Onwards: A Little Frivolity for a Wednesday

Onwards from AKQA on Vimeo.

Hell, Yeah

Today was our annual outing to the Groton Road Race, where I ran the 5k and Henry ran the Tot Trot. You know your child has running in his blood (or at least is reminded of running constantly) when he gets up and says, "Do I race today?" I didn't start using "race" as a verb until this year. My four year old says it with the nonchalance of Usain Bolt (after a bender, when he can't recall his schedule).

The theme of the day? Hell on earth.

Don't misunderstand. I love Groton. I love their road race. We've gone three times and chronicled Henry's growth every year.

Here's the hell part:

1. Hell is hot, no?

It was 80 degrees at race time, which is freaky weird weather for this part of the world in April. Good for frozen margaritas; bad for running.

For this race, I summoned the courage to wear the race singlet from my running club. I just hadn't yet felt like I should be representing anyone, but lately I've felt my running is strong enough for it. So I put it on. I felt sassy. I felt speedy.

I felt hot. And not hawt. Just plain ole hot.

So when I got there I took it off. I raced in the bare minimum because of the heat-- love handles, stretch marks, and cellulite be damned. Next time for the singlet.

2. Pre-race massage by a Hell's Angel.



Okaaaaaaay, he probably wasn't actually a Hell's Angel. But don't you think it's fascinating that my husband is taking a photo of me having my ass rubbed by a biker? Brian is either the most secure spouse on the planet and/or he has a perverse voyeuristic streak. Either way is awesome, if you ask me.

3. What's the most hellish scenario you can imagine as a parent?

Henry lined up for his Tot Trot, which runs about 200 meters of the track. We stood next to the track, and I planned to cut across the field to cheer at the finish while Brian followed the kids to take pictures.

Can you see where this is going?


Kid likes to run. Kid likes to run fast. Kid was there to race. Mama wasn't prepared for kid to beat her to the finish. Mama lost kid in the crowd at the finish.

For TEN minutes.

When I see mothers of lost children on TV, I used to wonder if I'd be the composed, shaky-voiced type or the hysterical, hyperventilating type.

There I am, doubled over and sobbing in the EMT tent while Brian and a mass of people search for my kid. When a friend found Henry and brought him over, you'd think he'd just been listening peacefully to a story under a shade tree. All was cool in Henry world. I, on the other hand, clutched him to me until he begged me to put him down, at which point, he said, "Did I win?"

"Yes, you won, pumpkin!" I said. Who the hell knows if the kid won the race? I sure don't care, but Henry has since enjoyed the best afternoon of his life--ice cream, movies, etc. I would buy him a killer whale (his favorite animal) right now if he asked me to.

4. Who the hell wants to run a 5k now?

About 20 minutes after I lost my kid and bled my adrenaline into panic, it was time for me to line up for the 5k. Yeah, no thanks. I really didn't want to race at that point and just wanted to take my kid home, but you know, I paid for it and everything and wanted to earn an afternoon of booze to recover from my earlier terror.

My goal was to run a 21:36, to shed two minutes from my 5k PR, which I set just before training with Nate. This was the hottest race I've ever run and I immediately knew that the heat, combined with the energy I drained on losing the kid, meant I wouldn't see that 2-minute PR.



I ran it in 22:09. Bugger. At least my family didn't lose me at the finish and have to send out a search party; they could hear me panting from across the infield.


That's me closing in on the finish, not me racing to find my kid 45 minutes earlier.

5. Hell, yeah.

So um, lots of hell today. But here's the second place finisher in her division hugging her wayward boy before they headed home.


He's totally cool with me holding him in a grip like that until he goes to college.

Long Runs Going Strong

With all of the marathon excitement and Bruce idolatry, it hasn't come up that my running is going very well lately as I train for an early June half-marathon, where I want to break 1:40 (PR is 1:43). Last weekend on my 14-mile long run, I was supposed to run the last 2 miles at half-marathon pace (7:37), and I ran them in 7:15 and 7:19. It wasn't exactly a cake walk--more of a souffle walk (because souffle is really hard to make--get it? I know, groan). But I did it.

Wednesday was track for 10 x 600, which I kind of nailed, averaging a 7:28 pace for the whole shebang. Another 10k PR, possibly fueled by adrenaline from the dogs people were allowing to run free on the track. I haven't read the book on track etiquette, but I'm fairly certain that's a no-no. I am generally an animal lover, but nothing makes me want to kick an animal like seeing one charge across the infield towards my bare legs. (I didn't kick the dog, in case you're wondering.)

