This one was a doozy.
First, it was my first longer-than-I've-ever-run run: 15 miles. Even tracking it on map my run was intimidating.
Second, I was squeezing in a run before an 11:30 phone call, which is normally fine but I just had no idea how long this would take me or if I would survive at all.
Third, I may have had one glass of wine too many, meaning two, the night before during a August birthday celebration so rising was less shiny at 7 a.m.
I repeated by Jamaica Plains run with the added few miles that brought be around and past the Museum of Science along the Charles River.
Figuring that this run would take me more than 2 hours I had to boost my audio support. BUT I couldn't sacrifice another This American Life so I needed an alternative.
Enter: The New Yorker Fiction podcast. I know, I know, it's not exactly the Rocky soundtrack of marathon training but I'm telling you, having people speak to you about sometimes interesting things is fantastically entertaining.
For This American Life I had episode #412 Million Dollar Idea. The first two stories were less exciting but it worked out since they came on when I was still alive and well. The third story, though, about a guy who became obsessed with winning game shows was fabulous. It was sad and weird and made me actually laugh out loud. All good.
For the fiction podcast I chose Joshua Ferris's The Dinner Party as read by Monica Ali. I have to admit that I was not familiar with Monica Ali but she is accented! And that Britishness makes the read so much more enjoyable. I had read Ferris's first nove, Then We Came to the End, a few years ago and LOVED it. It was a bit of a slow build, as a novel about office life might expect to be, but the character development was spot on and the story took some odd and entertaining twists. Beyond all of that it was actually laugh out loud funny. Needless to say, I had some high hopes for "The Dinner Party."
And, for a running story, it was the perfect mix of entertainment. It kept me distracted, it was weird and cringe-worthy and a nice story arch for a short piece. I also liked that Ali and the New Yorker fiction editor discussed the book afterward because they pointed out all the interesting bits that I definitely would have missed as I was trying to put one foot in front of the other.
Besides the ipod, the run started off pleasant. It was sticky hot by 8 so the light sprinkle that met me at mile 5 was more than welcomed. Jamaica Pond was pretty as usual and because it was a weekday it was empty.
Back near the Charles River, where I was getting through the double digit mileage, I had drunk nearly all of my now-hot water and sports drink and was pretty much dying of thirst. Right before the Longfellow Bridge on the Boston side of the river is a water fountain, which I gulped out of for a good three minutes. Water never tasted so good.
By this point - about mile 12 - my legs had been feeling OK. Definitely fatigued but I was getting by. But when I tried to start up again after refueling my legs were not having it. Just a few minutes back into the run my IT band started to flair up, which is NEVER an awesome thing. In fact it's incredibly frustrating because if it really goes you have to just not run to fix it. And in this point of the training not running isn't really recommended.
So, at mile 13 I finally said, fine. I'll walk. So I speed walked and when things got really boring and frustrating I tried running again but IT band said no way Jose.
What began as a good, solid, I'm-not-doing-so-bad run ended up sucking it up.
The good news is that I took the weekend off - three glorious days run free - and when I ran again on Monday and Tuesday my knee was OK. I fully blame the water skiing. That was definitely not well thought out on my part.
So if you're training for a marathon, take my advice and don't do other sports, especially not water skiing. That 30 seconds of standing semi-triumphantly can really bite you in the ass.
Thus,
Distance: 13 miles running + 2 miles speed walking
Time: I'm not even going to try.
Overall: 3 (pros: the audio entertainment, random rain, water fountain savior; cons: the IT band).
xoL
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Thirty, flirty and thriving. Right?
Well, it happened. I turned 30.
Who would have thought this kid could have made it past grade school? She can barely get her hands out of that jacket!
I would just like to point out that I am now older than my mom was in that photo. Terrifying.
I was never a girl who conjured up images of the future me; dressing future self up like a paper doll in different outfits.
Here is L the veterinarian
L the teacher
L the Olympic swimmer (OK, I did imagine that once)
L the college graduate
L in a pants suit
L the bride
L the mother.
