the marathon mama

Running Bullet Points

2009-07-16T14:56:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-25T20:21:00.005-04:00

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

2009-06-24T20:20:00.005-04:00

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

2009-06-23T08:22:00.008-04:00

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

2009-06-21T18:13:00.015-04:00

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

2009-06-17T09:26:00.015-04:00

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

2009-06-16T11:40:00.006-04:00

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.

Rude Awakenings In Boston and Environs

2009-06-14T15:11:00.012-04:00

You can't be hot in clogs, and I might very well die this summer. These were my two lessons of the weekend.

I'm still technically on my post-race staycation, so Saturday I thought I might go try some tough trail running, of course. I drove to the Fells Reservation, just outside Boston, where I planned to do a leisurely trail loop. I wore my road running shoes because my trail shoes haven't come yet and parked just off the Reservoir Trail, now known as the Path of Boulders Which Might As Well Be Giant Arch-Hating Monsters. I folded my trail map in eighths, stuffed it next to my cell phone in my pocket, and hit the trail. I enjoy a good trail run, but I panic easily about being stranded, so I followed those little orange markers for 6ish miles like they pointed to Mecca itself.

Here's how it went:

6,734,916,101...rocks under my feet
5...men walking chick-magnet dogs on a trail conspicuously and creepily void of women
4...strange people in hardhats incongruously digging in the mud with pick axes
3...times I lost my orange beacons and found my way without asking dog walkers for help
2...times I rolled my ankle and said the F-word on a peaceful Saturday trail jog
1...time I screeched and shooed a snake with an ineffective "Go on then!"

After I got back to my car, I kissed the gravel and decided orange is either my most or least favorite color. This morning I got up feeling some severe lingering effects of the run in my arches, shins, and adventurer's spirit. I ran 5.75 miles in an hour in woods that both freaked me out and wore me out. Even though I could hear planes landing at Logan and could see a reservoir of drinking water the whole time. I will be running rocks in the Australian bush, without shade, for upwards of 15 miles with my only water source strapped to my back. Forget the inconvenience of shoveling a bathroom and sleeping on the ground because death seems likely. It's okay, though.

I've made peace with dying in desolate Nowheresville.

What I haven't made peace with is my startling discovery on Saturday night that I am so not the sassy city girl trapped in the suburbs. A fate worse than death in the outback: death in the suburbs when, in truth, you have no inner sass.

Saturday night I learned that, much to my surprise, urban women's fashion bypassed me shortly after the advent of low-rise jeans. I was operating under the impression that I'm fairly fashion forward for where I live, which is not altogether untrue since I live outside Lowell, which hasn't had a fashion moment in the spotlight since the Mill Girls of 1840. But just because you're sassy in the exurbs does not mean you wield sass in the city.

I now know that running has ruined me for urban style and that a woman who takes her fashion cues from Women's Adventure and not Cosmo is at a serious disadvantage in the hotness department. My Saturday morning mud treatment came from a trail, not a spa, and my understanding of exquisite fabric has to do with whether or not it retains the stench of my sweat. I probably buy four pairs of shoe per year, all of which have laces and none of which have heels. Swear to God, I haven't even worn heels since 2006. This should set the stage well for my Saturday night surrounded by city women whose highlights cost more than my bike. And I have a pretty good bike.

The boys were camping so I fled to Boston with a friend for an evening that would trump my usual Stirrings martini and a Near East box of dinner. I eagerly hoped to pay $14 for a cocktail to complement my attempt at high-end fashion. When I left the house, I honestly thought I looked good, even--dare I say it--sexy. Maybe not Newbury Street good, but good in an urbane-yet-cool kind of way. Straightened my hair. Dug out the mascara and the lipstick from behind the Biofreeze and Bandaids. Wore an Anthropologie top and my jeans that didn't come from Old Navy. I concede the Dansko clogs were less than sexy, but who wants to see my missing toenails? It was a defensive move, but a style gamble, I admit.

We got to the first bar and I realized that my look only trumped the tourists in their running shoes. Clogs would not cut it in a scene of peep-toe wedges. Jeans would not cut it--even the good jeans--in a landscape of flirty summer dresses. Apparently tops should promote, um, buoyancy, too; loose and gauzy is out. Speaking of 'out,' it would seem that I was the only straight lesbian in the entire place.

It occurs to me now that I dressed perfectly for a hot date from the pages of the Sundance catalog. I should have been in a 1964 red pickup with Robert Redford (yes, please), as opposed to any Boston bar with duck pizza on the menu (it was really good, by the way).

When we got to the second bar, I was just happy I got carded at the door instead of deported to the Commuter Rail. I usually only get to show my ID when I pick up my bib number at a race, so after that, I was giddy. I disregarded my fashion faux pas, and just played bar sociologist with my friend. It was like high school: once you get over not measuring up, you have a blast making fun of people. We logged the features of Bostonians on the town, like the requisite Blackberry on the bar and the untucked-Oxford-and-jeans uniform of every man under 35. Good times. A little sangria, a little duck pizza, and I no longer cared that I can't fill out a tube top like Boston's most eligible ladies.

Back in my car, my hair finally back up in the clip, I drove home to my warm bed in the exurbs. Yes, I enjoyed a night that didn't have me cutting up anyone's food. And yes, I would sell some organs (mine and Brian's) for a down payment on a 3BR condo in the city. But, how many of those cookie cutter hotties are going to die in the Australian bush this summer? None. I am SO way better off.

Don't forget to enter the Timbuk2 giveaway on Thursday's post. Only comments on that post will be entered. Drawing at noon ET Tuesday 6/16.

From Here to Timbuk2

2009-06-10T14:14:00.013-04:00

Nate told me to take a week off after the race, and I made it to Wednesday before I was back in the Asics. Caffeinated wanderlust is my M.O. lately. I'm antsy. John Bingham wrote: "Running lets us discover what we knew as children: that being safe all the time isn't very interesting." I think he is onto something, and I hope that we all feel this every now and then. Otherwise, I'm just a self-centered, avoidant brat who gravitates toward introspection at the edge of her physical limits, instead of getting a real job like everyone else. No comments from the peanut gallery on that one, thanks.

Wanderlust. My blog is moving (soon, soon) to a new locale that I fantasize is like cyber-Boulder, where I have never been, but which I assume is the best possible city for a liberal runner to live*. For much of the summer, Henry and I will also be visiting family, which will allow me hours and hours of writing time while he swims, paints, and eats strawberry ice cream. Then in August, I go to Australia for three weeks on my run-about in the bush.

Life is good. In fact, someone should put that on a t-shirt.

Clearly I'm incredibly fortunate to be in my life and have this opportunity. In celebration of my blog move and my travels, I am spreading the wealth. No, I'm not giving away a Qantas ticket next to me--sorry. Thanks to the awesome folks at All Modern Baby, I have a messenger bag from Timbuk2 to give away to a lucky blog reader. Based in Boston, All Modern Baby is a dependable source of children’s furniture that carries top brands such as Bugaboo, Stokke, and Maclaren. They also offer modern housewares and gear for grown-ups. And as most awesome people know, Timbuk2 makes those hip bags that let you feel like an urban bike messenger without the risk of death under the wheels of a city bus.

Pheidippides was a messenger. Maybe if he'd had a messenger bag to carry water and gels, he wouldn't have bit the dust in Athens.

To win the bag, leave a comment on this post, responding to the question:

If you could run off and wander anywhere in the world, where would you go?

I'll choose a name at random on Tuesday June 16 (noon, EDT) and post the winner with a review of the bag.

*Don't worry, Vanilla. I won't show up on your doorstep, unless it's to drop off another blonde kid for your ~~family to raise~~ soccer team.

17 Minutes to Lose

2009-06-09T14:01:00.006-04:00

Entitlement. I suffer from it. Especially with running. After Phoenix, I was advised by someone who knows to secure a 1:40 half-marathon before I try again for the BQ. So that's what I did last weekend.

And now, I say, I will have the BQ, please.

Based on my half-marathon finish last weekend, the Runner's World online Training Calculator tells me I am capable of a 21:55 5k, which is 2 seconds off my recent 5k PR (I attribute the difference to weaving around horses on the course). But more importantly, the marathon prediction from a 1:40 is a 3:30:05. My 26.2 PR is 3:57. Growl.

Hel-lo, 27 minutes of heart break.

What's in those 27 minutes? That's what I want to know. But since my BQ time is a 3:40 and I won't be greedy (today), we'll say my goal and my reality are separated by 17 minutes.

I'm putting training aside because I do what I'm told, and what I was told to do was brutal and more than sufficient. So what's in those 17 minutes?

I'm going to break it down.

You get the day you get, and for me, it's heat. Unfortunately, global warming seems to follow me to races. If it's a Sunday morning and I have a chip on my shoe, Al Gore makes his point in all caps.

Then there's the nutrition issue--the need to figure out my salt and water ratio and the magic electrolyte formula that will keep my pace up and eliminate my hallucinations of french fries falling from the sky into my open mouth after mile 20.

And tied to that, there's my brain, which kind of has a majority stake in the show, much to my chagrin. I'd prefer an iPod full of Bruce and my flirty charm could get me a 3:40, but no dice. It's all in my head. But we're not talking mind over matter. We're just talking matter. Lots of gray matter doing funky stuff with chemicals.

One of the people I'm working with on the new blog knows a lot about brains. He wrote the book on running and brains, literally. He's, like, smart and shit, which I'm not just saying so I can get the key to my new home.

When I mentioned my brain to him, he kindly didn't say, "You're not nearly the dumbest" runner he's worked with. No, that was my coach who said that (he was being jokey--I hope). But Matt did clarify for me that the notion of "mind over matter" is somewhat of a fallacy because, in running, our minds are matter. The lowest common denominator in our performance is the brain, an organ that directs the processional from Start to Finish. When the winner points to the sky after a race, he's committing a fundamental attribution error. It ain't God, dude. Point to your skull.

Matt tells me the reason I couldn't overcome the brakes on my feet at mile 20 in Phoenix is the same reason I can't fly: my body won't let me do what it cannot manage--whether due to training, glycogen, or whatever physiological inadequacy I'm dealing with.

Damn brain.

However, we can train our brains to suck it up when it comes to fatigue and pain, to delay the ultimate triumph of fatigue over performance at the same time that we're getting droopy. I would try to get scientific, but I typically limit my discussions of brain chemistry to telling Henry he will rot his in front of the TV. So, in his blog post today, Matt explains it like this:

For example, during exercise, predictable changes occur in the rate at which the brain takes up oxygen and fuel substrates. These changes are also predictably correlated with the onset of fatigue. Initially, the level of oxygen uptake by the brain increases to meet the energy demands of the brain’s intensely active motor centers. But when very intense efforts are sustained, oxygen uptake by the brain deceases, and when this happens, fatigue occurs, likely because the brain’s motor centers reduce their output to avoid becoming too oxygen-depleted.

The brain’s primary fuel substrate is glucose. However, the brain can also metabolize lactate, and it does so increasingly during prolonged, intense exercise. The balance of fuel substrates used by the brain is expressed as the metabolic ratio. At rest, the metabolic ratio is approximately 6. During prolonged, intense exercise this ratio decreases. Fatigue occurs when the metabolic ratio drops to 3, again probably because inadequate energy supply forces the brain’s motor centers to reduce their output.

But here’s what’s interesting: The precise metabolic ratio at which fatigue occurs varies by circumstances. And there is some evidence that a conscious will to continue exercising causes fatigue to occur at a lower metabolic ratio–in other words, that willing acts to raise the fatigue threshold associated with this particular mechanism. But here’s what’s even more interesting: When an athlete is suffering enough that he must will himself to continue exercising, this willing itself causes the metabolic ratio to drop. So clearly we are not looking at mind over matter here. The will to resist fatigue actually pushes the organism toward fatigue while at the same time pushing back the point at which fatigue occurs. To me, this phenomenon really sums up how the brain and body work together during exercise.

*

To me, this phenomenon really sums up how annoying my brain is. You have to get tired to not get tired? That is some freaky, cruel brain joke. What it makes me think of is Henry's first 8 weeks of life. In the first week, I wanted to shoot myself when I was forced awake every 90 minutes to feed him. Zoloft helped ease that, sure, but so did the training of living life that way. By week 4, I was somewhat more accustomed to the sleep deprivation and more functional as a result. I think I even got dressed by week 5.

The take-away point is that long distance running is a brain activity, and if you think that core work and hamstring curls are the only supplemental training you need, you're gonna be staring at some hard truths (and falling french fries) around mile 20. My brain needs to get its shit together by October 18 because I have 17 minutes to lose on a double loop around Lowell. That's right, I registered for Bay State. And I'm entitled to Boston 2010.

*If this is all too cerebral for you, I apologize. I'm trying to cut back on references to sex and weed. But if you want something more sophomoric, there's a feud in the blogosphere to keep it light. And strange.

One Four Oh

2009-06-07T20:16:00.007-04:00

We're just going to get the obvious out of the way right now. Did I say break 1:40 or make 1:40? I'm not going back to look and will scowl at you if you choose to. Because I got a 1:40:46, which in itself felt like an act of God, so we're not going to get all technical about it now. Please just be happy and stop nit picking. Thank you.

So yes, divine intervention was at work in pastoral Quechee, VT this weekend (go ahead, say it: Queeeeecheeeee. It really cleanses the palate.) Since Friday I'd been thinking the odds of running 13.1 way-sub-8 miles would be low unless the climate was completely ideal (50 degrees, cloudy), and I knew it was going to be upper-60s and sunny. Which meant I spent the early part of this morning making peace with my soon-to-be unmet race goal.

My cynicism also meant I might have been more drunk Saturday night than ever before in my life.

This is actually not saying a whole lot, because while I like to talk up my love of vodka martinis, I actually never drink more than one without heading for a 7 pm nap. But for some reason, at the restaurant last night I thought, "Why the hell not? Let's have another!" And the second drink was a hum dinger (yes, I said "hum dinger"). Why do they do that? Give you a weak one and then spin your brain with the second one?

I had every intention of blaming the cosmos for my failure today, by which I don't mean "the universe" but rather 4 parts vodka, 2 parts Triple Sec, 2 parts cranberry, and 1 part lime juice. Especially because the second drink was more like 12 parts vodka, 2 parts Triple Sec, etc.--what I think they should call a Quechee Cosmo Combo. Having touted myself as the new and improved Loosey Goosey Mommy, I was passed out in bed before Henry could ask for "one last hug." But then I was awake again at 10, 12, 3, 4:30, 5 and 6, when Henry did ask me to turn the light on so he could play. This is not how I have seen drunkenness advertised, and I would like to complain to the management of drunkenness that if I wanted a night like that, I'd be on board for giving Henry a baby brother or sister.

Why am I belaboring the drinks? I dunno. Probably because the race could best be described as green and pretty, and that's sorta boring compared to my recollection of last night's warm and cozy feeling of swanky mirth.

Green and pretty. Beautiful, lush Vermonty countryside and the most environmentally conscious event I've ever run. Other than the cups, the only paper was pinned to my singlet. No joke. I imagine that the bazillion hybrid drivers in attendance were pleased as punch in their Priuses (woot for alliteration). The trash cans were so complicated in their designations that my post-race brain had trouble not throwing my watermelon rind in the bin marked "trash"-- because there was one for "compost." I did pick the right one for cans, however, after enjoying my most favorite treat after a long run:

It's totally clear to me why this race sells out in an hour, and it's not just the cold cans of Coke (woot x2 for alliteration). Perfectly executed by the organizers, it is a gorgeous downhill course that only has you fighting your footing on one bridge and fighting the incline of one steep hill. The local bands along the route are always fun, and if I didn't have to fight for every single second on my watch, I know I could have paused to score some weed from either the Jimi Hendrix band or the bongo players (or both).

