What to do when you're not running

I'm still out of running commission.

Since the marathon I have gone, somewhat diligently, to the gym, but all those machines get painfully boring.

I bop from the stationary bike to the elliptical and to some thing that makes me prance in place like a gazelle with inappropriately different length legs. I attempt to know what I'm doing with some weights, I manage some sit ups, but in the end I am BEYOND bored. I mean, it's painful.

And then I found boxing.

It's a class at the gym that I assumed was a set-to-music version of tae-bo from my VHS days. But OH no.

This is Rocky in non-contact form.

The teacher, a former boxer, is our drill sergeant and we his running, jumping, hitting peons. The first class was utterly terrifying. I have been to my fair share of gym classes, sampling a variety of classic-type teachers -- the self loathing passive aggressive, the disgustingly bubbly babbler, the plain old hard ass -- but none that use a healthy dose of yelling, deafening music and a fog horn (yup).

I was a few minutes late and boxer teacher gave me a piercing look and then pointed to the ground where I was meant to join a snake formation of students doing the "bear crawl" round and round the small, dark studio. The group was, and continues to be, mostly women and a few heavily tattooed men. After crawling and running and sufficiently breaking a sweat I gingerly pull on some slightly damp gloves and take to a punching bag that a middle aged woman, sporting eyeliner and pink gloves, is already pushing around.

Others in the class share the bags scattered around the room and begin punching the shit out of them -- literally pieces of cloth spew from the hole at the top. Meanwhile me and pink gloves are paddling our bag back and forth like a fat toddler swinging on a Sunday afternoon.

Ultimately our punching bag stints turn into 2 minute drills where we move around the studio -- doing exercises in between punching like crab walks, weighted sit ups and push ups with a hand clap in the middle, something I thought only military recruits were forced to do in muddy waters in the rain.

The 20-or-so of us make it around the studio doing the variety show of drills until we each get a turn with boxer teacher. Even from a far this look terrifying. Not knowing how to throw, land or take a punch if my life depended on it, I was shaking in my gloves, wondering if I can take the push-up-hand-clap torture over a physical tete-a-tete with this Rocky remake. Pink gloves goes first and by the end of her two minutes her eyeliner has given her proper black eyes and her breathing is moving into heart attack territory, but she's smiling. There's hope.

I go next. It's not like he's hitting us, but, rather, we are hitting him -- his upper body, even, and pads that he wears on his hands. During the first bit he instructs me how to stand and to stop Stevie Wonder-ing with my head.

After a few tries I get into a rhythm that has me feeling every part of my body (though, especially my knuckles). As we move into a jumping, hitting routine he starts to get into it.

"Hit ME" he yells, I respond with a wind up that just misses his shoulder.

"Hit me like a GIRL" he screams through gridded teeth. Is that good? Bad? I thought I DID hit him like a girl.

I throw a punch and land it. I smile for a moment, he doesn't, I get back to the task.

Soon enough the rest of the class is joining in on the calls - "Hit him!" they scream "Keep at it!" Bolstered my the sudden team-like setting I do a rapid fire round where

I'm twisting and turning and my sweat-soaked hair is whipping my neck (I never did get the hang of keeping my head straight) and boxer teacher is pushing me and I'm pushing him back and he just reeks of man sweat and I'm wondering how long it has been since I've washed my gym clothes and he yells at me to do upper cuts and the sound of my glove hitting his pad starts to echo around the room and I think my hands must be bleeding already and my stomach can't take another twist and all of a sudden it's done.

And my heavy breath mixes with some sweat and I am slapping everybody's gloves as a "job well done" and I look at myself in the mirror and I look crazed and slightly like a beast and it feels damn good.

And all before 8 a.m.

Best work out ever.

Next up: how to keep your breakfast down during 90 minutes of hot and sweaty yoga.

Birthing the marathon

Running a marathon is, I've decided, a lot like giving birth.

True, I have yet to have an actual baby. But considering the anticipation of said event and the physicality that comes along with it, I'm going to go ahead and say the comparison is not a stretch.

Thus, my marathon birth story.

*Spoiler alert* I won.