I needed to get my long run in before the weekend, so I ran it this morning. Two 7-mile loops, which is not usually my thing, but today I'd give it a go. I'm typically an out-and-back kinda girl, or a one-big-loop sorta girl, because I always worry I'll get to my house and just pack it in halfway through. But today, the two loops worked for me.

I ran my first 7 miles, remembering too late that split shorts on a windy day are not the best plan when utility workers are out and about trimming trees. Oh, well. A nice mid-morning treat for the fine men in hard hats.

Got back home, took my Roctane and water, and away we run for the second loop. I took the first 4 miles casually so I could save my energy for doing the final three in 7:37s. When I picked it up at the end of mile 11, I knew I had this pace in me.

Mile 12: 7:11
Mile 13: 7:15
Mile 14: 7:11
Overall average: 8:07

Training is good for me, as long as I can sustain the effort and my body can take what I'm putting it through. I need this right now, the dependability of going out there and going strong.

I Don't Give a Damn For Just the In Betweens

In case you didn't catch my very subtle enthusiasm, Marathon Monday was good. Really good. So good I spent a drizzly Tuesday feeling kind of "eh." All day, I was hoping Robert Cheruiyot would run by my window or I could pace the mailman from house to house. He drives a jeep, but I could overcome that minor detail to pace his truck down the street.

And then came Tuesday night.


Did you know that I enjoy the fine musical stylings of one Mr. Bruce Springsteen and his delightful E Street Band? I do. Even when he has an obvious head cold and seems to be a little grouchy, Bruce puts me in a stupefied reverie. One in which I scream my head off and dance for three hours like I'm possessed by the holy ghost power. Some people have religious idols. I have a guitar player from Jersey.

He opened with my life's current theme song--the one I came to hear--and kept me on my feet for all but The Ghost of Tom Joad. When I saw him in August, he took the quirky request Little Latin Lupe Lou and rocked the house with it. Tuesday night's kooky treat was a cover of ZZ Top's I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide. Here's his version from the show:



Bet you can't guess how many times I've watched that video. The man has laryngitis, but he still defines rock star.

And then came Wednesday. Woke up, did speed work (another 10 x 600), which always charges me full of something fierce, but this time the charge didn't last as long. I was in withdrawal from Tuesday night. Besides, I knew Bruce could do better. Assuming he took some Sudafed and had a good nap, I thought he deserved a second chance to give me my Glory Days, which wasn't on the set list on Tuesday.

Could I do this? Go back again? I'm a boring mom. I can't go back to Boston to see him again like a little groupie. I'm scared of driving in Boston. Besides, I have chicken defrosting and a Netflix to watch. Sigh.

So Wednesday night...


I've heard that addicts have a way of finding each other among the sea of normal people. Is there an aura, a vibe, a glint in the eye? I don't know. But it's definitely true. My friend emailed to say she wanted to go back, and I was in. Other people think we're silly or nuts, but we get each other. This is serious and it fills a void that the itty bitty thrill of seeing that red DVD envelope in the mailbox just can't match.

So we went back for more, this time on the Floor. What can I say? We're bad. We're nationwide. The chicken would keep.

And Bruce was on fire. He'd taken his Airborne and rocked us out. You probably don't care, but here's the set list from last night. He opened with Badlands again, like someone's trying to tell me something (as in, "Buy your ticket to Australia already, woman!"). Yes, he covered I Wanna Be Sedated, and I just about died. Later he brought out the Dropkick Murphys, one of whom proposed to his girlfriend on stage. And he closed with Glory Days and Seven Nights to Rock.

Badlands
Candy's Room
Outlaw Pete
She's The One
Working On A Dream
Seeds
Johnny 99
Youngstown
Raise Your Hand
I Wanna Be Sedated
Spirit In The Night
For You
Waiting On A Sunny Day
The Promised Land
Jungleland
Kingdom of Days
Radio Nowhere
Lonesome Day
The Rising
Born To Run

Hard Times
Thunder Road
Land Of Hope And Dreams
So Young and In Love (with Dropkick Murphys)
American Land (with Dropkick Murphys)
Glory Days
Seven Nights To Rock



And then it was over. And today it's Thursday. Same old Thursday. Where will I get my rush today? No marathon, no E Street. The Netflix is still here, and the chicken. It's even a rest day on my running schedule.

I want the heart, I want the soul, I want control right now. Instead, I really must clean the bathrooms.