I remember sitting cross legged in a pale pink room. It was still grade school - fifth or sixth grade, I think. This is still during the time when my then-best-friend and I would coordinate outfits and come in wearing the same exact thing (a favorite: white jeans, Keds, over-sized Joker t-shirt) so you can see the maturity level was already ripe.
In this pale pink room, three little friends and I were talking about marriage, like you do. And it was during this heated discussion that I felt the pressure to divulge an age. You know, that age at which you think all things happen. That age, for young girls, when your life merges with what you imagine is adult, something that resembles your mother and the life you grew up in. For me, this age was 28.
It seemed WORLDS away. My occasional 16-year-old babysitter was ANCIENT so 28 was practically extinct. Did people still live that long? I wasn't sure.
28, I said in my most feminist-sounding pre-pubescent voice, would give me enough time for "my career." Then a husband would show up at my door and small children would follow.
My friends said slightly younger ages, 24s and 25s and since I still wasn't entirely sure where those future kids would pop out from I packed on a few years to ensure I had some time to figure things out.
It was so far out in the future, dangling like a baby carrot from a fishing rod that anything was possible. Wouldn't we be living like the Jetsons by then? I would be busy flying a car and eating jelly-bean-sized three-course meals and, sure, I could squeeze in a husband, a career and a few kids to bop around the apartment-in-the-sky.
During my 20s I inevitably started to hit those "my-mom-was-this-age-when" marks, at which point I brushed off responsibility and adulthood like the fading idea that a monster still lived under my bed.
At 22 I had the vague understanding that my mom was this age when she got married.
That was legal?
At 24 I knew my mom was this age when I was born.
The authorities don't automatically take children born of children away?
At 27 my mom had by brother and when I turned that age I was driving across the country about to embark upon a career change and graduate school and could barely feed myself let alone two ankle-biting kids and a grown man roommate. I mean, really.
I passed 28 reliving my early 20s in my first roommate-less apartment in Chicago with friends closer to college than 30.
During the 2010 year when my fellow 1980 pals were ticking over into that new decade I had witnessed enough anti climatic responses to recognize that this wasn't going to be a volcanic-epiphany time. But still, when I opened my eyes Friday morning I thought, maybe I'd awaken with some understanding of life.
Instead I woke up with a faint headache leftover from a night of too much.
In short, things are exactly the same. I feel motivated to kick this career into a higher gear, settle into a new apartment and city and fall into a new decade that offers, I'm told, a bit of assurance and know-thyself attitude. Which is great, because I'm still in the dark about a few things, like, am I really allergic to mushrooms? What about nectarines? Because I think my lip feels tingly after I eat them. What's up with that. Those and other such questions to be answered over the next ten years.
For those of you still slogging through those fun and frantic 20s I did want to leave you with a few items. Just a little grab bag of things I lived and learned after ten years of living in a few apartments, a handful of cities and, luckily, only one really bad hairstyle.
1. Don't cut your own bangs. I know this may sound silly as a starting point for advice, but it's a good one to remember. You may get lucky and make a clean sweep the first time but the odds are against you and sooner or later you're going to mess those puppies up and you'll end up trying to pass of the angled bang like it's sweeping the nation.
2. Best not to live with the opposite sex. Boys are fun. Boys can be great friends. Boys tend to not make awesome roommates. For one, it's hard to yell at a boy when they are not your boyfriend because they do yell back. For two, if you start doing the dishes that have been piling up in the sink said boy(s) will likely assume that doing the dishes is something you ENJOY doing, ergo dishes will always be piled in the sink.
3. Privacy settings are your friend. If all of your friend's, friend's, friends can view your facebook page, then so can your potential employers.
4. Edit yourself. Speaking of facebook, how about you don't post those drunken-last-night shots, eh? Or if your awesome friend does it for you, untag yourself. I was lucky enough to live through a Facebook-free 20s, but some of the interns I've looked into hiring have not and, trust me, the stretched-happy-face is not a subtle, sober look.
5. Beware of contracts. This goes for gym memberships, cable companies, yes, even library cards. In the end, everybody is out there trying to set up their own racket. If you sign a contract you are obligated to stick it out and, look at you, you're 22/23/24/25 you can barely get up in the morning. How are you supposed to comit to anything longer than three months? Forget cable, everything is online and look into month-to-month options. Also, crying does not always help you get out of a contract especially when speaking to someone across the globe over a phone.