How amazing is this guy? Yup. Running buddy.

Alright, so I didn't quite win it. But I finished. I think my time was 4:37 minutes - give or take.

But let's back up.

I was talked into running this puppy by my friend who has run three other marathons. I love Chicago, I love this friend and I've always wanted to try so sign up we did.

You may recall my trials and tribulations with training. It worked out well, in the end as I was unemployed and could contribute larger chunks of my week to hitting the open road. Then I got injured. Then I recovered. Then I got a job and training got pushed to the back burner but I managed to clock in 18 miles the week before so away I went.

Friend and I had a hotel right by the starting line and after a lovely day of distractions with Chicago friends and a hearty meal with my family who flew in for the even, we made our way up to our room for a short nights rest.

Up at 5:45, we dedicated an hour to stretching and preparations and made it down to the starting line just as they were blocking off some entrances. We squeezed into the 10 minute mile slot along with a couple thousand other people and...walked a crowded slow distance up to the start.

It started off great, as I'm sure these all do. It was a beautiful, if super toasty, day and the crowd was already thick and excited at the 7:30 start. We meandered through the crowd of runners in the loop and made our way up to the lakeside and into my old neighborhoods Lincoln Park and Lakeview. We even passed my old street (twice)!

Lakeview was definitely the most rocking of the neighborhoods, what with Boystown to support the runners in the Trannies-in-costume-dancing-to-Lady-Gaga category.

Friend and I ran side-by-side until about the halfway point. She was having some knee problems and we gradually drifted apart (sniff) until I couldn't see her anymore.

Then I saw my parents. It was somewhere between miles 13 and 14 and my dad popped out of the crowd and ran with me for a moment offering me sips of water and dates. Brilliant. It was also a lovely distraction. He told me they would be around miles 17 and 20, so it was always something to keep me going.

Turning west I tried to keep an eye out for Chicago friends who I knew would be hanging around the Diversey/Greektown area or thereabouts but, sadly, I never saw them. The crowd thinned in parts in the western neighborhoods but there were always people around and I was never not running in a crowd.

Around mile 16 I started to get a pain in my knee - a familiar one, that annoying IT band strain. But it was early and every so often it would go away so I just ran on.

Just as he promised, I saw my dad around 18 and then somewhere in the early 20s when things were starting to go downhill. At this point I was just running through the knee pain but it kind of provided a distraction from the regular old body pain that was starting to present itself with little bursts. I tried to keep up the eating but it seemed the last thing I wanted to do.

The latter part of the course weaves itself around the south side. Whenever I thought we were starting to run back north we'd take another turn and head south again. But it wasn't bad. Ignorance was bliss as I had absolutely no idea what was up ahead.

Between miles 20 and 23 I had this flash of optimism. I was getting down to a handful of miles and the crowd was getting thicker and more supportive. I even braved a sip of beer around 23. I had my ipod sitting with an hour long mix for motivation back up and somewhere around this time period I turned it on. I totally misjudged the type of music I would be up for. Some advice: less 80s and 90s ballads and more Beyonce. I think it was around 22 that 'Halo' came on and I literally got chills as I rounded a corner and saw the loop in the distance. The mix took a dive from there but it was a really nice 2 minutes.

And then 24 hit and there seemed absolutely no possible way that I could run two more miles. Like, none. The crowd was awesome but downtown Chicago just did not seem to get any closer. I was to the point of hobbling with my knee. Actually, when I ran it was better but whenever I stopped for water a shooting pain ran up my left leg.

Also at this point I had no idea how slow I was going. How long was 2 miles? 20 minutes? Please kill me, 40 minutes?

Then I started to see it. The crowd was a mass of color ahead of me. The mileage markers started to count down in kilometers, which helped me gauge the distance not at all. You had to turn right, run up a slight hill and then take a left and head in to the final mini stretch. People were screaming, just yelling their heads off for every runner trying to make it up that mini mountain. At one point I look over and this woman who had already lost her voice yelled, 'You're my hero, I could never do this.' And that got me over the hill.