My only complaint about the day concerns the weather. Does Vermont really have to have clear blue skies and 68 degrees on an early-June Sunday morning? Because that is just awful, torturous weather. It makes me all sweaty and crabby when I run. If you want to be a perfect state of towering pines and unpolluted creeks, that's fine by me. But for crying out loud, stop being so perfect with your weather. Runners are grouchy when it's sunny and 70 degrees. And to be honest, a stomach ache (see treatise on martinis above) and the sun kind of made me hate most of the 100 minutes and 46 seconds I was running.

I realize this is the most rambling race report (woot x3 for alliteration) ever posted to the interwebs, but I swear I've had nothing to drink since my 1 pm margarita. And I came up empty on the pot, because apparently Vermonters don't just sell it next to the Cabot cheese and Stonyfield Farm yogurt.

I could go on forever with miscellaneous trivia about the day, such as my micro-celebrity moment with blog reader Brenda and my thrill upon hearing cheers for my Lowell singlet. No one ever cheers for Lowell unless you go to high school in Lowell, and maybe not even then.

But I think it's best if I just stop here with the stats and hope you come back to read my blog again, given today's report. Did I even mention what the race was? Good God. Covered Bridges Half-Marathon: You should run it. That sentence would have been a far more efficient race report.

Chip time: 1:40:46
Pace: 7:42
Overall: 183/1793
Age group: 12/363

Yes, I am quite loyal to the sport.

Where My Twitches At?

2009-06-04T09:03:00.006-04:00

Go For Broke Summer continues this weekend--three months of racing hard and testing the limits of my stamina (to be followed by spending all my money to run with the descendants of criminals). I am starting to really like this version of me, the one who goes all out for an event, then shrugs off the day and moves onto the next. Love 'em, and leave 'em on the course, ladies--that's my policy.

I think I might be a race slut. Cool.

Sunday I race the Covered Bridges Half Marathon in bucolic Vermont, which apparently has the highest rate of pot use in the country, so the weekend will be fantastic regardless of my race results.

I really feel as prepared as ever for this distance:

I trained the best I could, and the fast twitches are twitching for a fight.

I seduced my legs by telling lies about how strong and fabulous they are, and they're now ready to do my bidding. I made smarmy come-ons, such as "you are the most attractive quads ever to race for me," and as long as word doesn't get to my glutes that I'm a player, I should be good to go.

I've painted my black toenails black because it makes me feel fierce and I like to be ironic.

I've painted a mental landscape of my 1:40 finish with heavy globs of self-aggrandizement.

I've cultivated my best fuel for speedy running--lust and anger--by imagining David Beckham nagging me endlessly to reset the trip odometer after I fill up the tank.

And I've got my posse of running friends in my mental pocket, the ones who push me forward because they get why it matters to a suburban mother of average running skill to beat some semi-meaningless number on the clock.

We're going for even splits this weekend, 7:35 miles x 13.1. Ben & Jerry's and a bong if I can pull it off. And also if I can't.

Anniversary Run Amok

2009-06-03T06:48:00.000-04:00

Today marks the importance of two of my most significant relationships. No, not vodka and Bruce Springsteen. Okay, yes, it's true those are two of my greatest loves, but they're both unrequited and rank slightly lower than the ones I mean.

Today I've been married for 9 years, and it's also the first occasion of National Running Day. I've been running for 10 years, so no one can say I started running to avoid my marriage, though you could rightly say I started running to cope with planning a wedding. (It is not a coincidence at all that I started running exponentially more when Henry turned two.)

Some people might argue I'm actually married to running, and they would have a very good point, but I'm a modern gal and therefore have no problem with polyandry. In fact, many running mothers would probably say that they go hand in hand: a partner to watch the kid so you can take off for a romp with your other love, running.

So how far do you run on your 9th anniversary of marriage, which corresponds with a nationwide celebration of running?

Two bloody miles.

I'm in full-on taper hell, people, and on an auspicious day like this, I have to run two little HMP miles. And go berserk the rest of the day, lucky for my partner in life. Me without the catharsis of speed work is kind of like Elvis without... well, speed.

I don't get PMS, but I get TMS (Taper Madness Syndrome), which has already led me to give Brian explicit instructions not to buy me anything romantic this week. He knows I'm not generally into romance, but I think I might have actually used the word schlock and uttered the directive, "Don't buy me flowers." He is so screwed. No matter what he does, he will suffer today, poor guy. No gift, and he's an asshole. Roses and sentimentality, and he doesn't listen. Sorry, dear. You knew I was a bratty narcissist when you married me (surely my dad mentioned this beforehand). Happy anniversary.

The traditional 9th anniversary gift is pottery. Dear God, no.

The modern 9th anniversary gift is leather. Dear God, yes.

My guess, though, is that we'll spend the evening with a Hawaiian pizza and a very sexy discussion of the third party in our marriage--running--while he's on the foam roller and I lie on a tennis ball. This is a running marriage. We'll review my race strategy, talk about how pretty I am, and inevitably fight about how this blog is destroying our relationship. This is a running marriage when one person is a raging egomaniac with a blog.

So in honor of National Running Day, go run something; feel free to add a few miles for my tapery self. And to recognize my 9th anniversary, please pray for my husband, who has quite possibly the second worst wife ever. The man is, without a doubt, tougher than the rest.

Patience, Thresholds, and Finish Lines

2009-05-31T18:16:00.012-04:00

Hi. I'm still here. My new digs are not yet dug (the new site isn't ready for blogging), so I'll let you know when I move, but for now, I'm a bloggin' in the old 'hood. Hanging out patiently. Patience is a virtue, I've heard, so I will have to give it a try.

Training and racing, I've observed over the last year, are all about patience. You bust your ass, but there's a lot of patience involved, too. Waiting for the right race conditions. Waiting out an injury. Waiting for all the pieces to come together to meet your goal. When I bonked in Phoenix, my coach's primary response was: "It takes many marathons to meet your goal." It was not a koan: Nate is ever the pragmatist, but I appreciate his bluntness. I am a very impatient type, which is why I need a pragmatic coach and a structured training plan. It's also why I was an abominable Buddhist. (That, and the whole moderation and compassion thing.)

In my last few races--the 5ks and the marathon--I have pushed and pushed and pushed myself to my limit. Nausea. Delirium. Lactic acid ripping through my limbs.

The distinction these events hold is that I have treated them like they actually kind of matter. And they do. My trained muscles and tendons and joints hold all of my goals and mistakes and successes and failures. And so a race holds them, too, and I feel them viscerally when I rush forward at the sound of the pistol or the horn or the "Go."

Go.

Someone fires up a signal, and you go.

You rush--at whatever pace you've picked--until your body alienates you and starts its own signaling. Nausea. Delirium. Lactic acid ripping. It's like it's not even yours anymore and you have lost control or power over your own will. I hate that. I hate being at the whim of anything other than my own needs and desires. Even if it's my own body. Especially if it's my own body.

Damn bodies. They really make running rather difficult sometimes.

My threshold for exertion hit--my energy so tapped there is not even a drip of will left--I get to the point in a race where it is all I can do to keep going at all. I want it--it is in me somewhere--but wanting to keep your pace does not make it so. Someone might have said "Go" a while ago, but some force that sure isn't my will has demonized my heart and lungs, and I sputter.

I sputter and chug, losing steam. And then a corner is rounded. Here's something: the finish line is always just around a bend. Why do you never get a finish line you can see from a half mile away? It always just smacks you in the face. But the sting does something.

The sting sends a surge. And so, having seen the finish line, when your body feels most weakened and useless, you go faster. Faster.

The thinking used to be that our bodies try to maintain homeostasis constantly and that the body's symptoms of fatigue indicated its strained effort to maintain a safe homeostasis. But the finish line phenomenon shows the fallacy in that thinking.

Because "the only time homeostasis fails is when we are no longer alive" (Noakes, 2007; emphasis added).

Overlooking the cynical fact that our only choices appear to be homeostasis or death, this is an interesting factoid. Our bodies take care of us--no worries--making it possible for them to go out and do our bidding, even when our brains get all cranky and shit.

Like going faster when we sense the end is near.

When we see the finish line, we speed up. In my last 5k, I went from a 7:15 pace to a 6:35 when I saw the finish. In the marathon in Phoenix, I went from an empty-tank- 11:51 to a 9:32 for the final two tenths of a mile.

Our bodies are wrong when they're tired, and we're wrong when we think "quit." Unless we're dead, the homeostasis is kept, and we have to show those legs who's boss. We have to keep going, preferably faster. Because the goal is still there, even if you think the threshold has been met. You're wrong. You can handle more.

A surge is possible. Because you're tougher than you give yourself credit for. And the goal remains.

Wide Open Spaces

2009-05-29T11:23:00.003-04:00

Regardless of how you feel about Coldplay (not a fan), you can appreciate this video.

UltraRunning from Matt Hart on Vimeo.

74 days until I go to Australia.

Have a great weekend, everyone, wherever your adventures take you.

Notes from the Minuteman Trail Head

2009-05-28T07:53:00.008-04:00

It might come as a surprise to you to learn that I am a shy, quiet person in real life. If you invite me to a party, I will sweat with anxiety all day and prepare my conversations in advance, hoping to God that what I script will coordinate with the small talk. I am not a natural small talker.

But anyone could invite me for a run, and I'll go without blinking--no anxiety whatsoever. I love when I get to run with faster, more experienced people, people who knock out sub-3 marathons and win ultras. I love the communion of running with someone, step for step. You can talk the whole time, and then you can stop talking entirely and no one gets offended or feels awkward because you're still making progress down the road. It's usually a worthwhile connection, regardless of the conversation.

Yesterday I went running on the Minuteman Trail with a friend I've only met fairly recently. It had been raining all day, but by 5:00 the rain had stopped and the Concord woods were lush with green. No one else seemed interested in mucking along the road to the Revolution, however, because when we got there, we parked our Subaru wagons (required vehicle for all Mass residents) in an empty lot. It was goosebump cold, so we opted out of the Minuteman Audio Tour and took off right quick, holding what seemed to be a 7:30 pace, though my Garmin reception was coming in and out so I don't know for sure. All I know is that it felt fast, but it wasn't bad and I could keep up.

She is a faster and more experienced runner than I am, so I was happy that she complimented me by assuming her regular pace. (I'm hoping she doesn't ever invite me to bike with her because I am completely inept on a bike.) We talked, and we didn't, which was great. Because we were running fast, we took a breather at the turnaround and stood there chatting for a while about who-knows-what. Amazing how running amounts to conversational foreplay; you run a few miles, and as a result, you have tons to talk about. Not sure what that's about, but we were all of a sudden like two gabbing teenagers. Remember how you could chat for hours with a friend in high school about absolutely nothing? It was like that--so fun.

Now that I think about it, the run amounted to speed work--two repeats with recovery time at the birthplace of American democracy. I hope our forefathers aren't rolling over in their graves to know we soiled their hallowed ground with interval training.

The British are coming!
Hold on Paul, I need to stop the Garmin.

We flew back along the trail and when we got to the cars, we hung out for a bit. I was pleased that I didn't maim her on the trail, which is what happened the last time I went trail running with a friend. A bit muddy and a bug bite here and there, but that was all.

We talked tattoos (you know, typical suburban mom talk) and observed a woman pacing near her car (not a Subaru), musing that she was probably waiting for her lover (you know, typical suburban mom talk). And sure enough, he came, she got in his car, and off they went. I guess everyone takes advantage of the Minuteman Trail for their own reasons, which the policeman who looped the lot twice while we stood there no doubt knew.

So, people. Here's your take-away lesson: go run with someone new, preferably someone faster. Even if you're a shy and reserved sort like me, only good can come of it.

And another reminder to my virtual running friends that this blog is moving on June 1.

Competitive Drive

2009-05-26T21:21:00.008-04:00

I think I may be taking my new competitive drive a little far. On the way to and from PA, we saw several cars with '26.2' bumper stickers. My first observation is that far too many people are now running marathons, which means I'm being forced to up my mileage to an ultra. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #1.

But my second observation is even worse. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #2 has me pushing the gas pedal to pass these cars. Even when I'm not driving. I press my right foot on the floor, like wives often do when they need their husbands to brake already. Except I'm pressing the imaginary gas because there's an SUV with a little white circle on the back that reads '26.2.'

"Oh, no you don't, Miscellaneous Sedan. I will go 90 if need be. My bumper sticker is totally going to smoke your bumper sticker."

What is wrong with me? Who thinks that way? Who talks smack to a fender?

I got into running in the first place because it was far less competitive than ballet. No one in amateur running tells you you're fat or you have lousy turnout. No one critiques you because your hair and make-up are all wrong. You compete as much as you want to in running, unlike ballet, where you're forced into competition whether you like it or not. And in racing, you compete fiercely on the course and then chat congenially with the person who beat you (or who you beat) as soon as you cross the line. On Monday, I was racing one other woman for part of the course, and after we both finished (I beat her--ahem), we chatted casually about how humid it was and what fun it was to race. That's the best part of competitive running, if you ask me. You race, then you chat.

Along the same lines, while I love winning AG awards and competing for a top-3 spot in my group, I wasn't hung up on finding out if I placed second or third in my AG last weekend. I can let it go pretty easily and don't beat myself up over competition. For his part, though, Henry was pretty disappointed that I didn't have a trophy to give him. (That always makes a running mom feel just swell.) As far as he's concerned, there is really no point to watching me race unless I get him a trophy or free food at the end.

I won an Amazon gift certificate for placing at the 5k a few weeks ago, and I discovered I can buy 12 trophies with it, which would give me one for that race, one for Monday's race, and 10 more for just being awesome in general. Knowing you can buy trophies from Amazon in a six-pack really makes me feel all warm inside. I can reward myself and stroke my ego whenever I want, even if I lose. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #3.

Another reminder that my blogging will relocate on Monday June 1. I have called the movers and will provide a change-of-address URL as soon as I have it to share.

Run Like Madness

2009-05-25T20:07:00.009-04:00

You need to move up to the line.

That is the moral of this post. I know you're not supposed to give the moral until the end of a story, but I have big news that seemed to merit a bold-type-faced statement like that.

In 3 acts:

Act I

This weekend we dragged our butts back to PA (a-gain) for a family reunion so I had to do my long run in Harrisburg a-gain. Brian and I ran separate days, so I went back to the Susquehanna to run my 14. I am happy to report that I was not approached by any sketchy men (woot), but the run itself s-u-c-k sucked.

Hot
Humid
Funnel cake

I won't belabor the run, but suffice it to say, it took forever, and it was 85 degrees when I finally finished. If the half-mary is like that, I'm toast (pun intended). By mile 10, I was nearly out of water on my fuel belt and would have whored myself for a garden hose. When I saw the kind lady in her garden, I was pleased the whoring would not be necessary, and she filled my bottles and let me spray my head with her hose.

That helped me get another couple of miles, when it was time to pick it up to HMP. Again, not my day. I eeked out a bit more than a mile at that pace, but it was so unbelievably hot--with no shade--that by the time I smelled the scent of frying funnel cake, there was no way I'd make it to 14 miles without serious nausea setting in.

It was a street fair, and once you add velvet paintings and a brass band to the mix of heat and fried dough, I was on the verge of passing out. I pushed myself as hard as I could go without actually passing out--moved myself up to the line of consciousness--and finished with a jog to mile 14.

Finis. Last long run before the race. It's ok. I'm satisfied, and if the conditions cooperate, I will be confident heading into the HM.

Moving on.

Act II

Monday morning--today--was the 5k. Again humid, but not so hot, which was the best I could hope for this weekend, I guess. It was a fairly local schmokal type affair, which always suits me fine. I knew beating 22 minutes would be very close, given the humidity, but I wanted to try to do what I set out to do.