6. Make a photo copy of your drivers license and your passport because you will absolutely lose it/both at least once if not multiple times. It sucks. Don't get attached to cute wallets. I'm still mourning after that red number with the embroidered hearts on the front that I left on a cab seat. {sigh}
7. If you live alone make a few copies of your keys and give them to friends, trustworthy neighbors or, if you're really ballsy, hide a few around your apartment building. Sure this could encourage theft, but it really sucks to get locked out of your apartment and to have to call your landlord who tends to be condescending about things like locking yourself out of your apartment and says things like, "Aren't you too old to be losing your keys" when EVERYONE has a bad day and perhaps there was a lot on your plate! Geeze.
8. Help a friend move. I really believe in the moving karma. Moving BLOWS and it's so super helpful to have a few (preferably larger man friends, but, really, anyone will do) on hand. Reward helpful friends with pizza and beer afterward or at least the promise of helping them down the road. And you MUST help them because it only takes one burn to lose a mover. This karma thing also goes for wayward friends looking for a couch and lending clothes out. It all comes back.
9. Bring your lunch to work. This is SO old of me to say, but, cereal, it really does cut down on costs. My Dad told it to me when I was 22 and I scoffed at him for a few years and then, when I had $1.30 in my bank account and three days before payroll I had a very quick change-of-mind. Also with every lunch you bring to work you get one free-to-brag-about-it-option. It's proven.
10. Avoid the Save-the-Children or other such selling-you-something-on-a-busy-street-corner people. They may say it's only $0.15 per day but that adds up. And you're living in New York City, the most expensive city out there, are you insane to give up $0.15 of your paycheck? One minute you're just taking an afternoon break and the next minute you're mother to baby Ruth in the Dominican who writes you sad little letters with drawings of the items she was able to buy with your measly monthly fund: apple, banana, pants. When you overdraft the next time you try purchasing the on-sale magnum at your liquor store you damn yourself, think of Ruth, and then pity your single-parent status and how lucky you are to at least have pants. The guilt and the overdraft fees are not worth the tax break. Though helping the Baby Ruth is a good thing and should be encouraged, there are other, more financially settled people who can step up to the plate for now. And if you're really stuck on doing something good, volunteer at a soup kitchen. There's no need to be the hero when you can barely make your monthly rent.
xoxoL
Who would have thought this kid could have made it past grade school? She can barely get her hands out of that jacket!
I would just like to point out that I am now older than my mom was in that photo. Terrifying.
I was never a girl who conjured up images of the future me; dressing future self up like a paper doll in different outfits.
Here is L the veterinarian
L the teacher
L the Olympic swimmer (OK, I did imagine that once)
L the college graduate
L in a pants suit
L the bride
L the mother.
I remember sitting cross legged in a pale pink room. It was still grade school - fifth or sixth grade, I think. This is still during the time when my then-best-friend and I would coordinate outfits and come in wearing the same exact thing (a favorite: white jeans, Keds, over-sized Joker t-shirt) so you can see the maturity level was already ripe.
In this pale pink room, three little friends and I were talking about marriage, like you do. And it was during this heated discussion that I felt the pressure to divulge an age. You know, that age at which you think all things happen. That age, for young girls, when your life merges with what you imagine is adult, something that resembles your mother and the life you grew up in. For me, this age was 28.
It seemed WORLDS away. My occasional 16-year-old babysitter was ANCIENT so 28 was practically extinct. Did people still live that long? I wasn't sure.
28, I said in my most feminist-sounding pre-pubescent voice, would give me enough time for "my career." Then a husband would show up at my door and small children would follow.
My friends said slightly younger ages, 24s and 25s and since I still wasn't entirely sure where those future kids would pop out from I packed on a few years to ensure I had some time to figure things out.
It was so far out in the future, dangling like a baby carrot from a fishing rod that anything was possible. Wouldn't we be living like the Jetsons by then? I would be busy flying a car and eating jelly-bean-sized three-course meals and, sure, I could squeeze in a husband, a career and a few kids to bop around the apartment-in-the-sky.