When I rounded the corner and the giant red finish line was clearly in front of me I started to laugh cry and, I think, said 'oh my god' a few times until I got looks from nearby runners. But, I'm sorry, are you really going to finish this thing in silence?

I crossed the finish line with arms raised, like friend told me too, and totally and completely wept. Man it felt good.

Then it felt terrible and then I was given water and cookies and bananas and bagels and a cape of some sort and told to grin in front of a camera (I can only imagine out framable that one was) and wander TWO miles down to where family and friends would be reunited. That walk must have taken as long as the marathon. I was dazed and limping and feeling slightly ill just trying to retain a tight grip on all the goodies I was shoveled.

Finally, at the designated meet-up spot, I saw my Mom and brother and have never been so excited. They hugged me, sweaty and all, and it was the best moment.



My Dad, who was trying to find me up by the finish line, returned and we compared stories. A little while later, from out of the crowd like a sweaty little angel, appeared friend! She finished despite running on a bum knee for the entire second half of the marathon. I limped up to her and we hugged and both cried and it was hilariously emotional and awesome. We treated ourselves to free massages, very slow showers, a clean change of clothes and a panini and french fries afterward.

It was a crazy experience and I was surprised by the emotions and all I kept thinking is, why would anyone ever want to do this again?

And yet, as the days passed and my aches and pains faded it was really just the anticipation and excitement and shared experience that remained. I tried running the other day and got 10 minutes into a job before my IT band acted up. So it's going to be a longer recovery, but I'm OK with that. I did what I had to do. I finished/won and have my life back now that training isn't a top priority. But with the New York marathon happening this weekend it's hard not to think if maybe that's a possibility sometime in the future.

A long way in the future.

Happy running.

xoL

Training day: Longest and finalest run, T-minus three days

Here we go party people.

What was once 16 weeks has dwindled down to a measly four days.

Saturday was my last attempt at a long run and it was, dare I say, a success.

I clocked in 18.75 miles.

I ran from Greenpoint to Williamsburg, across the Williamsburg bridge, across Broome Street in Manhattan and an already bustling Soho, up the West Side (lovely), across 106th street, into Central Park (where I saw, I kid you not, a gaggle of dogs doing circus tricks, a rare bird show and the end of a half-marathon race), South through the winding park paths, East across 59th street (the bowels of the tourist industry), across the Queensboro Bridge, down through my new hood (Long Island City, people, get into it!), across the Polaski Bridge, and back through Greenpoint ending and at an early Halloween celebration in McCarren Park.

Sure I wanted to chop off my throbbing legs, but I survived and it was enjoyable.

Now I just have to tack on a teen tiny seven (SEVEN?!) more miles come Sunday and we're golden. Pooped, but golden.

I have become completely and totally paranoid about injuries but I'm trying to take it easy. I'm fitting to do some sprints tomorrow to keep the stamina up, a Bikram yoga class Thursday night and a leisurely run Friday morning before jetting off to good ol' Chi-town.

I feel the potential to forget my sneakers in Brooklyn is so real I can reach out and touch it. The more I think about the possibility the more it seems they will sit this trip out. To prevent this first-and-last-marathon-ending scenario I have left post-it notes around my belongings as reminder. My belongings, at this point, comprises the remains of a suitcase in the corner of a living room, but you'd be surprised how many helpful notes can be tucked into the corners of said luggage.

SHOES, screams one piece of paper. SNEAKS yells another. DON'T FORGET demands a third. I may have even set an alarm on my phone.

Hey, this is serious people. By Friday, if I forget these puppies, I should bypass the plane and go straight to the mental hospital for surely this is a case for earliest-onset Alzheimer.

Should anyone be interested in tracking my progress/near-death experience you can try out the Runner Tracker as provided by Bank of America. My bib number is 43542. It may not actually activate until I register on Saturday, but try your luck. Now, no judging on my less-than-stellar times. The goal here is survival. Survival and beating Katie Holmes's time (no offense, of course, to Ms. Cruise, but that was pretty brutal and please just put me out of my misery if I'm running for five hours and 30 minutes).

