Hi. I'm still here. My new digs are not yet dug (the new site isn't ready for blogging), so I'll let you know when I move, but for now, I'm a bloggin' in the old 'hood. Hanging out patiently. Patience is a virtue, I've heard, so I will have to give it a try.
Training and racing, I've observed over the last year, are all about patience. You bust your ass, but there's a lot of patience involved, too. Waiting for the right race conditions. Waiting out an injury. Waiting for all the pieces to come together to meet your goal. When I bonked in Phoenix, my coach's primary response was: "It takes many marathons to meet your goal." It was not a koan: Nate is ever the pragmatist, but I appreciate his bluntness. I am a very impatient type, which is why I need a pragmatic coach and a structured training plan. It's also why I was an abominable Buddhist. (That, and the whole moderation and compassion thing.)
In my last few races--the 5ks and the marathon--I have pushed and pushed and pushed myself to my limit. Nausea. Delirium. Lactic acid ripping through my limbs.
The distinction these events hold is that I have treated them like they actually kind of matter. And they do. My trained muscles and tendons and joints hold all of my goals and mistakes and successes and failures. And so a race holds them, too, and I feel them viscerally when I rush forward at the sound of the pistol or the horn or the "Go."
Go.
Someone fires up a signal, and you go.
You rush--at whatever pace you've picked--until your body alienates you and starts its own signaling. Nausea. Delirium. Lactic acid ripping. It's like it's not even yours anymore and you have lost control or power over your own will. I hate that. I hate being at the whim of anything other than my own needs and desires. Even if it's my own body. Especially if it's my own body.
Damn bodies. They really make running rather difficult sometimes.
My threshold for exertion hit--my energy so tapped there is not even a drip of will left--I get to the point in a race where it is all I can do to keep going at all. I want it--it is in me somewhere--but wanting to keep your pace does not make it so. Someone might have said "Go" a while ago, but some force that sure isn't my will has demonized my heart and lungs, and I sputter.
I sputter and chug, losing steam. And then a corner is rounded. Here's something: the finish line is always just around a bend. Why do you never get a finish line you can see from a half mile away? It always just smacks you in the face. But the sting does something.
The sting sends a surge. And so, having seen the finish line, when your body feels most weakened and useless, you go faster. Faster.
The thinking used to be that our bodies try to maintain homeostasis constantly and that the body's symptoms of fatigue indicated its strained effort to maintain a safe homeostasis. But the finish line phenomenon shows the fallacy in that thinking.
Because "the only time homeostasis fails is when we are no longer alive" (Noakes, 2007; emphasis added).
Overlooking the cynical fact that our only choices appear to be homeostasis or death, this is an interesting factoid. Our bodies take care of us--no worries--making it possible for them to go out and do our bidding, even when our brains get all cranky and shit.
Like going faster when we sense the end is near.
When we see the finish line, we speed up. In my last 5k, I went from a 7:15 pace to a 6:35 when I saw the finish. In the marathon in Phoenix, I went from an empty-tank- 11:51 to a 9:32 for the final two tenths of a mile.
Our bodies are wrong when they're tired, and we're wrong when we think "quit." Unless we're dead, the homeostasis is kept, and we have to show those legs who's boss. We have to keep going, preferably faster. Because the goal is still there, even if you think the threshold has been met. You're wrong. You can handle more.
A surge is possible. Because you're tougher than you give yourself credit for. And the goal remains.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wide Open Spaces
Regardless of how you feel about Coldplay (not a fan), you can appreciate this video.
74 days until I go to Australia.
Have a great weekend, everyone, wherever your adventures take you.
UltraRunning from Matt Hart on Vimeo.
74 days until I go to Australia.
Have a great weekend, everyone, wherever your adventures take you.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Notes from the Minuteman Trail Head
It might come as a surprise to you to learn that I am a shy, quiet person in real life. If you invite me to a party, I will sweat with anxiety all day and prepare my conversations in advance, hoping to God that what I script will coordinate with the small talk. I am not a natural small talker.
But anyone could invite me for a run, and I'll go without blinking--no anxiety whatsoever. I love when I get to run with faster, more experienced people, people who knock out sub-3 marathons and win ultras. I love the communion of running with someone, step for step. You can talk the whole time, and then you can stop talking entirely and no one gets offended or feels awkward because you're still making progress down the road. It's usually a worthwhile connection, regardless of the conversation.
Yesterday I went running on the Minuteman Trail with a friend I've only met fairly recently. It had been raining all day, but by 5:00 the rain had stopped and the Concord woods were lush with green. No one else seemed interested in mucking along the road to the Revolution, however, because when we got there, we parked our Subaru wagons (required vehicle for all Mass residents) in an empty lot. It was goosebump cold, so we opted out of the Minuteman Audio Tour and took off right quick, holding what seemed to be a 7:30 pace, though my Garmin reception was coming in and out so I don't know for sure. All I know is that it felt fast, but it wasn't bad and I could keep up.
She is a faster and more experienced runner than I am, so I was happy that she complimented me by assuming her regular pace. (I'm hoping she doesn't ever invite me to bike with her because I am completely inept on a bike.) We talked, and we didn't, which was great. Because we were running fast, we took a breather at the turnaround and stood there chatting for a while about who-knows-what. Amazing how running amounts to conversational foreplay; you run a few miles, and as a result, you have tons to talk about. Not sure what that's about, but we were all of a sudden like two gabbing teenagers. Remember how you could chat for hours with a friend in high school about absolutely nothing? It was like that--so fun.
Now that I think about it, the run amounted to speed work--two repeats with recovery time at the birthplace of American democracy. I hope our forefathers aren't rolling over in their graves to know we soiled their hallowed ground with interval training.
The British are coming!
Hold on Paul, I need to stop the Garmin.
We flew back along the trail and when we got to the cars, we hung out for a bit. I was pleased that I didn't maim her on the trail, which is what happened the last time I went trail running with a friend. A bit muddy and a bug bite here and there, but that was all.
We talked tattoos (you know, typical suburban mom talk) and observed a woman pacing near her car (not a Subaru), musing that she was probably waiting for her lover (you know, typical suburban mom talk). And sure enough, he came, she got in his car, and off they went. I guess everyone takes advantage of the Minuteman Trail for their own reasons, which the policeman who looped the lot twice while we stood there no doubt knew.
So, people. Here's your take-away lesson: go run with someone new, preferably someone faster. Even if you're a shy and reserved sort like me, only good can come of it.
And another reminder to my virtual running friends that this blog is moving on June 1.
But anyone could invite me for a run, and I'll go without blinking--no anxiety whatsoever. I love when I get to run with faster, more experienced people, people who knock out sub-3 marathons and win ultras. I love the communion of running with someone, step for step. You can talk the whole time, and then you can stop talking entirely and no one gets offended or feels awkward because you're still making progress down the road. It's usually a worthwhile connection, regardless of the conversation.
Yesterday I went running on the Minuteman Trail with a friend I've only met fairly recently. It had been raining all day, but by 5:00 the rain had stopped and the Concord woods were lush with green. No one else seemed interested in mucking along the road to the Revolution, however, because when we got there, we parked our Subaru wagons (required vehicle for all Mass residents) in an empty lot. It was goosebump cold, so we opted out of the Minuteman Audio Tour and took off right quick, holding what seemed to be a 7:30 pace, though my Garmin reception was coming in and out so I don't know for sure. All I know is that it felt fast, but it wasn't bad and I could keep up.
She is a faster and more experienced runner than I am, so I was happy that she complimented me by assuming her regular pace. (I'm hoping she doesn't ever invite me to bike with her because I am completely inept on a bike.) We talked, and we didn't, which was great. Because we were running fast, we took a breather at the turnaround and stood there chatting for a while about who-knows-what. Amazing how running amounts to conversational foreplay; you run a few miles, and as a result, you have tons to talk about. Not sure what that's about, but we were all of a sudden like two gabbing teenagers. Remember how you could chat for hours with a friend in high school about absolutely nothing? It was like that--so fun.
Now that I think about it, the run amounted to speed work--two repeats with recovery time at the birthplace of American democracy. I hope our forefathers aren't rolling over in their graves to know we soiled their hallowed ground with interval training.
The British are coming!
Hold on Paul, I need to stop the Garmin.