I wonder if tickets are available for the Hershey show in a few weeks.

Boston 2009: A Crazy Long Race Report from a Non-Racer

I fulfilled my requirement of writing one book page before blogging today, so here we go on what is sure to be the longest race report by someone who didn't actually run the race...

Watching the Boston Marathon in person is one of the greatest experiences a runner can have. Running the Boston Marathon is the best experience a runner can have. Somewhere between the two lies pacing someone to a jaw-dropping PR in the Boston Marathon.

I started running ten years ago after watching the Pittsburgh Marathon go through my neighborhood. When you well up with tears as a spectator at mile 10, you better find some good running shoes and see what you can do. Qualifying for Boston with a sub 3:40 is still in my master plan, but just being part of a major marathon is like a potent fix for me.

Case in point: on the T out to Boston College yesterday, the train made the turn onto Comm Ave, and I saw my first glimpse of "marathon evidence"--tables of paper cups stacked in a pattern that would make a geometry teacher weep with glee. Or a silly runner like myself, who was eagerly dead set on jogging a couple miles from BC to mile 17.5 so I could stand at a corner for two hours to wait for a friend, who I would pace 9 miles to the finish.

As the train careened around the corner, I saw the cups, the numbered tables with bottles for the elites, swarms of yellow-jacketed volunteers at the ready, and the barriers that try and fail to keep rabble like me off the course. Shortly after turning the corner, I looked out the window again and saw the winner in the wheelchair division speed by--faster than my rambling Green Line train, I might add.

As I jogged slowly from the T stop to the Newton firehouse where I would eventually see Jessica, I watched more wheelchair races crank up the hills. If you're ever feeling pained and sorry for yourself on a hill, watch this video:



I didn't shoot the video, but it also shows the landscape of the world's best marathoners that I took in on my little joggy jog down the course from mile 21-18. Not too shabby. Kara Goucher's legs? Also mighty fine in person. She's also taller than I'd expected, so she'll clearly have a long career in runway modeling after hanging up the flats.

So what does it mean when my brief moments of viewing the elites makes me well up for the second time in less than an hour?

It means I will be a sobbing mess when we cross the finish line.

Standing on the corner where Route 16 meets Comm Ave, I noshed on a couple Power Bars for lunch, cheered for some friends as well as people like Blue Hat Guy and Lady with the Cape. I also had plenty of time to grow paranoid that I would miss Jess and have to make my way back to Boston by myself. Brian was tracking her online at home and texted me when she crossed the half and the 30k, so I stopped cheering for random people and fixed my eyes for Jess to make the turn. She'd been holding an 8-minute pace the whole way, which made me a little nervous for a bonk on the hills because she'd intended to hold 8:30s.

When Jess turned the corner, I ran up alongside her and we just kept going like the whole thing had been scripted. We started up the first of the Newton hills and because I was starting cold, I immediately freaked that I wouldn't be able to hold the pace of someone who'd been running for 18 miles. This would not do, obviously.

I warmed up quickly enough and decided that if Jess wanted to hold 8:00s, we would hold 8:00s. So I moved ahead of her by about a meter and intentionally stayed that way the rest of the race. I wanted to block the wind gusts, but I also wanted to keep her motivated to hold her pace. Every time she fell back, I slowed, but as soon as she caught me, I moved ahead again. Frustrating, eh, Jessica?

We got to the base of the third hill, and I said, "Okay, this is it." She prepared herself for Heartbreak, and up we went. We coasted down again, continuing to pick off runners.

Then we got to the real Heartbreak Hill. I said, "This is just a little bump and then we're downhill to Boston." So I'm a big fat liar. Whatever. It worked. She let go of the myth because I'd lied and up we went, still picking off runners.

At mile 20, Jessica turned and said, "I think I can PR."

"I know you can," I told her. "You can do this. You can get your 3:40. These people are all completely wasted to get you there." I don't know if she heard that part because her headphones were back in, but she held out her hand to me. I thought she wanted a Gu, so I reached in my pocket.

"No," Jess said, but she kept her hand out. I grabbed her hand, squeezed it hard enough that she might have finished Boston with a broken pinkie, and we kept going.

We hit Beacon Street, and I told her, "You've got a tunnel, a right turn, and a left turn. That's it." Still a bit of a fib, but I'll do what it takes, man.

When we finally made the turn onto Boylston and saw the banner, I was more than willing to step out as she sprinted down the stretch. I asked if she wanted me to cross with her or hop out, and before I could finish the question, she said, "Cross."