A lovely friend mentioned the coincidence that the marathon date is 10-10-10 and this year I am 10+10+10 so it must be good luck. Let's hope she's right!

xoL

Training day: Long run countdown

We (me and my bum legs) are back on the horse. After three weeks of no running, and a slow build up the long run ladder, I am back where I left off: at 16 miles.

Alright, that's padding it.

Let's back up.

A month and a half ago, at the near-peek of my marathon training, I made the mistake of running on a treadmill and injured my calf (insert: fist shaking at treadmill).

I put running on hold to mend this puppy through torture sessions with massage therapists who said helpful things like "it's a necessary evil" and "I'm not sure how long your long distance running career will last." I guess that's why they stick to massaging muscles instead of egos.

Two weeks later I tested out a long run that recalled leisurely Saturdays of yesteryear, like, say, June 2010. I made it through seven miles, heaving and hoeing, but, alas no major muscle eruption (mini hallelujah). Yup seven sad but successful miles, just five weeks before the marathon.

Buck up, buttercup.

The next week I ran 11. Huffing and Puffing, but 11 nonetheless. I returned to the long-distance-really?-therapist for a turn-muscle-into-pulp session and she said I didn't have to come back and maybe I could "run this thing yet." I hobbled out.

Yesterday I continued to up the mileage. I strapped on my sneaks, stretched and dithered about the house avoiding the inevitable, then set out for my planned 15.6 mile run. But the thing is, it was hot. Like, no way this is September hot, and all my waiting around set me up for a long ass run during the hottest part of the day on an empty stomach (woo hoo?). Little suburban streets turned epic and fuzzy as I placed one foot in front of the other. I made small but important deals with myself:

"If you can make it to the end of Pine Tree Drive you can walk up the next hill."

I had to run up the next hill.

"If you run up the next hill you can stop instead of doing that extra little loop."

You better believe I ran up that next hill.

Somehow I pulled one tuckered leg after another to complete a not even-close to marathon distance 14.3 mile run.

But onwards and upwards people. Today, on request of my training torturers, I tried a bikram yoga class, which is supposed to help with deep stretches and all those things.

I've done bikram once before and I did not recall it being so bad. But then again, time heals all wounds. So I limped into the already scorching room with my small, lukewarm bottle of (in hindsight) precious water, lay down my mat and towel and got to sweating.

I learned a few things during this adventure:

1) Bikram classes are 90 minutes
2) I can sweat a lot and the sensation of bending forward while sweat drips down your face and up your nose is a lot like drowning
3) It is best if you eat something before sweating the weight of a small child from your sleep-deprived body
4) Water, more water

I'm sure it was helpful. I'm sure I stretched my body in ways that was not normally possible. I'm sure I swallowed a little bit of bile at the end of that last pose and I'm sure I saw a few black spots while filling up tiny water bottle at the fountain.

So, now that I'm fully stretched, completely exhausted and permanently dehydrated, I am ready to conquer my last two weeks of training.

The week ahead will hold three days of longer runs, which means earlier and darker mornings. I will also try to cram in one more yoga class before my next long run.

Saturday will be my last attempt at a pre-marathon long run. We're talking 18-20 miles, people. But I'll be in the city, I will have my broken-in-but-still-new sneakers and, hopefully, cooler weather on my side.

I hate to admit it, marathon, but I am beyond ready for you to be over.

The good news? I'm not that crazed marathon-addicted person. See? Learning new things about myself at ever turn.
xoL

Training day: Long run hiatus

I'm behind, I'll admit it. I survived the long run no. 9 (11 miles) and the long run no. 10 (a whopping 16+ miles). I even tripped and fell at the end, alright, it was more of a crumple, but the run was good, really good and I was proud of myself.



And then my calf ripped in half.

Dramatic? OK, yes, a bit. But I'm beyond frustrated. I've made it 10 weeks into my training, was about to jump up to 18 and then 20 miles and then this happened. Whatever it is.

It started off as a soreness. I was scheduled to have a massage and I mentioned it to the masseuse who worked on it. Then a three day down pour arrived and I was stuck running on a treadmill and within a mile it popped. I stopped and finished up some exercise on an elliptical (probably not the best idea) and then took a few days off.