During my 20s I inevitably started to hit those "my-mom-was-this-age-when" marks, at which point I brushed off responsibility and adulthood like the fading idea that a monster still lived under my bed.
At 22 I had the vague understanding that my mom was this age when she got married.
That was legal?
At 24 I knew my mom was this age when I was born.
The authorities don't automatically take children born of children away?
At 27 my mom had by brother and when I turned that age I was driving across the country about to embark upon a career change and graduate school and could barely feed myself let alone two ankle-biting kids and a grown man roommate. I mean, really.
I passed 28 reliving my early 20s in my first roommate-less apartment in Chicago with friends closer to college than 30.
During the 2010 year when my fellow 1980 pals were ticking over into that new decade I had witnessed enough anti climatic responses to recognize that this wasn't going to be a volcanic-epiphany time. But still, when I opened my eyes Friday morning I thought, maybe I'd awaken with some understanding of life.
Instead I woke up with a faint headache leftover from a night of too much.
In short, things are exactly the same. I feel motivated to kick this career into a higher gear, settle into a new apartment and city and fall into a new decade that offers, I'm told, a bit of assurance and know-thyself attitude. Which is great, because I'm still in the dark about a few things, like, am I really allergic to mushrooms? What about nectarines? Because I think my lip feels tingly after I eat them. What's up with that. Those and other such questions to be answered over the next ten years.
For those of you still slogging through those fun and frantic 20s I did want to leave you with a few items. Just a little grab bag of things I lived and learned after ten years of living in a few apartments, a handful of cities and, luckily, only one really bad hairstyle.
1. Don't cut your own bangs. I know this may sound silly as a starting point for advice, but it's a good one to remember. You may get lucky and make a clean sweep the first time but the odds are against you and sooner or later you're going to mess those puppies up and you'll end up trying to pass of the angled bang like it's sweeping the nation.
2. Best not to live with the opposite sex. Boys are fun. Boys can be great friends. Boys tend to not make awesome roommates. For one, it's hard to yell at a boy when they are not your boyfriend because they do yell back. For two, if you start doing the dishes that have been piling up in the sink said boy(s) will likely assume that doing the dishes is something you ENJOY doing, ergo dishes will always be piled in the sink.
3. Privacy settings are your friend. If all of your friend's, friend's, friends can view your facebook page, then so can your potential employers.
4. Edit yourself. Speaking of facebook, how about you don't post those drunken-last-night shots, eh? Or if your awesome friend does it for you, untag yourself. I was lucky enough to live through a Facebook-free 20s, but some of the interns I've looked into hiring have not and, trust me, the stretched-happy-face is not a subtle, sober look.
5. Beware of contracts. This goes for gym memberships, cable companies, yes, even library cards. In the end, everybody is out there trying to set up their own racket. If you sign a contract you are obligated to stick it out and, look at you, you're 22/23/24/25 you can barely get up in the morning. How are you supposed to comit to anything longer than three months? Forget cable, everything is online and look into month-to-month options. Also, crying does not always help you get out of a contract especially when speaking to someone across the globe over a phone.
6. Make a photo copy of your drivers license and your passport because you will absolutely lose it/both at least once if not multiple times. It sucks. Don't get attached to cute wallets. I'm still mourning after that red number with the embroidered hearts on the front that I left on a cab seat. {sigh}
7. If you live alone make a few copies of your keys and give them to friends, trustworthy neighbors or, if you're really ballsy, hide a few around your apartment building. Sure this could encourage theft, but it really sucks to get locked out of your apartment and to have to call your landlord who tends to be condescending about things like locking yourself out of your apartment and says things like, "Aren't you too old to be losing your keys" when EVERYONE has a bad day and perhaps there was a lot on your plate! Geeze.
8. Help a friend move. I really believe in the moving karma. Moving BLOWS and it's so super helpful to have a few (preferably larger man friends, but, really, anyone will do) on hand. Reward helpful friends with pizza and beer afterward or at least the promise of helping them down the road. And you MUST help them because it only takes one burn to lose a mover. This karma thing also goes for wayward friends looking for a couch and lending clothes out. It all comes back.
