Running Bullet Points

I've decided to use this blog for some miscellaneous running info that doesn't work well into posts at my new Marathon Mama blog (come by for a visit!). I often get emails about products, races, and contests that warrant mentioning, so here ya go!

*Strands.com launched a contest in which the winner will receive an all-expense paid trip to Oregon to compete on one of two Strands sponsored teams for the Hood To Coast Relay (197 miles, 12k runners, from Mt. Hood Oregon to the Pacific Ocean at Seaside, OR).

*The Fresh Air Fund is looking for runners and sponsors to join the Fresh Air Fund-Racers team for the NYC Half-Marathon on August 16th. The Fresh Air Fund also needs Friendly Town hosts for next month. Host families open their hearts and home to a NYC child who would not otherwise have the opportunity to escape the hot, crowded city streets.

*I recently tried Ultima Replenisher, an all-natural, sugar-free alternative to Gatorade. It's a mild electrolyte drink that doesn't seem to upset my stomach like Gatorade. While I do prefer the ability of Nuun to keep me from wilting, Ultima is great for hydration without cramping.

*I also was given a Hydrapouch to test a while ago and only just got a chance to use it. The idea of the Hydrapouch is cup-free, spill-free hydration in races. You wear the pouch on your waistband and pour the water into it, then use the spout on the pouch to drink without splashing your face. It worked great in speed work the other night and I bet it would help you get more water at a water stop, as long as you can pour and run with some efficiency. My only problem came when I clipped it back on my shorts; it fell off into the road within about 10 paces because the clip isn't particularly tight, so that might be something the designers want to address. But it's a cool idea that has a lot of potential to help racers and the environment.

That's all for now. Have a great one, and come visit my new blog, friends!

The New Better Me

Hey you, guess what. My new blog is up! Finally!

I'm defecting from this nauseating green page and the headache that is posting photos on Blogger. So this blog, while not totally dead, is defacto defunct. Come read the same me, only better, over at Marathon Mama. Yes, I realize it's the same title. I'm so innovative I decided to capitalize the thing. My new home is in the swank Competitor subdivision of Cyberrunningville. Please update your readers and your link love, if you're so inclined and don't want to see a nice lady cry. Really, though, go look at it. It's pretty fierce pretty fierce.

And for my last trick on blogger, watch me execute the linkiest stunt I've ever pulled before I report for duty over at Competitor:

First, because it just seems required by the Internet. Michael Jackson. Farah Fawcett.

Now that that's out of the way.... Big, totally sincere thanks to Sage for her endorsement and to fellow bloggers who drove traffic to me that I've managed to keep with frequent references to sex, child neglect, and vodka (thankfully not as a triad). Vanilla, Nitmos, Rachel, and Marcy (who I can't link to because she's in blog rehab), in particular, have been super duper with their sidebars and linking. Which means they better update those sidebars, friends, because I said something nice and genuine and not at all sarcastic about them. I'm sincere, but solipsistic.

And because I like to pay it forward, if you haven't already, you should start reading the wit and wisdom to be found from Mary and Patti. They are some seriously kick-ass women and runners who can write like no one's business.

And because she deserves credit, a shout out to blog reader Amy who designed the logo that appears on the new blog design, which again, is found here. Shameless, I am.

And because I like to endorse any athletic apparel company started by people who have both the ovaries and design sense to take on big boys like Nike, I'll let you know that Skirt Sports has some exciting stuff going on. These fine, post-modern runner women are the originators of the Skirt Chaser race series and the mothers of the running skirt.

Visit them by June 30 to sign up for the opportunity to Win a Fitness Makeover. They're giving away a $150 gift certificate and a fitness/yoga bag from Sherpani. They also just launched a program called SkirtPerks, which is a customer membership program with various benefits & savings, like deals on shipping and free goodies. They're giving away a free schwag bag to the first 250 people who sign up for this program.

So that's it from me. Except not really. Because you're going to go here, right? Right.

My Other Best Sport

Running is not my favorite sport. Running is my passion and my salvation and my bliss. But it's no tennis.

This morning I took to the treadmill for a progression run. The mill at this gym turned out to be in desperate need of recalibration, though for a while I wondered if maybe someone spiked my Special K* with amphetamines. While I happily deluded myself into believing I was actually running a cakewalkish 9.4 mph, I watched some Wimbledon.

I grew up "playing" tennis, which I put in quotes because I spent more time huffing and moping on the court of my beloved sport than actually playing it. I had some occasional down-the-line winners and a pretty reliable two-handed backhand, but the pressure of the duel, the one-on-one fight to the death, took me down. Tennis matches were like teen girl rivalries with a net: callous assassins in short skirts.

It really is too bad that I didn't have the chops for competitive tennis because I do love watching the professionals and what amounts to supermodels expending themselves. There's something very satisfying about watching pretty people work themselves to exhaustion.

I love everything about tennis. The crisp sound of the ball when hit. The superstitious tics before a serve. The opportunity to sit down frequently during competition. The relative unimportance of the time. The elitism. Nadal's biceps.