Full throttle. Three sevens.

In a rinky dink race, where not only are there no timing mats at the start, there are no chips at all, I simply had no choice but to move forward, up to the start line. This is ballsy and cocky and all the male genital adjectives you can think of. I was standing next to the people who would be winning the race. And some 8 year olds. Funny how that happens. The winners and the children, side by side.

The race started with a "Go!" and as promised, I was a bat outta hell.

Mile 1: 7:00

Where's the water? Where's the water? Where's the fucking water?

Oh, look, six horses standing in the middle of the street, waiting to headline a parade, no doubt.

Weave the horses. Avoid getting kicked in the head. You really can't beat racing six inches from a horse's ass.

Mile 2: 7:09

Where's the fucking water?

Thank you for the dainty sip of water.

Sucking wind. Sucking wind.

I hate 5k. I hate 5k.

I'm such a fraud. Speed work, full throttle, bats outta my ass. This just fucking sucks.

And then I heard her in my head. Mary. Iron Matron comes to me. Whispers words of wisdom. My dear friend, who has been in my corner through so much.

SHUT UP BRAIN.

Go. Go. Go. Push. Push. Push. And this is my brain's thought before it settled down:

At least when you're sucking wind, you know you're breathing and alive. So run hard damnit.

Mile 3: 7:15

Round the corner. Finish line. Finish line.

21:54...
21:55...
21:56...

21:57 Finish.

and the .1 at a 6:35 pace (sprint much?)

I don't know where I placed. I think second or third in my age group, but we couldn't stick around because we had to drive 8 hours back to Mass. (the state; we're not Catholic).

Move up to the line. Run like madness. Suck wind. Know you're alive.

Act III

Moving up to the line is terrifying. Running like madness is terrifying. Moving forward into new territory is terrifying. But often fantastic.

I am thrilled and energized by a new development in this blog. Starting June 1, I will be blogging as a featured blogger for Competitor Running's online entity, thus moving the bulk of my blogging energies to that domain.

My style, topics, and energy will remain the same as it is here. Even the title will remain the same. I will be the irreverent and neglectful mother you have all come to expect, and I am sure I will continue to deliver all the running schadenfreude you are used to receiving from me. Injuries, failures, excessive sharing about bladder control issues, and my trademark righteous indignation all will continue. It's the same blog, only, you know, kinda like a job sorta.

I will maintain this URL for the archives and will pop over to blog here once a week or so, when I feel compelled to drop the f-bomb a half dozen times in a post or steal copyright-protected photos of celebrities. But really, my Competitor Running blog will be the same schtick you're used to getting here. In fact, now that it's sorta kinda like a job, it will probably be far superior to my lazy posting about things like the weight of my shoes.

I'll badger you with reminders to update your feeds in the next week, but I hope you'll be excited to make the move with me.

So, there you have it. In three acts: moving up to the line. Scary, but good.

Full Throttle

2009-05-22T08:02:00.006-04:00

I'm trying not to obsess too much over numbers, but runners often do this.

26.2
3:40
8:20
13.1
1:40
7:37
3.1
21:xx

My mind is swirling with numbers, and I'm learning that I can both love the process of running and the pursuit of the digits. That the means and the end are both gratifying, and more and more, they are becoming inseparable.

Iron Matron wrote the other day about the effort we put into training for the sake of our love of its experience. She said it best: "how the effort we put into something is worthy -- just because to put effort into something is to participate in and engage in life" (emphasis in original).

This perspective is new to me, but I'm embracing it. I am pushing myself in new directions that risk failure or even pain, but if I didn't make the effort, I would not be fully engaged in life. I would be timid or, worse, restrained.

I think I'm drawn to the 5k and the speed work now because it lets me go full throttle. I've never been a full-throttle kind of girl before because the idea of pushing as hard as I could and still failing to win was terrifying. But now I've been bitten by the desire to try for things that always seemed outrageous and scary. Even after thinking I'd lost my kid, I went full throttle in the Groton race because my brain and my body wanted to push (see photo). And came in second in my AG in the end. Sometimes the effort pays off, and sometimes it doesn't, but the risk to push hard (even when it's hot) is Good in and of itself.

When Patti blogged her goal of a 2:45 marathon, I didn't shake my head or raise my eyebrows. I called her. And we have continued to talk about competition and daring and being "runners with kids" versus "mothers who run." Full throttle on the road, in our goals, and in our lives is not something women my age with a family to raise are meant to do.

And yet, here I go.

A belated congratulations to my coach, Nate Jenkins, who will be competing on the U.S. team at the World Marathon Championships in Berlin in August. This post is for you and the speed you've subjected me to.

Desperately Seeking 21 Minutes

2009-05-20T15:52:00.003-04:00

I am in hot pursuit of something I want so bad I am dropping my love of grammar in this sentence to express it. I want redemption, vindication, and wish fulfillment. I want to fly by the seat of my pants. I want to run fast and hard and get it done. I want to hit the 5k jackpot in my mind:

3 sevens*

Blackjack. Kaching.

Not long ago, I thought the 5k was a royal waste of time and money. So short, not worth it. I ran 5ks with friends and family to kind of mosey along on a little joggy jog. But something changed in me in the last few months, and now I get it. It helped that I've started winning AG awards in my last two 5ks, and that kind of extrinsic validation turns out to suit my shallow side quite well. Yes, running is a beautiful practice and process, but I kind of like the brutality of the chase and the gratification of seeing my name in the top 3 for my age, even if there are only 6 people in my group**. It also turns out I'm more competitive than I thought.

And then there's my performance at the 5k a few weeks ago. I so wanted that 21 minutes on the clock, and I missed it by 9 seconds. I'm traveling back to Central PA for the long weekend***, but I found a 5k on Monday morning. I'm going to run that race like a bat outta hell, then get in the car for another 8-hour drive, hopefully with a shiny AG award, an overly inflated ego, and 3 sevens on my splits.

I'm particularly motivated because the race is in my old 'hood, where I went to high school and suffered the cliched gym class mortification of many adult runners. I need to unload that baggage, preferably in the first mile to help me run a negative split and meet my goal.

So, 21 minutes please. To go out and do what I need to do.

*and I'll give the extra tenth to the running Gods in however many seconds they require

**I have a theory of why I'm winning these awards in the small, short, local races. I am at the age that most women are having babies, so the fact that I have a 4-year-old puts me at a competitive advantage.

***and running long alone, so dear God, please prevent sketchy guy from finding me.

Burning Pain Crystallized

2009-05-17T19:21:00.009-04:00

I'm reading the book Running & Philosophy, which is so far a tasty read for the heady runner. You don't get much better than tracing Martha Nussbaum's thinking on the embodiment and musicality of emotion through running. The woman memorizes operas while she's in marathon training so she can recite them in her head on long runs without an iPod. Both insane and admirable, if you ask me.

Martha, however, has nothing to say about how much my ass hurts, even to sit. Except maybe the quote she gives from Mahler: "A burning pain crystallizes." Kind of sounds like a koan (or a fortune cookie), but that is definitely it. A crystallized, burning pain in the ass.

Saturday, I did my longest training run for the half-marathon in three weeks: 16 miles. It wound up being 16.7 miles, but who's counting? Actually, I was--every hundredth of a mile for the last 7/10 of a mile to my car, as my butt spasmed.

I ran the first 9 miles on my own, then was joined by speedy Jill for the rest. I tried to keep up, but we were running at 1 on a hot afternoon and her smokin' pace... well, she smoked me. My average pace wound up a disappointing 8:23, and I didn't hit the last two miles at HMP like I needed. Bah.

8:23 for almost 17 miles. And I was so bummed by it, I consoled myself with a can of real, full-sugar, all-the-sodium Coke on the way home. It was the best 12 oz. of Coke ever created. My compliments to the factory. Have you ever had a tough long run and then decided that the first thing you consumed afterward was the best possible substance ever made? That was the Coke. I should have kept the can, it was that good.

But the real point of note is that I was disappointed in the 8:23 pace. True, it was slower than I will need to feel ready for the half-marathon. But a year ago, I would have shaved my head for a 17-mile training run at that pace.

This makes me realize something pretty annoying about my personality. I am perpetually dissatisfied. You could say that this means I am always open to growth, learning, evolution, experience. Wouldn't that be nice? Really, it just means that I am usually bitchy and hungry.

I know I'm lucky to have a fast metabolism physiologically, but I'm realizing that my personality has a fast metabolism, too. I process an experience instantly and am immediately looking for the next thing. There's no appreciating the forest for the trees or the big picture or whatever your favorite cliche is. Hence the dissatisfaction with the 8:23 pace and the decent work ethic to improve and conquer my dissatisfaction.

Ironically enough, as I'm typing this, my son just said, "You're kind of a lazy mother." It's funny 'cause it's true. I am kind of a lazy mother. A lazy mother who runs 40 miles a week. (I'll show him lazy. There's a four-year-old who's going to do some hill repeats this afternoon.)

I'm going to try to be more content with my progress and my state of affairs. If that doesn't work, I'm going to start drinking more and blame my stagnation on alcohol. Externalizing dissatisfaction is truly the best approach if you can't remove it, that's what I always say. I'm sure Martha Nussbaum would agree.

Drunk Lizards, Celebrities, Hats, Speed, and Self-Promotion

2009-05-14T11:08:00.010-04:00

In Roman numerals because they make me feel all classy:

I. I bought my ticket to Australia. It was a big, terrifying moment. So now I have to go get some language CDs to learn Australian before I go. You think I'm kidding, but I got an email from my guide the other day that said, "Please bare with me. I've been flat out like a lizard drinking for the past week."

My immediate first thought was, "Holy shit. I just dropped some serious cash on a trip led by a lush who is politely asking to see me naked. And something about a lizard."

Turns out, Richard is not a drunk and just had a small homonym hiccup. An Australian friend translated for me and reassured me he's just been really busy. What that has to do with an overhydrated lizard is still a mystery to me. But I want to fit in, so I am going to track down some tutelage in Australian colloquialisms. On a running trip where I'm sleeping in the middle of nowhere with 8 strangers, I will need to be able to be able to determine if being called "mate" is just friendly or a request to procreate.

II. I had a consult with an agent about my book the other day. His advice? "You should write a book about celebrity moms and pregnant celebs who run instead." I love a good US Weekly baby bump as much as the next gal, and I'm sure Reese Witherspoon is lovely. But I really don't think that documenting her running habits will be very helpful or inspirational to most of us, even though I know it must be challenging to have loads of money for child care, a super hottie to run with you, and exquisite genetics that you can't ruin.

And anyway, who really wants tips from celebrities when they look like this on a run?

Seriously, Ms. Hudson, get an armband for that iPod.

This is not at all to say I wouldn't splash pictures of Jake Gyllenhal all over my book regardless of their relevance, however.

Also, the well-meaning agent told me no one would publish or buy a book written in the first-person by someone who is "just a well-educated woman with a cute kid and a nice husband." Alrighty then.

III. I've had this hat from Head Sweats to review for weeks now. I had no idea writing a witty review of a hat would be so much harder than reviewing detergent. Really, the Head Sweats people probably don't care what I have to say. They just want to optimize their google results. So I'll help them out:

Head Sweats makes a great cap. Heat Sweats makes a cap that is lightweight and dries very quickly. Head Sweats also makes visors and other hats in many nice colors. Head Sweats Head Sweats Head Sweats.

Also, Rachel is on the homepage for Head Sweats, looking fierce as always.

IV. Track for speed work tonight. 10 x 600m in 2:42 each with rest intervals of 400 m in 2:02. Hoping for the best with my dicey IT Bands. Plus wind, rain, allergies, insomnia, and a serious crapitude. In other words, I'm looking at some major bonk potential.

V. Maybe I should take my own advice. Check out my new post over on Chi today if you're dreading your next workout.

Tennis Balls: Non-Therapeutic

2009-05-12T20:05:00.005-04:00

I am sitting on a tennis ball. This afternoon, I was lying on a tennis ball. The tennis ball and I are becoming very friendly. Yes, in case you were wondering, it hurts, so it's kind of a tense friendship. I would like to, say, take a racket and thwack my friend clear across the grass, but that might actually please the ball and send it into a reverie about Wimbledon. So instead, I will keep it under my ass, where it can communicate closely to the knot at the top of my IT Band.

I am wincing. Wincing, quite obviously, reminds me of my coach. Wincing, cursing, and panting. This is what Nate does to me, but not in the good way. Nate assigns me mileage that hurts. And to get rid of the hurt? More stuff that hurts. Like tennis balls in my tendons.

But because I'm radically faster than I was a year ago when I started training with him, I know I'd do whatever he says to be race-ready and meet my goal. Like crack. If Nate put "smoke a pipe of crack" on the schedule for my taper week, I'd be in the old station wagon headed to some alley in Lowell with my credit card. (Dealers take Visa, I assume).

And I know I'd do whatever Nate said to take away the pain that speed work causes.

Sit on a mace? Right on.

Snort crushed Vicodin? Hells yeah.

Sit in a tub filled with ice water so cold it burns? Bring it, baby.

Oh, wait... I guess I already do that last one.

Good god, he's a sadist. It is no lie that the man once told me a massage should hurt. For that reason, I almost called the one listing under Massage: Non-Therapeutic in my phonebook before I realized that "Christine and Company" was probably an altogether different kind of massage. Though, some might take issue with categorizing Christine et al.'s services as "non-therapeutic," and I'm sure she'd make it hurt if you asked her to.

Wow. That was a tangent from which I cannot seem to return.

Christine = pleasure. Coach = pain. Ah ha, there it is. Nate has sadistic but effective training plans, and the only happy ending you get from his treatments for injury is the ability to run more and harder.

And I do have a masochistic streak, which is why I let him spank me with those speed workouts and his remedies for injuries. But just once, I want to email him with an ache or pain and have him recommend a strawberry-scented bubble bath and a cup of hot chocolate and those little tiny marshmallows.

Until that day, it's the tennis ball and ice bath for me. Let's just hope Nate doesn't advocate I join a pyramid scheme that promises high returns and a BQ. Cause I'd do it.

Bacon Makes It All Okay

2009-05-11T09:02:00.005-04:00

After a week of insomnia and allergies driving firey spikes through my eyelids*, I had yet another 14-miler on Saturday. May have been a bit cranky and unmotivated with motivation not helped by rain, tightness in my IT Band, and a pesky piriformis on the left side.

Still, I am used to the 14-milers now. I think I've done about four or five of them so far in this training cycle. I am even used to running the last few miles under half-marathon pace. Just like the marathon training, when I was fixated on the numbers 3:40 (goal time) and 8:20 (pace), I see my target numbers everywhere. Houses, license plates, clocks:

1:40 (goal)

7:37 (pace)

The 14-mile training runs are rote, and the times might as well be tattooed on me.

And then on Saturday I walked it in.

Walking. I like walking on a beautiful spring day in Harvard Square. I did it yesterday. It was lovely. I like going for a little walk to prevent the emergence of my alter-ego, Mommy Who Yells. I endorse walking. But not when I should be running.

I do not like walking mile 14 of a training run.

I knew the run would be ugly, but not that ugly. I was in such a foul mood that when I saw a young deer playing in some tall grasses, all I could think was "bastard tick vehicle."

The ITB and piriformis pain really set in about mile 9, so I stopped to stretch in the drizzle. But the mosquitoes were ravenous for some blood seasoned with sweat and frustration, so I had to keep moving or I'd be eaten alive. When my Garmin let me know it was time to pick up the pace for the last two miles, I tried. I really did. But by then, my entire body wanted me dead.

At mile 13, it was over. Walking a mile takes a lot longer than I would have thought, giving me plenty of time to cultivate some solid self-chastisement and providing the mosquitoes an opportunity to dig in with wild abandon.