We flew back along the trail and when we got to the cars, we hung out for a bit. I was pleased that I didn't maim her on the trail, which is what happened the last time I went trail running with a friend. A bit muddy and a bug bite here and there, but that was all.
We talked tattoos (you know, typical suburban mom talk) and observed a woman pacing near her car (not a Subaru), musing that she was probably waiting for her lover (you know, typical suburban mom talk). And sure enough, he came, she got in his car, and off they went. I guess everyone takes advantage of the Minuteman Trail for their own reasons, which the policeman who looped the lot twice while we stood there no doubt knew.
So, people. Here's your take-away lesson: go run with someone new, preferably someone faster. Even if you're a shy and reserved sort like me, only good can come of it.
And another reminder to my virtual running friends that this blog is moving on June 1.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Competitive Drive
I think I may be taking my new competitive drive a little far. On the way to and from PA, we saw several cars with '26.2' bumper stickers. My first observation is that far too many people are now running marathons, which means I'm being forced to up my mileage to an ultra. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #1.
But my second observation is even worse. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #2 has me pushing the gas pedal to pass these cars. Even when I'm not driving. I press my right foot on the floor, like wives often do when they need their husbands to brake already. Except I'm pressing the imaginary gas because there's an SUV with a little white circle on the back that reads '26.2.'
"Oh, no you don't, Miscellaneous Sedan. I will go 90 if need be. My bumper sticker is totally going to smoke your bumper sticker."
What is wrong with me? Who thinks that way? Who talks smack to a fender?
I got into running in the first place because it was far less competitive than ballet. No one in amateur running tells you you're fat or you have lousy turnout. No one critiques you because your hair and make-up are all wrong. You compete as much as you want to in running, unlike ballet, where you're forced into competition whether you like it or not. And in racing, you compete fiercely on the course and then chat congenially with the person who beat you (or who you beat) as soon as you cross the line. On Monday, I was racing one other woman for part of the course, and after we both finished (I beat her--ahem), we chatted casually about how humid it was and what fun it was to race. That's the best part of competitive running, if you ask me. You race, then you chat.
Along the same lines, while I love winning AG awards and competing for a top-3 spot in my group, I wasn't hung up on finding out if I placed second or third in my AG last weekend. I can let it go pretty easily and don't beat myself up over competition. For his part, though, Henry was pretty disappointed that I didn't have a trophy to give him. (That always makes a running mom feel just swell.) As far as he's concerned, there is really no point to watching me race unless I get him a trophy or free food at the end.
I won an Amazon gift certificate for placing at the 5k a few weeks ago, and I discovered I can buy 12 trophies with it, which would give me one for that race, one for Monday's race, and 10 more for just being awesome in general. Knowing you can buy trophies from Amazon in a six-pack really makes me feel all warm inside. I can reward myself and stroke my ego whenever I want, even if I lose. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #3.
Another reminder that my blogging will relocate on Monday June 1. I have called the movers and will provide a change-of-address URL as soon as I have it to share.
But my second observation is even worse. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #2 has me pushing the gas pedal to pass these cars. Even when I'm not driving. I press my right foot on the floor, like wives often do when they need their husbands to brake already. Except I'm pressing the imaginary gas because there's an SUV with a little white circle on the back that reads '26.2.'
"Oh, no you don't, Miscellaneous Sedan. I will go 90 if need be. My bumper sticker is totally going to smoke your bumper sticker."
What is wrong with me? Who thinks that way? Who talks smack to a fender?
I got into running in the first place because it was far less competitive than ballet. No one in amateur running tells you you're fat or you have lousy turnout. No one critiques you because your hair and make-up are all wrong. You compete as much as you want to in running, unlike ballet, where you're forced into competition whether you like it or not. And in racing, you compete fiercely on the course and then chat congenially with the person who beat you (or who you beat) as soon as you cross the line. On Monday, I was racing one other woman for part of the course, and after we both finished (I beat her--ahem), we chatted casually about how humid it was and what fun it was to race. That's the best part of competitive running, if you ask me. You race, then you chat.
Along the same lines, while I love winning AG awards and competing for a top-3 spot in my group, I wasn't hung up on finding out if I placed second or third in my AG last weekend. I can let it go pretty easily and don't beat myself up over competition. For his part, though, Henry was pretty disappointed that I didn't have a trophy to give him. (That always makes a running mom feel just swell.) As far as he's concerned, there is really no point to watching me race unless I get him a trophy or free food at the end.
I won an Amazon gift certificate for placing at the 5k a few weeks ago, and I discovered I can buy 12 trophies with it, which would give me one for that race, one for Monday's race, and 10 more for just being awesome in general. Knowing you can buy trophies from Amazon in a six-pack really makes me feel all warm inside. I can reward myself and stroke my ego whenever I want, even if I lose. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #3.
Another reminder that my blogging will relocate on Monday June 1. I have called the movers and will provide a change-of-address URL as soon as I have it to share.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Run Like Madness
You need to move up to the line.
That is the moral of this post. I know you're not supposed to give the moral until the end of a story, but I have big news that seemed to merit a bold-type-faced statement like that.
In 3 acts:
Act I
This weekend we dragged our butts back to PA (a-gain) for a family reunion so I had to do my long run in Harrisburg a-gain. Brian and I ran separate days, so I went back to the Susquehanna to run my 14. I am happy to report that I was not approached by any sketchy men (woot), but the run itself s-u-c-k sucked.
Hot
Humid
Funnel cake
I won't belabor the run, but suffice it to say, it took forever, and it was 85 degrees when I finally finished. If the half-mary is like that, I'm toast (pun intended). By mile 10, I was nearly out of water on my fuel belt and would have whored myself for a garden hose. When I saw the kind lady in her garden, I was pleased the whoring would not be necessary, and she filled my bottles and let me spray my head with her hose.
That helped me get another couple of miles, when it was time to pick it up to HMP. Again, not my day. I eeked out a bit more than a mile at that pace, but it was so unbelievably hot--with no shade--that by the time I smelled the scent of frying funnel cake, there was no way I'd make it to 14 miles without serious nausea setting in.
It was a street fair, and once you add velvet paintings and a brass band to the mix of heat and fried dough, I was on the verge of passing out. I pushed myself as hard as I could go without actually passing out--moved myself up to the line of consciousness--and finished with a jog to mile 14.
Finis. Last long run before the race. It's ok. I'm satisfied, and if the conditions cooperate, I will be confident heading into the HM.
Moving on.
Act II
Monday morning--today--was the 5k. Again humid, but not so hot, which was the best I could hope for this weekend, I guess. It was a fairly local schmokal type affair, which always suits me fine. I knew beating 22 minutes would be very close, given the humidity, but I wanted to try to do what I set out to do.
Full throttle. Three sevens.
In a rinky dink race, where not only are there no timing mats at the start, there are no chips at all, I simply had no choice but to move forward, up to the start line. This is ballsy and cocky and all the male genital adjectives you can think of. I was standing next to the people who would be winning the race. And some 8 year olds. Funny how that happens. The winners and the children, side by side.
The race started with a "Go!" and as promised, I was a bat outta hell.
Mile 1: 7:00
Where's the water? Where's the water? Where's the fucking water?
Oh, look, six horses standing in the middle of the street, waiting to headline a parade, no doubt.
Weave the horses. Avoid getting kicked in the head. You really can't beat racing six inches from a horse's ass.
Mile 2: 7:09
Where's the fucking water?
Thank you for the dainty sip of water.
Sucking wind. Sucking wind.
I hate 5k. I hate 5k.
I'm such a fraud. Speed work, full throttle, bats outta my ass. This just fucking sucks.
And then I heard her in my head. Mary. Iron Matron comes to me. Whispers words of wisdom. My dear friend, who has been in my corner through so much.
SHUT UP BRAIN.
Go. Go. Go. Push. Push. Push. And this is my brain's thought before it settled down:
At least when you're sucking wind, you know you're breathing and alive. So run hard damnit.
Mile 3: 7:15
Round the corner. Finish line. Finish line.
21:54...
21:55...
21:56...
21:57 Finish.
and the .1 at a 6:35 pace (sprint much?)
I don't know where I placed. I think second or third in my age group, but we couldn't stick around because we had to drive 8 hours back to Mass. (the state; we're not Catholic).
Move up to the line. Run like madness. Suck wind. Know you're alive.