9. Bring your lunch to work. This is SO old of me to say, but, cereal, it really does cut down on costs. My Dad told it to me when I was 22 and I scoffed at him for a few years and then, when I had $1.30 in my bank account and three days before payroll I had a very quick change-of-mind. Also with every lunch you bring to work you get one free-to-brag-about-it-option. It's proven.
10. Avoid the Save-the-Children or other such selling-you-something-on-a-busy-street-corner people. They may say it's only $0.15 per day but that adds up. And you're living in New York City, the most expensive city out there, are you insane to give up $0.15 of your paycheck? One minute you're just taking an afternoon break and the next minute you're mother to baby Ruth in the Dominican who writes you sad little letters with drawings of the items she was able to buy with your measly monthly fund: apple, banana, pants. When you overdraft the next time you try purchasing the on-sale magnum at your liquor store you damn yourself, think of Ruth, and then pity your single-parent status and how lucky you are to at least have pants. The guilt and the overdraft fees are not worth the tax break. Though helping the Baby Ruth is a good thing and should be encouraged, there are other, more financially settled people who can step up to the plate for now. And if you're really stuck on doing something good, volunteer at a soup kitchen. There's no need to be the hero when you can barely make your monthly rent.
xoxoL
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The round up
I bet you didn't think this was going to happen again, didja?
True the last round up was made during far more wintery weather, but that doesn't mean I haven't been combing and bookmarking all things arts, culture and just plain dumb (in a good way).
Without further adieu:
to read: A few months ago I happened across NPR's My Guilt Pleasure. And yes, it's just as indulgent as you would imagine. Writers divulge their deepest darkest literary treasures - the mostly embarrassing concessions of romance novels, best-sellers or, worse, vampires. I think Flowers in the Attic is one of my faves.
to check out: This fabulous French woman Sandrine Estrade Bell has a talent that usually leaves us commoners after the age of five: she can see imaginary creatures and people in everyday street scenes. They are quirky and hilarious and I wish it were mine. It looks like she takes photos and lets her imagination unfold in basic colors and voluptuous shapes. Check it out at My Modern Met
This guy, Made Thirsty, is my pet:
to procrastinate: Terribly addicting for very little reason, Hugh Crawford's Polaroid-a-day will suck you in with no apologies. Crawford took, as is plainly obvious, a Polaroid photo every day for 28 years. I mean, that's crazytown. But it is also fantastically addictive. Seasons change, nameless friends pile on puffy clothes and strip down to bold-colored tanks. Parties are had and food is (presumably) eaten or at least, photographed. The best part is that the lengthy photo album is a time capsule of that glorious fashion-questionable decade: the 80s.
Here is what was happening the day I was born.
Aren't you just dying to know what goes down next?
to long for: Sabrina Dehoff creates playful, colorful jewelery that will lighten your mood just enough to forget you're clomping around in high-heeled shoes (if that's the sort of thing you do).
I love the rope bracelets, a modern twist to those sailor rope bangles I collected as a kid.
Or the cloud necklace...hello? Adorable.
Speaking of adorable, this New York Times feature a while back on tiny houses is certainly to lust after. I would definitely like, no, need a mini Victorian house to live in. Sure it doesn't have indoor plumbing or heat and barely a door to speak of but it is so frickin' cute I could put it on a cupcake and eat it.
See the full slide show via NYTimes and prepare to drool.
And finally to cuddle:
What the HELL is that? I don't know but I shall adopt it and call it Fat and love it forever. It's a zooborn, get into it.
xoL
True the last round up was made during far more wintery weather, but that doesn't mean I haven't been combing and bookmarking all things arts, culture and just plain dumb (in a good way).