This put me in really magical mood for Mother's Day. I got up Sunday and basically ditched my loving family for a 15-mile bike ride to gain some perspective and a lot of pollen in my eyeballs from the wind.

An obviously much-needed massage appointment to work out the knots fell through in the afternoon, leading me to lose the perspective I'd gained when I whined, "Even my massage guy is avoiding me!" I can't believe that is a sentence I've spoken. Woe is me.

Still, a day on which I consume a breakfast of bacon, champagne, and city life is a good day. And maybe those three are just the tonic for my IT Band and pain in the butt. Because that, a foam roller, and an abundance of self-pity are all I've got to ease my pain.

*Generic-brand Claritin, you are a cruel box of non-drowsy empty promises.

Evidence That I'm Working on It

2009-05-07T15:16:00.006-04:00

The Runner's Lounge Take It and Run Thursday theme today is running and motherhood, and I promise that once Mother's Day is over, I won't beat this dead horse quite so hard with my primary shtick. (Probably.) But in keeping with the TIaRT theme, here is an excerpt from the book to prove that I am indeed writing something.

If you find yourself in London and decide to go for a run, look out for Paula. Chances are at some point, you’ll see her with a fleet of enthusiastic runners close by. But it's not that Paula. Paula Mitchell, a native Texan who lives in London, facilitates groups of running mothers, most of whom she recruits when they’re running on their own around town. Maybe you’ll hear their feet pounding toward you, but more likely, you’ll hear their voices first.

It’s the sound of mother-runners on the path, and it’s a growing phenomenon that gives new meaning to the phrase social movement.

While thousands of groups of running moms begin formally online, many others are simply casual groups of neighborhood moms who notice each other on the sidewalks at the crack of dawn, getting a run in before the kids wake up and the hectic day launches. Or, they see each other in running gear at the school bus stop and make “fast friends.” The friendships build, a running day is set, and the pairings expand to triplets, eventually developing into small cadres of mothers operating their own aerobic neighborhood watch. These mothers aren’t Paula Radcliffes in the making, but the organizers of running groups for mothers know the potential to transform these women in powerful ways.

Leaders like Paula Mitchell welcome mothers of all running levels into their support groups of runners, knowing that running gives an escape that can preserve a mom’s sanity and provides a network of other women. Having lived in Borneo, Indonesia, and Belgium since leaving the U.S. for her husband’s career 15 years ago, Mitchell knows how it feels for mothers to feel isolated and without connections, especially in a foreign country. She began building informal running groups of other ex-pat mothers after moving to London and now leads beginner and experiences groups that tour London several times a week and travel together to half-marathons all over Europe. “My goals are to take these new runners from nothing to being able to call themselves runners. I get way more satisfaction out of that than being able to run a marathon two or three minutes faster than I did last time. There were times when that was important to me, but not anymore, ” says Mitchell.

Mitchell structures and leads the groups to give ex-pat mothers in London a footing when they find themselves living in a new city with few instant friendships. Even though she describes the groups as “loosely knit,” more than 100 women have been a part of her effort and come to rely on it as part of their lives while their families live in London. Among the words they use to describe Mitchell’s service are “amazing” and “inspirational,” and of her runners, Mitchell says, “Ex-pat women move to different cities every two years. They have no family, no friends around them. And they’re often frustrated or a little bit unhappy.” Their husbands go to the office, and the kids go to school, becoming immersed in new surroundings, but the women stay at home. “Most of our women are 35 to 55,” Mitchell says, “and a lot of them are completely lacking in confidence, just in life. And once they start running, they think they can do anything. And they can. Their whole frame of reference changes. It’s amazing to see the transformation.”

Not only do these runners develop greater confidence in their fitness, they experience new joy in life. “They go and do things they would have never done before. Changes that are internal, but you can see it on their faces, because they’re happier,” Mitchell reports. She attributes the transformation in her runner-mothers to the convergence of a social network of support and greater health and fitness in a sport that does not have to be competitive to be rewarding. “Most other sports are competitive,” she says. “You’re playing tennis against someone. Somebody wins and someone loses. Or someone is better than you. But running, you just throw on a pair of shoes and off you go.”

Along the same line, there are mothers who make a regular, obligatory visit to the gym to spend a reluctant hour on a machine or in a class, with the goal of losing weight, caring for their cardiovascular health, or preparing for a summer in a bathing suit.

And then there are the mothers who run.

These women make the time in their hectic family and work lives to run because it preserves a part of themselves that transcends the size of their jeans, concerns about blood pressure, or lounging at the local pool. Mother-runners are a community of women who turn to running for social connection, personal empowerment, and the knowledge that their running is a service to their families as well as themselves. While running might tone their quads or calves, mother-runners know that it is their core that is strengthened most from their passion and practice.

Happy Mother's Day, runner-mothers. Here's to neglecting our kids, one mile at a time.

More From Me

2009-05-06T17:31:00.006-04:00

Two blog posts in one day. Whoah, Nelly. This is a quickie to again reluctantly let you know that I have a podcast for your amusement on the Runner's Lounge today. And by "amusement," I of course mean ridicule.

The back story for this interview about my book is that I was invited to participate in a Mothers' Day round table podcast on running and motherhood on Sunday night. I'd gotten up at 5:30 a.m. and then driven 8 hours from PA to New Hampshire to get Henry to a birthday party for a classmate, and I was kinda sorta thinking I would just slide down in my chair at the 9 p.m. virtual round table, drink my Mike's, and agree heartily with whatever everyone else said.

Joke's on me. None of my blog sisters called in. Ladies left me hangin' in a bad, bad way! I forgive you, of course, because I love running mothers and you were probably out being good parents or running or drinking together and laughing at my expense. And it was a good chance for me to hog the spotlight to talk about my book. If I don't sound like a completely incoherent mess, it was an opportunity to share a bit about my book to generate some interest (or again, ridicule).

According to Brian's review, the interview had some good humorous moments. But I didn't realize I was making jokes. Oh, boy. Remember when I fell on my face the other week while running? This could be a bit like that.

If there are publishers out there who stumble on the interview, I promise I have a very sound prospectus and that my book does not just revolve around mothers' use of foul language while running.

Enjoy!

What Are the Odds?

2009-05-06T00:41:00.005-04:00

Here's a little news tidbit I picked up from the AFP yesterday:

Professor Blamed for SKorea Marathon Death

SEOUL (AFP) — A South Korean university professor who promised his class extra marks for running marathons has been held responsible for a student's death during the event, reports said Wednesday.

The Seoul Central District Court Monday ordered the unidentified academic and his university to pay 50 million won (39,300 dollars) to the parents of the student, the Korea Times and Korea Herald reported.

They said the professor, who taught statistics but was also a keen athlete, offered extra marks to male students who ran a half-marathon and to female students who competed in a 10-km event.

The student took part in a half-marathon in Seoul in May 2008 but collapsed and died during the event. His parents filed suit, arguing his participation was effectively compulsory.

Judges noted that competition for good grades is especially crucial during the economic slowdown.

Wow, so much to comment on here, so I'm just going to start with the obvious.

The kid did not run a marathon, AFP people. It was a half. A half something is not a whole something. I learned that in second grade, probably with some demonstration involving a pie. It disappoints me that a half-marathon and a whole marathon aren't more or less equivalents, because getting a BQ would be so much simpler if I could just use my half-marathon PR instead of my marathon time.

Which brings us to statistics. Being a stats instructor, no doubt the Korean professor knew the probability that a student would die in a half-marathon. The odds of death in a marathon are about 1 in 50,000, according to the Peak Performance web site. If we're going to operate on truly shoddy math (see previous paragraph), let's just say the odds of death in a half-marathon are 1 in 100,000. Really sucks to be that professor, doesn't it? That's what you get for your professional association with probability, buddy. A giant cosmic guffaw.

As well as one from me. You're lucky you weren't sued by the rest of the boys' parents because you let the girls run a 10k for extra credit while the boys had to do the half-marathon. Between the sexism and supposed culpability in a student's death, I wouldn't bank on a Professor of the Year Award. The odds are not in your favor. "Keen athlete," yes. Good teacher--probably not.

While I'm fascinated that the judges cited competition for grades as particularly fierce in an economic slowdown without recognizing that litigious acts by grieving parents are probably also somewhat influenced by a crappy economy, my last comment has more to do with the extra credit. Granted, I used to give my stats students extra credit for knowing trivia about Lost, so I'm giant hypocrite for saying this, but some relevance to the course subject matter always seems like a good idea. Which may have avoided the whole pesky issue of a dead student and a lawsuit. Next time, Professor, just ask your students to answer TV trivia questions. They'll think you're a little bit cooler (important for a stats instructor, trust me), and no one dies. Win, win.

Mr. Sketchy on the Susquehanna

2009-05-04T12:55:00.006-04:00

I've been MIA for several days because we went to PA to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday. At the same time, I've simply been a wasteland for good blog material. It's so bad I actually wrote a post on the weird tan lines I've been cultivating this Spring, and I might end up posting it, but thankfully Saturday's long run gave me something better.

Today's topic? Sketchy men who approach you when you're with your spouse and talk you up anyway.

I grew up near the capitol of PA (that's Harrisburg, not Philly), which is like Pittsburgh on a smaller scale. I do mean that in the best possible way. Central PA has a midwestern kind of feel to it, with people who will strike up a conversation about the sorry state of PA highways with any old stranger in the local Sheetz. Words like "y'uns" make their way into the lexicon, and shopping at Walmart alongside a Pennsylvania Dutch family is par for the course.

I really like the easy friendliness of people there, but my six years in Cambridge earned me a different social style to go with the pricey diploma molding in my basement. I developed an aloof, introverted city demeanor at the same time that I cultivated a certain comfort being around crazy people on the street. If you spend enough time in a city with a high ratio of intellectuals, you find yourself with a considerable proportion of people who talk to themselves while they wait with you for the T. (Xenia surely knows what I mean--not because she's nuts, but because she went to school near Cambridge.) It doesn't shake me, but I'm not exactly going to invite them out for tapas.

So when I go back to PA, the casual chattiness of strangers is not familiar, but I can get myself out of a weird situation.

Saturday morning, Brian and I headed over to the path along the Susquehanna river to do our long runs together. He's training for the San Francisco marathon in July and had 11 miles on the schedule. Ironically, I'm training for half a marathon but had 14 miles on the schedule. We would start out together and meet back at the car at about the same time, since my last four miles would be at half-marathon pace. (Yeah, you heard me. I'm. Faster.)

We went to use the bathrooms before starting our run, but I decided to go back to the car to ditch my long-sleeve shirt. On the way to the car, we smiled to a guy standing on some steps who had seen us come up them a few minutes before. This obviously means that we need to chat. Two passings = new best friends.

Brian and I are fairly sure that Mr. Sketchy followed us back to our car because when we got there, there he is next to us. His first utterance? Not "Hi."

"So you guys run marathons or what?"

Uh...

My response is a cordial "Yes."

"Let me ask you guys, why do you run marathons?"

Okay, well sure, let's stand here for the next four hours so I can give you an exegesis on why I run marathons. Even though he apparently just followed us to our car to chat us up, I don't think Mr. Sketchy was looking to mug or abduct us. I'm just a trained New Englander now. Which means I don't talk to anyone, except myself.

So I tried not to be rude, but I wasn't going to stick around any longer than necessary. "How much time do you have?" I joked nervously.

My kind, southern-raised husband, however, explained the psychological benefits of running, pursuing a physical challenge, and accomplishing a goal. Needless to say, I gave Brian a bemused look as he revealed to Mr. Sketchy his stress level and need for psychological release.

"I run marathons so I can eat whatever I want," I said, trying to hasten our chit chat. He did not seem like the right audience for my personal narrative on marathoning. It all goes back to my childhood and persistent feelings of inadequacy... Yeah, not so much. Let's just keep it light, please.

And here it comes: "You look like you can eat whatever you want anyway. I'm more likely to throw myself off a bridge for excitement," says Mr. Sketchy in a beautiful demonstration of the fine art of the non-sequitor.

Gotta go. Nice chatting, but I got a thing.

Don't care if husband is here to prevent the guy from throwing me in the trunk of his car and taking me to a pre-dug grave for girls who look like they can eat whatever they want. I'd say it's about time for that 14-miler to get started.

But we were nice as we took off at a somewhat-faster-than-normal jog to get on our way. I'm hoping that Mr. Sketchy did not indeed throw himself off a bridge while we were gone, but I am quite happy that he was not waiting by our car when we returned to ask us how our run went and if we'd like to consider a menage a trois.

And in case any of you are wondering, I did not share my blog URL with him.

Onwards: A Little Frivolity for a Wednesday

2009-04-29T06:47:00.002-04:00

Onwards from AKQA on Vimeo.

Hell, Yeah

2009-04-26T18:20:00.008-04:00

Today was our annual outing to the Groton Road Race, where I ran the 5k and Henry ran the Tot Trot. You know your child has running in his blood (or at least is reminded of running constantly) when he gets up and says, "Do I race today?" I didn't start using "race" as a verb until this year. My four year old says it with the nonchalance of Usain Bolt (after a bender, when he can't recall his schedule).

The theme of the day? Hell on earth.

Don't misunderstand. I love Groton. I love their road race. We've gone three times and chronicled Henry's growth every year.

Here's the hell part:

1. Hell is hot, no?

It was 80 degrees at race time, which is freaky weird weather for this part of the world in April. Good for frozen margaritas; bad for running.

For this race, I summoned the courage to wear the race singlet from my running club. I just hadn't yet felt like I should be representing anyone, but lately I've felt my running is strong enough for it. So I put it on. I felt sassy. I felt speedy.

I felt hot. And not hawt. Just plain ole hot.

So when I got there I took it off. I raced in the bare minimum because of the heat-- love handles, stretch marks, and cellulite be damned. Next time for the singlet.

2. Pre-race massage by a Hell's Angel.

Okaaaaaaay, he probably wasn't actually a Hell's Angel. But don't you think it's fascinating that my husband is taking a photo of me having my ass rubbed by a biker? Brian is either the most secure spouse on the planet and/or he has a perverse voyeuristic streak. Either way is awesome, if you ask me.

3. What's the most hellish scenario you can imagine as a parent?

Henry lined up for his Tot Trot, which runs about 200 meters of the track. We stood next to the track, and I planned to cut across the field to cheer at the finish while Brian followed the kids to take pictures.

Can you see where this is going?

Kid likes to run. Kid likes to run fast. Kid was there to race. Mama wasn't prepared for kid to beat her to the finish. Mama lost kid in the crowd at the finish.

For TEN minutes.

When I see mothers of lost children on TV, I used to wonder if I'd be the composed, shaky-voiced type or the hysterical, hyperventilating type.

There I am, doubled over and sobbing in the EMT tent while Brian and a mass of people search for my kid. When a friend found Henry and brought him over, you'd think he'd just been listening peacefully to a story under a shade tree. All was cool in Henry world. I, on the other hand, clutched him to me until he begged me to put him down, at which point, he said, "Did I win?"

"Yes, you won, pumpkin!" I said. Who the hell knows if the kid won the race? I sure don't care, but Henry has since enjoyed the best afternoon of his life--ice cream, movies, etc. I would buy him a killer whale (his favorite animal) right now if he asked me to.

4. Who the hell wants to run a 5k now?

About 20 minutes after I lost my kid and bled my adrenaline into panic, it was time for me to line up for the 5k. Yeah, no thanks. I really didn't want to race at that point and just wanted to take my kid home, but you know, I paid for it and everything and wanted to earn an afternoon of booze to recover from my earlier terror.