I skipped my next long run (10 miles) and tried jogging at a toddlers pace on Sunday and, again, with in a mile - Pop.

So, here we are: Five weeks out until the marathon. My longest run was 16 miles and I'm losing any sort of fitness with every passing week. Not to sound like a whiner but what the crappity crap?!

I mean, have you SEEN my calves? If nothing else these puppies were made for running, that or Glatiatoring if it were a different era.

Just when I was hitting my stride.

Just when I ran more than I've ever run before.

Just when that magical anti-chafe glide stuff entered my life!

I've obviously wallowed a little bit and I might be continuing down that road.

But today I made an appointment to see a massage therapist, which, according to all the online forums and even the trainer I accosted at the gym suggested, is the first step. I'm hoping this guy can asses the damage, give me some sort of recovery regiment and then tell me I'll be good to go in a week. Wishful thinking? Definitely.

At this point I just want to complete the dumb thing and not be keeling over in some sort of pain afterward. I hope that's not too far fetched of a goal.

Just so I'm not ending on such a sour note, the hiatus hasn't been all bad. For one, it allowed me time to move. For two, it's been hot as balls outside (I think that's a technical term, hopefully I'm using it right) and running in this would have definitely been detrimental to my health. And maybe by the time I can strap back on my running shoes I will be so excited to be able to run that the adrenaline alone will get me through the mileage.

ho hum.

Training day: Long run no. 8

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

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

Training day: Long run no. 6

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

Explore & Long run mashup: Boston 3 ways, part 3

The final adventure of my weekend trifecta was a long run around Fresh Pond in Cambridge.

I went down to the Charles River before heading through Harvard Square and then out to Fresh Pond so I could get around a 10 mile run.

It was all very straightforward and things I'd seen before - the river run, Harvard Square (kind of a pain as it's actually populated with people) but the actual pond was a TRUE delight.

A puppy delight, that is. There were dogs a plenty - small dogs, big dogs, swimming dogs, barking dogs, smiling dogs and shitting dogs. It was SO hard to concentrate but that made that part of the run just skip on by.

The added plus was that it wasn't hard concrete and there were several little trails that I could have explored if I wasn't on a schedule. Also I would have sat and watched those pups swimming in the lake at the back for hours. Dangerous.

By the time I got out of there and back up and over the only hill I hit in Harvard Square I was utterly exhausted. And my music wasn't any help. After my This American Life episode my shuffle got into a sad-sack-song rut. My god I thought I was going to fall into a slow crawl or run into traffic.

I must have been only a half mile or so from home, dragging my comatose legs behind me, when from the depths of the ipod came relief: Spoon, Back to Life. That hard beat just brought be back to something resembling life (it's not a miracle worker, after all) It was glorious. And as if wonders never ceased the next song was my favorite, though soon-to-be-overplayed (really, if one more movie or TV trailer takes it I'm moving on, though, alright, Eat Pray Love does look not-that-bad) Florence and the Machine song, Dog Days.

She actually sings: "Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father, run for your sisters and brother..." How could I not end on a high note?

But really, are all runs over 10 miles going to be this sluggish? Because I have just a teeny tiny bit more to conquer. Like 13 miles this Saturday (gulp) in two days.

Overall:
Distance: 10.20
Time: about 1:43
Overall rating: 8 (pros: puppies, end of run songs, weather / cons: every other song, heat)

xoL

Training day: Long run no. 4

Not being able to resist the lure of the burbs, we stuck around Orange for the week so I had one more long run down the town's winding streets.

Long run no. 4 was a bit (teeny tiny) of a break: 8 miles. I knew where seven miles was so I guessed at the last mile or so and may have run closer to nine - sometimes you can really get yourself lost.

I was up nice and early again since we had to head into the city for a wedding. The weather was a slightly chilled 75 by 7:30 but the humidity made it down right nasty.

I had a shiny new This American Life cued up in my ipod (episode: #411) and 15 minutes into it I found myself laughing out loud while running on a public street. I could not resist. The show featured Mike Birbiglia, a self deprecating comedian who concentrates on embarrassing stories. Yes and yes. There's a bit about the amusement park ride the Scrambler and, for any of you Burbians out there who may have frequented your local summer fair, this story will just kills.

