Sex, Lies, and Videotape: A Marathoner's Biggest No-No

Okay, not really "sex," but "Fat, Lies, and Videotape" was strangely not as captivating a title. False advertising perhaps, but at least I didn't lie about running a whole marathon.

I don't know if I'm spoiling a show you watch, but since Topher spoiled Lost for me a few weeks ago, I feel the need to pay it forward. Consider yourself warned.

No doubt you've read about a certain reality TV "star" (what's with my overuse of quotes today, eh?) depicted completing a marathon at the Arizona Desert Classic (or is it Dessert?) after losing 100 pounds on The Biggest Loser. I know nothing about the show, since it starts after my nightly collapse from a day of what feels more and more like maternal inadequacy. But the articles and blog posts about it today snagged my attention because I like to pretend I'm a faultless angel so I can rail against victims of reality TV production.

In case you hadn't heard, the deal is that this guy, Dane, was shown completing a marathon in the oh-so-infuriating-because-it's-faster-than-me time of 3:53 when he actually hopped in a producer's car from miles 17-20. He ran from there to be taped crossing the finish line. Apparently, some light bulbs in the finish clock had burned out from being illuminated for almost SIX hours, which is why the clock looked like it read 3:53 when it was really 5:53, or 7 minutes shy of the cut-off. Dane had realized at mile 17 that he wouldn't make the 6-hour cut-off to finish and was given a lift for 5K.

I don't know how culpable he is in the televised misrepresentation of his marathon, but dude, if you can't make the cut-off, you don't get in a car and then start running the course three miles later. And you certainly can't get in front of the camera and say the following, as reported by TV Barn:

"It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life to run side by side with my wife for an entire marathon."

I know you're on a reality show so the issue of dignity might be moot, but have some freaking pride. I don't care if you go back and run the missing miles later in the day because you felt bad. You can't cross the finish if you're plumb tuckered and opt for a plush passenger's seat at mile 17. For future reference, Dane, here's what you do:

You act like the rest of us forced to DNF: we go home, get wasted, and cry in our ice baths like the biggest losers we are.

Road Trip

The Purell holster is back.

At least one person in my house has been sick the entire month of February. This past Sunday was the exception, but Henry came home from school with a temp of 102 yesterday, which spiked to 103.4 last night. As a result, running today is again out, thus continuing the gradual softening of my bod.

His temp was normal this morning, but I kept him home anyway because we're planning to skip town tomorrow to head to PA to see my parents' first new house in almost 30 years. Call me a bad mother, but unless his head is spinning on his neck or he's developed leprosy, we're still going. I am convinced that the air in my town is toxic with viruses and we need to get out while the gettin's at least partially good. It's supposed to be nearly 60 degrees on Thursday in PA, and I'm gonna feel that air on a 5-mile run if I have to sacrifice my kid's comfort on a 7-hour car ride to do it. Selfish? Callous? Cruel? Yeah, bite me. I'm a woman on a mission, equipped with bottles of Children's Motrin and Robitussin. I only have one kid, so I have to do my best to screw this one up. I won't get another one to mess with.

While I'm driving my listless child to PA tomorrow, why don't you sit back at the ole computer and crank out 500 words for the Runner's Lounge Book Project? The deadline is Saturday 2/28, and we need your writing. Don't make me say your names. Vanilla. Nitmos. Neal. Sarah. Mr. Doodle. Xenia. And the rest a ya. I read your blogs; I know you're not running. If you're not running, you might as well write about running, damnit.

On the Mend and Onto Crazy Ideas

I think I'm finally, finally coming out of this god-forsaken virus. Of course, I would start feeling better the day I opted to skip a half-marathon. I ran 3 miles yesterday in honor of Nancy (a week late, due to the sickies), and they were a very slow and crappy 3 miles. The forecast was for cold rain in Hyannis this morning, so I took that with my residual cruddy feeling and stayed home from the race. I'm bummed about it, though not nearly as much as I would be if I were planning to run the full marathon. That would place my mood in the red zone of bummed-out-ness. Apparently my vocabulary suffers when I get sick.

It's been a rough month around here, with the germs running rampant and me not running much at all. For the first time in a while, I think Brian might hand me my running shoes and push me out the door. The other day, I told him I want to run a 50K in the fall. He looked at me like I was insane, and I think maybe he contemplated forbidding it before thinking better of making such a statement to a woman with defiance issues. Now I think he's hoping it was a fever-induced delusion and that I've forgotten about it.