My goal was to run a 21:36, to shed two minutes from my 5k PR, which I set just before training with Nate. This was the hottest race I've ever run and I immediately knew that the heat, combined with the energy I drained on losing the kid, meant I wouldn't see that 2-minute PR.

I ran it in 22:09. Bugger. At least my family didn't lose me at the finish and have to send out a search party; they could hear me panting from across the infield.

That's me closing in on the finish, not me racing to find my kid 45 minutes earlier.

5. Hell, yeah.

So um, lots of hell today. But here's the second place finisher in her division hugging her wayward boy before they headed home.

He's totally cool with me holding him in a grip like that until he goes to college.

Long Runs Going Strong

2009-04-24T21:19:00.006-04:00

With all of the marathon excitement and Bruce idolatry, it hasn't come up that my running is going very well lately as I train for an early June half-marathon, where I want to break 1:40 (PR is 1:43). Last weekend on my 14-mile long run, I was supposed to run the last 2 miles at half-marathon pace (7:37), and I ran them in 7:15 and 7:19. It wasn't exactly a cake walk--more of a souffle walk (because souffle is really hard to make--get it? I know, groan). But I did it.

Wednesday was track for 10 x 600, which I kind of nailed, averaging a 7:28 pace for the whole shebang. Another 10k PR, possibly fueled by adrenaline from the dogs people were allowing to run free on the track. I haven't read the book on track etiquette, but I'm fairly certain that's a no-no. I am generally an animal lover, but nothing makes me want to kick an animal like seeing one charge across the infield towards my bare legs. (I didn't kick the dog, in case you're wondering.)

I needed to get my long run in before the weekend, so I ran it this morning. Two 7-mile loops, which is not usually my thing, but today I'd give it a go. I'm typically an out-and-back kinda girl, or a one-big-loop sorta girl, because I always worry I'll get to my house and just pack it in halfway through. But today, the two loops worked for me.

I ran my first 7 miles, remembering too late that split shorts on a windy day are not the best plan when utility workers are out and about trimming trees. Oh, well. A nice mid-morning treat for the fine men in hard hats.

Got back home, took my Roctane and water, and away we run for the second loop. I took the first 4 miles casually so I could save my energy for doing the final three in 7:37s. When I picked it up at the end of mile 11, I knew I had this pace in me.

Mile 12: 7:11
Mile 13: 7:15
Mile 14: 7:11
Overall average: 8:07

Training is good for me, as long as I can sustain the effort and my body can take what I'm putting it through. I need this right now, the dependability of going out there and going strong.

I Don't Give a Damn For Just the In Betweens

2009-04-23T07:48:00.010-04:00

In case you didn't catch my very subtle enthusiasm, Marathon Monday was good. Really good. So good I spent a drizzly Tuesday feeling kind of "eh." All day, I was hoping Robert Cheruiyot would run by my window or I could pace the mailman from house to house. He drives a jeep, but I could overcome that minor detail to pace his truck down the street.

And then came Tuesday night.

Did you know that I enjoy the fine musical stylings of one Mr. Bruce Springsteen and his delightful E Street Band? I do. Even when he has an obvious head cold and seems to be a little grouchy, Bruce puts me in a stupefied reverie. One in which I scream my head off and dance for three hours like I'm possessed by the holy ghost power. Some people have religious idols. I have a guitar player from Jersey.

He opened with my life's current theme song--the one I came to hear--and kept me on my feet for all but The Ghost of Tom Joad. When I saw him in August, he took the quirky request Little Latin Lupe Lou and rocked the house with it. Tuesday night's kooky treat was a cover of ZZ Top's I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide. Here's his version from the show:

Bet you can't guess how many times I've watched that video. The man has laryngitis, but he still defines rock star.

And then came Wednesday. Woke up, did speed work (another 10 x 600), which always charges me full of something fierce, but this time the charge didn't last as long. I was in withdrawal from Tuesday night. Besides, I knew Bruce could do better. Assuming he took some Sudafed and had a good nap, I thought he deserved a second chance to give me my Glory Days, which wasn't on the set list on Tuesday.

Could I do this? Go back again? I'm a boring mom. I can't go back to Boston to see him again like a little groupie. I'm scared of driving in Boston. Besides, I have chicken defrosting and a Netflix to watch. Sigh.

So Wednesday night...

I've heard that addicts have a way of finding each other among the sea of normal people. Is there an aura, a vibe, a glint in the eye? I don't know. But it's definitely true. My friend emailed to say she wanted to go back, and I was in. Other people think we're silly or nuts, but we get each other. This is serious and it fills a void that the itty bitty thrill of seeing that red DVD envelope in the mailbox just can't match.

So we went back for more, this time on the Floor. What can I say? We're bad. We're nationwide. The chicken would keep.

And Bruce was on fire. He'd taken his Airborne and rocked us out. You probably don't care, but here's the set list from last night. He opened with Badlands again, like someone's trying to tell me something (as in, "Buy your ticket to Australia already, woman!"). Yes, he covered I Wanna Be Sedated, and I just about died. Later he brought out the Dropkick Murphys, one of whom proposed to his girlfriend on stage. And he closed with Glory Days and Seven Nights to Rock.

Badlands
Candy's Room
Outlaw Pete
She's The One
Working On A Dream
Seeds
Johnny 99
Youngstown
Raise Your Hand
I Wanna Be Sedated
Spirit In The Night
For You
Waiting On A Sunny Day
The Promised Land
Jungleland
Kingdom of Days
Radio Nowhere
Lonesome Day
The Rising
Born To Run

Hard Times
Thunder Road
Land Of Hope And Dreams
So Young and In Love (with Dropkick Murphys)
American Land (with Dropkick Murphys)
Glory Days
Seven Nights To Rock

And then it was over. And today it's Thursday. Same old Thursday. Where will I get my rush today? No marathon, no E Street. The Netflix is still here, and the chicken. It's even a rest day on my running schedule.

I want the heart, I want the soul, I want control right now. Instead, I really must clean the bathrooms.

I wonder if tickets are available for the Hershey show in a few weeks.

Boston 2009: A Crazy Long Race Report from a Non-Racer

2009-04-21T15:14:00.004-04:00

I fulfilled my requirement of writing one book page before blogging today, so here we go on what is sure to be the longest race report by someone who didn't actually run the race...

Watching the Boston Marathon in person is one of the greatest experiences a runner can have. Running the Boston Marathon is the best experience a runner can have. Somewhere between the two lies pacing someone to a jaw-dropping PR in the Boston Marathon.

I started running ten years ago after watching the Pittsburgh Marathon go through my neighborhood. When you well up with tears as a spectator at mile 10, you better find some good running shoes and see what you can do. Qualifying for Boston with a sub 3:40 is still in my master plan, but just being part of a major marathon is like a potent fix for me.

Case in point: on the T out to Boston College yesterday, the train made the turn onto Comm Ave, and I saw my first glimpse of "marathon evidence"--tables of paper cups stacked in a pattern that would make a geometry teacher weep with glee. Or a silly runner like myself, who was eagerly dead set on jogging a couple miles from BC to mile 17.5 so I could stand at a corner for two hours to wait for a friend, who I would pace 9 miles to the finish.

As the train careened around the corner, I saw the cups, the numbered tables with bottles for the elites, swarms of yellow-jacketed volunteers at the ready, and the barriers that try and fail to keep rabble like me off the course. Shortly after turning the corner, I looked out the window again and saw the winner in the wheelchair division speed by--faster than my rambling Green Line train, I might add.

As I jogged slowly from the T stop to the Newton firehouse where I would eventually see Jessica, I watched more wheelchair races crank up the hills. If you're ever feeling pained and sorry for yourself on a hill, watch this video:

I didn't shoot the video, but it also shows the landscape of the world's best marathoners that I took in on my little joggy jog down the course from mile 21-18. Not too shabby. Kara Goucher's legs? Also mighty fine in person. She's also taller than I'd expected, so she'll clearly have a long career in runway modeling after hanging up the flats.

So what does it mean when my brief moments of viewing the elites makes me well up for the second time in less than an hour?

It means I will be a sobbing mess when we cross the finish line.

Standing on the corner where Route 16 meets Comm Ave, I noshed on a couple Power Bars for lunch, cheered for some friends as well as people like Blue Hat Guy and Lady with the Cape. I also had plenty of time to grow paranoid that I would miss Jess and have to make my way back to Boston by myself. Brian was tracking her online at home and texted me when she crossed the half and the 30k, so I stopped cheering for random people and fixed my eyes for Jess to make the turn. She'd been holding an 8-minute pace the whole way, which made me a little nervous for a bonk on the hills because she'd intended to hold 8:30s.

When Jess turned the corner, I ran up alongside her and we just kept going like the whole thing had been scripted. We started up the first of the Newton hills and because I was starting cold, I immediately freaked that I wouldn't be able to hold the pace of someone who'd been running for 18 miles. This would not do, obviously.

I warmed up quickly enough and decided that if Jess wanted to hold 8:00s, we would hold 8:00s. So I moved ahead of her by about a meter and intentionally stayed that way the rest of the race. I wanted to block the wind gusts, but I also wanted to keep her motivated to hold her pace. Every time she fell back, I slowed, but as soon as she caught me, I moved ahead again. Frustrating, eh, Jessica?

We got to the base of the third hill, and I said, "Okay, this is it." She prepared herself for Heartbreak, and up we went. We coasted down again, continuing to pick off runners.

Then we got to the real Heartbreak Hill. I said, "This is just a little bump and then we're downhill to Boston." So I'm a big fat liar. Whatever. It worked. She let go of the myth because I'd lied and up we went, still picking off runners.

At mile 20, Jessica turned and said, "I think I can PR."

"I know you can," I told her. "You can do this. You can get your 3:40. These people are all completely wasted to get you there." I don't know if she heard that part because her headphones were back in, but she held out her hand to me. I thought she wanted a Gu, so I reached in my pocket.

"No," Jess said, but she kept her hand out. I grabbed her hand, squeezed it hard enough that she might have finished Boston with a broken pinkie, and we kept going.

We hit Beacon Street, and I told her, "You've got a tunnel, a right turn, and a left turn. That's it." Still a bit of a fib, but I'll do what it takes, man.

When we finally made the turn onto Boylston and saw the banner, I was more than willing to step out as she sprinted down the stretch. I asked if she wanted me to cross with her or hop out, and before I could finish the question, she said, "Cross."

We looked at the clock just before the line and both our eyes bugged out. Not only did she break 3:40, she broke 3:35. A nine-minute PR. In Boston. In the wind.

We both broke down in tears, hugged, then cried some more like the weepy sillies we are. It was one of the most awesome race experiences of my life, pacing someone to that kind of finish.

Needless to say, I highly recommend running the last nine miles of the Boston Marathon. But more than that, I think every runner should help a friend by pacing him or her. Even though I'd love to get paid to do what I did yesterday, the truth is that I'd do it for free any day.

A Little Bit of Polyester Goes a Long Way

2009-04-19T08:09:00.002-04:00

Look closely. Can you find me in this photo?

No, you can't.

There's Paula and Kara, rocking their "buns" (I can't believe that's what those shorts are called; even if it's a colloquialism) in NYC last November. As they should be, with legs and, well, buns, like those. Kara appears to be aiming for more modesty, but as I, too, have found with lycra run shorts, they can be a tad creepy. My guess is the cop didn't mind working the beat on that particular Sunday.

Being an amateur who runs a third of the weekly mileage of an elite, I couldn't possibly show up to the Westford 5k in anything like that. I'm not a big girl, but I just don't have the hocks. Nor do I want to be shut in the stocks (or, more accurately, the gazebo on the Common) for corrupting the youth in the Family Fun Run.

Beyond our obvious muscular differences, there's also the issue of storage. I might as well be a mule in a marathon. Just storing my gels requires more fabric than Petrova's got on her entire bum. Storing my "modesty" requires even more.

I just want a nice pair of lightweight shorts that cover the results of my frequent indulgence in Hershey products. With pockets. And in a color that is not always black. I don't mean I need to go this far, but you get it.

On Friday, I attended a Lululemon focus group for runners because the company wants to improve its running line and give us what we want. Hallelujah. And the 12 of us agreed we want pockets that can hold our junk without letting it flop around. (That sentence wasn't meant to read as dirty as it does.) I said I also wanted bionic shorts that eliminate the need for effort.

It's taken the makers of running shorts a while to catch on to our need for pockets. For a while, I ran races in tennis shorts because they had deep pockets. But those were boxy and heavy. Then I used a clip-on pocket, but that digs into my flesh, and speed work is enough self-flagellation for me. I don't need to literally bleed from the gut.

Finally, though, the designers have gotten the message. You'd think they don't run. My favorite pocketed running shorts are made by Sugoi, and I wear them for every long race. I think they're so fabulous, I've started pronouncing it Soo-gwah like when we all started calling Target 'Tarjay.' Shut up--it makes me feel good.

As if the Sugoi people knew how much I adore their shorts, they sent me a pair of a new pocketed short (I like to drop the 's' like that woman on What Not To Wear) that I don't think has even hit the shelves yet. I tried to find a pic of it on their web site, but there isn't one up yet, so this is me in the shorts:

Look at me all striking the poses. I learned that arm thing from too many In Style magazines at the salon.

The shorts? I love 'em. The pockets are perfectly placed on my hip (see second photo), and the fabric is incredibly light without making me feel like I'm running nakey. There was no chafing at my waist on any of my test sessions with them, even with the fuel belt around my waist. There's also no split at the side, which is great because my other Sugoi shorts are split and the fabric can get caught in my SPIbelt in a race, with disastrous results to my dignity. And the color isn't black--gray is a bold enough departure for me. They did seem a smidge big, and I have to roll the waist once, but I have a weird habit of doing that with shorts anyway.

In short (rim shot), they seem like the perfect marathon shorts. Almost makes me want to run one. Right now. I wonder if there's a marathon nearby this weekend...

So a shout out to Sugoi for the love (they also make my favorite running shirt, which I bought at PF Chang). And a big fist pump or fist bump or something like that to all the Boston runners tomorrow. This is your party. And I'll cry if I want to.

Go get 'em Betsy, Jess, Jill, Judith, Laura, Lindsey, Moose, Neal, Sarah, Rebecca, Tyler, and everyone else I'm inevitably forgetting. I'll be cheering from mile 17ish until I'm running Jess to mile 26.1999999. If you see me, stop and grab a Gu from me.

And Kara, make us proud with those legs.

Photo credit: eugene on flickr and Paul Keleher

Oy Oy Oy

2009-04-16T13:44:00.005-04:00

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
-Eleanor Roosevelt

Reading your comments has been so fascinating that I kind of want to leave people guessing a while longer. In general, it seems that people think I'm going to New Zealand, and the least favored option was Australia.

The truth of it, then, is that I chose the least predictable and most predictable of the options. Yes, that means I kind of misled you. I'm running in Australia for most of the trip and then going to New Zealand for the rest. If I'm going to fly upwards of 20 hours, I figure I should see as much as I can.

It might have been hard to guess what I chose because I had firmly decided on each option (other than the Big Five) at some point in the last few weeks. It was simply practicality that made up my mind. Originally, I was dead set on New Zealand for the entire trip, but it's winter there in August. While August in New Zealand is far superior to August in Massachusetts, I was concerned about running in cold rain for the whole trip.

Then I made up my mind to run the Tibet Half-Marathon. And I'm still kind of torn about not going for that option. The problem is that I need to finish the book first, and the Tibet trip would be in July, so I likely won't have it done by then.

Also, we all know my history of getting sick just before races and having to bail out. I am certain I would get dysentery or food poisoning or altitude sickness that would keep me from doing the race. That would kind of put a damper on my running trip. I want to come back enlivened by a meditative retreat, not pissed at the universe's karmic punch to my gut. Life is suffering, holds the first of Buddhism's four noble truths. I don't want Tibet to hand me that lesson on a platter.