Act III
Moving up to the line is terrifying. Running like madness is terrifying. Moving forward into new territory is terrifying. But often fantastic.
I am thrilled and energized by a new development in this blog. Starting June 1, I will be blogging as a featured blogger for Competitor Running's online entity, thus moving the bulk of my blogging energies to that domain.
My style, topics, and energy will remain the same as it is here. Even the title will remain the same. I will be the irreverent and neglectful mother you have all come to expect, and I am sure I will continue to deliver all the running schadenfreude you are used to receiving from me. Injuries, failures, excessive sharing about bladder control issues, and my trademark righteous indignation all will continue. It's the same blog, only, you know, kinda like a job sorta.
I will maintain this URL for the archives and will pop over to blog here once a week or so, when I feel compelled to drop the f-bomb a half dozen times in a post or steal copyright-protected photos of celebrities. But really, my Competitor Running blog will be the same schtick you're used to getting here. In fact, now that it's sorta kinda like a job, it will probably be far superior to my lazy posting about things like the weight of my shoes.
I'll badger you with reminders to update your feeds in the next week, but I hope you'll be excited to make the move with me.
So, there you have it. In three acts: moving up to the line. Scary, but good.
That is the moral of this post. I know you're not supposed to give the moral until the end of a story, but I have big news that seemed to merit a bold-type-faced statement like that.
In 3 acts:
Act I
This weekend we dragged our butts back to PA (a-gain) for a family reunion so I had to do my long run in Harrisburg a-gain. Brian and I ran separate days, so I went back to the Susquehanna to run my 14. I am happy to report that I was not approached by any sketchy men (woot), but the run itself s-u-c-k sucked.
Hot
Humid
Funnel cake
I won't belabor the run, but suffice it to say, it took forever, and it was 85 degrees when I finally finished. If the half-mary is like that, I'm toast (pun intended). By mile 10, I was nearly out of water on my fuel belt and would have whored myself for a garden hose. When I saw the kind lady in her garden, I was pleased the whoring would not be necessary, and she filled my bottles and let me spray my head with her hose.
That helped me get another couple of miles, when it was time to pick it up to HMP. Again, not my day. I eeked out a bit more than a mile at that pace, but it was so unbelievably hot--with no shade--that by the time I smelled the scent of frying funnel cake, there was no way I'd make it to 14 miles without serious nausea setting in.
It was a street fair, and once you add velvet paintings and a brass band to the mix of heat and fried dough, I was on the verge of passing out. I pushed myself as hard as I could go without actually passing out--moved myself up to the line of consciousness--and finished with a jog to mile 14.
Finis. Last long run before the race. It's ok. I'm satisfied, and if the conditions cooperate, I will be confident heading into the HM.
Moving on.
Act II
Monday morning--today--was the 5k. Again humid, but not so hot, which was the best I could hope for this weekend, I guess. It was a fairly local schmokal type affair, which always suits me fine. I knew beating 22 minutes would be very close, given the humidity, but I wanted to try to do what I set out to do.
Full throttle. Three sevens.
In a rinky dink race, where not only are there no timing mats at the start, there are no chips at all, I simply had no choice but to move forward, up to the start line. This is ballsy and cocky and all the male genital adjectives you can think of. I was standing next to the people who would be winning the race. And some 8 year olds. Funny how that happens. The winners and the children, side by side.
The race started with a "Go!" and as promised, I was a bat outta hell.
Mile 1: 7:00
Where's the water? Where's the water? Where's the fucking water?
Oh, look, six horses standing in the middle of the street, waiting to headline a parade, no doubt.
Weave the horses. Avoid getting kicked in the head. You really can't beat racing six inches from a horse's ass.
Mile 2: 7:09
Where's the fucking water?
Thank you for the dainty sip of water.
Sucking wind. Sucking wind.
I hate 5k. I hate 5k.
I'm such a fraud. Speed work, full throttle, bats outta my ass. This just fucking sucks.
And then I heard her in my head. Mary. Iron Matron comes to me. Whispers words of wisdom. My dear friend, who has been in my corner through so much.
SHUT UP BRAIN.
Go. Go. Go. Push. Push. Push. And this is my brain's thought before it settled down:
At least when you're sucking wind, you know you're breathing and alive. So run hard damnit.
Mile 3: 7:15
Round the corner. Finish line. Finish line.
21:54...
21:55...
21:56...
21:57 Finish.
and the .1 at a 6:35 pace (sprint much?)
I don't know where I placed. I think second or third in my age group, but we couldn't stick around because we had to drive 8 hours back to Mass. (the state; we're not Catholic).
Move up to the line. Run like madness. Suck wind. Know you're alive.
Act III
Moving up to the line is terrifying. Running like madness is terrifying. Moving forward into new territory is terrifying. But often fantastic.
I am thrilled and energized by a new development in this blog. Starting June 1, I will be blogging as a featured blogger for Competitor Running's online entity, thus moving the bulk of my blogging energies to that domain.
My style, topics, and energy will remain the same as it is here. Even the title will remain the same. I will be the irreverent and neglectful mother you have all come to expect, and I am sure I will continue to deliver all the running schadenfreude you are used to receiving from me. Injuries, failures, excessive sharing about bladder control issues, and my trademark righteous indignation all will continue. It's the same blog, only, you know, kinda like a job sorta.
I will maintain this URL for the archives and will pop over to blog here once a week or so, when I feel compelled to drop the f-bomb a half dozen times in a post or steal copyright-protected photos of celebrities. But really, my Competitor Running blog will be the same schtick you're used to getting here. In fact, now that it's sorta kinda like a job, it will probably be far superior to my lazy posting about things like the weight of my shoes.
I'll badger you with reminders to update your feeds in the next week, but I hope you'll be excited to make the move with me.
So, there you have it. In three acts: moving up to the line. Scary, but good.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Full Throttle
I'm trying not to obsess too much over numbers, but runners often do this.
26.2
3:40
8:20
13.1
1:40
7:37
3.1
21:xx
My mind is swirling with numbers, and I'm learning that I can both love the process of running and the pursuit of the digits. That the means and the end are both gratifying, and more and more, they are becoming inseparable.
Iron Matron wrote the other day about the effort we put into training for the sake of our love of its experience. She said it best: "how the effort we put into something is worthy -- just because to put effort into something is to participate in and engage in life" (emphasis in original).
This perspective is new to me, but I'm embracing it. I am pushing myself in new directions that risk failure or even pain, but if I didn't make the effort, I would not be fully engaged in life. I would be timid or, worse, restrained.
I think I'm drawn to the 5k and the speed work now because it lets me go full throttle. I've never been a full-throttle kind of girl before because the idea of pushing as hard as I could and still failing to win was terrifying. But now I've been bitten by the desire to try for things that always seemed outrageous and scary. Even after thinking I'd lost my kid, I went full throttle in the Groton race because my brain and my body wanted to push (see photo). And came in second in my AG in the end. Sometimes the effort pays off, and sometimes it doesn't, but the risk to push hard (even when it's hot) is Good in and of itself.
When Patti blogged her goal of a 2:45 marathon, I didn't shake my head or raise my eyebrows. I called her. And we have continued to talk about competition and daring and being "runners with kids" versus "mothers who run." Full throttle on the road, in our goals, and in our lives is not something women my age with a family to raise are meant to do.
And yet, here I go.
A belated congratulations to my coach, Nate Jenkins, who will be competing on the U.S. team at the World Marathon Championships in Berlin in August. This post is for you and the speed you've subjected me to.
26.2
3:40
8:20
13.1
1:40
7:37
3.1
21:xx
My mind is swirling with numbers, and I'm learning that I can both love the process of running and the pursuit of the digits. That the means and the end are both gratifying, and more and more, they are becoming inseparable.
Iron Matron wrote the other day about the effort we put into training for the sake of our love of its experience. She said it best: "how the effort we put into something is worthy -- just because to put effort into something is to participate in and engage in life" (emphasis in original).
This perspective is new to me, but I'm embracing it. I am pushing myself in new directions that risk failure or even pain, but if I didn't make the effort, I would not be fully engaged in life. I would be timid or, worse, restrained.
