out there--I know there are a slew a ya.
Alrighty, I'm off to rock a bit less than a third around the clock (or a sixth, depending on your interpretation of the song)....
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Windfalling
I like free things. A lot. When the UPS truck makes that slow crawl up our driveway and leaves a little somethin'-somethin' at the door, I get all warm inside without even knowing what it is. It could be a box of ear wax and I'd still be thrilled by the scent of the packing tape.
A recent running windfall began with the Roctane, but then last week the folks at SPIbelt sent me their sexy little fanny pack [insert "Sexy Back" pun here] to test in the marathon. I've taken it for a couple short runs to make sure I want to use it in the race, and already I think it's great. Not at all the dorky-guy-on-a-cruise like its ancestors. I'll give a full review next week after it gets the marathon treatment. The ultimate endorsement will be if you see it in my finish line photo because I won't have ditched it somewhere along the course once I've emptied it of gels.
Then last night, Brian went out to fetch a T-Rex from the car and came back in with a little box that the Man in Brown had left by the back door. I opened it to find three big bags of M&Ms. Written on half of the M&Ms was "26.2" and the other half read "Boston Marathon." They were sent by a fellow member of the M&M fan club (not to be disastrously confused with the Eminem fan club, please), the friend who unbelievably paced me for 21.5 miles a couple days after Christmas. How nice is that?
And then this morning I was strolling through my blogroll and saw that I won Marcy's marathon book giveaway. My first thought was "Hey, there's another Kristina with a K who reads Marcy's blog." I actually forgot that I entered, but I realize now that my comment on her blog the other day amounted to an entry in her drawing. Score! She asked which fellow bloggers I would want to run with, and I answered Britney, Lindsay, and Paris--so I could make them run 800s until they agreed to wear underpants all the time. But now I'd also want to run with Marcy, and not just to make her wear underpants.
Free schwag is delightful, and I'd like to express publicly my desire to review the Yoga for Athletes DVD (hi, Sage, how are you today?), the Zensah arm sleeves, and Captain Morgan rum.
I like free running advice as well. I'm kind of greedy for it, in fact. I bombard Nate's inbox with running minutia and love pithy running wisdom. So imagine my pleasure to see Nate walk in while I was leaving my pre-race massage this morning. I haven't actually seen him in person since the summer, so I drooled over the opportunity to extract some last minute advice in person.
"So what should I do on Sunday?" I asked.
"Run," he said.
That was it. Run. No negative splits, no complex pacing strategy. I didn't even get a Yoda quote out of him. Well fine then, I'll run. Thanks for the wisdom, dude.
My favorite pre-race pep talks always come from the Dana-Farber coach, who is currently vacationing in Hawaii so he won't even see this shout-out. But Jack tells us to see the marathon as a graduation ceremony and not a final exam, to have a good race regardless of the clock. Now that's more like it.
A recent running windfall began with the Roctane, but then last week the folks at SPIbelt sent me their sexy little fanny pack [insert "Sexy Back" pun here] to test in the marathon. I've taken it for a couple short runs to make sure I want to use it in the race, and already I think it's great. Not at all the dorky-guy-on-a-cruise like its ancestors. I'll give a full review next week after it gets the marathon treatment. The ultimate endorsement will be if you see it in my finish line photo because I won't have ditched it somewhere along the course once I've emptied it of gels.
Then last night, Brian went out to fetch a T-Rex from the car and came back in with a little box that the Man in Brown had left by the back door. I opened it to find three big bags of M&Ms. Written on half of the M&Ms was "26.2" and the other half read "Boston Marathon." They were sent by a fellow member of the M&M fan club (not to be disastrously confused with the Eminem fan club, please), the friend who unbelievably paced me for 21.5 miles a couple days after Christmas. How nice is that?
And then this morning I was strolling through my blogroll and saw that I won Marcy's marathon book giveaway. My first thought was "Hey, there's another Kristina with a K who reads Marcy's blog." I actually forgot that I entered, but I realize now that my comment on her blog the other day amounted to an entry in her drawing. Score! She asked which fellow bloggers I would want to run with, and I answered Britney, Lindsay, and Paris--so I could make them run 800s until they agreed to wear underpants all the time. But now I'd also want to run with Marcy, and not just to make her wear underpants.