But I haven't.

The way I see it, once you run the marathon in 3:40 (today my glass is half full), tacking on 4 more miles at a much slower pace a few weeks later shouldn't be that bad. Right? Right? A marathon in 8:20 pace versus a 50K at a 10-minute pace: the 50K is probably even easier than the marathon. Get your virtual hand off my forehead. It makes sense to me.

One of the moms in my study said to me that she believes the marathon will soon become the half-marathon, and that all of us will have to start running ultras to feel like we're doing something significant. If that's the case, I want to be ahead of the curve. And if I can't qualify for Boston, then I might as well run further to make myself feel better. That's logical, isn't it?

Always Go With Green

It's been eight days since my last run. This is longer than I was off with pneumonia, making it the longest I have gone without running in a few years. I am a blob. I used to be a strong, fierce running maniac a la Flashdance, but without the stripping. Now I am ectoplasm. Ectoplasm in my Valentine's gold hoops and jammy pants.


It's very hard to run if you are ectoplasm.

Yesterday I even got a pair of Pearl Izumi shoes to test and review*, and I just kind of looked at them wistfully before launching into another round of coughing.

Oh, here's a tip for you: if you want antibiotics and your doctor asks if your phlegm is yellow or green, always go with green. Green gets you drugs. Yellow gets you crap. Ectoplasm? Green. In fact, I should have told the doctor my phlegm is black. I bet I could get some good stuff for black.

I'd try to run if not for the fever. I can handle a run with a stuffy nose and a cough, but the fever just makes it impossible. Plus it's hard to garner sympathetic child care from my husband so I can lie in bed doing crossword puzzles if I just put in a little 5k around the neighborhood. A wife must play these things very carefully.

Since I can't test out the shoes yet, we have to operate on first impressions, and I would like your honest opinion of how these shoes look. I know we're supposed to go with function over form because we're serious runners who take running very seriously and can't be distracted by non-serious things like aesthetics. But let's be honest, people. The shoes need to make you look like a serious runner and not an aerobics instructor from 1988**.



So let me know what you think of the look of these shoes. I'm kind of on the fence.

Thinking maybe they'd look better in green. They'll be perfect for the couch-to-5k program I'm going to have to join when I finally feel better.

What do you think of these shoes?
Awesome in an ironic way, like a tribute to the post-Vietnam/pre-feminist Jane Fonda of the leotards No irony. They just ugly. Free is free. Quit your whining. This is a stupid poll. Go back to bed, Pinto.
	Results

*I'm selfish and inconsiderate, so I didn't think to give them away like Vanilla. No wonder people don't like me.
**Not that there's anything wrong with 1980s aerobics instructors. I idolized you in the 1988.

Why I Love My 3:57 Marathon

For the first time in memory, my eye is producing snot.

This thing is positively the nastiest illness I've endured in a while, including the pneumonia. At least that didn't give me eye goop. The eye thing makes it clear to me (ironically) that I got what Henry had a week or so ago, which is of course the way it usually works. His eye cleared up before we called 'conjunctivitis' so I assume mine will, too.

I went to see the doctor today, and I'm a bit mad at myself for switching practices because my old doctor would write a prescription for a hang-nail, but the new one has principles and no sympathy for my Rudolph nose. She told me I'd start to feel better by the end of the week, and was unamused when I tried to make the copay worthwhile by getting a scrip for Vicodin for the pain in my ass that was this trip to the doctor. The best she could do was Robitussin plus codeine. Bah. I'll just take a double shot of NyQuil and forget the pharmacy hassle.

This all leaves me in a very familiar position. I have a half-marathon in Hyannis on Sunday, and I haven't run since last Wednesday. I wasn't planning to bust out a PR anyway, but I don't want to race if I'm going to drip eye snot on a fellow runner. A seagull, perhaps, because they're a nuisance, but I'd like to maintain my good reputation in the running community. (Quiet down, peanut gallery, my bitchy online persona does not extend into the local running 'hood.)

No matter what I decide about running the half on Sunday, I would just like to pause and express my gratitude again to those who made it possible for me to run a marathon in January--my mom and dad, good ole gran, and Jessica. Because if not for PF Chang, I'd be banking on Hyannis and in a very, very miserable state of affairs right now, given the whole illness what-have-you.