I then researched the Inca Trail, but the trip would have been shorter yet more expensive, and permits to enter the trail are very limited. Plus, there's still the whole altitude/illness factor. I want to run this trail at some point, but maybe with friends and not on a solo trip. Don't ask me why--just the image I have of that one.

So then I went back to New Zealand and Australia and found this running trip to the outback. I want to push myself. Hard. I need to chip away at the safe and secure concrete wall that surrounds my comfort zone. Everyone in my family has traveled for tough, foreign, and uncomfortable challenges. India. Iran. Argentina. Africa. I didn't go on any of these trips. Sometimes when you think what you need most in life is a soft pillow and the comfort of the familiar, you wake up one day and realize your shelter has kept you in, rather than kept something scary out.

I'll fly to Melbourne to acclimate and run there for a few days, then go to Alice Springs for the 5-day run on the Larapinta Trail. To a lot of people, the idea of me running in the bush and sleeping on the ground is laughable. But that's precisely the point. I need to force myself out of my comfort zone. And hopefully not be dinner for giant spiders. I'll be part of a 8-runner group led by guides for the company Running Scenic. If the thought of me sleeping anywhere but a bed is enough to make you raise your eyebrows, you'll spit your coffee at the idea of 5 days spent running without a shower and making a bathroom with a shovel.

No cell service. No internet. No Facebook. Just a rocky trail and my rotting corpse, gnawed by vultures in the evening sun. Eight runners went out, seven came back...

Oh, wait, sorry. Confidence, Kris, confidence. I can do this. I drive an Outback, after all, and that's quite easy.

After the trail run, I'll fly to New Zealand to do some more mellow running on my own on tracks on the north end of South Island.

I am calling this trip my Runabout. If your knowledge of Australia extends past Foster's beer and "that's not a knife; this is a knife"--or you watch Lost--you've heard of a walkabout. It's more than a little frightening. But I've been comfortable too long, my head in the clouds. I'm ready to go down under.

Where Would You Go?

2009-04-14T15:37:00.004-04:00

Even though I haven't blogged since Friday, my foot, my friends, is fine. Nate kept me off the long run on Sunday just in case, but I've been good to go ever since and even managed not to fall on my face. Some days, it's the small things, you know?

I rocked my 40-minute progression run for speed work yesterday morning, and did not at all feel the urge to punch or insult anyone afterward, which is fortunate because yesterday was also Brian's birthday. Saying "happy birthday," then kicking him in the shins would have been so me, circa 1989 (flirting is an acquired skill), so I'm glad I was all about the peace, love, and chocolate cake after my run.

For some reason, in the past year, I've had speed work on our birthdays. On mine in September, I crossed the puke threshold and didn't finish the run. That totally killed my plans to get drunk and puke later in the day, so it was a double misfortune.

On Henry's birthday, I didn't throw up, but I celebrated his day with a run that reminded me just how easy his birth was. Someone really must come up with an epidural for 4 x 4 milers. Or at least hand me a cute baby to cuddle afterward.

After my run yesterday, I spent the rest of the day drooling over Brian's present, which he totally deserves, but which I want, too, being as we're equal partners and all that jazz. We are the last to the smart phone party, so I got him a G1, and now he has something to glue his eyes to while I slave in the kitchen and raise his child.

I'm really good at guilt.

Brian keeps reminding me that I don't get a G1 because I am getting my once-in-a-lifetime trip this summer, which is going to cost as much as the number of G1s we could line up between our house and my destination. That shuts me up right quick, but I still want that phone.

Here's the deal: I get a 2 1/2 weeks to go anywhere I want to run. Anywhere. This is my celebration for finishing the book and an opportunity to deal with some mental junk by way of a certain degree of personal challenge--and probably a lot of weird bugs and stuff.

Before I tell you where I'm going, I'm really curious about where other people would go if you had the amazing gift that I've received--the option to run anywhere in the world for 2 1/2 weeks.

I'm going to mention a few options I've explored, and you can guess where I'm going and then say where you'd go. Fun, no? Please play along so I don't feel like a loser with no friends at her birthday party.

1. Run the Inca Trail

2. Run the Great Tibetan Marathon (or Half-Marathon)

3. Run the Australian Outback on the Larapinta Trail

4. Run tracks (trails) around New Zealand

5. Run the Big Five Marathon in Africa

As you can see, I'm not messing around with this trip. It is worth so much more than some stupid phone.

If I can get 20 people to comment with guesses, I'll tell you tomorrow where I'm headed. If you're one of the few who already know, just tell us where you'd like to go in the world to run.

I Run Like an Asshole

2009-04-10T19:04:00.009-04:00

Shit. Damn. Hell.

And that's what I have to say after 800 mg of Advil and a cosmo. You should have heard what I was saying at about 11 a.m. this morning, when I was splayed on the shoulder of Route 40, wondering why those minivan drivers had stopped in the middle of the road and how much it was going to hurt to pick the gravel out of my shin.

When I said "ruthless passion" yesterday and waxed poetic about blood and crying and pain in the name of running, this is not what I meant:

I am a klutz, this we knew. But I haven't face planted on a run in about 5 years. I suppose I was due. But did it have to happen in such a grand and mortifying way?

This morning I went for another trail run, the same trail that did this to my dear friend last fall. I ran several miles over maybe a badillion (that's a Henryism) tree roots with my deft little prance. Didn't trip once.

On the way home, I had to run about two miles of road. Smooth, easy pavement. Whoops.

Good Friday, my ass.

Somehow tripped. Somehow fell. Somehow rolled my left ankle, opened up both palms, and scraped my right shin and shoulder. You know how pesky air can be; it really has a way of grabbing hold of your feet and yanking you. There's a great web site that "pays tribute" to idiot drivers. I propose one for runners like me--the kind whose faces are not red from exertion but red from embarrassing moves of the Dick Van Dyke-over-the-ottoman variety.

After gathering myself, finding my way up to standing, and walking a bit to test my ankle, I managed to jog the mile and a half left to my house.

I was okay. I washed, disinfected, and smacked myself upside the head for being a dumbasss. My ego was more bruised than any other part of me. In other words, the situation was critical.

And now I've got a persistent pain on various parts of my left foot and even had to dig out my post-Boston '07 crutches for a while this afternoon. You know how much I've needed running to maintain my delicate mental balance lately. I don't think "salvation" would be too strong a word here. When I asked Brian to look for the crutches, I think he contemplated taking me to the ER not for an X-ray but to keep me under professional supervision in a building with restraints and Valium.

Tomorrow was slated for a day off anyway, so I am crossing all digits and limbs that I'll be good to go on my long run on Sunday. Otherwise, I am going to have to find a less dangerous sport with similar cathartic qualities.

Like competitive bong smoking. Or cut-throat napping. Or a triathlon that combines the first two with a final segment of high-intensity self-pity. I might place in my age group.

Ruthless Passion

2009-04-09T14:30:00.003-04:00

My spin 'round the dance floor with Ruthless Aggression turned out the way aggression usually does: badly. Not much fun to be asked why I'm so mad and have people wonder if I'm trying to start fights with them. Apologies.

I guess the ice bath after speed work will be serving a greater purpose than relieving stressed muscles and tendons; it will also curb my obvious tendency toward violence and restore my Zen-like pacifism while I utter expletives through gritted teeth. Some people are ugly drunks. I'm an ugly endorphin junkie, I guess. I suggest you tread lightly when near me on Tuesdays.

The aggressive instinct that bubbles up after a hard run does make me think--which is often not a good thing, as I'm prone to hurling myself through the looking glass when too introspective. Nonetheless, there I was running 7.5 miles of trails this morning. I had to stop to trim my toenail with my fingernail because it was gouging the adjacent toe to a bloody mess, and that's when the thinking started. Granted, I'd been thinking before that, but about things like my inevitable tattoo.

Looking at my bloody toes, I started thinking about passion. An obvious thought, no doubt. Toenails, passion, longing, and desire. Not Ess-Eee-Ex necessarily, but you can go there if this gets too cerebral and you're thinking about Ms. Ruthless Aggression (or Tori Amos) from Tuesday.

I'm not talking about my passion for mint chocolate chip ice cream. I mean the kind of passion that bleeds you, makes you wretch as it wrings your gut, and even leads you to cry on occasion. The kind of passion that you would really rather not throw away, despite all that junk.

In other words, running.

People tend to think of passion chemically, like you need a spark or some reaction potential to make it happen. But I wonder. Go talk to a new runner, someone who isn't naturally athletic, about her first run. I've done that, and people use words like "hell," "humiliating," and "torture."

And then they go run again.

And then a year later, they wouldn't give up running for a life of daily facials or unlimited free booze (okay, maybe that one).

You start with "hell" and you wind up with passion. And passion for something that makes you feel kind of tortured on a regular basis. It's ruthless, but yummy. You probably could even start with something as innocuous as apathy and wind up with passion when it comes to running.

Even with the bloody toes and everything else. You find that one thing that becomes your art and it's yours for keeps. It's permanent and painful and lovely. And I won't give it up, the running.

Alrighty, enough introspection. Back to the tattoo. Where should I get it?

Ruthless Aggression

2009-04-06T21:41:00.007-04:00

Another blog post with a soundtrack (see sidebar).

Somehow recently, Henry's Rosie the Riveter action figure (I kid you not, he has one) made its way onto my desk. Her optimism, while well intentioned, has kind of been a nag, frankly. You can do it, Rosie. I'm just not feeling your enthusiasm these days.

So there I am walking the aisles of Target, and after I briefly look down and wonder if the Swiffer Wet Jet and Transformers in the cart might say something about my mental state, I see something I must have. A mop that removes the grime accumulating around me and toys that can change their identities at the push of a button definitely speak to me. But this perfect thing might as well jump off the shelf and into my arms.

It's Rosie's replacement, hanging between the Star Wars guys and the Power Rangers, and it's just how I feel when I've gone for a tough run and am feeling like kicking some ass.

I don't need the S&M woman, really. I just want the packaging. This unapologetic expression of ass-kicking certainty is how I feel after speed work. Running doesn't give me answers to life's questions, but it surely helps me eliminate unnecessary mental slag that I don't need. Tori Amos's "Big Wheel" came on during my run today, and there I was right with her.

M-I-L-F, don't you forget. M-I-L-F, don't you forget.

Tori and I, and Ms. Ruthless Agression, will kick some ass, no doubt. Wash you away, boy. We certainly kick the Swiffer's ass when it comes to my mental state in a shopping cart.

I wish I had this when I was a kid. If only it was a Transformer, too, it would be me wrapped in plastic, fierce and ruthless. The perfect Easter gift for the child in your life, obviously.

Today's speed session: 2 x 3 miles at 7:35 (half-marathon pace) with a 4-minute jog interval. Went well, clearly.

Team Goucher

2009-04-04T11:51:00.006-04:00

As if to taunt me in my aspiration for Kara Goucher's legs without the hassle of Kara Goucher's mileage, Runner's World had to go and put her on the cover.

Don't get me wrong, though, I love Ms. Goucher. She shares the weird name of my undergrad alma mater, and has the chutzpah to shoot for a win in Boston after her stunning debut at the NYC Marathon in the fall.

And the dimples. My girl crush on her is in full force, only amplified by a quote from her in the RW feature that has her telling all of us she wants to get pregnant right after Boston. Only professional running makes space for women to have babies and return to racing without assuming their competitiveness somehow escaped their bods with the placenta. Love. It.

There are two consolations for me when it comes to watching the marathon from the sidewalk in a few weeks. One of them is running Jessica through the hills from Newton to Boston, which is the least I can do for her after she hosted me in Phoenix. The other thrill is the opportunity to see the elites race by, since I've always been several hours behind them on the course. I can't wait to see Kara's legs just after she's hurdled herself down Grossman's hill in Wellesley. Will I even see her legs, or will they be turning over too quickly?

Kara's legs, along with Kara's commentary, are featured in this video from Flotrack, shot during a training run on the course that she did in February. Boston runners get to see what the course looks like, and we can all enjoy her fearless run alongside Route 16 traffic. I tried my darndest to embed the video here, but my method of hopping up and down and yelling "Embed, damn it!" was ineffective, so click the link above.

Watch the whole thing to hear the fabulous closing comment on the location of the finish line. I'm pretty sure that while the giant banner is a good indication on race day, almost every runner thinks the same thing at the end of the course. Priceless.

My long run this weekend: 14 miles, 1:57, 8:21 pace. A ways off race goal pace of 7:37, but we're a ways off the race, too, so I haven't lost faith.

Self-Augmentation

2009-04-03T09:13:00.003-04:00

Yeah, so, no augmentation for me. Sorry if the joke wasn't transparent, but now that I know how easy it is to lie to you, I'm going to start doing it more often. Probably more to the point, you think my mental state is totally unpredictable these days and could see me doing just about anything. But new boobs isn't one of those things. I'd rather spend the money on my summer trip-of-a-lifetime and add more heft to my resume of spiritual experience than my torso.

My speed workout the other day drove this point home. The 10 x 600 w/ 400m intervals was a raging success*, with an emphasis on "raging." It was quite the session of ass-kicking hell, complete with walkers in Lane 1 who might have heard me drop the F-bomb several times when they didn't move over in response to my wind-sucking approach from behind. Nate insisted afterward that this workout is brutal but a great indication of fitness for the desired speed.

All I know is, if I added several pounds of weight to my chest, the workouts would be that much harder. Let's not make things harder. I've been known to chop off six inches of my hair and hope that the weight loss might improve my times. Not that this mentality has kept my hand off the chocolate chip cookies. One must draw the line somewhere. Cut hair, not calories, I like to say.

This weekend I cross the half-marathon mark in mileage in my training for the Covered Bridges Half. I'm intrigued by half-marathon training and the marked differences between it and marathon prep. My longest run before the race will be 16 miles, obviously farther than the actual event. This weekend I do 14. I've decided that if I break 1:40 in the race, I'll try to BQ in the fall, and if I don't break 1:40, I'll train for a fall 50k.

Which leads me to the summer running adventure that will be dropped in the middle of my training for either option. I'm not disclosing where I'm going until I buy the ticket, but it's going to be far. I'm still working on the logistics of it, but I have the notion the trip might change me. Augmentation, indeed.

And no, I'm not going to Thailand for cheap implants.

*I came in well under goal times on each split, averaged a 7:31 pace for the 10k, and got a new 10k PR. Does that count? Or does it have to be in a race? It was a 46:36 for the 10k, including walker dodging, which makes it more authentically like a 10k if you ask me.

Flat Busted

2009-04-01T09:09:00.000-04:00

It's April, when those of us in New England begin to have faith that the air might soon be warm enough to let our bare skin touch it. Dare we even dream about sand, surf, and summer frolicking? I know that as soon as the air invites me to pack away my mittens until November (who am I kidding? October.), I start thinking BEACH.

My local Target was already thinking BEACH in February, even though the store is in Nashua, where snow plows sit idling at the ready, round the clock, for six months. But I wouldn't indulge the BEACH thought until recently, when I ventured into that bathing suit section that's had me shivering on every trip to the store since Valentines Day.

As I perused the itsy bitsy teeny weeny goods, I had a revelation on an issue that's been humming in the back of my head for a while. For the past year, ever since I upped my mileage and began chasing speed, people have told me I look like a runner--even when running wasn't the topic of conversation. At first, I thought it was fantastic. I thought it meant I'd arrived and been admitted to a club. Then I realized what made them know I'm a runner. It wasn't my fantasy of having Kara Goucher's legs or Lolo Jones's abs. Because I don't have those things, damnit.

It was the hard, ugly fact that I have Paula Radcliffe's chest.