We looked at the clock just before the line and both our eyes bugged out. Not only did she break 3:40, she broke 3:35. A nine-minute PR. In Boston. In the wind.

We both broke down in tears, hugged, then cried some more like the weepy sillies we are. It was one of the most awesome race experiences of my life, pacing someone to that kind of finish.

Needless to say, I highly recommend running the last nine miles of the Boston Marathon. But more than that, I think every runner should help a friend by pacing him or her. Even though I'd love to get paid to do what I did yesterday, the truth is that I'd do it for free any day.

A Little Bit of Polyester Goes a Long Way

Look closely. Can you find me in this photo?


No, you can't.

There's Paula and Kara, rocking their "buns" (I can't believe that's what those shorts are called; even if it's a colloquialism) in NYC last November. As they should be, with legs and, well, buns, like those. Kara appears to be aiming for more modesty, but as I, too, have found with lycra run shorts, they can be a tad creepy. My guess is the cop didn't mind working the beat on that particular Sunday.

Being an amateur who runs a third of the weekly mileage of an elite, I couldn't possibly show up to the Westford 5k in anything like that. I'm not a big girl, but I just don't have the hocks. Nor do I want to be shut in the stocks (or, more accurately, the gazebo on the Common) for corrupting the youth in the Family Fun Run.

Beyond our obvious muscular differences, there's also the issue of storage. I might as well be a mule in a marathon. Just storing my gels requires more fabric than Petrova's got on her entire bum. Storing my "modesty" requires even more.

I just want a nice pair of lightweight shorts that cover the results of my frequent indulgence in Hershey products. With pockets. And in a color that is not always black. I don't mean I need to go this far, but you get it.

On Friday, I attended a Lululemon focus group for runners because the company wants to improve its running line and give us what we want. Hallelujah. And the 12 of us agreed we want pockets that can hold our junk without letting it flop around. (That sentence wasn't meant to read as dirty as it does.) I said I also wanted bionic shorts that eliminate the need for effort.

It's taken the makers of running shorts a while to catch on to our need for pockets. For a while, I ran races in tennis shorts because they had deep pockets. But those were boxy and heavy. Then I used a clip-on pocket, but that digs into my flesh, and speed work is enough self-flagellation for me. I don't need to literally bleed from the gut.

Finally, though, the designers have gotten the message. You'd think they don't run. My favorite pocketed running shorts are made by Sugoi, and I wear them for every long race. I think they're so fabulous, I've started pronouncing it Soo-gwah like when we all started calling Target 'Tarjay.' Shut up--it makes me feel good.

As if the Sugoi people knew how much I adore their shorts, they sent me a pair of a new pocketed short (I like to drop the 's' like that woman on What Not To Wear) that I don't think has even hit the shelves yet. I tried to find a pic of it on their web site, but there isn't one up yet, so this is me in the shorts:



Look at me all striking the poses. I learned that arm thing from too many In Style magazines at the salon.

The shorts? I love 'em. The pockets are perfectly placed on my hip (see second photo), and the fabric is incredibly light without making me feel like I'm running nakey. There was no chafing at my waist on any of my test sessions with them, even with the fuel belt around my waist. There's also no split at the side, which is great because my other Sugoi shorts are split and the fabric can get caught in my SPIbelt in a race, with disastrous results to my dignity. And the color isn't black--gray is a bold enough departure for me. They did seem a smidge big, and I have to roll the waist once, but I have a weird habit of doing that with shorts anyway.

In short (rim shot), they seem like the perfect marathon shorts. Almost makes me want to run one. Right now. I wonder if there's a marathon nearby this weekend...



So a shout out to Sugoi for the love (they also make my favorite running shirt, which I bought at PF Chang). And a big fist pump or fist bump or something like that to all the Boston runners tomorrow. This is your party. And I'll cry if I want to.

Go get 'em Betsy, Jess, Jill, Judith, Laura, Lindsey, Moose, Neal, Sarah, Rebecca, Tyler, and everyone else I'm inevitably forgetting. I'll be cheering from mile 17ish until I'm running Jess to mile 26.1999999. If you see me, stop and grab a Gu from me.

And Kara, make us proud with those legs.

Photo credit: eugene on flickr and Paul Keleher

Oy Oy Oy

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
-Eleanor Roosevelt



Reading your comments has been so fascinating that I kind of want to leave people guessing a while longer. In general, it seems that people think I'm going to New Zealand, and the least favored option was Australia.