3:57 PR, I love you so, so much.

Fluey

I'd planned this whole elaborate post about the logic of tapering before a half-marathon, complete with a poll and quotes from the experts... blah, blah, blah ... and then late Friday I got sick.

And I'm still sick so my whole internal debate about whether to run 10 or 13 today, a week before the Hyannis half, is now moot. So I don't really care about the logic of tapering before a half anymore. I just care about not feeling like crud and what Pixar selection my son will watch while I moan in bed and cough up nastiness.

I'll be back when typing doesn't hurt.

Compensating Much?

In the name of all that is tacky, the Little Rock Marathon has revealed this year's medal, keeping with their claim to fame as the marathon with the largest finisher's medal. I love garish as much as the next gal and covet nothing more than a sparkly necklace hanging over my gut that reads "BIG" in 72-point font, but perhaps this is a bit, well, too much of too much?



The medal is 7 1/4 inches long x 6 1/4 inches wide and weighs a pound and a half-- because everybody wants to run 26 miles and then hang something really heavy around their necks. A disappointing chip time is enough of an albatross for me, thank you very much.

Wishing you all a beautiful Valentine's Day, or at least a Saturday of great sublimation through running.

One Mile, Four Minutes

Sometimes people wonder about the sadist I paid to make me treadmill that 4 x 4 miler back on October 22*. I've even had a couple readers ask for my coach's contact info, which I assume isn't because he looks like Owen Wilson, but because they're masochists, too.

I actually want to train again with Nate to break 1:40 in the half-marathon before I work for a BQ again, but woe-is-me, he's moving to Colorado. He swears it's not because his most public client ruined his reputation with her race in Phoenix, but I think he might be entering a witness protection program for coaches because I embarassed him.

I'm trying to consider his reputation and not show up where he's running these days. Thanks to the magic of video, I can stalk him on the Internet. Nate's been competing really well in the indoor season this year and is making his local groupies proud, but we'll surely forget his name the second he bails on us for the cool kids in Colorado Springs. A week or so ago, he helped promote the new anti-gravity (alter-G) treadmill at the joint where I get my massages from The Elbow. I haven't tried the alter-G yet and promise to report on its spacey perfection as soon as I get a chance to zip myself into it and instantly shed a large percentage of my body weight. With that feature, I have no doubt this treadmill would resolve the bodily insecurities of most women I know.

Nate hopped on the alter-G to see if he could run a 4-minute mile without all that pesky gravity that is the bane of any runner's existence. I can't embed the video because I think the code is wonky and I got no html skillz, so check out the video here if you:

a) want to see if Nate accomplished his goal
b) want to see Nate in tight shorts and something that resembles a tutu
c) are bored at work this afternoon and find treadmill videos a good diversion**

*I remember the date not only because it was traumatic; I ran it on Henry's birthday.
**That would seem to be a lot of you, given the number of comments on my gait post last week.

The Athlete's Guide to Yoga (DVD), or I Like People to Wear Pants When in Public

So I’ve been going to ashtanga yoga once a week for a while now and loving it. The difference in my hamstrings after 90 minutes is unreal. Plus, any time I can spend in an 80-degree room this time of year is worth $16 a class. My pasty, flaky skin is so happy to feel the totally artificially heated air. I don’t get why all the other women come to this hot class in pants. It is my only chance to take off my socks and wear shorts and a tank all winter. At home, I even shower in fleece.

Apparently I’m not the only person who feels this way, however. A couple weeks ago, I go to class, put down my mat, and notice another pair of bare legs, which is unusual because I’m always the only person in shorts. I turn my head and immediately snap it back.

Dude has no pants on.

And he’s not wearing short shorts or boy shorts or shorts of any kind. He’s in his yoga Speedo, sans shirt. It is a sight to behold, but one I wish I could erase from its place in my mind’s eye.

Thankfully another woman placed her mat between us, an act I’m sure she regretted as soon as she did it, but you can’t really gracefully move your mat in that situation. I’m just glad she had to be the one adjacent to his very prolonged and proud back bend, which revealed why he had no shame in his chosen yoga fashion. Hello, Shanti.