I think I'm drawn to the 5k and the speed work now because it lets me go full throttle. I've never been a full-throttle kind of girl before because the idea of pushing as hard as I could and still failing to win was terrifying. But now I've been bitten by the desire to try for things that always seemed outrageous and scary. Even after thinking I'd lost my kid, I went full throttle in the Groton race because my brain and my body wanted to push (see photo). And came in second in my AG in the end. Sometimes the effort pays off, and sometimes it doesn't, but the risk to push hard (even when it's hot) is Good in and of itself.
When Patti blogged her goal of a 2:45 marathon, I didn't shake my head or raise my eyebrows. I called her. And we have continued to talk about competition and daring and being "runners with kids" versus "mothers who run." Full throttle on the road, in our goals, and in our lives is not something women my age with a family to raise are meant to do.
And yet, here I go.
A belated congratulations to my coach, Nate Jenkins, who will be competing on the U.S. team at the World Marathon Championships in Berlin in August. This post is for you and the speed you've subjected me to.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Desperately Seeking 21 Minutes
I am in hot pursuit of something I want so bad I am dropping my love of grammar in this sentence to express it. I want redemption, vindication, and wish fulfillment. I want to fly by the seat of my pants. I want to run fast and hard and get it done. I want to hit the 5k jackpot in my mind:
3 sevens*
Blackjack. Kaching.
Not long ago, I thought the 5k was a royal waste of time and money. So short, not worth it. I ran 5ks with friends and family to kind of mosey along on a little joggy jog. But something changed in me in the last few months, and now I get it. It helped that I've started winning AG awards in my last two 5ks, and that kind of extrinsic validation turns out to suit my shallow side quite well. Yes, running is a beautiful practice and process, but I kind of like the brutality of the chase and the gratification of seeing my name in the top 3 for my age, even if there are only 6 people in my group**. It also turns out I'm more competitive than I thought.
And then there's my performance at the 5k a few weeks ago. I so wanted that 21 minutes on the clock, and I missed it by 9 seconds. I'm traveling back to Central PA for the long weekend***, but I found a 5k on Monday morning. I'm going to run that race like a bat outta hell, then get in the car for another 8-hour drive, hopefully with a shiny AG award, an overly inflated ego, and 3 sevens on my splits.
I'm particularly motivated because the race is in my old 'hood, where I went to high school and suffered the cliched gym class mortification of many adult runners. I need to unload that baggage, preferably in the first mile to help me run a negative split and meet my goal.
So, 21 minutes please. To go out and do what I need to do.
*and I'll give the extra tenth to the running Gods in however many seconds they require
**I have a theory of why I'm winning these awards in the small, short, local races. I am at the age that most women are having babies, so the fact that I have a 4-year-old puts me at a competitive advantage.
***and running long alone, so dear God, please prevent sketchy guy from finding me.
3 sevens*
Blackjack. Kaching.
Not long ago, I thought the 5k was a royal waste of time and money. So short, not worth it. I ran 5ks with friends and family to kind of mosey along on a little joggy jog. But something changed in me in the last few months, and now I get it. It helped that I've started winning AG awards in my last two 5ks, and that kind of extrinsic validation turns out to suit my shallow side quite well. Yes, running is a beautiful practice and process, but I kind of like the brutality of the chase and the gratification of seeing my name in the top 3 for my age, even if there are only 6 people in my group**. It also turns out I'm more competitive than I thought.
And then there's my performance at the 5k a few weeks ago. I so wanted that 21 minutes on the clock, and I missed it by 9 seconds. I'm traveling back to Central PA for the long weekend***, but I found a 5k on Monday morning. I'm going to run that race like a bat outta hell, then get in the car for another 8-hour drive, hopefully with a shiny AG award, an overly inflated ego, and 3 sevens on my splits.
I'm particularly motivated because the race is in my old 'hood, where I went to high school and suffered the cliched gym class mortification of many adult runners. I need to unload that baggage, preferably in the first mile to help me run a negative split and meet my goal.
So, 21 minutes please. To go out and do what I need to do.
*and I'll give the extra tenth to the running Gods in however many seconds they require
**I have a theory of why I'm winning these awards in the small, short, local races. I am at the age that most women are having babies, so the fact that I have a 4-year-old puts me at a competitive advantage.
***and running long alone, so dear God, please prevent sketchy guy from finding me.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Burning Pain Crystallized
I'm reading the book Running & Philosophy, which is so far a tasty read for the heady runner. You don't get much better than tracing Martha Nussbaum's thinking on the embodiment and musicality of emotion through running. The woman memorizes operas while she's in marathon training so she can recite them in her head on long runs without an iPod. Both insane and admirable, if you ask me.
Martha, however, has nothing to say about how much my ass hurts, even to sit. Except maybe the quote she gives from Mahler: "A burning pain crystallizes." Kind of sounds like a koan (or a fortune cookie), but that is definitely it. A crystallized, burning pain in the ass.
Saturday, I did my longest training run for the half-marathon in three weeks: 16 miles. It wound up being 16.7 miles, but who's counting? Actually, I was--every hundredth of a mile for the last 7/10 of a mile to my car, as my butt spasmed.
I ran the first 9 miles on my own, then was joined by speedy Jill for the rest. I tried to keep up, but we were running at 1 on a hot afternoon and her smokin' pace... well, she smoked me. My average pace wound up a disappointing 8:23, and I didn't hit the last two miles at HMP like I needed. Bah.
8:23 for almost 17 miles. And I was so bummed by it, I consoled myself with a can of real, full-sugar, all-the-sodium Coke on the way home. It was the best 12 oz. of Coke ever created. My compliments to the factory. Have you ever had a tough long run and then decided that the first thing you consumed afterward was the best possible substance ever made? That was the Coke. I should have kept the can, it was that good.
But the real point of note is that I was disappointed in the 8:23 pace. True, it was slower than I will need to feel ready for the half-marathon. But a year ago, I would have shaved my head for a 17-mile training run at that pace.
This makes me realize something pretty annoying about my personality. I am perpetually dissatisfied. You could say that this means I am always open to growth, learning, evolution, experience. Wouldn't that be nice? Really, it just means that I am usually bitchy and hungry.
I know I'm lucky to have a fast metabolism physiologically, but I'm realizing that my personality has a fast metabolism, too. I process an experience instantly and am immediately looking for the next thing. There's no appreciating the forest for the trees or the big picture or whatever your favorite cliche is. Hence the dissatisfaction with the 8:23 pace and the decent work ethic to improve and conquer my dissatisfaction.
Ironically enough, as I'm typing this, my son just said, "You're kind of a lazy mother." It's funny 'cause it's true. I am kind of a lazy mother. A lazy mother who runs 40 miles a week. (I'll show him lazy. There's a four-year-old who's going to do some hill repeats this afternoon.)
I'm going to try to be more content with my progress and my state of affairs. If that doesn't work, I'm going to start drinking more and blame my stagnation on alcohol. Externalizing dissatisfaction is truly the best approach if you can't remove it, that's what I always say. I'm sure Martha Nussbaum would agree.
Martha, however, has nothing to say about how much my ass hurts, even to sit. Except maybe the quote she gives from Mahler: "A burning pain crystallizes." Kind of sounds like a koan (or a fortune cookie), but that is definitely it. A crystallized, burning pain in the ass.
Saturday, I did my longest training run for the half-marathon in three weeks: 16 miles. It wound up being 16.7 miles, but who's counting? Actually, I was--every hundredth of a mile for the last 7/10 of a mile to my car, as my butt spasmed.
I ran the first 9 miles on my own, then was joined by speedy Jill for the rest. I tried to keep up, but we were running at 1 on a hot afternoon and her smokin' pace... well, she smoked me. My average pace wound up a disappointing 8:23, and I didn't hit the last two miles at HMP like I needed. Bah.
8:23 for almost 17 miles. And I was so bummed by it, I consoled myself with a can of real, full-sugar, all-the-sodium Coke on the way home. It was the best 12 oz. of Coke ever created. My compliments to the factory. Have you ever had a tough long run and then decided that the first thing you consumed afterward was the best possible substance ever made? That was the Coke. I should have kept the can, it was that good.
But the real point of note is that I was disappointed in the 8:23 pace. True, it was slower than I will need to feel ready for the half-marathon. But a year ago, I would have shaved my head for a 17-mile training run at that pace.