The truth of it, then, is that I chose the least predictable and most predictable of the options. Yes, that means I kind of misled you. I'm running in Australia for most of the trip and then going to New Zealand for the rest. If I'm going to fly upwards of 20 hours, I figure I should see as much as I can.

It might have been hard to guess what I chose because I had firmly decided on each option (other than the Big Five) at some point in the last few weeks. It was simply practicality that made up my mind. Originally, I was dead set on New Zealand for the entire trip, but it's winter there in August. While August in New Zealand is far superior to August in Massachusetts, I was concerned about running in cold rain for the whole trip.

Then I made up my mind to run the Tibet Half-Marathon. And I'm still kind of torn about not going for that option. The problem is that I need to finish the book first, and the Tibet trip would be in July, so I likely won't have it done by then.

Also, we all know my history of getting sick just before races and having to bail out. I am certain I would get dysentery or food poisoning or altitude sickness that would keep me from doing the race. That would kind of put a damper on my running trip. I want to come back enlivened by a meditative retreat, not pissed at the universe's karmic punch to my gut. Life is suffering, holds the first of Buddhism's four noble truths. I don't want Tibet to hand me that lesson on a platter.

I then researched the Inca Trail, but the trip would have been shorter yet more expensive, and permits to enter the trail are very limited. Plus, there's still the whole altitude/illness factor. I want to run this trail at some point, but maybe with friends and not on a solo trip. Don't ask me why--just the image I have of that one.

So then I went back to New Zealand and Australia and found this running trip to the outback. I want to push myself. Hard. I need to chip away at the safe and secure concrete wall that surrounds my comfort zone. Everyone in my family has traveled for tough, foreign, and uncomfortable challenges. India. Iran. Argentina. Africa. I didn't go on any of these trips. Sometimes when you think what you need most in life is a soft pillow and the comfort of the familiar, you wake up one day and realize your shelter has kept you in, rather than kept something scary out.

I'll fly to Melbourne to acclimate and run there for a few days, then go to Alice Springs for the 5-day run on the Larapinta Trail. To a lot of people, the idea of me running in the bush and sleeping on the ground is laughable. But that's precisely the point. I need to force myself out of my comfort zone. And hopefully not be dinner for giant spiders. I'll be part of a 8-runner group led by guides for the company Running Scenic. If the thought of me sleeping anywhere but a bed is enough to make you raise your eyebrows, you'll spit your coffee at the idea of 5 days spent running without a shower and making a bathroom with a shovel.

No cell service. No internet. No Facebook. Just a rocky trail and my rotting corpse, gnawed by vultures in the evening sun. Eight runners went out, seven came back...

Oh, wait, sorry. Confidence, Kris, confidence. I can do this. I drive an Outback, after all, and that's quite easy.

After the trail run, I'll fly to New Zealand to do some more mellow running on my own on tracks on the north end of South Island.

I am calling this trip my Runabout. If your knowledge of Australia extends past Foster's beer and "that's not a knife; this is a knife"--or you watch Lost--you've heard of a walkabout. It's more than a little frightening. But I've been comfortable too long, my head in the clouds. I'm ready to go down under.

Where Would You Go?

Even though I haven't blogged since Friday, my foot, my friends, is fine. Nate kept me off the long run on Sunday just in case, but I've been good to go ever since and even managed not to fall on my face. Some days, it's the small things, you know?

I rocked my 40-minute progression run for speed work yesterday morning, and did not at all feel the urge to punch or insult anyone afterward, which is fortunate because yesterday was also Brian's birthday. Saying "happy birthday," then kicking him in the shins would have been so me, circa 1989 (flirting is an acquired skill), so I'm glad I was all about the peace, love, and chocolate cake after my run.

For some reason, in the past year, I've had speed work on our birthdays. On mine in September, I crossed the puke threshold and didn't finish the run. That totally killed my plans to get drunk and puke later in the day, so it was a double misfortune.

On Henry's birthday, I didn't throw up, but I celebrated his day with a run that reminded me just how easy his birth was. Someone really must come up with an epidural for 4 x 4 milers. Or at least hand me a cute baby to cuddle afterward.

After my run yesterday, I spent the rest of the day drooling over Brian's present, which he totally deserves, but which I want, too, being as we're equal partners and all that jazz. We are the last to the smart phone party, so I got him a G1, and now he has something to glue his eyes to while I slave in the kitchen and raise his child.

I'm really good at guilt.