Free schwag is delightful, and I'd like to express publicly my desire to review the Yoga for Athletes DVD (hi, Sage, how are you today?), the Zensah arm sleeves, and Captain Morgan rum.
I like free running advice as well. I'm kind of greedy for it, in fact. I bombard Nate's inbox with running minutia and love pithy running wisdom. So imagine my pleasure to see Nate walk in while I was leaving my pre-race massage this morning. I haven't actually seen him in person since the summer, so I drooled over the opportunity to extract some last minute advice in person.
"So what should I do on Sunday?" I asked.
"Run," he said.
That was it. Run. No negative splits, no complex pacing strategy. I didn't even get a Yoda quote out of him. Well fine then, I'll run. Thanks for the wisdom, dude.
My favorite pre-race pep talks always come from the Dana-Farber coach, who is currently vacationing in Hawaii so he won't even see this shout-out. But Jack tells us to see the marathon as a graduation ceremony and not a final exam, to have a good race regardless of the clock. Now that's more like it.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Distractions
In an attempt to distract myself from the pressure of staying healthy and accident free until Sunday, here are some news bits I've been accumulating and not yet posted...
Something to make the runner men and ladies yet to lease their wombs wish they'd endured childbirth: Paula Radcliffe and scientist people explain how pregnancy is better than speed work. However, my six months of Over Pro Nate amounts to a shorter gestation, even though it hurt about as much as back labor.
Feeling guilty about not stretching? You're absolved. The NY Times explains why a pre-run stretch is bogus and could actually hurt you. So use the time to check Facebook like I do.
Wishing you earned less money? Dummy. However, you're not the only stupid person looking for personal fulfillment, so go ahead and quit that lucrative job you're lucky to still have so you, too, can become a personal trainer. Or just wait to get laid off.
Wanna buy an eyesore for your kids that they'll love for 60 seconds?
Don't you go thinking that head cold means you can stay in bed. Get up, lazy bones! And take it from me, if you really want to get out of a run, better make it pneumonia.
And finally, the best acts in rock music will not be lining the course of the PF Chang Marathon on Sunday because they were already booked for a bunch of squares in Washington. There goes my fantasy of seeing Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce at a water stop. Damnit. Way to go, Smash Mouth, for having your priorities in order.
Something to make the runner men and ladies yet to lease their wombs wish they'd endured childbirth: Paula Radcliffe and scientist people explain how pregnancy is better than speed work. However, my six months of Over Pro Nate amounts to a shorter gestation, even though it hurt about as much as back labor.
Feeling guilty about not stretching? You're absolved. The NY Times explains why a pre-run stretch is bogus and could actually hurt you. So use the time to check Facebook like I do.
Wishing you earned less money? Dummy. However, you're not the only stupid person looking for personal fulfillment, so go ahead and quit that lucrative job you're lucky to still have so you, too, can become a personal trainer. Or just wait to get laid off.
Wanna buy an eyesore for your kids that they'll love for 60 seconds?
Don't you go thinking that head cold means you can stay in bed. Get up, lazy bones! And take it from me, if you really want to get out of a run, better make it pneumonia.
And finally, the best acts in rock music will not be lining the course of the PF Chang Marathon on Sunday because they were already booked for a bunch of squares in Washington. There goes my fantasy of seeing Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce at a water stop. Damnit. Way to go, Smash Mouth, for having your priorities in order.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Self-Disclosure
My kind host and RBF in Phoenix wrote a very funny post yesterday about telling her husband that I'm coming to their house for a few days next weekend. I was relieved to read his response was pretty nonchalant, but I feel the need to reinforce that I am not a total cyber freak and am pretty average, to be honest, despite my eager willingness to fly across the country and show up at a stranger's house for the weekend. (It's a good thing I met my husband the old-fashioned way--in a college dorm--or a naive desperation for romance in the internet age would probably find me in some dodgy scenario lookin' for love.)
To reassure Jessica's husband (and maybe Jessica, too): I am so average, you might regret inviting me because I'm boring, not because I'm weird.