The only time in my life that I have been "endowed" was for about 8 months after having a baby. Keep in mind that I nursed for a full 12 months--my breasts were just hell-bent on retreat 3/4 of the way to that year. And because nursing sucked (couldn't resist--sorry) for both Henry and me, I didn't really appreciate my brief foray into women's "foundation garments."

Yes, it's true, I buy bras for girls, and not just because they're cheaper.

Since my 8 months of boobage, I can live--and even run--with the most minimal support, by which I mean my bra, not my cheering section--I need the equivalent of serious underwire in that department. But in bras, I wear a size that is characterized by words like "nearly," "training," and "-lette," and padding seems like such a grand lie that I won't even go there. I can't even bring myself to cop a feel for a self-exam, it's just that bad.

So even though many of you will probably comment that I should be happy to lack the "bounce-factor," I made a decision in the middle of that Target. I will no longer buy training bras and rationalize that they are for serious runners training for a marathon. I want my cups to runneth over.

I don't want to be a runner who looks like this:

I want to be a runner who looks like this:

I'm gonna put in some boobies. I think this can only help my identity crisis.

Happy April.

Fight and Flight, Kris

2009-03-31T08:04:00.007-04:00

Nate put the following on his Running Times blog last week, and there's something pleasant about having a coach who quotes To Kill a Mockingbird, even when my schedule today has me running a 10 x 600, each in 2:42, with a 2:20 lap in between. Or maybe precisely because of that, the timing for a quote about courage is good.

I wanted you to see what real courage is.... It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.
Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee)

Why am I afraid of running in circles? On a track, you just go around and around. No trucks to hit me, no tree roots to cripple me, no dogs to bite me.

Fear of failure? Maybe, but I'd like to think my ego isn't so inflated that I believe it matters if I run those 600s in 2:43 or slower.

Speed work seems to be one of the only domains in which the fight or flight choice our brains make in the face of fear can't work. It's both. I fight. I fly. I go fast. For a lap and a half. Then faster. Repeat.

Speed work is also one of the few areas in my life that I feel like I can control fully, strangely enough. It's where I'm Kris who runs, not Kristina who drives a station wagon. On one of the few occasions I did speed work with Nate at the track, I was kind of startled when he called me Kris. But not in a bad way.

It's because that's who I am when I run. And then I had a similar experience yesterday when someone who knows me primarily as a runner had the impulse to call me Kris as well, and that was more than fine with me. My family calls me Kris, too, but they've been doing it longer than my running has been in the picture. There's only one other person who calls me Kris.

Maybe they all knew the runner in me before I did, the one who likes control and power and speed. The one who's hitting the track today a 4 to run in circles, fast.

Getting Better all the Time

2009-03-29T14:57:00.006-04:00

The reactions to Friday's post seem to range from enthusiasm to terror. Ironically, my list of resolutions was meant to be all about strength generated by my ongoing psychic growth spurt. By the time it's done, my psyche should be about 11 feet tall. Isn't that great? This is me riding a better wave, not me in the depths of despair and family devastation.

Also, I promise to give you just the right amount of crazy, cuz I know you like me nuts. But one has to distinguish between crazy and Crazy. I can do a crazy speed session, but not the Crazy that finds me playing chicken with freight trains. The difference between smoking a joint and smoking crack, maybe. (It's a metaphor, folks. Don't read too much into that one, either, please.)

In case there's any confusion about it, though, my husband and I haven't split up, and I'm not putting Henry in foster care so I can take a singles cruise to Aruba. As Brian and the couples we swing with will tell you, I am married. Do you seriously think I'd give up a guy who'll pace me on his bike for 16 miles? Come on, people.

And those who are worried about sweet Henry can rest easy. My all, my very reason for being, my essential child will probably not even notice I'm away for a few weeks because he'll be living the high life at Nani Camp, eating ice cream for dinner in front of some Disney schlock his parents won't let him watch. 'Sall good.

But the reaction has been intriguing. Largely because it speaks to the very reason I'm writing the mother-runner book in the first place.

Mothers obviously have a responsibility to their children. Who would contest that? But mothers have rights as well. The right to figure out their own identities separate from their families. The right to be alone for a while. The right to look for meaning in places outside the kitchen or the cubicle or the book group. The right to run away and take the long way home, if that's what's necessary.

And all of those rights actually feed our abilities to meet our responsibility to our kids and families. Maybe you won't leave your children for a night because that's where your heart is. Maybe you need to leave your family for 3 weeks in order to feed your soul. Either way, your families are better off by you knowing who you are.

My doctoral specialization was in issues of voice and women's relational psychology (shocking, I know). And 2,000 pages of course papers and a dissertation later, this is what I know:

There is nothing more critical to raising a healthy and happy child than a mother who has agency and voice in her own life.

Trust. Me.

Women who work, women who run, women who travel alone are not sacrificing family, and they're not selfish. We are making our families stronger and smarter and more honest. We are exercising our rights. We are living up to our responsibilities. We don't have to choose between the two.

What would have happened if Odysseus stayed home, and Penelope got to take a little sojourn? Things may have been different if noble Penny got to travel.

This is one reason I love to run races for women, because they are parades of women being alone, together. The families on the curbs are fantastic, but the action is in the street, where we take an Odyssey on our own to find our way home, with the glory that Odysseus horded for himself. How I'd love to see him hold a sign that reads RUN PENNY RUN!

I haven't run a women's race since the fall, and I miss them. I really want to run the More half-marathon in NYC on April 26, but it's sold out, which is awesome and a bummer at the same time. If you've got a bib number in a drawer, let me know. I'm jonesing for some sorority in Central Park.

So my friends, don't worry for my mental health. All is well. And getting better all the time. I just renewed my passport and bought a domain for a web site I'm building. I'm writing like a fiend and dreaming in technicolor.

RUN PENNY RUN.

New Year, Beginning Today

2009-03-27T09:21:00.007-04:00

Don't tell me I'm almost 4 months late for making resolutions. My persistent existential crisis, born of the absence of a full-time job, an overactive right brain, and the evils of Facebook, means I'm starting a new 2009 today.

Here are my resolutions:

1. Cut out the Crazy. If it brings more Crazy and less clarity, I don't want it. Especially if the Crazy is disguised as clarity or courage. That's just fucked up.

2. No more vulnerability. I wanna be a strong person who feels like she can kick ass. I am a strong person who got derailed into mistaking weakness for courage. It can happen. It took me most of my 20s to build myself into a strong, smart person, and I won't go backwards. I refuse to be 14 again. If you make me feel vulnerable, I don't want you. Get yourself another person to fuck with.

3. Go real far. To resolve the lingering effects of #1 and #2, I am going to travel this summer. Far and Alone. Never done it. Should have.

4. Finish the damn book this summer, then write another one on #1-3. Running can get you through almost any crisis, I'm sure of it.

5. Listen to my friends, who keep me grounded in what's real and not the machinations of my mind-on-Crazy.

6. Strengthen my core. Refuse to be created by anything or anyone else. Except maybe running. Running can create me.

7. Learn to like wine.

8. Buy these boots:

So anyone seeing any good movies this weekend?

Making a Man

2009-03-24T09:43:00.008-04:00

This is going to have very little to do with running, I suspect, but I'm more Mama than Marathon these days, so there you have it.

I want to make a good man. I have this fantastic little boy who I more or less live for, but I'm thinking lately that to make him into a good man will take some hard work. I'm a Freudian at heart, so of course all of my maternal anxiety stems from my kid's bathroom antics. Here's what happened...

Henry, like many little boys, has had a long process of gaining independence in the bathroom. We started potty training when he was not yet 3, and almost 2 years later, I find myself still in there with him, facilitating the event. I can't get the boy to pee standing up, and he usually wants my company the whole time, typically uttering "I love you" mid-BM. Hysterically weird, no?

I recently decided that the boy will never take the initiative to be self-sufficient as an adult if he cannot wipe his own bum when he's four. So I told him that he has to start doing it himself.

Me: Pumpkin, you need to wipe yourself. I shouldn't be doing it for you.

Henry: But it's disgusting! I don't want to touch my poop! You do it!

Me: Do you think I want to touch your poop?! You need to wipe your own ass, Henry!

It's true. I said that exact thing, including the "ass" bit. My potty mouth (pun intended) had less to do with his ridiculous sultan act and more to do with my panic about the man I'm creating, a person who expects to be cared for in such a way that he feels entitled to have someone else wipe his own ass--literally or metaphorically. I'm fairly certain that Emerson wasn't referring to this scenario in Self-Reliance, but he had a bevy of women enabling his independent life, so one has to wonder.

I know men are screwed in this world. The tough guy who can't cry is no better off than the sensitive man who loves a good Meg Ryan movie. It's a double bind, for sure. So what's a modern mom to do? I want to make a solid, kind, self-sufficient person without leaving Henry to his own devices to figure out his own independence. Devices that would amount to rotten teeth from lack of my brushing them, a seriously neglected butt from lack of my wiping it, and cold feet because I didn't put his socks on for him.

His being an only child doesn't help matters because he's got two parents to cater to him. Coddling my son into an expectation that he'll always have someone to fetch him a drink--whether a juice box or a beer--is not the way to make a man. But training him into independence wears me down with all the stomping and whining and crying. And Henry doesn't handle it well, either.

So we go about life, and we've arranged for us both to wipe his ass right now. Even though neither of us is satisfied with this arrangement. When I think of the person I want him to become, I can't believe that I have to start with "wipes own ass." But if it's a metaphor for a man who can take care of himself, I guess I'll go with it. Perhaps next time we fight about it, I'll quote Emerson instead of using the word "ass":

Henry, wipe your bum because "nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm."

Breathe More, Not Less

2009-03-21T17:19:00.004-04:00

Did you know I'm not running the Boston Marathon?

Boston and its surrounding towns have had the very poor taste to remind me constantly that I won't be sitting around on the cold, damp Hopkinton ground for hours at the crack of dawn on April 20. Nor will I get the pleasure of torturing my quads on a 16-mile downhill, followed by a joyous few miles of elevation climbing.

Everywhere I turn, it's coming up Boston. Especially in Boston.

I don't begrudge the BQ bloggers their building anticipation (too much alliteration?), but seeing the runners on the course kind of burns me just a little. I've been in Wellesley a few times on the weekend recently, and seeing the legions of runners on the Boston course makes my heart skip a beat--both in happiness that I get to live near the marathon and in spoiled-brat resentment that I didn't make the team this year. (Believe it or not, I've actually scaled back my pity party. You should have seen me when I didn't get my way as a kid. It wasn't pretty.)

Today I was in Wellesly for a Yoga for Runners fundraiser for one of my favorite causes--Fit Girls. My head has been so unsettled lately that I left the house assuming I knew where the studio was, when in fact I had only a vague recollection of its name and the street it was on--a street whose location was totally unknown to me. I got to the place I thought was the place, and it turned out it was not the place at all. I went into a very popular running store nearby that shall remain nameless and was totally blown off by the clerk I asked for directions, thus cementing my decision to never shop again at this very popular running store with three locations along the marathon course. Growl.

So there I was standing like a fool in Wellesley, which, you might not know, has 3 yoga studios per mother over the age of 35. Wellesley is a swanky place, and I'm very happy a net didn't fall on me from the sky when I said "Fuck" a bit too loudly while staring at the Whole Foods across the street from the running store in which I will never again shop. Fortunately, a guy who overheard my request for directions tracked me down on the way to my car and told me how to get to the street I needed.

So I got to the general vicinity of the studio, but there was another yoga place there, too, and I started having doubts about what the place was called and basically power-walked my way around a giant strip mall with yoga mat in hand for 10 minutes. Careful not to use the F-word again, I eventually found the studio and completely exasperated by my own idiocy, I was ready to commence the search for inner peace.

Once I'd settled down from my panic attack and got to the business of centering myself, I contentedly listened to Jack Fultz talk about the importance of focus and adaptation in marathon running. Also in navigation around classy suburbs with an overabundance of yoga studios, it would seem. Having distracted myself from the Boston runners by way of my hatred for certain running store clerks, I kind of forgot about my BQ inferiority complex, until Jack started talking about Boston and I stuck my fingers in my ears and started banging my head against the wall. Aside from my spotty mental state, I could honestly listen to Jack talk about training and racing for hours.

Then we got down to the business of the hot and sweaty stretchy-stretchy, runner style. I will tell you, there were a lot of tight hamstrings and a paucity of toenails in that room. The class was led by Rebecca Pacheco, also known as Om Gal, and she moved and inspired us for 90 minutes of drippy fun. There are so many kudos I could give to Rebecca for her style and skill, but none would mean as much as the fact that at one point she touched the bottom of my foot to adjust my position while I was in up dog. That is one committed yogi.

She also had so many pithy bits of wisdom that I spent much of the class memorizing stuff she said, which I acknowledge might not enhance my practice. The fact that I was doing the class on a lunch of hard pretzels and water further compromised my usual euphoric yoga high, as well as my ability to share those verbal gems with you, unfortunately.

However, I managed to commit one of her messages to memory, and here it is:

When it gets too challenging, breathe more, not less.

She was talking about some pose we were going for, but it was so right, so true, so necessary for me to hear. When I'm lost or struggling over something, I tend to hold my breath and fixate too much. How is it that a person can take breathing for granted?

Gonna work on that a little bit more. Probably.

You Have Options, At Least With Your Watch

2009-03-18T19:39:00.013-04:00

I've been avoiding a post on the Tech4o women's sports watch I was given to review for one reason, and it has nothing to do with the quality of the watch, which I think is awesome at its price point ($69.99).

It's because I don't want to call Garmin customer service, and I wanted to include another Garmin tech support experience to amuse you.

You might be aware of my history with Garmin customer service. It's a tortured one, resulting in a severe case of PTSD: Post Tech Support Disorder.

I really wanted to love my Garmin 405. When it finally showed up on my doorstep after a long wait, I tore open the package and committed to that sucker without hesitation. I wanted the intelligent wireless syncing capability. I wanted the sexy touch-sensitive bezel. I wanted the reliability of the quick satellite grab. And yet, pretty much from day one, the 405 has been a louse I can't possibly replace because of the ungodly investment I made in it ($349). I love that watch. I hate that watch.

The reason I'm belaboring my Garmin in this review is because I wanted to compare it to the pedometer option I was given, since people often think there is nothing other than a Garmin to calculate speed, distance, pace, etc. What I found is that you have options, when you might assume you don't.

One thing that leads to Garmin's complacent mediocrity is that so many runners default to it without considering other options in a catch-22 of "everyone has it so I must get one." I'm part of that crowd. In this review, I intended to compare the Tech4o on the major issues I've had with my Garmin 405 for the remaining runners who haven't invested in a Garmin and want to know what their other choices could be.

You now know that I won't give a flawless review just for the sake of free schwag, so I hope it means something for me to say that I love the Tech4o for its usefulness as a regular watch, as well as its reasonable price, reliability, and easygoing personality.

My major gripes with the Garmin 405:

1. Really freaking expensive and should therefore have no problems whatsoever
2. Sweat causes the bezel to malfunction
3. The mutha is huge
4. It won't hold a charge for more than 8 hours with the GPS on
5. Took forever for me to learn how to format it for a run
6. After waiting for 7 months for Mac software to become available to sync it wirelessly and following all instructions to the letter, the damn thing still won't sync*
7. Unable to wear it as a regular watch, due to its size and short battery life

The Tech4o is priced very well for the runner on a budget--and hell, which of us isn't these days?

One point for Techy.

And as you can see, the Tech4o kicks some 405 ass in the size department, which is just a bit too bootylicious for me. (I am purposely avoiding a "size matters" joke here, especially because I'm lusty for a smaller item in this circumstance, so you sophomoric readers can insert your own little quip and giggle away.) For a woman with wrists so small I struggle to open a Gatorade bottle, a small watch is important, and the size of the Tech4o was fine, notably because the company bothered to make a version sized for women.