Brian keeps reminding me that I don't get a G1 because I am getting my once-in-a-lifetime trip this summer, which is going to cost as much as the number of G1s we could line up between our house and my destination. That shuts me up right quick, but I still want that phone.

Here's the deal: I get a 2 1/2 weeks to go anywhere I want to run. Anywhere. This is my celebration for finishing the book and an opportunity to deal with some mental junk by way of a certain degree of personal challenge--and probably a lot of weird bugs and stuff.

Before I tell you where I'm going, I'm really curious about where other people would go if you had the amazing gift that I've received--the option to run anywhere in the world for 2 1/2 weeks.

I'm going to mention a few options I've explored, and you can guess where I'm going and then say where you'd go. Fun, no? Please play along so I don't feel like a loser with no friends at her birthday party.

1. Run the Inca Trail

2. Run the Great Tibetan Marathon (or Half-Marathon)

3. Run the Australian Outback on the Larapinta Trail

4. Run tracks (trails) around New Zealand

5. Run the Big Five Marathon in Africa


As you can see, I'm not messing around with this trip. It is worth so much more than some stupid phone.

If I can get 20 people to comment with guesses, I'll tell you tomorrow where I'm headed. If you're one of the few who already know, just tell us where you'd like to go in the world to run.

I Run Like an Asshole

Shit. Damn. Hell.

And that's what I have to say after 800 mg of Advil and a cosmo. You should have heard what I was saying at about 11 a.m. this morning, when I was splayed on the shoulder of Route 40, wondering why those minivan drivers had stopped in the middle of the road and how much it was going to hurt to pick the gravel out of my shin.

When I said "ruthless passion" yesterday and waxed poetic about blood and crying and pain in the name of running, this is not what I meant:


I am a klutz, this we knew. But I haven't face planted on a run in about 5 years. I suppose I was due. But did it have to happen in such a grand and mortifying way?

This morning I went for another trail run, the same trail that did this to my dear friend last fall. I ran several miles over maybe a badillion (that's a Henryism) tree roots with my deft little prance. Didn't trip once.

On the way home, I had to run about two miles of road. Smooth, easy pavement. Whoops.

Good Friday, my ass.

Somehow tripped. Somehow fell. Somehow rolled my left ankle, opened up both palms, and scraped my right shin and shoulder. You know how pesky air can be; it really has a way of grabbing hold of your feet and yanking you. There's a great web site that "pays tribute" to idiot drivers. I propose one for runners like me--the kind whose faces are not red from exertion but red from embarrassing moves of the Dick Van Dyke-over-the-ottoman variety.

After gathering myself, finding my way up to standing, and walking a bit to test my ankle, I managed to jog the mile and a half left to my house.

I was okay. I washed, disinfected, and smacked myself upside the head for being a dumbasss. My ego was more bruised than any other part of me. In other words, the situation was critical.

And now I've got a persistent pain on various parts of my left foot and even had to dig out my post-Boston '07 crutches for a while this afternoon. You know how much I've needed running to maintain my delicate mental balance lately. I don't think "salvation" would be too strong a word here. When I asked Brian to look for the crutches, I think he contemplated taking me to the ER not for an X-ray but to keep me under professional supervision in a building with restraints and Valium.

Tomorrow was slated for a day off anyway, so I am crossing all digits and limbs that I'll be good to go on my long run on Sunday. Otherwise, I am going to have to find a less dangerous sport with similar cathartic qualities.

Like competitive bong smoking. Or cut-throat napping. Or a triathlon that combines the first two with a final segment of high-intensity self-pity. I might place in my age group.

Ruthless Passion

My spin 'round the dance floor with Ruthless Aggression turned out the way aggression usually does: badly. Not much fun to be asked why I'm so mad and have people wonder if I'm trying to start fights with them. Apologies.

I guess the ice bath after speed work will be serving a greater purpose than relieving stressed muscles and tendons; it will also curb my obvious tendency toward violence and restore my Zen-like pacifism while I utter expletives through gritted teeth. Some people are ugly drunks. I'm an ugly endorphin junkie, I guess. I suggest you tread lightly when near me on Tuesdays.

The aggressive instinct that bubbles up after a hard run does make me think--which is often not a good thing, as I'm prone to hurling myself through the looking glass when too introspective. Nonetheless, there I was running 7.5 miles of trails this morning. I had to stop to trim my toenail with my fingernail because it was gouging the adjacent toe to a bloody mess, and that's when the thinking started. Granted, I'd been thinking before that, but about things like my inevitable tattoo.

