It started off great.
I appear to be suffering from the blissful delusion that the long run is a fun adventure. And so on this particular Saturday, with the thought of 13 miles dancing through my head, I jumped-ish out of bed the moment the alarm buzzed awake at 7 a.m. I mean, not even ONE snooze.
I had enjoyed the mother of all pre-running meals - spaghetti with meat sauce - on Friday and had some help mapping out my new run.
You have to get a little imaginative when you start clocking runs over 10 miles. For one, it gets boring doing the same route and for two, you might as well keep your running self on your toes with obstacles such as, your tendency to get lost, and Boston's sign-less streets.
It's all so exciting.
My goal was to do 13 miles and since everyone you meet talks a big game about this pretty lake in Jamaica Plain I felt this was the perfect opportunity. I mapped it out on map-my-run and secured a probably interstate-ramp-free route to get me to the Emerald Necklace.
Sounds eco-kinky, doesn't it.
The E.N. is this windy path of green designed by Mr. Central Park himself, Olmsted, and it stretches and turns through Boston and up to the Jamaica Pond, which is, in fact, beautiful. The best part is that you are covered in lush shade for the majority of the trek and it's hard to get lost. My friend told me to 'follow the green' and while I had my skeps, it was embarrassingly obvious. So, I highly recommend.
The downside? Oh yes, there is one. It's long. Heading back was, blissfully, on a down slope, but once I exited the green space and ran back around an already-populated Fenway down, Beacon and across the Charles River I was drawing from a bone-dry pool of will power. It was the first time I had to talk myself into it: just place one foot in front of the other.
On my last mile I was running at a toddlers nap-time pace. On the other side of the street I noticed a gaggle of ladies carrying babies walking faster. It wasn't pretty.
After listening to a pretty entertaining This American Life (#225, Home Movies featuring an always delightful David Sedaris) I ran through a 19-song mix I made for a friend (awesome, if I do say so myself) and suffered through some picky ipod shuffle. BUT, just when I thought I'd have to ask a Cambridge Mom a ride home in her supped up baby buggie, the pod redeemed itself with the most random adrenaline injection I couldn't have even imagined:
You're the Best, by the one and only Joe Esposito.
What? You're not familiar? Have you been living under a rock? It was only THE song that helped the karate kid find the will power to hop around on one foot while kicking that punk kid's ass.
"You're only a man and a man's got to learn to take it."
Except for that 'man' stuff, the song was speaking to me. Esposito picked up each lame foot and set one in front of the other until I found myself on my street (oh happy day!). Stopping was the best thing ever, ever.
Worst thing? Finding out the run took me 2:20. Which means I hope and pray that map my run was off and I ran, at least, closer to 14 miles. Even at 14 miles I'm doing a 10 minute mile which is just not going to fly. Joe Esposito would be heartbroken.
Thus:
Miles: (let's just say) 14miles
Time: (gulp) 2:20
Overall: 7 (pros: the trail really was gorgeous and pretty and varied enough to keep you distracted, TAL, mix, Joe Esposito / cons: barely surviving, time, being past by walking mums).
xoL
Showing posts with label Cambridge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cambridge. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Training day: Long run no. 2*
*Spoiler alert: it did not go well and gross things ahead*
To cut right to the chase: I bit it. Hard core and within the first 20 minutes of my run. Damn it and ew.
It was a nice start. I was out on the road early, so it was quiet on the Cambridge side of the Charles River. My This American Life (Ep: #102, Roadtrip!) was a distracting delight and the river sparkled ahead, beckoning me on.
Suddenly, the gravel path reach up and grabbed hold of my pretty new sneaker and threw me forward so that I was sailing through the air with the greatest of unease. Mid flight I heard, through my earphone, an "Ooooooo" from a nearby pedestrian. And then I skidded to an elegant stop with the palms of my hands, obviously testing out a handstand-to-backspring landing, which failed miserably.