The run was a repeat so it was a bit on the boring side and the heat made my legs feel like exercising in wet denim but it was fine all in all.

What I like most about running in the burbs is the kindness of strangers. Every fitness folk I passed waved or said "Hi" "Howzit goin" and even "Have a good one." I'm not one to make a bestie while I'm sweating gallons in decades-old t-shirts, but I got into it a little. I gave a "morning" to a fellow jogger only to see her again two miles later (awkward). I threw a nod to a sprinting teen and a half-wave to a biker.

Toward the end I passed a young guy out for a casual walk in sweltering heat. The pass requires no greeting since a turn-around-hello would be ranked among the desperate. But ours was a destined salutation since my finish line was only a couple hundred yards up the road. As a turned around for my cool down walk back to the house I could see the kid rising in the distance like a villain in an old western.

The from-afar wave has to to be the most awkward of the suburban morning greetings. From what distance do you begin the wave? Do you wave a long way off and then say hello up close? Or do you choose the ignore-until-the-last-moment-and-then-casually-acknowledge-their-presence route? As I mulled over my options the great distance that stretched over the straight, flat portion of my road shortened slowly. I made the mistake of going for an early wave to find that new friend chose the ignore option so that I was waving weirdly to the air in front of me. Rejected, I fought back with an ignore/finding-something-terribly-interesting-on-my-palm-option until we were close enough to ask one another to take this dance at which point I gave a "hey" and he nodded.

Pleasantries are exhausting.

I look forward to returning to the full-on-ignore of my urban pedestrian life.

Thus,
Distance: 8.5-9 miles
Time: 1:21
Overall rating: 7 (Pros: This American Life, pomegranate sports drink, neighborly support. Cons: repeat route, sticky early morning heat, neighborly chastise)

xoL

Training day: Long run no. 3 (the Burb Edition)

It turns out I was off, like way off. Perhaps you might recall those first two 8.5 milers done over the past two weeks? Try 10.5. Yup. I was way off. Probably.

I'm in CT this weekend (Lola needed me, obviously) and, not knowing a 10 mile route off hand, I had to clock it with the car the night before. I drove the car down and around between my town and the next until I created a giant bow of a course with my parent's house at its center - dangerous considering at mile 7 I had to run past that sanctuary of rest. By the end of the drive, I had an eleven mile run to conquer.

And conquer I did at about the exact same time it took me to run my previous 8.5. WEIRD. I came to a sweaty screeching halt in front of my parent's house, turned off the ipod, paused the stopwatch to find that my would be two hour jog took 1:41, just four minutes more than my previous long runs.

It's funny how you can psyche yourself out of it, though. Like when I hit about mile eight and I was pretty convinced that I'd never make it because that extra couple of miles seemed an inhuman feat of strength. FOOL. If only I could trick myself into thinking this was all very easy.

The mileage mix up was a nice surprise. Though I don't really believe it - how could I have been two miles off?! This is what happens when you try to read a hand-drawn map.

Anyhoo, my suburban job was pleasant enough. I had to run the long run on Friday instead of Saturday so my legs felt more like lead instead of feather light flights of fancy (not that I can recall that ever happening). I had ice cold water, ice cold endurance drinks (pomegranate - yum) and an ever delightful This American Life episode (#203: Recordings for Someone). The weather was actually perfect (hard to imagine), not yet this thick pea soup humidity and a cool summer 70. Man, I wonder what that was like.

Since this epic jog I have been running smaller routes around the neighborhood that in this 90-degrees-by-seven weather is verging on torture. And if this weather continues for my next long run I cannot be responsible for the pools I will jump in and the few sprinklers whose spits of cold water I will lap up like a puppy.

Long run #3:
Mileage: about 10.5
Time: 1.41
Overall: 8 (pros: weather, cold beverages, ample amount of shade, route, surprising time / cons: Repeat TAL episode, weather, scenery).

xoL

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

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

3 fcking 03! And still walking!

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