Hair color? Brown.
SAT score? 50th percentile.
Salsa flavor? Medium.
I drive a station wagon. I shop at LL Bean. I go to bed at 9:30. I majored in psychology, which--along with English--is the most common college major for women. I am perhaps the furthest thing from edgy, exotic, or exciting. In fact, all of my strange qualities are wrapped up in running.
Sitting in ice baths? Running makes me do it.
Obsessing over hundredths of a mile? Running makes me do it.
Fixating on finding the perfect sock? Running makes me do it.
So now that you know I'm mostly average, I'll prove I'm going to be a good house guest.
I make my bed. I can set the table. I like kids and dogs. And the beautiful cactus wren. I love the Saguaro blossom. I'd like nothing more than to travel to the land of sunshine, the land where life is young.
So thank you again for taking me in next weekend. You'll know me at the airport because I'm the one with all the piercings and the pet skunk.
To reassure Jessica's husband (and maybe Jessica, too): I am so average, you might regret inviting me because I'm boring, not because I'm weird.
Hair color? Brown.
SAT score? 50th percentile.
Salsa flavor? Medium.
I drive a station wagon. I shop at LL Bean. I go to bed at 9:30. I majored in psychology, which--along with English--is the most common college major for women. I am perhaps the furthest thing from edgy, exotic, or exciting. In fact, all of my strange qualities are wrapped up in running.
Sitting in ice baths? Running makes me do it.
Obsessing over hundredths of a mile? Running makes me do it.
Fixating on finding the perfect sock? Running makes me do it.
So now that you know I'm mostly average, I'll prove I'm going to be a good house guest.
I make my bed. I can set the table. I like kids and dogs. And the beautiful cactus wren. I love the Saguaro blossom. I'd like nothing more than to travel to the land of sunshine, the land where life is young.
So thank you again for taking me in next weekend. You'll know me at the airport because I'm the one with all the piercings and the pet skunk.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
For Running's Sake
Wow, who knew that people have such strong opinions about leg wear? Will you help me decide what to make for dinner tonight?
After your more-or-less unanimous (an oxymoron, I know) vote for shorts and checking the weather in Phoenix for the next 10 days, I've opted for tights. Just kidding. We'll go with the shorts. I don't want to jazz things up too much with tri shorts because I've never run in them before, so I'll just have to suffer from breezy nethers if it comes to that. Incidentally, the weather in Phoenix for the next 10 days pretty much looks like this:
Not to worry my gracious host, but it is quite possible I won't leave Arizona. It looks like it could be the perfect place to be a runner (except maybe in the summer), and I could see that if I lived somewhere dry with highs in the low 70s, I'd run every day just for the sake of running, without needing a race to motivate me to train. I can't do that here, where we need a heated driveway to go anywhere in the winter and the plows see my street as a hopeless case not worth their time.
My husband endures all this and runs for the sake of running anyway, but I need races. He won't register for the Hyannis half in February because he's cheap and self-motivated and figures a PR set on a random run alone is as good as one set by a chrono-chip. I would like to be this way, but I have a chair-rail to build.
I'm trying to acquire enough bib numbers from races to make a chair-rail around our treadmill room, which is not very big so it shouldn't take me too long. But I do need to run races in order to get them and the significance would be kind of lost if I just asked my friends for their old bibs.
I'd toyed with treating 2009 as a "fun run" year after six months of pretty intense training, but then it occurred to me that I need goals and plans and a feeling of progress toward something. I won't let myself register for another marathon until I finish writing the book, which is actually great motivation to write, but I would really like to break 1:40 in the half-marathon this year. Hyannis isn't going to be the race that I do it in but I want to run it anyway. I gave Brian dibs on Hyannis because someone has to watch Henry, but he hasn't registered. My guess is he'll pick some day in February and run 13 miles around here and be happy with that.
But I kind of think that for me, a race is a fun run. So maybe 2009 will be the year of the fun run anyway.