From my dirt landing strip I brushed at the sand and grit on my legs and peered at the now-bloody-palms, not quite sure what to do. A kind man helped me up and told me to take a breather but I assured him I just needed to wash myself off, as I smeared my hands across my McDonald's-yellow tank top.
A little rattled, yes. But I was immediately annoyed that this interference had to come so early in the trip and that I had to sacrifice a precious quarter of water. So I jogged on, a little wobbly and with hands throbbing.
It was really only at home when my heart rate slowed and, faced with the prospect of a hot shower, that I realized how bad my hands were. But, being a wait-and-see-how-it-goes kind of gal I gingerly washed the dirt from my body, poured shampoo on my head, swabbed at cuts with disinfectant and called it a day. We were in a rush, on to the beach and I figured an afternoon in the ocean water would cure all.
Beach trip, however, involved a new fabulous friend who is, unfortunately, a nurse who tsk-tsked at my unclean wounds and told me I had to scrub to clean them out. And, true to her word, the salt water did little to get the dirt and stones out of my hand so back at home, after a few beers and an hour soak in bubbly water, a baby shot of whiskey and an old Friends episode as a distraction, I (shiver) scrubbed (pawed) to meager success.
Gross.
I'm glad I could share that.
And so, my second attempt at a long run gets a less-than stellar rating. Pros: cold beverages, laugh-out-loud funny TAL episode. Cons: repeat route, bloody hands. Thus:
Mileage: 8.6
Approx. time: 1:37
Overall rating: 6.2
And now for some antibacterial remedy for the image I have just painted:
xoL
To cut right to the chase: I bit it. Hard core and within the first 20 minutes of my run. Damn it and ew.
It was a nice start. I was out on the road early, so it was quiet on the Cambridge side of the Charles River. My This American Life (Ep: #102, Roadtrip!) was a distracting delight and the river sparkled ahead, beckoning me on.
Suddenly, the gravel path reach up and grabbed hold of my pretty new sneaker and threw me forward so that I was sailing through the air with the greatest of unease. Mid flight I heard, through my earphone, an "Ooooooo" from a nearby pedestrian. And then I skidded to an elegant stop with the palms of my hands, obviously testing out a handstand-to-backspring landing, which failed miserably.
From my dirt landing strip I brushed at the sand and grit on my legs and peered at the now-bloody-palms, not quite sure what to do. A kind man helped me up and told me to take a breather but I assured him I just needed to wash myself off, as I smeared my hands across my McDonald's-yellow tank top.
A little rattled, yes. But I was immediately annoyed that this interference had to come so early in the trip and that I had to sacrifice a precious quarter of water. So I jogged on, a little wobbly and with hands throbbing.
It was really only at home when my heart rate slowed and, faced with the prospect of a hot shower, that I realized how bad my hands were. But, being a wait-and-see-how-it-goes kind of gal I gingerly washed the dirt from my body, poured shampoo on my head, swabbed at cuts with disinfectant and called it a day. We were in a rush, on to the beach and I figured an afternoon in the ocean water would cure all.
Beach trip, however, involved a new fabulous friend who is, unfortunately, a nurse who tsk-tsked at my unclean wounds and told me I had to scrub to clean them out. And, true to her word, the salt water did little to get the dirt and stones out of my hand so back at home, after a few beers and an hour soak in bubbly water, a baby shot of whiskey and an old Friends episode as a distraction, I (shiver) scrubbed (pawed) to meager success.
Gross.
I'm glad I could share that.
And so, my second attempt at a long run gets a less-than stellar rating. Pros: cold beverages, laugh-out-loud funny TAL episode. Cons: repeat route, bloody hands. Thus:
Mileage: 8.6
Approx. time: 1:37
Overall rating: 6.2
And now for some antibacterial remedy for the image I have just painted:
xoL
Monday, June 21, 2010
Training day, first try
I have returned to the blog (yay) because I am recently unemployed (boo).