This makes me realize something pretty annoying about my personality. I am perpetually dissatisfied. You could say that this means I am always open to growth, learning, evolution, experience. Wouldn't that be nice? Really, it just means that I am usually bitchy and hungry.
I know I'm lucky to have a fast metabolism physiologically, but I'm realizing that my personality has a fast metabolism, too. I process an experience instantly and am immediately looking for the next thing. There's no appreciating the forest for the trees or the big picture or whatever your favorite cliche is. Hence the dissatisfaction with the 8:23 pace and the decent work ethic to improve and conquer my dissatisfaction.
Ironically enough, as I'm typing this, my son just said, "You're kind of a lazy mother." It's funny 'cause it's true. I am kind of a lazy mother. A lazy mother who runs 40 miles a week. (I'll show him lazy. There's a four-year-old who's going to do some hill repeats this afternoon.)
I'm going to try to be more content with my progress and my state of affairs. If that doesn't work, I'm going to start drinking more and blame my stagnation on alcohol. Externalizing dissatisfaction is truly the best approach if you can't remove it, that's what I always say. I'm sure Martha Nussbaum would agree.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Drunk Lizards, Celebrities, Hats, Speed, and Self-Promotion
In Roman numerals because they make me feel all classy:
I. I bought my ticket to Australia. It was a big, terrifying moment. So now I have to go get some language CDs to learn Australian before I go. You think I'm kidding, but I got an email from my guide the other day that said, "Please bare with me. I've been flat out like a lizard drinking for the past week."
My immediate first thought was, "Holy shit. I just dropped some serious cash on a trip led by a lush who is politely asking to see me naked. And something about a lizard."
Turns out, Richard is not a drunk and just had a small homonym hiccup. An Australian friend translated for me and reassured me he's just been really busy. What that has to do with an overhydrated lizard is still a mystery to me. But I want to fit in, so I am going to track down some tutelage in Australian colloquialisms. On a running trip where I'm sleeping in the middle of nowhere with 8 strangers, I will need to be able to be able to determine if being called "mate" is just friendly or a request to procreate.
II. I had a consult with an agent about my book the other day. His advice? "You should write a book about celebrity moms and pregnant celebs who run instead." I love a good US Weekly baby bump as much as the next gal, and I'm sure Reese Witherspoon is lovely. But I really don't think that documenting her running habits will be very helpful or inspirational to most of us, even though I know it must be challenging to have loads of money for child care, a super hottie to run with you, and exquisite genetics that you can't ruin.
And anyway, who really wants tips from celebrities when they look like this on a run?
Seriously, Ms. Hudson, get an armband for that iPod.
This is not at all to say I wouldn't splash pictures of Jake Gyllenhal all over my book regardless of their relevance, however.
Also, the well-meaning agent told me no one would publish or buy a book written in the first-person by someone who is "just a well-educated woman with a cute kid and a nice husband." Alrighty then.
III. I've had this hat from Head Sweats to review for weeks now. I had no idea writing a witty review of a hat would be so much harder than reviewing detergent. Really, the Head Sweats people probably don't care what I have to say. They just want to optimize their google results. So I'll help them out:
Head Sweats makes a great cap. Heat Sweats makes a cap that is lightweight and dries very quickly. Head Sweats also makes visors and other hats in many nice colors. Head Sweats Head Sweats Head Sweats.
Also, Rachel is on the homepage for Head Sweats, looking fierce as always.
IV. Track for speed work tonight. 10 x 600m in 2:42 each with rest intervals of 400 m in 2:02. Hoping for the best with my dicey IT Bands. Plus wind, rain, allergies, insomnia, and a serious crapitude. In other words, I'm looking at some major bonk potential.
V. Maybe I should take my own advice. Check out my new post over on Chi today if you're dreading your next workout.
I. I bought my ticket to Australia. It was a big, terrifying moment. So now I have to go get some language CDs to learn Australian before I go. You think I'm kidding, but I got an email from my guide the other day that said, "Please bare with me. I've been flat out like a lizard drinking for the past week."
My immediate first thought was, "Holy shit. I just dropped some serious cash on a trip led by a lush who is politely asking to see me naked. And something about a lizard."
Turns out, Richard is not a drunk and just had a small homonym hiccup. An Australian friend translated for me and reassured me he's just been really busy. What that has to do with an overhydrated lizard is still a mystery to me. But I want to fit in, so I am going to track down some tutelage in Australian colloquialisms. On a running trip where I'm sleeping in the middle of nowhere with 8 strangers, I will need to be able to be able to determine if being called "mate" is just friendly or a request to procreate.
II. I had a consult with an agent about my book the other day. His advice? "You should write a book about celebrity moms and pregnant celebs who run instead." I love a good US Weekly baby bump as much as the next gal, and I'm sure Reese Witherspoon is lovely. But I really don't think that documenting her running habits will be very helpful or inspirational to most of us, even though I know it must be challenging to have loads of money for child care, a super hottie to run with you, and exquisite genetics that you can't ruin.
And anyway, who really wants tips from celebrities when they look like this on a run?
Seriously, Ms. Hudson, get an armband for that iPod.
This is not at all to say I wouldn't splash pictures of Jake Gyllenhal all over my book regardless of their relevance, however.
Also, the well-meaning agent told me no one would publish or buy a book written in the first-person by someone who is "just a well-educated woman with a cute kid and a nice husband." Alrighty then.
III. I've had this hat from Head Sweats to review for weeks now. I had no idea writing a witty review of a hat would be so much harder than reviewing detergent. Really, the Head Sweats people probably don't care what I have to say. They just want to optimize their google results. So I'll help them out:
Head Sweats makes a great cap. Heat Sweats makes a cap that is lightweight and dries very quickly. Head Sweats also makes visors and other hats in many nice colors. Head Sweats Head Sweats Head Sweats.
Also, Rachel is on the homepage for Head Sweats, looking fierce as always.
IV. Track for speed work tonight. 10 x 600m in 2:42 each with rest intervals of 400 m in 2:02. Hoping for the best with my dicey IT Bands. Plus wind, rain, allergies, insomnia, and a serious crapitude. In other words, I'm looking at some major bonk potential.
V. Maybe I should take my own advice. Check out my new post over on Chi today if you're dreading your next workout.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tennis Balls: Non-Therapeutic
I am sitting on a tennis ball. This afternoon, I was lying on a tennis ball. The tennis ball and I are becoming very friendly. Yes, in case you were wondering, it hurts, so it's kind of a tense friendship. I would like to, say, take a racket and thwack my friend clear across the grass, but that might actually please the ball and send it into a reverie about Wimbledon. So instead, I will keep it under my ass, where it can communicate closely to the knot at the top of my IT Band.
I am wincing. Wincing, quite obviously, reminds me of my coach. Wincing, cursing, and panting. This is what Nate does to me, but not in the good way. Nate assigns me mileage that hurts. And to get rid of the hurt? More stuff that hurts. Like tennis balls in my tendons.
But because I'm radically faster than I was a year ago when I started training with him, I know I'd do whatever he says to be race-ready and meet my goal. Like crack. If Nate put "smoke a pipe of crack" on the schedule for my taper week, I'd be in the old station wagon headed to some alley in Lowell with my credit card. (Dealers take Visa, I assume).
And I know I'd do whatever Nate said to take away the pain that speed work causes.
Sit on a mace? Right on.
Snort crushed Vicodin? Hells yeah.
Sit in a tub filled with ice water so cold it burns? Bring it, baby.
Oh, wait... I guess I already do that last one.
Good god, he's a sadist. It is no lie that the man once told me a massage should hurt. For that reason, I almost called the one listing under Massage: Non-Therapeutic in my phonebook before I realized that "Christine and Company" was probably an altogether different kind of massage. Though, some might take issue with categorizing Christine et al.'s services as "non-therapeutic," and I'm sure she'd make it hurt if you asked her to.
Wow. That was a tangent from which I cannot seem to return.
Christine = pleasure. Coach = pain. Ah ha, there it is. Nate has sadistic but effective training plans, and the only happy ending you get from his treatments for injury is the ability to run more and harder.
And I do have a masochistic streak, which is why I let him spank me with those speed workouts and his remedies for injuries. But just once, I want to email him with an ache or pain and have him recommend a strawberry-scented bubble bath and a cup of hot chocolate and those little tiny marshmallows.