After your more-or-less unanimous (an oxymoron, I know) vote for shorts and checking the weather in Phoenix for the next 10 days, I've opted for tights. Just kidding. We'll go with the shorts. I don't want to jazz things up too much with tri shorts because I've never run in them before, so I'll just have to suffer from breezy nethers if it comes to that. Incidentally, the weather in Phoenix for the next 10 days pretty much looks like this:
Not to worry my gracious host, but it is quite possible I won't leave Arizona. It looks like it could be the perfect place to be a runner (except maybe in the summer), and I could see that if I lived somewhere dry with highs in the low 70s, I'd run every day just for the sake of running, without needing a race to motivate me to train. I can't do that here, where we need a heated driveway to go anywhere in the winter and the plows see my street as a hopeless case not worth their time.
My husband endures all this and runs for the sake of running anyway, but I need races. He won't register for the Hyannis half in February because he's cheap and self-motivated and figures a PR set on a random run alone is as good as one set by a chrono-chip. I would like to be this way, but I have a chair-rail to build.
I'm trying to acquire enough bib numbers from races to make a chair-rail around our treadmill room, which is not very big so it shouldn't take me too long. But I do need to run races in order to get them and the significance would be kind of lost if I just asked my friends for their old bibs.
I'd toyed with treating 2009 as a "fun run" year after six months of pretty intense training, but then it occurred to me that I need goals and plans and a feeling of progress toward something. I won't let myself register for another marathon until I finish writing the book, which is actually great motivation to write, but I would really like to break 1:40 in the half-marathon this year. Hyannis isn't going to be the race that I do it in but I want to run it anyway. I gave Brian dibs on Hyannis because someone has to watch Henry, but he hasn't registered. My guess is he'll pick some day in February and run 13 miles around here and be happy with that.
But I kind of think that for me, a race is a fun run. So maybe 2009 will be the year of the fun run anyway.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Preaching and Practicing
I've got a blog post about winter fitness and mental health up over at the Athleta web site today if you'd like to cruise on over there. Within days of writing it, I went for my 22-mile run, leaving the house when it was below 22 degrees and the base of my driveway looked like a skating rink. By mile 19, my water bottles had frozen on my fuel belt, which of course I didn't notice until after I had an envelope's worth of Roctane in my mouth. I did not like winter so much in that moment, but I stand by the mental value of winter exercise. The Athleta post also has a little tidbit from the interviews I've been conducting with running moms.
In other less interesting news, I am having a very intense internal debate between capri tights and shorts for the Phoenix race. I've never been to Arizona and while I imagine it's a good deal warmer than here at 7:30 a.m., I don't think it's going to be a sauna (thankfully). One thing's for sure, I don't think I'll need to worry about frozen water bottles. Or will I? This is a serious fashion conundrum, people.
In other less interesting news, I am having a very intense internal debate between capri tights and shorts for the Phoenix race. I've never been to Arizona and while I imagine it's a good deal warmer than here at 7:30 a.m., I don't think it's going to be a sauna (thankfully). One thing's for sure, I don't think I'll need to worry about frozen water bottles. Or will I? This is a serious fashion conundrum, people.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
The 7th 20 (Plus 2)
Sweet, sweet taper love. I did my last 20-miler (22, if we're gonna get technical) this morning. I can't believe that I did seven 20-22 milers in this training, with three of them over 20 miles. A ginormous thanks to my dad, Kevin (x2), Brian, Johna & Lori, and Jill for running a lot of those miles with me. Next Sunday's 12 is a long-awaited dream.
And as much as it pains me to credit Nate, piling up on 20-milers apparently makes them easier. This morning's run was by far the easiest 20 I've ever run, and I didn't lollygag on it. Having Jill Of The 2:58 Marathon (as she shall henceforth be known, until she becomes Jill Of The Olympic Trials) pace me on the last 12 with great conversation and a lot of "almost there!"s helped me average an 8:44 pace with the last two miles at 8:13 and 7:52.
It was exactly the confidence boost I wanted from my final 20 in November before the Philly taper, and I feel so ready for this thing that I'm going to have to really focus my attention on staying healthy for the next two weeks. Beyond my daily regimen of Emergen-C (twice a day) and my pathological application of Purell, I'm not entirely sure what else I can do to avoid germs. If something gets in the way of this marathon, I will quit running forever. Or until Hyannis.