You boys can post all the pics of Kournikova that you want. Behold the exquisite Adonis from Majorca:

Do you really need another argument for tennis than this?

..........drool..........
.........................

Where was I?
Oh yes, tennis. Liking the tennis.

I haven't played tennis in quite a while. I don't even know that I feel the urge to play now. I'm happy to watch the pretty people battle it out on TV while I eat strawberries and cream and drink a Pimm's on the couch. I just wish that running could take a cue from tennis and maybe I could stop the clock to sit down every once in a while during a race. That, and acceptable grunting. I want to be able to grunt more often without people staring. Then running might be as perfect as tennis.


*My breakfast almost every day of the week because it makes me feel, well, special.

One Hundred Miles

Things are routine for me with running, so instead I'm going to write about someone else, the person who first planted the 50k seed in my mind. (The seed has sprouted, but like most of my horticulture efforts, seems to have stopped at the sprout phase for now. But, he planted it with such certainty that it now seems a foregone conclusion that I'll run one in the next year.) Last fall, I got to run a couple 20 milers with blog reader Jeannie's husband, Kevin, who is an extraordinary pacer, runner, and consoler (is that a word?) after marathon disasters, as it turns out. I called him in tears after Phoenix and he brought me back to earth with kindness and encouragement.

When Kevin showed up at my door at the crack of dawn for our first run, I had no idea that a) he is the only human who can live without sleep, b) he is funny, and c) he is a highly accomplished ultra runner, who came in second at the Vermont 100 last summer. He is also so humble that neither he nor Jeannie let on that my 20 miler was a rehab run for him while he nursed an ITB injury.

Last year, Kevin got screwed out of the Western States 100 by a wildfire that canceled the race. This weekend, Kevin gets his second chance at Western States, the most prestigious of ultras.

100 miles is so easy to type. Nine keystrokes. It takes me two seconds to type it. Let's do it the justice it deserves. One hundred miles. ONE HUNDRED MILES. ONE HUNDRED MILES. ONE HUNDRED MILES. If I knew html, I'd put it in 48-pt font.

Kevin is running 100 miles, climbing 18,000 feet and descending 22,000 feet along the way, with starting and finish temps forecasted at around 100 degrees. Only 65% of entrants typically finish this race, with only 21% completing it in under 24 hours. There are checkpoints called Devil's Thumb and Last Chance.

I could go on about how impressive this race is, but that's not really Kevin's style, so I just ask that you send him strength, wit, and optimism this weekend. Leave your well wishes in the comments for Kevin--you all know how much those mean in the latter miles of a race. You know, like miles 95, 96, 97, ......

I simply love to run. It allows me to be human - in a very pure and undistracted way - and to really push myself to the outer edges of my self. That said, this race - for me - is not really about me but about the human potential - the power and the challenge to "do". I so strongly believe that we under-live and underperform our potential, not as individuals (although that's true to some extent too) but as human beings. Ultra races really test the human body as well as the human mind and spirit (just as much). We see and learn to love more of ourselves in moments where we must rely on ourselves, face fears and pain, and struggle through to a better place etc. It truly is a wonderful experience of exploring those boundaries - or, in some cases, finding that those boundaries don't exist and that the human potential is greater than we all think.
-Kevin Sullivan

Run well, Kevin.

Miscellania from Pennsylvania

My biggest anxiety has been made manifest: I will soon move the blog to its new home... and I have absolutely nothing to say. Me, the woman who thinks in status updates. The woman who writes in her head while running and driving and eating and mothering on autopilot and falling asleep at night. This is the woman with nothing to say.

I could tell you that I was hugely pissed at today's run--incredulous that I could run 14 miles at an 8:00-pace a month ago but barely eeked out 12 at an 8:50 this morning. What gives?


I could tell you that I got my trail shoes and my 2-liter hydration pack and that they are both the same shade of teal, which will make me look like the dorkiest neophyte in the outback, a Miami Vice trail runner trying to make teal the new khaki. All of Australia's Northern Territory will call me The--gasp, dare I say it--American.

I could tell you that I am even more convinced that Kara Goucher is my destined BFF after hearing her Endurance Boost on iTunes. We could rock out to Beck and Black Eyed Peas while talking about how really, it's brunettes who have more fun.

I swear I'm not stalking her.

I could tell you that I outdid myself when it comes to crappy Father's Day efforts. Last year I gave Brian candy. This year, I left with his kid for the summer, and he spent the day alone working at Starbucks. Man, when I write it, it does sound kind of awful. Looking up 'stripper' on yellowpages.com tonight...

I could tell you that there is no hot yoga offered anywhere in Central Pennsylvania. This bums me out in a spoiled-Masshole-suburbanite sort of way.

I could tell you that Central Pennsylvania has Starbucks INSIDE the Target, which is so sublime I can forgive the yoga thing.