There is much to catch up on but I think I will start with the most recent: Marathon Training.
That is right party people. I have signed up for the Chicago Marathon and it appears as though it is time to start training. The math wiz in me thought I had another week but my running buddy told me, um, no. So I gathered myself together, eased any sort of anxiety with new equipment purchases and went on my way.
My first purchase was a little water bottle belt. What seemed like "big time" in the store became incredibly practical during my first long(ish) run. I filled two of the four 8-ounce water bottles with ice water and the other two with some sort of protein-make-you-keep-running-when-you-want-to-keel-over sports drink. The latter was not mixed with ice water which means in the 80-degree-by-8-day those water bottle were a boiling around my hip.
Thus,
Lesson #1: Do not fear the ice. Freeze everything for it will surely melt (in the summer).
The running store where I purchased said belt and new running sneaks had a nice little Run Boston map. I studied the hieroglyphics that made up my new map and found a route that followed the Charles River from the Cambridge side to the Boston side and back. I whined openly the night before about wishing my video ipod was a little less cumbersome and (*poof*) R produced an ipod mini he had stashed away in a drawer.
Thus,
Lesson #2: Whine openly and you may, possibly, receive.
Since returning to running I have found that This American Life is a delight to run to. So I loaded a few onto the mini pod, with some backup running music and set my alarm for a less-sweat-inducing Saturday morning run.
Dorkily equipped, meagerly warmed up and well stretched I ventured out onto the open road. And it was awesome. The route around the Charles River was splendid. A little hot and dry on the Cambridge side, but plush and environmentally distracting on the Boston side. Midway through my return trip on the Boston side I was awed and then accosted by a family of geese which made me stop and hobble via wide-birth into oncoming traffic to to avoid the hissing mother.
Just as my TAL episode (a completely entertaining trifecta on the subject of Kidnapping and/or being trapped) was coming to a close I began to feel what has to be the most relentless, awkward, Achilles heel of running: the inner thigh chafe. I mean, hot DAMN that is painful. I yanked and maneuvered my sweaty shorts down and around but to no avail. At times I even ran as though carrying a gallon of water between my thighs (not a pretty sight). No dice. From mile 6 to mile 8.5 I had to just grin and bear the chunky-thigh reality.
Thus,
Lesson #3: Embrace the spandex.
Besides the last lesson, the first long run out there was actually enjoyable. I think a new route had something to do with it and the boiled protein I consumed throughout, but in terms of the surprise that was week 1 of training, I'd say it was a success.
Estimated mileage: 8.6
Estimated time: 80m
Pros: Route, TAL episode, new sneaks, ice water, no IT band pain
Cons: Geese, the chafe
Rating: 7.5
There is much to catch up on but I think I will start with the most recent: Marathon Training.
That is right party people. I have signed up for the Chicago Marathon and it appears as though it is time to start training. The math wiz in me thought I had another week but my running buddy told me, um, no. So I gathered myself together, eased any sort of anxiety with new equipment purchases and went on my way.
My first purchase was a little water bottle belt. What seemed like "big time" in the store became incredibly practical during my first long(ish) run. I filled two of the four 8-ounce water bottles with ice water and the other two with some sort of protein-make-you-keep-running-when-you-want-to-keel-over sports drink. The latter was not mixed with ice water which means in the 80-degree-by-8-day those water bottle were a boiling around my hip.
Thus,
Lesson #1: Do not fear the ice. Freeze everything for it will surely melt (in the summer).
The running store where I purchased said belt and new running sneaks had a nice little Run Boston map. I studied the hieroglyphics that made up my new map and found a route that followed the Charles River from the Cambridge side to the Boston side and back. I whined openly the night before about wishing my video ipod was a little less cumbersome and (*poof*) R produced an ipod mini he had stashed away in a drawer.
Thus,
Lesson #2: Whine openly and you may, possibly, receive.