Speedo Man is now a permanent fixture in my Monday morning class, but there are days when I just don’t want to tarnish my vinyassa with his bits and pieces. We’re also trying to live frugally right now, so my $16, 90-minute sauna seems a little indulgent. But without yoga class or a massage addiction I can’t justify when I’m not in serious training, what’s a runner girl to do?

Enter The Athlete's Guide to Yoga, the new DVD by Sage Rountree. Now I have tried a lot of yoga videos in my life, so I feel qualified to make the statement that her DVD is the absolute best at-home yoga I have tried. Not only does it have sessions that target typical runners’ ailments like IT Band trouble, but you have the option of programming the routine for your specific needs (such as flexibility or strength).

Plus, Sage’s DVD gives you sequences that are new and fresh for those of us who are a little burned by all those sun salutations. Moon Salutations! Who knew?!

Last, the video quality is superb and Sage leads the sequences with the right amount of narration and no superfluous fondling of your spirituality. I know there are folks who like the spiritual bit, and I actually love hearing my yoga teacher chant before class, but once I get into the poses, I’m all about the physical and don’t reap much benefit from vague references to my heart wheel.

My only difficulty came with wanting more time spent on each pose, but once I get the routines down, I can take the poses on my own time, so it’s not a huge issue.

The best review I can give for this DVD is that not once did I pause it to check my email or to update my Facebook status, something I know Sage can appreciate. Finally, everyone in the video keeps their private bits well concealed. It’s worth the $20 just for that consideration of my modesty. It might just be me, but I think yoga should never make you want to gouge out your eyes.

When Flexibility Is a Bad Thing

I have a question in my interview guide for the book that asks, "What would you say if you were told you could never run again?"

The question usually elicits a deep sigh, and while a few people have said they would find another fitness outlet, most have expressed sadness at the thought and a refusal to accept it. One particularly witty mom even said, "I'd get a second opinion." I can't speak for people in other demographics, but as a running mom, being told you can't run again is not unlike being told your children will never grow up and move out. More than a bit stifling and scary.

So imagine the gasp I let out when I read that Non-Runner Nancy of the virtual races, Beijing schwag, and all around goodness was given that horrific diagnosis. And I'm not only upset that the only person who hosts races I win is forced to lay off our sport. Pauvre Nancy! I can't believe that flexibility can ever be pejorative, but our dear Nancy is just too stretchy. This is the biggest spandex nightmare since stirrup pants. Is it possible your body is made of Lycra, Nancy?

In honor of Nancy's inevitable transition from running to yoga, a virtual 5k race has been set for Valentine's Day, thanks to US Jogger. So before you slap on the lipstick for that someone special (I'm lookin' at you, 'Nilla, since Nitmos went AWOL and I can't rag on him anymore), put some on for Nancy and join us for a short run. As an added tribute to Nancy, I'll even stretch afterward so that I'm more flexible, too.

Hearts Aflutter

I've come up pretty empty with blogging material this week--you know it's bad when you're blogging a long and monotonous video of your gait. I don't know where my mojo went, but I usually have posts lined up for a week in my head, and all I've got today is my recent observation that all the safety pins in my house are grouped in fours.

I'm running less, but still enough that I should have something to say. I have a review to do for the DVD The Athlete's Guide to Yoga (thanks, Sage!), but I want to give it the thought it deserves, unlike how I treat most of my posts and reviews.

So I was intrigued to see Om Gal's post this morning--timely as it was--on things that send her heart aflutter. It's a fun thing to think about, if like me, you currently have no coach to rage against with Snoop impersonations or a race to make you lose your marbles.

What sends my heart aflutter?

Dark, nearly bitter, chocolate.

Henry's description of a pizza we ate the other night as "lovely."

This poem. Swoon. Partly because it is about lying down, not running.

Cavallini and Co. calendars. I save them from year to year and now the playroom is covered in them.

An honest-to-goodness letter. In my mailbox, not my inbox.

Sun.

Gel pens.


What sends your heart aflutter?

Hawt!

Wanna see something really titillating?*



This sexy little video of my overpronating gait in an old pair of Asics 2120s has been viewed 1,640 times on You Tube. While I do think my calves are decent and it's a good example of rolling over my arches, I don't really comprehend the viewership.

I'm a little concerned it was embedded on some Asics porn blog.


*No need to watch all of it; there's nothing tantalizing at the end of the video.