I could tell you that my new daily running route passes a llama farm, but there's probably only one of you who would be interested in that. The farm also has a peacock, but that's not very interesting, either.

As you can see, I, for once, have very little to say. It's almost like asking for a running injury, so for the love of God and blogland, somebody send me some free crap to review.

What's In My Bag

You can get a round-trip ticket to Mexico for about a hundred bucks right now, but Henry and I are still headed to PA for our 6-week retreat for writers and hellions. Over the course of 45 days, I'm going to write a book (ha!), prep for Australia on the Appalachian trail, and launch back into marathon training. Henry's agenda is to roar a lot and drive his grandparents up the wall. His goals seem more feasible than mine. I give my dad 3 days before he joins me for my 7 pm cocktail.

We leave Saturday, but I have not yet packed a thing because I don't want to know how impossible it will be to bring what we need. I deal with it through avoidance and going to Target for more crap to put in the car. Running is much less compact than I'd assumed. Two bikes and a scooter do not help. And then there are the toys, plus the stuff that Henry likes to play with.

Not even counting the bike for cross-training, my list of running junk alone is a sight to behold. Conveniently, the Take It and Run Thursday topic on Runners' Lounge is "Summer Gear and Tips." My tip is that you shouldn't itemize your summer running gear because in my case, it is shameful:

5 pr running shorts
1 running skirt
4 tanks
4 short sleeve shirts
3 long sleeve shirts
1 wind/rain jacket
1 wind vest
1 fleece (just in case)
1 pr capri tights
3 (!) pr running shoes
7 pr running socks
5 sports bras
1 visor
1 cap
1 bandanna
sunglasses
sunscreen
condoms (just wanted to see if you were reading the list)
box of Roctane
nuun tablets
fuel belt & bottles (marathon training)
hydration vest (Outback training)
hydrapouch (impromptu racing--review coming soon)
Garmin & charger
Tech4o (backup for when Garmin isn't charged)
iPod & charger
1 tennis ball
foam roller
Biofreeze
Motrin
2 Therabands
Brain Training for Runners
and the kitchen sink

So much for "all you need is a pair of shoes."

Henry will have to ride on the roof, but then I won't be able to bring the treadmill.

Concave No More

If you have a Y chromosome, this post probably isn't for you. It's going to be about as relevant as a post on my uterine sloughing (which I have yet to blog about and intend to to keep it that way). Consider yourself warned. Scroll to the end to see the winner of the messenger bag.

I don't like to belabor my inadequacies because it's far more gratifying to exaggerate my fabulousness (it's a word). But it seems my torso, namely the front of it, and specifically the flesh over my upper rib cage, has been a frequent topic on this blog. Not quite sure how that happened, but the people at Moving Comfort picked up on my, um, lack and generously offered me a bra.

Did I feel insulted? Hell, no. I usually pay $14.99 at Target for my higher-end sports bras, so hook me up with a $34 sports bra with fake boobs, and you can say anything you want about my chest.

The idea of running in a padded bra kind of amuses me, so the Alexis bra was an eye popping riot when I opened the box. My husband groped it on the counter, and I more or less gave it the same WTF? look I give my mother when she tells me to "run pretty" before my races. But like my mother, the bra means well, and you just never know when Matt Damon might show up for a race 15 miles away.

Let me tell you, this thing is the Miracle Bra of Sport. It is a magic wonder of foam sculpture goodness. There is technology in its structure that makes me think it was created by randy NASA engineers on their lunch break. For the very mortifying before and after (guys, look away if you've been reading--there's nothing for you here), look at my profile pic and then here ya go:

(yes, I'm wearing pants)

Putting aside the expanse of pale, crunch-averse flesh that is my abdomen (incidentally, check out the Garmin tan), this bra is the best thing to happen to my chest since puberty (which turned out to be the rawest deal ever). I think my situation has been improved by 100%.

Are artificial breasts necessary for running? No.
Will artificial breasts make me faster? No.
Is it nice to look like a grown woman? Yes.

Functionally, the Alexis bra gets an A+, too, in the racer back sports bra category. Fake breasts do not bounce or strain your back, nor do they have nipples to chafe or "command attention." Personally, the falsies also left me some storage space for stashing sport beans (or cocaine, if that's your thing). It's not a bra I'd wear for a marathon, but definitely for a hot summer training run. In fact, it is by far the best of all my training bras, most of which are marketed to 10 year old girls.

In terms of sizing, this bra is definitely for the, um, flatter among us. I wear a Medium, ladies, so you know this thing is not for those with serious assets. The price is steep for me ($34-36), but it's such a great piece of techno-boobage that I might actually buy a second one.

So kudos to the Moving Comfort people, who realize that just because you don't need a bra doesn't mean you don't want a bra. This runner is very happy with her sporty new falsies.



The winner of the Timbuk2 bag? That would be Chubby Runner, drawn from 58 names out of the sacred 2008 BAA marathon bag. Congrats! Email me at marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net so I can send it to you.