Since returning to running I have found that This American Life is a delight to run to. So I loaded a few onto the mini pod, with some backup running music and set my alarm for a less-sweat-inducing Saturday morning run.
Dorkily equipped, meagerly warmed up and well stretched I ventured out onto the open road. And it was awesome. The route around the Charles River was splendid. A little hot and dry on the Cambridge side, but plush and environmentally distracting on the Boston side. Midway through my return trip on the Boston side I was awed and then accosted by a family of geese which made me stop and hobble via wide-birth into oncoming traffic to to avoid the hissing mother.
Just as my TAL episode (a completely entertaining trifecta on the subject of Kidnapping and/or being trapped) was coming to a close I began to feel what has to be the most relentless, awkward, Achilles heel of running: the inner thigh chafe. I mean, hot DAMN that is painful. I yanked and maneuvered my sweaty shorts down and around but to no avail. At times I even ran as though carrying a gallon of water between my thighs (not a pretty sight). No dice. From mile 6 to mile 8.5 I had to just grin and bear the chunky-thigh reality.
Thus,
Lesson #3: Embrace the spandex.
Besides the last lesson, the first long run out there was actually enjoyable. I think a new route had something to do with it and the boiled protein I consumed throughout, but in terms of the surprise that was week 1 of training, I'd say it was a success.
Estimated mileage: 8.6
Estimated time: 80m
Pros: Route, TAL episode, new sneaks, ice water, no IT band pain
Cons: Geese, the chafe
Rating: 7.5
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Let's play pretend
This weekend brought us Arthur, whom I prefer to call Russel.
Russel is an English Setter, 6ish years old, and our charge for the weekend while friends ventured down to D.C.
Now, I should preface this by saying that I was *this* close to securing future puppydom with R. I've been making hang-dates with friends who have puppies, sending cute finds direct to R via e-mail and even starting a (ah-hem) puppy wall. best. thing. ever.
Since Russel is well into his middle age I figured this would sinch the 'Let's get a pup' campaign. Sure, he was recovering from a recent brush with death, death in the form of a small branch that he sucked right up his nose. It was an $800 accident for the puppy parents and a fact that I generally smooth over whenever it is brought up by R (but OUR dog won't inhale small trees). It was working for a while.
We were to stay at their place, which gave us further opportunity to try out home ownership. And if the dog and the home didn't work out, it was like a mini break away from our apartment. A free bed and breakfast. delight.
Friday, evening. I'm still at work until six and R is attempting to write his thesis. After carefully reading the Arthur the dog memo I realized that Russel needs be walked by 530. The vote goes out and I opt to skiddadle out of the office, back to our apt to pick up the key and then over to our pied-a-terre.
The blatter-filled pup was jonesing for a walk so we took a brisk one around the block. This kid has really got an eye twigs of all sizes. He chews, eats, knaws, claws and, yes, snorts them all in and around his snout. Dear God it was the shortest walk to an anxiety attack I've ever had.
With R still back at school Russel and I got down to the business of hanging. Only Russel isn't so big on hanging, or cuddling, or spreading any sort of nuzzle love. What he IS into is starring.
No, it's more than a stare. It's like a window into the darkest part of my soul that obviously ate his parents.
This face, and this doesn't even capture it, is clearly plotting my early, slow and torturous death.
Luckily I distracted him with treats (like a lot), long walks along the sun drenched sidewalks and maybe even a few (small) twigs.
He even made a (twin) friend.
Honestly, all was going well. R was into it, we ordered in, watched some cable. Delight.
Then Sunday morning rolled around and R and I were trying to sleep through the parade of babies pounding across the floor above us. The Arthur the dog memo said that Russel can sleep in until 9 on weekends (woo hoo!) and that if he had to go out he would whine loud and clear. End of story: it was 10, there was no whine, but there was two poops and a splatter of pee.
Unfortunately, R saw it first.