Without further adieu:
to read: A few months ago I happened across NPR's My Guilt Pleasure. And yes, it's just as indulgent as you would imagine. Writers divulge their deepest darkest literary treasures - the mostly embarrassing concessions of romance novels, best-sellers or, worse, vampires. I think Flowers in the Attic is one of my faves.
to check out: This fabulous French woman Sandrine Estrade Bell has a talent that usually leaves us commoners after the age of five: she can see imaginary creatures and people in everyday street scenes. They are quirky and hilarious and I wish it were mine. It looks like she takes photos and lets her imagination unfold in basic colors and voluptuous shapes. Check it out at My Modern Met
This guy, Made Thirsty, is my pet:
to procrastinate: Terribly addicting for very little reason, Hugh Crawford's Polaroid-a-day will suck you in with no apologies. Crawford took, as is plainly obvious, a Polaroid photo every day for 28 years. I mean, that's crazytown. But it is also fantastically addictive. Seasons change, nameless friends pile on puffy clothes and strip down to bold-colored tanks. Parties are had and food is (presumably) eaten or at least, photographed. The best part is that the lengthy photo album is a time capsule of that glorious fashion-questionable decade: the 80s.
Here is what was happening the day I was born.
Aren't you just dying to know what goes down next?
to long for: Sabrina Dehoff creates playful, colorful jewelery that will lighten your mood just enough to forget you're clomping around in high-heeled shoes (if that's the sort of thing you do).
I love the rope bracelets, a modern twist to those sailor rope bangles I collected as a kid.
Or the cloud necklace...hello? Adorable.
Speaking of adorable, this New York Times feature a while back on tiny houses is certainly to lust after. I would definitely like, no, need a mini Victorian house to live in. Sure it doesn't have indoor plumbing or heat and barely a door to speak of but it is so frickin' cute I could put it on a cupcake and eat it.
See the full slide show via NYTimes and prepare to drool.
And finally to cuddle:
What the HELL is that? I don't know but I shall adopt it and call it Fat and love it forever. It's a zooborn, get into it.
xoL
Monday, August 2, 2010
Training day: Long run no. 7
I have figured out the key to running long distances.
Are you ready for it?
Get lost.
Not in a rude way.
I mean go to a place you are not familiar with, get directions from someone too familiar with said place, get hand-drawn map, and be on your merry, ignorant way.
For my seventh long run, meant to be a "short" 10 miler, I chose the pristine, relaxing, bucolic Tripp Lake in Poland, ME.
R and I were headed to Poland for an annual friend reunion that we had to miss last year due to busy scholastic schedules. I figured the lake, which rumor had it was anywhere from 8-to-10 miles around, would be the perfect early morning long run to squeeze in before a weekend of doing a whole lotta nothing.
I checked in with the lady of the house to get the deets on the route and she kindly drew me a map, pointing out the dodgy third turn on the other side of the lake.
"If you miss this turn, you could just run forever," she said. She supported this warning with a spine-shivering story about a friend who set off on this very path and found herself lost for hours without crucial knowledge, such as street names, lake name or, for that matter, town name.
She gave the map and left me with these words: "Remember the plant lady."
The ache of the 7 a.m. alarm after one-too-many white wine spritzers was blissfully dulled by a lakeside stretch. With a new This American Life episode queued up in my ipod I felt ready and able to make it all the way around the lake.
I kept a hard eye out for street signs, attempting to commit their pastoral names to memory. My first turn had White Oak Hill on the left and Magguire Hill Road on the right. Turning onto Magguire I was greeted by a mother of a hill. The road and I were parallel lines. I was molasses-slow. It wasn't pretty.
But, y'know what was? The view.
At the cusp of the hill the tree line opened up and there was a spectacular picture window of the lake. It was fantastically enviable until a closer look revealed that the residents nestled along the ridge had all view and no access. They're like Rapunzel up there, baking on their grassy knoll, looking down on all the fun being had in and around that clear-blue patch of water.
I passed a cemetery, a lady running, a yard sale and, blissfully, the PLANT lady! Well, technically, no lady was to be found but there were for sale signs yards in advance. I took my next right after the plant lady, as told, and settled into what I thought was the last half of the run; confidence of a keen sense of direction brewing over.
But I still had one more turn and this, as it turned out, was the tricky one. When I came to the multi-pronged fork in the road with the infamous Egg-ceptional restaurant to my right and the mobile gas station across the road, it seemed clear that a right was the obvious choice. This right would have taken me back down the very same road we drove in on the night before so I would recognize the route and be home free. Little did I know there were TWO rights, a hard and, I guess, a soft. I opted for the soft that took me past a high school (I don't remember passing a high school on my way in), construction (I guess there was construction, right?), a Dunkin' Donuts (there definitely wasn't a DD on this road last night) and a small grouping of buildings that quietly said 'town center.' None of this rang a bell.