Looking at my bloody toes, I started thinking about passion. An obvious thought, no doubt. Toenails, passion, longing, and desire. Not Ess-Eee-Ex necessarily, but you can go there if this gets too cerebral and you're thinking about Ms. Ruthless Aggression (or Tori Amos) from Tuesday.

I'm not talking about my passion for mint chocolate chip ice cream. I mean the kind of passion that bleeds you, makes you wretch as it wrings your gut, and even leads you to cry on occasion. The kind of passion that you would really rather not throw away, despite all that junk.

In other words, running.

People tend to think of passion chemically, like you need a spark or some reaction potential to make it happen. But I wonder. Go talk to a new runner, someone who isn't naturally athletic, about her first run. I've done that, and people use words like "hell," "humiliating," and "torture."

And then they go run again.

And then a year later, they wouldn't give up running for a life of daily facials or unlimited free booze (okay, maybe that one).

You start with "hell" and you wind up with passion. And passion for something that makes you feel kind of tortured on a regular basis. It's ruthless, but yummy. You probably could even start with something as innocuous as apathy and wind up with passion when it comes to running.

Even with the bloody toes and everything else. You find that one thing that becomes your art and it's yours for keeps. It's permanent and painful and lovely. And I won't give it up, the running.

Alrighty, enough introspection. Back to the tattoo. Where should I get it?

Ruthless Aggression

Another blog post with a soundtrack (see sidebar).

Somehow recently, Henry's Rosie the Riveter action figure (I kid you not, he has one) made its way onto my desk. Her optimism, while well intentioned, has kind of been a nag, frankly. You can do it, Rosie. I'm just not feeling your enthusiasm these days.

So there I am walking the aisles of Target, and after I briefly look down and wonder if the Swiffer Wet Jet and Transformers in the cart might say something about my mental state, I see something I must have. A mop that removes the grime accumulating around me and toys that can change their identities at the push of a button definitely speak to me. But this perfect thing might as well jump off the shelf and into my arms.

It's Rosie's replacement, hanging between the Star Wars guys and the Power Rangers, and it's just how I feel when I've gone for a tough run and am feeling like kicking some ass.



I don't need the S&M woman, really. I just want the packaging. This unapologetic expression of ass-kicking certainty is how I feel after speed work. Running doesn't give me answers to life's questions, but it surely helps me eliminate unnecessary mental slag that I don't need. Tori Amos's "Big Wheel" came on during my run today, and there I was right with her.

M-I-L-F, don't you forget. M-I-L-F, don't you forget.

Tori and I, and Ms. Ruthless Agression, will kick some ass, no doubt. Wash you away, boy. We certainly kick the Swiffer's ass when it comes to my mental state in a shopping cart.

I wish I had this when I was a kid. If only it was a Transformer, too, it would be me wrapped in plastic, fierce and ruthless. The perfect Easter gift for the child in your life, obviously.


Today's speed session: 2 x 3 miles at 7:35 (half-marathon pace) with a 4-minute jog interval. Went well, clearly.

Team Goucher

As if to taunt me in my aspiration for Kara Goucher's legs without the hassle of Kara Goucher's mileage, Runner's World had to go and put her on the cover.

Don't get me wrong, though, I love Ms. Goucher. She shares the weird name of my undergrad alma mater, and has the chutzpah to shoot for a win in Boston after her stunning debut at the NYC Marathon in the fall.

And the dimples. My girl crush on her is in full force, only amplified by a quote from her in the RW feature that has her telling all of us she wants to get pregnant right after Boston. Only professional running makes space for women to have babies and return to racing without assuming their competitiveness somehow escaped their bods with the placenta. Love. It.

There are two consolations for me when it comes to watching the marathon from the sidewalk in a few weeks. One of them is running Jessica through the hills from Newton to Boston, which is the least I can do for her after she hosted me in Phoenix. The other thrill is the opportunity to see the elites race by, since I've always been several hours behind them on the course. I can't wait to see Kara's legs just after she's hurdled herself down Grossman's hill in Wellesley. Will I even see her legs, or will they be turning over too quickly?

Kara's legs, along with Kara's commentary, are featured in this video from Flotrack, shot during a training run on the course that she did in February. Boston runners get to see what the course looks like, and we can all enjoy her fearless run alongside Route 16 traffic. I tried my darndest to embed the video here, but my method of hopping up and down and yelling "Embed, damn it!" was ineffective, so click the link above.

Watch the whole thing to hear the fabulous closing comment on the location of the finish line. I'm pretty sure that while the giant banner is a good indication on race day, almost every runner thinks the same thing at the end of the course. Priceless.