"Is this was dogs do?" he asked.
Does, not OUR dog work for that?
"It's only 10," he continued, "what, we can't sleep in with the dog? He can't wait?!"
Yeah, well there's only so much soothing our imaginary dog can do.
Russel went for his official morning walk while i cleaned up the little mess and we said good bye to our mini break pied and the hope of getting a pup any time soon.
{sign}
And thus began the 'Let's get a puppy campaign TWO.'
xoxoL
Russel is an English Setter, 6ish years old, and our charge for the weekend while friends ventured down to D.C.
Now, I should preface this by saying that I was *this* close to securing future puppydom with R. I've been making hang-dates with friends who have puppies, sending cute finds direct to R via e-mail and even starting a (ah-hem) puppy wall. best. thing. ever.
Since Russel is well into his middle age I figured this would sinch the 'Let's get a pup' campaign. Sure, he was recovering from a recent brush with death, death in the form of a small branch that he sucked right up his nose. It was an $800 accident for the puppy parents and a fact that I generally smooth over whenever it is brought up by R (but OUR dog won't inhale small trees). It was working for a while.
We were to stay at their place, which gave us further opportunity to try out home ownership. And if the dog and the home didn't work out, it was like a mini break away from our apartment. A free bed and breakfast. delight.
Friday, evening. I'm still at work until six and R is attempting to write his thesis. After carefully reading the Arthur the dog memo I realized that Russel needs be walked by 530. The vote goes out and I opt to skiddadle out of the office, back to our apt to pick up the key and then over to our pied-a-terre.
The blatter-filled pup was jonesing for a walk so we took a brisk one around the block. This kid has really got an eye twigs of all sizes. He chews, eats, knaws, claws and, yes, snorts them all in and around his snout. Dear God it was the shortest walk to an anxiety attack I've ever had.
With R still back at school Russel and I got down to the business of hanging. Only Russel isn't so big on hanging, or cuddling, or spreading any sort of nuzzle love. What he IS into is starring.
No, it's more than a stare. It's like a window into the darkest part of my soul that obviously ate his parents.
This face, and this doesn't even capture it, is clearly plotting my early, slow and torturous death.
Luckily I distracted him with treats (like a lot), long walks along the sun drenched sidewalks and maybe even a few (small) twigs.
He even made a (twin) friend.
Honestly, all was going well. R was into it, we ordered in, watched some cable. Delight.
Then Sunday morning rolled around and R and I were trying to sleep through the parade of babies pounding across the floor above us. The Arthur the dog memo said that Russel can sleep in until 9 on weekends (woo hoo!) and that if he had to go out he would whine loud and clear. End of story: it was 10, there was no whine, but there was two poops and a splatter of pee.
Unfortunately, R saw it first.
"Is this was dogs do?" he asked.
Does, not OUR dog work for that?
"It's only 10," he continued, "what, we can't sleep in with the dog? He can't wait?!"
Yeah, well there's only so much soothing our imaginary dog can do.
Russel went for his official morning walk while i cleaned up the little mess and we said good bye to our mini break pied and the hope of getting a pup any time soon.
{sign}
And thus began the 'Let's get a puppy campaign TWO.'
xoxoL
Friday, February 12, 2010
Supermouse, the end is near
The house smells like a candy cane. It's sickly sweet and minty. I can barely enter the house yet SOMEHOW this mouse of ours has made himself veeeeeery comfortable. Very comfortable indeed.
Last night I packed my lunch in preparation for an early departure. Nothing flashy, in fact it involved a can o soup. But, as always, there was a bag of goodies - nuts, raisins, pretzels. Well it seems my furry friend betrayed me, he went behind my back, nibbled his way into my zip lock bag and ATE my SNACKS.
The worst? He at the best part of the mix - The peanut butter pretzels!!
Fuzzy turncoat.