Until that day, it's the tennis ball and ice bath for me. Let's just hope Nate doesn't advocate I join a pyramid scheme that promises high returns and a BQ. Cause I'd do it.
I am wincing. Wincing, quite obviously, reminds me of my coach. Wincing, cursing, and panting. This is what Nate does to me, but not in the good way. Nate assigns me mileage that hurts. And to get rid of the hurt? More stuff that hurts. Like tennis balls in my tendons.
But because I'm radically faster than I was a year ago when I started training with him, I know I'd do whatever he says to be race-ready and meet my goal. Like crack. If Nate put "smoke a pipe of crack" on the schedule for my taper week, I'd be in the old station wagon headed to some alley in Lowell with my credit card. (Dealers take Visa, I assume).
And I know I'd do whatever Nate said to take away the pain that speed work causes.
Sit on a mace? Right on.
Snort crushed Vicodin? Hells yeah.
Sit in a tub filled with ice water so cold it burns? Bring it, baby.
Oh, wait... I guess I already do that last one.
Good god, he's a sadist. It is no lie that the man once told me a massage should hurt. For that reason, I almost called the one listing under Massage: Non-Therapeutic in my phonebook before I realized that "Christine and Company" was probably an altogether different kind of massage. Though, some might take issue with categorizing Christine et al.'s services as "non-therapeutic," and I'm sure she'd make it hurt if you asked her to.
Wow. That was a tangent from which I cannot seem to return.
Christine = pleasure. Coach = pain. Ah ha, there it is. Nate has sadistic but effective training plans, and the only happy ending you get from his treatments for injury is the ability to run more and harder.
And I do have a masochistic streak, which is why I let him spank me with those speed workouts and his remedies for injuries. But just once, I want to email him with an ache or pain and have him recommend a strawberry-scented bubble bath and a cup of hot chocolate and those little tiny marshmallows.
Until that day, it's the tennis ball and ice bath for me. Let's just hope Nate doesn't advocate I join a pyramid scheme that promises high returns and a BQ. Cause I'd do it.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Bacon Makes It All Okay
After a week of insomnia and allergies driving firey spikes through my eyelids*, I had yet another 14-miler on Saturday. May have been a bit cranky and unmotivated with motivation not helped by rain, tightness in my IT Band, and a pesky piriformis on the left side.
Still, I am used to the 14-milers now. I think I've done about four or five of them so far in this training cycle. I am even used to running the last few miles under half-marathon pace. Just like the marathon training, when I was fixated on the numbers 3:40 (goal time) and 8:20 (pace), I see my target numbers everywhere. Houses, license plates, clocks:
1:40 (goal)
7:37 (pace)
The 14-mile training runs are rote, and the times might as well be tattooed on me.
And then on Saturday I walked it in.
Walking. I like walking on a beautiful spring day in Harvard Square. I did it yesterday. It was lovely. I like going for a little walk to prevent the emergence of my alter-ego, Mommy Who Yells. I endorse walking. But not when I should be running.
I do not like walking mile 14 of a training run.
I knew the run would be ugly, but not that ugly. I was in such a foul mood that when I saw a young deer playing in some tall grasses, all I could think was "bastard tick vehicle."
The ITB and piriformis pain really set in about mile 9, so I stopped to stretch in the drizzle. But the mosquitoes were ravenous for some blood seasoned with sweat and frustration, so I had to keep moving or I'd be eaten alive. When my Garmin let me know it was time to pick up the pace for the last two miles, I tried. I really did. But by then, my entire body wanted me dead.
At mile 13, it was over. Walking a mile takes a lot longer than I would have thought, giving me plenty of time to cultivate some solid self-chastisement and providing the mosquitoes an opportunity to dig in with wild abandon.
This put me in really magical mood for Mother's Day. I got up Sunday and basically ditched my loving family for a 15-mile bike ride to gain some perspective and a lot of pollen in my eyeballs from the wind.
An obviously much-needed massage appointment to work out the knots fell through in the afternoon, leading me to lose the perspective I'd gained when I whined, "Even my massage guy is avoiding me!" I can't believe that is a sentence I've spoken. Woe is me.
Still, a day on which I consume a breakfast of bacon, champagne, and city life is a good day. And maybe those three are just the tonic for my IT Band and pain in the butt. Because that, a foam roller, and an abundance of self-pity are all I've got to ease my pain.
*Generic-brand Claritin, you are a cruel box of non-drowsy empty promises.
Still, I am used to the 14-milers now. I think I've done about four or five of them so far in this training cycle. I am even used to running the last few miles under half-marathon pace. Just like the marathon training, when I was fixated on the numbers 3:40 (goal time) and 8:20 (pace), I see my target numbers everywhere. Houses, license plates, clocks:
1:40 (goal)
7:37 (pace)
The 14-mile training runs are rote, and the times might as well be tattooed on me.
And then on Saturday I walked it in.
Walking. I like walking on a beautiful spring day in Harvard Square. I did it yesterday. It was lovely. I like going for a little walk to prevent the emergence of my alter-ego, Mommy Who Yells. I endorse walking. But not when I should be running.
I do not like walking mile 14 of a training run.
I knew the run would be ugly, but not that ugly. I was in such a foul mood that when I saw a young deer playing in some tall grasses, all I could think was "bastard tick vehicle."
The ITB and piriformis pain really set in about mile 9, so I stopped to stretch in the drizzle. But the mosquitoes were ravenous for some blood seasoned with sweat and frustration, so I had to keep moving or I'd be eaten alive. When my Garmin let me know it was time to pick up the pace for the last two miles, I tried. I really did. But by then, my entire body wanted me dead.
At mile 13, it was over. Walking a mile takes a lot longer than I would have thought, giving me plenty of time to cultivate some solid self-chastisement and providing the mosquitoes an opportunity to dig in with wild abandon.
This put me in really magical mood for Mother's Day. I got up Sunday and basically ditched my loving family for a 15-mile bike ride to gain some perspective and a lot of pollen in my eyeballs from the wind.
An obviously much-needed massage appointment to work out the knots fell through in the afternoon, leading me to lose the perspective I'd gained when I whined, "Even my massage guy is avoiding me!" I can't believe that is a sentence I've spoken. Woe is me.
Still, a day on which I consume a breakfast of bacon, champagne, and city life is a good day. And maybe those three are just the tonic for my IT Band and pain in the butt. Because that, a foam roller, and an abundance of self-pity are all I've got to ease my pain.
*Generic-brand Claritin, you are a cruel box of non-drowsy empty promises.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Evidence That I'm Working on It
The Runner's Lounge Take It and Run Thursday theme today is running and motherhood, and I promise that once Mother's Day is over, I won't beat this dead horse quite so hard with my primary shtick. (Probably.) But in keeping with the TIaRT theme, here is an excerpt from the book to prove that I am indeed writing something.
Happy Mother's Day, runner-mothers. Here's to neglecting our kids, one mile at a time.
If you find yourself in London and decide to go for a run, look out for Paula. Chances are at some point, you’ll see her with a fleet of enthusiastic runners close by. But it's not that Paula. Paula Mitchell, a native Texan who lives in London, facilitates groups of running mothers, most of whom she recruits when they’re running on their own around town. Maybe you’ll hear their feet pounding toward you, but more likely, you’ll hear their voices first.
It’s the sound of mother-runners on the path, and it’s a growing phenomenon that gives new meaning to the phrase social movement.
While thousands of groups of running moms begin formally online, many others are simply casual groups of neighborhood moms who notice each other on the sidewalks at the crack of dawn, getting a run in before the kids wake up and the hectic day launches. Or, they see each other in running gear at the school bus stop and make “fast friends.” The friendships build, a running day is set, and the pairings expand to triplets, eventually developing into small cadres of mothers operating their own aerobic neighborhood watch. These mothers aren’t Paula Radcliffes in the making, but the organizers of running groups for mothers know the potential to transform these women in powerful ways.
Leaders like Paula Mitchell welcome mothers of all running levels into their support groups of runners, knowing that running gives an escape that can preserve a mom’s sanity and provides a network of other women. Having lived in Borneo, Indonesia, and Belgium since leaving the U.S. for her husband’s career 15 years ago, Mitchell knows how it feels for mothers to feel isolated and without connections, especially in a foreign country. She began building informal running groups of other ex-pat mothers after moving to London and now leads beginner and experiences groups that tour London several times a week and travel together to half-marathons all over Europe. “My goals are to take these new runners from nothing to being able to call themselves runners. I get way more satisfaction out of that than being able to run a marathon two or three minutes faster than I did last time. There were times when that was important to me, but not anymore, ” says Mitchell.