At some point during my first definitely-maybe-not-lost pep talk a car drove off the gravel road and into my grassy patch of running turf. It was big and clunky and there were tufts of grass jutting out of the drooping bumper in the front.
I stopped, assuming this was my time to be kidnapped.
I checked in with my muscles - Am I too tired to run away?
Probably.
I bent down and offered myself to the toothless man who wanted only directions to the Town Hall. Lost, myself, I thought it best to thank my would-be-kidnapper for not kidnapping me by sending him back the way he came to the kind people at the Dunkin' Dounts for surely they would know where they were.
Of course, half a mile down the road I passed the Poland Town Hall and found myself quickening my pace just in case toothless got, not only directions at the Dunkin' Donuts, but the motivation to, in fact, kidnap the lying, no-good runner who wasted his time.
After the hustle and bustle of the Poland town center faded in the distance and my once-bubbling directional confidence petered to a slow "glub", I noticed a sign.
White Oak Hill, it said.
A light went off in the dusty attic of my head that ignited a red bull-like energy back into my legs.
I happily turned onto White Oak Hill, imagining I had taken a wrong turn, yes, but I was mere meters away from where I started.
A mile into the roller-coaster-like dips and peaks of White Oak Hill I started to wonder.
Could there be more than one White Oak Hill in this tiny town?
On the downward slope of one of the rolling hills I found with my quickened step a level of delusional pride that allowed me to not only be convinced that I was moments away from home, but also not ask one of the kind people driving past me, at record speeds to locations filled with phones, maps and ice water, was this not the way back to Tripp Lake?
Too afraid to hear the answer, I kept my musings to myself and let one foot keep on going in front of the other.
And just when I thought that White Oak Hill would be my own personal limbo, I could see from the top of a hill the flashing yellow light, that familiar turn of the road and, could it be? Yes! Yes! The beautiful, blue-glass LAKE just beyond it.
I jogged down the hill and took a right back on Route 11 with arms raised like Rocky all the way back home.
I dove into the lake for a refreshing reward and regaled the group with stories of kidnap, adventure, and mountainous hills for hours after their kind interest waned.
Of course in the end it wasn't even 13 miles. Damn it! and it took me close to two hours. Damn it again! But I'm letting that slide since I had the fear of forever-lost in me and sometimes that makes a girl slow down and walk for a hill here and there.
Thus:
Distance: 12.45
Time: ~2:00
Overall: 8.5 (pros: FABulous views, new route that kept me on my toes, TAL (episode #385 Pro Se), route ignorance, the reward of two days off ahead / cons: getting lost, near kidnap)
I mean, how can you resist?
xoL
Are you ready for it?
Get lost.
Not in a rude way.
I mean go to a place you are not familiar with, get directions from someone too familiar with said place, get hand-drawn map, and be on your merry, ignorant way.
For my seventh long run, meant to be a "short" 10 miler, I chose the pristine, relaxing, bucolic Tripp Lake in Poland, ME.
R and I were headed to Poland for an annual friend reunion that we had to miss last year due to busy scholastic schedules. I figured the lake, which rumor had it was anywhere from 8-to-10 miles around, would be the perfect early morning long run to squeeze in before a weekend of doing a whole lotta nothing.
I checked in with the lady of the house to get the deets on the route and she kindly drew me a map, pointing out the dodgy third turn on the other side of the lake.
"If you miss this turn, you could just run forever," she said. She supported this warning with a spine-shivering story about a friend who set off on this very path and found herself lost for hours without crucial knowledge, such as street names, lake name or, for that matter, town name.
She gave the map and left me with these words: "Remember the plant lady."
The ache of the 7 a.m. alarm after one-too-many white wine spritzers was blissfully dulled by a lakeside stretch. With a new This American Life episode queued up in my ipod I felt ready and able to make it all the way around the lake.