I tried to help you little guy. But I'm afraid I can no longer stand in the way of whatever R has in store. I'll tell you this, it won't smell like candy cane.
xoL
p.s. I'm suuuuper behind on the blog and round ups but there's one coming after the weekend. Get excited.
p.p.s I should throw out that bag, right? I shouldn't eat his leftovers? [sad face]
Last night I packed my lunch in preparation for an early departure. Nothing flashy, in fact it involved a can o soup. But, as always, there was a bag of goodies - nuts, raisins, pretzels. Well it seems my furry friend betrayed me, he went behind my back, nibbled his way into my zip lock bag and ATE my SNACKS.
The worst? He at the best part of the mix - The peanut butter pretzels!!
Fuzzy turncoat.
I tried to help you little guy. But I'm afraid I can no longer stand in the way of whatever R has in store. I'll tell you this, it won't smell like candy cane.
xoL
p.s. I'm suuuuper behind on the blog and round ups but there's one coming after the weekend. Get excited.
p.p.s I should throw out that bag, right? I shouldn't eat his leftovers? [sad face]
Friday, January 22, 2010
Inspired to freeze until I went inside
Perhaps you've seen this article that ran in Thursday's New York Times House & Garden section - Chilled by Choice? Well it caught my eye, mainly because of the awesome large photo on the top of the piece.
Basically it's about people living in very cold climates (at least for part of the year) who CHOOSE to go without heat. Some people just keep the heat at a balmy 55 but the rest who were interviewed just do it - like live in a place that is probably colder inside that the air than is outside for at least four months out of the year. Eek.
And yet, they make it look good. In fact from the 71 degree kitchen in my parents comfy home I had a revelation - I can do this! Yes! I can turn off the heat during the winter months. I can at least give it a try.
I saw some advantages:
1) saving some cash. Being utterly broke I think we can all see the benefit in pocketing that $20/month bruise.
2)saving energy => saving the planet (all from my couch)
3) clarity of mind, which means a bevvy of new writing and creating ideas. Obviously I will be award winning writer/videographer/blogger/audiophile within months of going archtic.
But then I left the comforts of my parents house, drove the 2+ hours back to R's place in Cambridge, pushed open that drafty door of a one-bedroom that hadn't been heated for two days and gasped. No, I beelined it to the heater, the gauge hovering just above 55 degrees, and cranked that puppy back up to 70.
OK so freezing myself for inspiration and moral uplift is out...at least just for now, until it gets a little warmer outside.
xoxoL
Basically it's about people living in very cold climates (at least for part of the year) who CHOOSE to go without heat. Some people just keep the heat at a balmy 55 but the rest who were interviewed just do it - like live in a place that is probably colder inside that the air than is outside for at least four months out of the year. Eek.
And yet, they make it look good. In fact from the 71 degree kitchen in my parents comfy home I had a revelation - I can do this! Yes! I can turn off the heat during the winter months. I can at least give it a try.
I saw some advantages:
1) saving some cash. Being utterly broke I think we can all see the benefit in pocketing that $20/month bruise.
2)saving energy => saving the planet (all from my couch)
3) clarity of mind, which means a bevvy of new writing and creating ideas. Obviously I will be award winning writer/videographer/blogger/audiophile within months of going archtic.
But then I left the comforts of my parents house, drove the 2+ hours back to R's place in Cambridge, pushed open that drafty door of a one-bedroom that hadn't been heated for two days and gasped. No, I beelined it to the heater, the gauge hovering just above 55 degrees, and cranked that puppy back up to 70.
OK so freezing myself for inspiration and moral uplift is out...at least just for now, until it gets a little warmer outside.
xoxoL
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Posteos presents: Cambridge
I'd like to present the first viral episode of POSTeos - video postcards - inspired by my sometimes new, sometimes unfamiliar, always entertaining surroundings.
Get into it.
Get into it.
Posteos presents: finding genius in Cambridge from Lauren Hansen on Vimeo.
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