Mitchell structures and leads the groups to give ex-pat mothers in London a footing when they find themselves living in a new city with few instant friendships. Even though she describes the groups as “loosely knit,” more than 100 women have been a part of her effort and come to rely on it as part of their lives while their families live in London. Among the words they use to describe Mitchell’s service are “amazing” and “inspirational,” and of her runners, Mitchell says, “Ex-pat women move to different cities every two years. They have no family, no friends around them. And they’re often frustrated or a little bit unhappy.” Their husbands go to the office, and the kids go to school, becoming immersed in new surroundings, but the women stay at home. “Most of our women are 35 to 55,” Mitchell says, “and a lot of them are completely lacking in confidence, just in life. And once they start running, they think they can do anything. And they can. Their whole frame of reference changes. It’s amazing to see the transformation.”
Not only do these runners develop greater confidence in their fitness, they experience new joy in life. “They go and do things they would have never done before. Changes that are internal, but you can see it on their faces, because they’re happier,” Mitchell reports. She attributes the transformation in her runner-mothers to the convergence of a social network of support and greater health and fitness in a sport that does not have to be competitive to be rewarding. “Most other sports are competitive,” she says. “You’re playing tennis against someone. Somebody wins and someone loses. Or someone is better than you. But running, you just throw on a pair of shoes and off you go.”
Along the same line, there are mothers who make a regular, obligatory visit to the gym to spend a reluctant hour on a machine or in a class, with the goal of losing weight, caring for their cardiovascular health, or preparing for a summer in a bathing suit.
And then there are the mothers who run.
These women make the time in their hectic family and work lives to run because it preserves a part of themselves that transcends the size of their jeans, concerns about blood pressure, or lounging at the local pool. Mother-runners are a community of women who turn to running for social connection, personal empowerment, and the knowledge that their running is a service to their families as well as themselves. While running might tone their quads or calves, mother-runners know that it is their core that is strengthened most from their passion and practice.
Happy Mother's Day, runner-mothers. Here's to neglecting our kids, one mile at a time.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
More From Me
Two blog posts in one day. Whoah, Nelly. This is a quickie to again reluctantly let you know that I have a podcast for your amusement on the Runner's Lounge today. And by "amusement," I of course mean ridicule.
The back story for this interview about my book is that I was invited to participate in a Mothers' Day round table podcast on running and motherhood on Sunday night. I'd gotten up at 5:30 a.m. and then driven 8 hours from PA to New Hampshire to get Henry to a birthday party for a classmate, and I was kinda sorta thinking I would just slide down in my chair at the 9 p.m. virtual round table, drink my Mike's, and agree heartily with whatever everyone else said.
Joke's on me. None of my blog sisters called in. Ladies left me hangin' in a bad, bad way! I forgive you, of course, because I love running mothers and you were probably out being good parents or running or drinking together and laughing at my expense. And it was a good chance for me to hog the spotlight to talk about my book. If I don't sound like a completely incoherent mess, it was an opportunity to share a bit about my book to generate some interest (or again, ridicule).
According to Brian's review, the interview had some good humorous moments. But I didn't realize I was making jokes. Oh, boy. Remember when I fell on my face the other week while running? This could be a bit like that.
If there are publishers out there who stumble on the interview, I promise I have a very sound prospectus and that my book does not just revolve around mothers' use of foul language while running.
Enjoy!
The back story for this interview about my book is that I was invited to participate in a Mothers' Day round table podcast on running and motherhood on Sunday night. I'd gotten up at 5:30 a.m. and then driven 8 hours from PA to New Hampshire to get Henry to a birthday party for a classmate, and I was kinda sorta thinking I would just slide down in my chair at the 9 p.m. virtual round table, drink my Mike's, and agree heartily with whatever everyone else said.
Joke's on me. None of my blog sisters called in. Ladies left me hangin' in a bad, bad way! I forgive you, of course, because I love running mothers and you were probably out being good parents or running or drinking together and laughing at my expense. And it was a good chance for me to hog the spotlight to talk about my book. If I don't sound like a completely incoherent mess, it was an opportunity to share a bit about my book to generate some interest (or again, ridicule).
According to Brian's review, the interview had some good humorous moments. But I didn't realize I was making jokes. Oh, boy. Remember when I fell on my face the other week while running? This could be a bit like that.
If there are publishers out there who stumble on the interview, I promise I have a very sound prospectus and that my book does not just revolve around mothers' use of foul language while running.
Enjoy!
What Are the Odds?
Here's a little news tidbit I picked up from the AFP yesterday:
Wow, so much to comment on here, so I'm just going to start with the obvious.
The kid did not run a marathon, AFP people. It was a half. A half something is not a whole something. I learned that in second grade, probably with some demonstration involving a pie. It disappoints me that a half-marathon and a whole marathon aren't more or less equivalents, because getting a BQ would be so much simpler if I could just use my half-marathon PR instead of my marathon time.
Which brings us to statistics. Being a stats instructor, no doubt the Korean professor knew the probability that a student would die in a half-marathon. The odds of death in a marathon are about 1 in 50,000, according to the Peak Performance web site. If we're going to operate on truly shoddy math (see previous paragraph), let's just say the odds of death in a half-marathon are 1 in 100,000. Really sucks to be that professor, doesn't it? That's what you get for your professional association with probability, buddy. A giant cosmic guffaw.
As well as one from me. You're lucky you weren't sued by the rest of the boys' parents because you let the girls run a 10k for extra credit while the boys had to do the half-marathon. Between the sexism and supposed culpability in a student's death, I wouldn't bank on a Professor of the Year Award. The odds are not in your favor. "Keen athlete," yes. Good teacher--probably not.
While I'm fascinated that the judges cited competition for grades as particularly fierce in an economic slowdown without recognizing that litigious acts by grieving parents are probably also somewhat influenced by a crappy economy, my last comment has more to do with the extra credit. Granted, I used to give my stats students extra credit for knowing trivia about Lost, so I'm giant hypocrite for saying this, but some relevance to the course subject matter always seems like a good idea. Which may have avoided the whole pesky issue of a dead student and a lawsuit. Next time, Professor, just ask your students to answer TV trivia questions. They'll think you're a little bit cooler (important for a stats instructor, trust me), and no one dies. Win, win.
Professor Blamed for SKorea Marathon Death
SEOUL (AFP) — A South Korean university professor who promised his class extra marks for running marathons has been held responsible for a student's death during the event, reports said Wednesday.
The Seoul Central District Court Monday ordered the unidentified academic and his university to pay 50 million won (39,300 dollars) to the parents of the student, the Korea Times and Korea Herald reported.
They said the professor, who taught statistics but was also a keen athlete, offered extra marks to male students who ran a half-marathon and to female students who competed in a 10-km event.
The student took part in a half-marathon in Seoul in May 2008 but collapsed and died during the event. His parents filed suit, arguing his participation was effectively compulsory.
Judges noted that competition for good grades is especially crucial during the economic slowdown.
Wow, so much to comment on here, so I'm just going to start with the obvious.
The kid did not run a marathon, AFP people. It was a half. A half something is not a whole something. I learned that in second grade, probably with some demonstration involving a pie. It disappoints me that a half-marathon and a whole marathon aren't more or less equivalents, because getting a BQ would be so much simpler if I could just use my half-marathon PR instead of my marathon time.
Which brings us to statistics. Being a stats instructor, no doubt the Korean professor knew the probability that a student would die in a half-marathon. The odds of death in a marathon are about 1 in 50,000, according to the Peak Performance web site. If we're going to operate on truly shoddy math (see previous paragraph), let's just say the odds of death in a half-marathon are 1 in 100,000. Really sucks to be that professor, doesn't it? That's what you get for your professional association with probability, buddy. A giant cosmic guffaw.
As well as one from me. You're lucky you weren't sued by the rest of the boys' parents because you let the girls run a 10k for extra credit while the boys had to do the half-marathon. Between the sexism and supposed culpability in a student's death, I wouldn't bank on a Professor of the Year Award. The odds are not in your favor. "Keen athlete," yes. Good teacher--probably not.