I kept a hard eye out for street signs, attempting to commit their pastoral names to memory. My first turn had White Oak Hill on the left and Magguire Hill Road on the right. Turning onto Magguire I was greeted by a mother of a hill. The road and I were parallel lines. I was molasses-slow. It wasn't pretty.
But, y'know what was? The view.
At the cusp of the hill the tree line opened up and there was a spectacular picture window of the lake. It was fantastically enviable until a closer look revealed that the residents nestled along the ridge had all view and no access. They're like Rapunzel up there, baking on their grassy knoll, looking down on all the fun being had in and around that clear-blue patch of water.
I passed a cemetery, a lady running, a yard sale and, blissfully, the PLANT lady! Well, technically, no lady was to be found but there were for sale signs yards in advance. I took my next right after the plant lady, as told, and settled into what I thought was the last half of the run; confidence of a keen sense of direction brewing over.
But I still had one more turn and this, as it turned out, was the tricky one. When I came to the multi-pronged fork in the road with the infamous Egg-ceptional restaurant to my right and the mobile gas station across the road, it seemed clear that a right was the obvious choice. This right would have taken me back down the very same road we drove in on the night before so I would recognize the route and be home free. Little did I know there were TWO rights, a hard and, I guess, a soft. I opted for the soft that took me past a high school (I don't remember passing a high school on my way in), construction (I guess there was construction, right?), a Dunkin' Donuts (there definitely wasn't a DD on this road last night) and a small grouping of buildings that quietly said 'town center.' None of this rang a bell.
At some point during my first definitely-maybe-not-lost pep talk a car drove off the gravel road and into my grassy patch of running turf. It was big and clunky and there were tufts of grass jutting out of the drooping bumper in the front.
I stopped, assuming this was my time to be kidnapped.
I checked in with my muscles - Am I too tired to run away?
Probably.
I bent down and offered myself to the toothless man who wanted only directions to the Town Hall. Lost, myself, I thought it best to thank my would-be-kidnapper for not kidnapping me by sending him back the way he came to the kind people at the Dunkin' Dounts for surely they would know where they were.
Of course, half a mile down the road I passed the Poland Town Hall and found myself quickening my pace just in case toothless got, not only directions at the Dunkin' Donuts, but the motivation to, in fact, kidnap the lying, no-good runner who wasted his time.
After the hustle and bustle of the Poland town center faded in the distance and my once-bubbling directional confidence petered to a slow "glub", I noticed a sign.
White Oak Hill, it said.
A light went off in the dusty attic of my head that ignited a red bull-like energy back into my legs.
I happily turned onto White Oak Hill, imagining I had taken a wrong turn, yes, but I was mere meters away from where I started.
A mile into the roller-coaster-like dips and peaks of White Oak Hill I started to wonder.
Could there be more than one White Oak Hill in this tiny town?
On the downward slope of one of the rolling hills I found with my quickened step a level of delusional pride that allowed me to not only be convinced that I was moments away from home, but also not ask one of the kind people driving past me, at record speeds to locations filled with phones, maps and ice water, was this not the way back to Tripp Lake?
Too afraid to hear the answer, I kept my musings to myself and let one foot keep on going in front of the other.
And just when I thought that White Oak Hill would be my own personal limbo, I could see from the top of a hill the flashing yellow light, that familiar turn of the road and, could it be? Yes! Yes! The beautiful, blue-glass LAKE just beyond it.
I jogged down the hill and took a right back on Route 11 with arms raised like Rocky all the way back home.
I dove into the lake for a refreshing reward and regaled the group with stories of kidnap, adventure, and mountainous hills for hours after their kind interest waned.
Of course in the end it wasn't even 13 miles. Damn it! and it took me close to two hours. Damn it again! But I'm letting that slide since I had the fear of forever-lost in me and sometimes that makes a girl slow down and walk for a hill here and there.
Thus:
Distance: 12.45
Time: ~2:00
Overall: 8.5 (pros: FABulous views, new route that kept me on my toes, TAL (episode #385 Pro Se), route ignorance, the reward of two days off ahead / cons: getting lost, near kidnap)
I mean, how can you resist?
xoL
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