Aside from a viral or bacterial impediment, the rest of my body feels really strong. I'm in the process of breaking in a radically different pair of shoes since Nate realized I was running in an idiotic combo of orthotics and stability shoes--like lacing up a pair of loaf pans perhaps. It seems a tad risky to switch to a new brand and a neutral shoe with two weeks until the race, but my feet seem happier and I have the Over Pro Nate stamp of approval, so we'll go with that. Today's run was the first one in 6 weeks where neither my arch nor my glutes/hamstrings were bothering me. In addition to the Sauconys, I credit yesterday's hot yoga and I'm going back tomorrow for another class to loosen up what contracted today.
As a follow-up to some of the expert feedback I got on my yoga post, it turns out I wasn't taking bikram; it's ashtanga. Attention to detail is not my forte. Regardless, the hot and sweaty stretchy stretchy (the translation of "ashtanga," no?) works. A lingering question I have is whether or not the final corpse pose has a physiological benefit because I'm always tempted to say my namastes and skip out from class at that point, so maybe Sage or Om Gal can answer that if they're reading this post. Mentally, the pose seems quite useful for generating a grocery list, but I'd love to know if it's also when the yoga sparkles saturate my muscles and make the ouchies go away.
Other than Henry's truly appalling restaurant behavior (has your kid ever yelled "Don't touch me!" in the middle of a packed room?--apologies to the Sullivan family who endured it), there's little amusement from my weekend to share. I think this might be a good thing, since I usually draw humor from my Murphy's Law moments. Don't worry, some bone will surely snap or I'll develop heat stroke from yoga by Friday. Then we'll all have a good chuckle together.
And as much as it pains me to credit Nate, piling up on 20-milers apparently makes them easier. This morning's run was by far the easiest 20 I've ever run, and I didn't lollygag on it. Having Jill Of The 2:58 Marathon (as she shall henceforth be known, until she becomes Jill Of The Olympic Trials) pace me on the last 12 with great conversation and a lot of "almost there!"s helped me average an 8:44 pace with the last two miles at 8:13 and 7:52.
It was exactly the confidence boost I wanted from my final 20 in November before the Philly taper, and I feel so ready for this thing that I'm going to have to really focus my attention on staying healthy for the next two weeks. Beyond my daily regimen of Emergen-C (twice a day) and my pathological application of Purell, I'm not entirely sure what else I can do to avoid germs. If something gets in the way of this marathon, I will quit running forever. Or until Hyannis.
Aside from a viral or bacterial impediment, the rest of my body feels really strong. I'm in the process of breaking in a radically different pair of shoes since Nate realized I was running in an idiotic combo of orthotics and stability shoes--like lacing up a pair of loaf pans perhaps. It seems a tad risky to switch to a new brand and a neutral shoe with two weeks until the race, but my feet seem happier and I have the Over Pro Nate stamp of approval, so we'll go with that. Today's run was the first one in 6 weeks where neither my arch nor my glutes/hamstrings were bothering me. In addition to the Sauconys, I credit yesterday's hot yoga and I'm going back tomorrow for another class to loosen up what contracted today.
As a follow-up to some of the expert feedback I got on my yoga post, it turns out I wasn't taking bikram; it's ashtanga. Attention to detail is not my forte. Regardless, the hot and sweaty stretchy stretchy (the translation of "ashtanga," no?) works. A lingering question I have is whether or not the final corpse pose has a physiological benefit because I'm always tempted to say my namastes and skip out from class at that point, so maybe Sage or Om Gal can answer that if they're reading this post. Mentally, the pose seems quite useful for generating a grocery list, but I'd love to know if it's also when the yoga sparkles saturate my muscles and make the ouchies go away.
Other than Henry's truly appalling restaurant behavior (has your kid ever yelled "Don't touch me!" in the middle of a packed room?--apologies to the Sullivan family who endured it), there's little amusement from my weekend to share. I think this might be a good thing, since I usually draw humor from my Murphy's Law moments. Don't worry, some bone will surely snap or I'll develop heat stroke from yoga by Friday. Then we'll all have a good chuckle together.
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