While I'm fascinated that the judges cited competition for grades as particularly fierce in an economic slowdown without recognizing that litigious acts by grieving parents are probably also somewhat influenced by a crappy economy, my last comment has more to do with the extra credit. Granted, I used to give my stats students extra credit for knowing trivia about Lost, so I'm giant hypocrite for saying this, but some relevance to the course subject matter always seems like a good idea. Which may have avoided the whole pesky issue of a dead student and a lawsuit. Next time, Professor, just ask your students to answer TV trivia questions. They'll think you're a little bit cooler (important for a stats instructor, trust me), and no one dies. Win, win.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Mr. Sketchy on the Susquehanna
I've been MIA for several days because we went to PA to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday. At the same time, I've simply been a wasteland for good blog material. It's so bad I actually wrote a post on the weird tan lines I've been cultivating this Spring, and I might end up posting it, but thankfully Saturday's long run gave me something better.
Today's topic? Sketchy men who approach you when you're with your spouse and talk you up anyway.
I grew up near the capitol of PA (that's Harrisburg, not Philly), which is like Pittsburgh on a smaller scale. I do mean that in the best possible way. Central PA has a midwestern kind of feel to it, with people who will strike up a conversation about the sorry state of PA highways with any old stranger in the local Sheetz. Words like "y'uns" make their way into the lexicon, and shopping at Walmart alongside a Pennsylvania Dutch family is par for the course.
I really like the easy friendliness of people there, but my six years in Cambridge earned me a different social style to go with the pricey diploma molding in my basement. I developed an aloof, introverted city demeanor at the same time that I cultivated a certain comfort being around crazy people on the street. If you spend enough time in a city with a high ratio of intellectuals, you find yourself with a considerable proportion of people who talk to themselves while they wait with you for the T. (Xenia surely knows what I mean--not because she's nuts, but because she went to school near Cambridge.) It doesn't shake me, but I'm not exactly going to invite them out for tapas.
So when I go back to PA, the casual chattiness of strangers is not familiar, but I can get myself out of a weird situation.
Saturday morning, Brian and I headed over to the path along the Susquehanna river to do our long runs together. He's training for the San Francisco marathon in July and had 11 miles on the schedule. Ironically, I'm training for half a marathon but had 14 miles on the schedule. We would start out together and meet back at the car at about the same time, since my last four miles would be at half-marathon pace. (Yeah, you heard me. I'm. Faster.)
We went to use the bathrooms before starting our run, but I decided to go back to the car to ditch my long-sleeve shirt. On the way to the car, we smiled to a guy standing on some steps who had seen us come up them a few minutes before. This obviously means that we need to chat. Two passings = new best friends.
Brian and I are fairly sure that Mr. Sketchy followed us back to our car because when we got there, there he is next to us. His first utterance? Not "Hi."
"So you guys run marathons or what?"
Uh...
My response is a cordial "Yes."
"Let me ask you guys, why do you run marathons?"
Okay, well sure, let's stand here for the next four hours so I can give you an exegesis on why I run marathons. Even though he apparently just followed us to our car to chat us up, I don't think Mr. Sketchy was looking to mug or abduct us. I'm just a trained New Englander now. Which means I don't talk to anyone, except myself.
So I tried not to be rude, but I wasn't going to stick around any longer than necessary. "How much time do you have?" I joked nervously.
My kind, southern-raised husband, however, explained the psychological benefits of running, pursuing a physical challenge, and accomplishing a goal. Needless to say, I gave Brian a bemused look as he revealed to Mr. Sketchy his stress level and need for psychological release.
"I run marathons so I can eat whatever I want," I said, trying to hasten our chit chat. He did not seem like the right audience for my personal narrative on marathoning. It all goes back to my childhood and persistent feelings of inadequacy... Yeah, not so much. Let's just keep it light, please.
And here it comes: "You look like you can eat whatever you want anyway. I'm more likely to throw myself off a bridge for excitement," says Mr. Sketchy in a beautiful demonstration of the fine art of the non-sequitor.
Gotta go. Nice chatting, but I got a thing.
Don't care if husband is here to prevent the guy from throwing me in the trunk of his car and taking me to a pre-dug grave for girls who look like they can eat whatever they want. I'd say it's about time for that 14-miler to get started.
But we were nice as we took off at a somewhat-faster-than-normal jog to get on our way. I'm hoping that Mr. Sketchy did not indeed throw himself off a bridge while we were gone, but I am quite happy that he was not waiting by our car when we returned to ask us how our run went and if we'd like to consider a menage a trois.
And in case any of you are wondering, I did not share my blog URL with him.
Today's topic? Sketchy men who approach you when you're with your spouse and talk you up anyway.
I grew up near the capitol of PA (that's Harrisburg, not Philly), which is like Pittsburgh on a smaller scale. I do mean that in the best possible way. Central PA has a midwestern kind of feel to it, with people who will strike up a conversation about the sorry state of PA highways with any old stranger in the local Sheetz. Words like "y'uns" make their way into the lexicon, and shopping at Walmart alongside a Pennsylvania Dutch family is par for the course.
I really like the easy friendliness of people there, but my six years in Cambridge earned me a different social style to go with the pricey diploma molding in my basement. I developed an aloof, introverted city demeanor at the same time that I cultivated a certain comfort being around crazy people on the street. If you spend enough time in a city with a high ratio of intellectuals, you find yourself with a considerable proportion of people who talk to themselves while they wait with you for the T. (Xenia surely knows what I mean--not because she's nuts, but because she went to school near Cambridge.) It doesn't shake me, but I'm not exactly going to invite them out for tapas.
So when I go back to PA, the casual chattiness of strangers is not familiar, but I can get myself out of a weird situation.
Saturday morning, Brian and I headed over to the path along the Susquehanna river to do our long runs together. He's training for the San Francisco marathon in July and had 11 miles on the schedule. Ironically, I'm training for half a marathon but had 14 miles on the schedule. We would start out together and meet back at the car at about the same time, since my last four miles would be at half-marathon pace. (Yeah, you heard me. I'm. Faster.)
We went to use the bathrooms before starting our run, but I decided to go back to the car to ditch my long-sleeve shirt. On the way to the car, we smiled to a guy standing on some steps who had seen us come up them a few minutes before. This obviously means that we need to chat. Two passings = new best friends.
Brian and I are fairly sure that Mr. Sketchy followed us back to our car because when we got there, there he is next to us. His first utterance? Not "Hi."
"So you guys run marathons or what?"
Uh...
My response is a cordial "Yes."
"Let me ask you guys, why do you run marathons?"
Okay, well sure, let's stand here for the next four hours so I can give you an exegesis on why I run marathons. Even though he apparently just followed us to our car to chat us up, I don't think Mr. Sketchy was looking to mug or abduct us. I'm just a trained New Englander now. Which means I don't talk to anyone, except myself.
So I tried not to be rude, but I wasn't going to stick around any longer than necessary. "How much time do you have?" I joked nervously.
My kind, southern-raised husband, however, explained the psychological benefits of running, pursuing a physical challenge, and accomplishing a goal. Needless to say, I gave Brian a bemused look as he revealed to Mr. Sketchy his stress level and need for psychological release.
"I run marathons so I can eat whatever I want," I said, trying to hasten our chit chat. He did not seem like the right audience for my personal narrative on marathoning. It all goes back to my childhood and persistent feelings of inadequacy... Yeah, not so much. Let's just keep it light, please.
And here it comes: "You look like you can eat whatever you want anyway. I'm more likely to throw myself off a bridge for excitement," says Mr. Sketchy in a beautiful demonstration of the fine art of the non-sequitor.
Gotta go. Nice chatting, but I got a thing.
Don't care if husband is here to prevent the guy from throwing me in the trunk of his car and taking me to a pre-dug grave for girls who look like they can eat whatever they want. I'd say it's about time for that 14-miler to get started.
But we were nice as we took off at a somewhat-faster-than-normal jog to get on our way. I'm hoping that Mr. Sketchy did not indeed throw himself off a bridge while we were gone, but I am quite happy that he was not waiting by our car when we returned to ask us how our run went and if we'd like to consider a menage a trois.
And in case any of you are wondering, I did not share my blog URL with him.
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