My long run this weekend: 14 miles, 1:57, 8:21 pace. A ways off race goal pace of 7:37, but we're a ways off the race, too, so I haven't lost faith.

Self-Augmentation

Yeah, so, no augmentation for me. Sorry if the joke wasn't transparent, but now that I know how easy it is to lie to you, I'm going to start doing it more often. Probably more to the point, you think my mental state is totally unpredictable these days and could see me doing just about anything. But new boobs isn't one of those things. I'd rather spend the money on my summer trip-of-a-lifetime and add more heft to my resume of spiritual experience than my torso.

My speed workout the other day drove this point home. The 10 x 600 w/ 400m intervals was a raging success*, with an emphasis on "raging." It was quite the session of ass-kicking hell, complete with walkers in Lane 1 who might have heard me drop the F-bomb several times when they didn't move over in response to my wind-sucking approach from behind. Nate insisted afterward that this workout is brutal but a great indication of fitness for the desired speed.

All I know is, if I added several pounds of weight to my chest, the workouts would be that much harder. Let's not make things harder. I've been known to chop off six inches of my hair and hope that the weight loss might improve my times. Not that this mentality has kept my hand off the chocolate chip cookies. One must draw the line somewhere. Cut hair, not calories, I like to say.

This weekend I cross the half-marathon mark in mileage in my training for the Covered Bridges Half. I'm intrigued by half-marathon training and the marked differences between it and marathon prep. My longest run before the race will be 16 miles, obviously farther than the actual event. This weekend I do 14. I've decided that if I break 1:40 in the race, I'll try to BQ in the fall, and if I don't break 1:40, I'll train for a fall 50k.

Which leads me to the summer running adventure that will be dropped in the middle of my training for either option. I'm not disclosing where I'm going until I buy the ticket, but it's going to be far. I'm still working on the logistics of it, but I have the notion the trip might change me. Augmentation, indeed.

And no, I'm not going to Thailand for cheap implants.


*I came in well under goal times on each split, averaged a 7:31 pace for the 10k, and got a new 10k PR. Does that count? Or does it have to be in a race? It was a 46:36 for the 10k, including walker dodging, which makes it more authentically like a 10k if you ask me.

Flat Busted

It's April, when those of us in New England begin to have faith that the air might soon be warm enough to let our bare skin touch it. Dare we even dream about sand, surf, and summer frolicking? I know that as soon as the air invites me to pack away my mittens until November (who am I kidding? October.), I start thinking BEACH.

My local Target was already thinking BEACH in February, even though the store is in Nashua, where snow plows sit idling at the ready, round the clock, for six months. But I wouldn't indulge the BEACH thought until recently, when I ventured into that bathing suit section that's had me shivering on every trip to the store since Valentines Day.

As I perused the itsy bitsy teeny weeny goods, I had a revelation on an issue that's been humming in the back of my head for a while. For the past year, ever since I upped my mileage and began chasing speed, people have told me I look like a runner--even when running wasn't the topic of conversation. At first, I thought it was fantastic. I thought it meant I'd arrived and been admitted to a club. Then I realized what made them know I'm a runner. It wasn't my fantasy of having Kara Goucher's legs or Lolo Jones's abs. Because I don't have those things, damnit.

It was the hard, ugly fact that I have Paula Radcliffe's chest.

The only time in my life that I have been "endowed" was for about 8 months after having a baby. Keep in mind that I nursed for a full 12 months--my breasts were just hell-bent on retreat 3/4 of the way to that year. And because nursing sucked (couldn't resist--sorry) for both Henry and me, I didn't really appreciate my brief foray into women's "foundation garments."

Yes, it's true, I buy bras for girls, and not just because they're cheaper.

Since my 8 months of boobage, I can live--and even run--with the most minimal support, by which I mean my bra, not my cheering section--I need the equivalent of serious underwire in that department. But in bras, I wear a size that is characterized by words like "nearly," "training," and "-lette," and padding seems like such a grand lie that I won't even go there. I can't even bring myself to cop a feel for a self-exam, it's just that bad.

So even though many of you will probably comment that I should be happy to lack the "bounce-factor," I made a decision in the middle of that Target. I will no longer buy training bras and rationalize that they are for serious runners training for a marathon. I want my cups to runneth over.

I don't want to be a runner who looks like this:



I want to be a runner who looks like this:


I'm gonna put in some boobies. I think this can only help my identity crisis.

Happy April.