There's no way the Garmin needs to be so big, although I appreciate having a cup holder for my shot glass when I need one. In any event, I applaud the Tech4o people for caring not to put a saucer on my arm. While I wouldn't exactly accessorize a cocktail dress with the Tech4o, I've been wearing it as an everyday watch since it came. It really brings out the color in my fleece.

Another point for the Tech4o.

And while the included instructions were initially confusing, it didn't take my tech-challenged brain too long to learn how to get the pedometer ready. Having a watch called the Tech4o suggests a degree in programming might be needed, but I flipped the switch on my big-girl brain and got the thing going without any trouble--or more importantly, a need for customer service. Minutes, really. Much less time, in fact, than the hours it took me to learn the 405.

Some more pointage for the Tech4o.

So I took the Tech4o out on a run, strapped on my arm next to my Garmin so I could test the pedometer against the GPS for accuracy. Believe me, I was a kooky droid in that get-up.

I did my miles and can report that while I needed a sweat band to keep the Garmin from freaking out with beeps and rapid screen movement, the Tech4o didn't sweat my sweat at all.

I've lost count on the points, but the Tech4o is on fi-yah, yo.

Okay, so the biggest concern most people have with a pedometer versus GPS is accuracy. The Tech4o promises to provide 95% accuracy, versus the claims made by other pedometers, but there's still the question of how it will stack up against a GPS. And...drumroll...there was only a .05 mile discrepancy between the 405 and the Tech4o.

So all the points go to the Tech4o, and while I'll still use my Garmin because I bought the damn thing and can't shove something that expensive in a drawer when it's more or less functional, I have used the Tech4o a lot since the initial test run. It's a great back-up when my Garmin is dead because the charger wasn't hooked in perfectly (happens too frequently).

I know this review was absurdly long, but hopefully it didn't take you 103 minutes to read it. And if you need a picture comparable to my expression about the 405 and worth all the words I poured into the summary, here you go:

For 70 bucks or thereabouts, you can't go wrong with this one. And if options is what you want, there are about 15 Tech4o pedometer watches to choose from, all guaranteed to bring out the color in your fleece.

*Hence my need to call Garmin, but I'm too traumatized from the last call to pick up the phone.

The Happy Plague

2009-03-17T15:39:00.002-04:00

I have a post on the Athleta Chi blog today, so head on over if you're interested*...

Also, why did no one tell me that a 1:40 half-marathon translates to a 7:37 pace? Sweet Jesus. I did a 3x2 today at a 7:35, and I felt strong and capable of that, but 13.1 miles?

Not for nothing, the Nate Jenkins Special does do wonders for one's spirit. There I was, cranking out the miles to House of Pain, and I caught that thing we shoot for and felt invincible. I can see how that feeling could be dangerous, though, leading to major physical damage if you just keep going and pushing because you feel like you can get away with it. Until it all collapses--the Achilles, the IT Band, the glutes--and I can't run anymore because I wasn't careful and I didn't pay attention. But all that said, I am committed to trying to be safe with it all, to take care of the important things.

And I like the speed work right now because despite the risks, it's making me feel like I can take on anything. Which is exactly what I need at the moment.

*And I only wish that photo was of me.

Self-Flagellation Resumes

2009-03-13T17:46:00.006-04:00

This time, I asked for it. I know what I'm getting into. I brought it on myself.

I signed up with Nate again.

Before you groan and tell me I'm not allowed to bitch and moan about the training, let me explain. I really want to break 1:40 in the half-marathon before shooting for a BQ again, and Nate's training got me a good PR in my last half, so I want to see if I can knock off 3 minutes to get that 1:40. Reaching that goal would make me feel much more confident going into another round of BQ training for a fall marathon.

Even though the training hasn't officially commenced for my June half-marathon, Nate's ~~abuse~~ coaching got off to a quick start. He had me run a 4-mile time trial as a "fitness check," which is code for "Have you been sitting on your ass eating chocolate since the marathon in January?" (Yes)

Nearly reaching my puke threshold, I ran the four in 29:59, which I thought was the perfect time to convey that I'm in decent shape, yet not so fit that I should be assigned torturous speed work. If you ask me, I strategized that one with stealth and style, so I asked Nate if going from 1:43 to 1:40 seemed doable from that performance. His response? "It's not going from 1:43 to 1:40 because you're not in 1:43 shape." Dang, someone's gotten all mean and shit since his move to Fancy-Runner Town, Colorado. Stinker.

The problem is that Nate knows his stuff. A lot of stuff. So from a Natepedia perspective, the training is really what one must do to pester him with incessant questions about running. And even though he had to move to Colorado Springs to escape a pestering runner in Massachusetts, I couldn't have been all that annoying if he's willing to coach me again. Right? Right?!?

A Bunch of Good Mothers...And Me

2009-03-11T11:20:00.007-04:00

It's with some trepidation that I'm letting you know about the Runners' Lounge podcast this week, which features a group of awesome running moms. Plus me. Eeek. I hate the sound of my own voice (paging Dr. Freud) and I'm pretty sure I was incoherent since the call took place when I'm typically entering my first REM cycle of dreams about Daniel Craig, so I probably won't listen. But I'll tell you that everyone else was funny and insightful and not at all drunk. For example, their advice to running moms involves things like timing and flexibility; mine involves bribery with junk food and the decision to limit myself to one kid so as not to disrupt my running schedule. In fact, the discussion was so great that when it seemed the podcast was not recorded, I was happily willing to sacrifice Daniel the Divine for another chance to chat with Marcy, Betsy, Jessica, and Lisa. Even though the recording was retrieved, I hope we can have a second round table so I can convince everyone I actually enjoy being a mother and am not a total narcissist, the former being true and the latter being, well, hmmmm....

Oh, and thanks for the feedback on the reviews. I'll muster the strength to continue accepting free junk to provide the service you so obviously appreciate.

Review My Reviews, S'il Vous Plait

2009-03-09T14:36:00.003-04:00

Here's a question for you. What do you think of product reviews on my blog? Are they interesting? Helpful? Or are they annoying and boring? I love the schwag (especially the T40 pedometer watch I have to review for y'all in the coming days), but ultimately it's more important to me to have readers than schwag. So if you're finding the reviews to be excessive or just not worth reading, I want to hear it.

Let me know in the comments. I'm a qualitative researcher, my friends, so I don't want to do a poll in this case. Thanks!

Sticking My Finger in the Socket

2009-03-07T19:59:00.003-05:00

I realized on today's amazing 50-degree run--a gift from the gods--that we are about to enter my favorite running season: the short period between ice and road kill. It's the kind of running weather that mainlines bliss into my soul. By mile 2 of today's 8, I'd concluded that I am a total, 100% endorphin junkie. It's a good thing you can't get bottles of endorphins over the counter at CVS because I'd be swigging shots every day. I'd be busting out of my jeans on the couch with my endorphin bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other (if I'm not running and high, I might as well start smoking).

The only thing better than the endorphins you cultivate during a run are the endorphins you cultivate from a run charged with adrenaline. It becomes a delicious cocktail, really. You're kind of high from the adrenaline, and then you thrown in the endorphins and ZING! Let's all be glad my adolescent adventuring was fairly sedate because with the wrong crowd and a little extra peer pressure , I'd probably be lying in a gutter somewhere. (Or I'd be Lindsay Lohan's predecessor. Who can say?) Actually, maybe the endorphin addiction comes from the fact that my adolescence was so blah. But that's neither here nor there.

I just know that I love that raw, visceral rush of feeling alive, realizing you kind of were numb before but didn't know it at the time. Given that, you can imagine the surge I got at mile 5 today, when I was halfway across the tracks with a freight train bearing down on me. I'd entered the crossing before I heard the dinging of the signal, but I sure as hell heard the train horn blare at me. I'm hoping the USATF doesn't read this post and ban iPods from training runs.

Even though I was really in no danger whatsoever, the whole thing did have a cinematic quality to it. The cop at the speed trap on the other side of the tracks was not very entertained by my inadvertent risk taking, though he didn't haul me off to the town prison, which is probably full of loiterers and people who didn't separate their recycling.

Don't worry about my thrilling brush with the dark side, friends. I'm not about to go get a tattoo or pierce my chin. At least not the chin thing. I am, however, musing on that 50K even more now...

Mistakes and Sins: Advice That Will Get You Nowhere

2009-03-05T19:17:00.005-05:00

The Runners' Lounge Take It and Run Thursday (TIaRT) theme this week is cardinal sins of running, and based on Nate's feedback to most of my running questions during the last marathon season, I might be an expert in this area. Sometimes it seems that instead of asking a running question, I should just go and do the opposite of what my gut tells me. That usually works in the rest of my life. Whenever I wonder if my desired actions are right or not, I figure they're not and should just avoid what I want to do.

Get in my car and drive to Quebec with my high school French text book and never come back? Often want to do it, but not sure if I should. Ergo, don't do it.

See how many cosmos I can drink and still read Fox in Socks to my son without mistakes? Could be fun, but not sure if I should. Ergo, don't do it.

But I digress. Cardinal sins of running.

Based on today's run, I would advise you that it is proper behavior to stop at a traffic accident and make sure the bloody driver is okay instead of ignoring the situation for the sake of your splits. (He was fine.)

A better piece of advice is probably not to read my blog for advice on the cardinal sins of running. I don't know what the hell I'm doing most of the time. Any advice I would give is probably so obvious it's not worth mentioning.

Check the weather.

Tie your shoe laces.

Don't hold your breath.

Try to remember how to get home.

Avoid the temptation to run into the path of an oncoming car just to mess with the driver's head.

That's all I got. You can thank me later.

Whoring For Shoes

2009-03-03T07:44:00.006-05:00

I love shoes. Not in a Sarah Jessica Parker kind of way because I think there's a certain element of masochistic foot binding to high heels--plus I have no balance in them, and at 31, they still make me walk like a little girl trying on her mom's heels for the first time.

I'm more of a slut for casual wear--Keens, Merrills, and of course, running shoes. I have about 10 pairs of running shoes, and each pair has a sentimental chunk of my heart. (I'm going to end the shoe/lover metaphor here before you erroneously conclude that I actually am a slut.)

Anyway, you can see why I was giddy to open my pair of Pearl Izumi Float III shoes to test and review. Once opened, though, I tried to be a legit runner who could shrug off the Miami Vice blue, the blinding white mesh, and the clunky look that reminds me of a pair of sneakers I owned when I was 8.

Maybe, I thought, these shoes are so well-crafted for a runner's foot, that they transcend appearance.

Maybe the company exhausted their resources on the superior function of the shoes so that there was no money left over to come up with a good look.

Like finding the next Dalai Llama in a ghetto, maybe they are ugly precisely because they're the perfect running shoes.

I think more to the point, the designers at Pearl Izumi are not quite in touch with what women want their running shoes to look like. The men's shoes, for the most part, are good looking, but I think the women's shoes may have been designed by sweet Jane because her feet were cold:

I don't feel too bad giving the shoe such a bad review when it comes to looks because nearly all of you agreed with me. Appearances aside, I was willing to give the shoes a try because I don't stare a gift horse in the mouth. I'd look a gift llama (that was for you, Nitmos; hurry back) in the mouth, but not a gift horse.

I put on the shoes a couple weeks ago and immediately noticed that they're wide, even with my orthotics in there. I have kind of narrow feet, so they might work for most people, but the shoes are wide from the heel up to the toe box. If you have wider feet, this could be a selling point for you, so I thought I'd mention it. When I asked my contact at PI if I could send them back for a pair that was narrower or a different shoe altogether, I didn't get a response, so we're going to base my wear-test review on the 4-mile run I did yesterday.

The short version is they were okay. Fine. Not bad.

But would I trade my Saucony Pro Grid Triumph for them? Nope.

My feet adjusted to the PI pair pretty quickly and nothing felt kooky in the shoes while I was running, which does mean something, because I switch my shoe loyalties with some frequency. But I couldn't get past the width, and given that I'd probably only wear them on my treadmill because they of how they look--I'm slutty and shallow when it comes to shoes--they're not the shoes for me.

I do appreciate the folks at PI sending me shoes to review, and the Episcopalian in me is pained by not raving about a gift. I'm sure my mom would be horrified to see my training in grace and courtesy kicked to the curb.

When I used to teach, I learned that a critique should always contain "three goods for every should." Between the ho-hum style and function of the shoes*, I think that means I need six goods.

1. They are lightweight.
2. They didn't hurt.
3. They weren't puce. (No matter how you feel about the color, "puce" is a horrid word.)
4. They would cost less than my other running shoes.
5. They came with the laces already threaded.
6. They don't have high heels.

*Not sure how this fits into a shoe review, but an added gripe (if you want to elevate it to that status) of mine is an itty bitty statement on PI's web site for its "Running Preservation Society." I'll mail a copy of Chi Running to the first person who can guess what my gripe is. I'll give you a hint: if you know the angle of most of my writing about running, you should be able to easily figure out why the statement irks me.

Sex, Lies, and Videotape: A Marathoner's Biggest No-No

2009-02-27T21:54:00.004-05:00

Okay, not really "sex," but "Fat, Lies, and Videotape" was strangely not as captivating a title. False advertising perhaps, but at least I didn't lie about running a whole marathon.

I don't know if I'm spoiling a show you watch, but since Topher spoiled Lost for me a few weeks ago, I feel the need to pay it forward. Consider yourself warned.

No doubt you've read about a certain reality TV "star" (what's with my overuse of quotes today, eh?) depicted completing a marathon at the Arizona Desert Classic (or is it Dessert?) after losing 100 pounds on The Biggest Loser. I know nothing about the show, since it starts after my nightly collapse from a day of what feels more and more like maternal inadequacy. But the articles and blog posts about it today snagged my attention because I like to pretend I'm a faultless angel so I can rail against victims of reality TV production.

In case you hadn't heard, the deal is that this guy, Dane, was shown completing a marathon in the oh-so-infuriating-because-it's-faster-than-me time of 3:53 when he actually hopped in a producer's car from miles 17-20. He ran from there to be taped crossing the finish line. Apparently, some light bulbs in the finish clock had burned out from being illuminated for almost SIX hours, which is why the clock looked like it read 3:53 when it was really 5:53, or 7 minutes shy of the cut-off. Dane had realized at mile 17 that he wouldn't make the 6-hour cut-off to finish and was given a lift for 5K.

I don't know how culpable he is in the televised misrepresentation of his marathon, but dude, if you can't make the cut-off, you don't get in a car and then start running the course three miles later. And you certainly can't get in front of the camera and say the following, as reported by TV Barn:

"It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life to run side by side with my wife for an entire marathon."

I know you're on a reality show so the issue of dignity might be moot, but have some freaking pride. I don't care if you go back and run the missing miles later in the day because you felt bad. You can't cross the finish if you're plumb tuckered and opt for a plush passenger's seat at mile 17. For future reference, Dane, here's what you do:

You act like the rest of us forced to DNF: we go home, get wasted, and cry in our ice baths like the biggest losers we are.

Road Trip

2009-02-24T08:51:00.005-05:00

The Purell holster is back.

At least one person in my house has been sick the entire month of February. This past Sunday was the exception, but Henry came home from school with a temp of 102 yesterday, which spiked to 103.4 last night. As a result, running today is again out, thus continuing the gradual softening of my bod.

His temp was normal this morning, but I kept him home anyway because we're planning to skip town tomorrow to head to PA to see my parents' first new house in almost 30 years. Call me a bad mother, but unless his head is spinning on his neck or he's developed leprosy, we're still going. I am convinced that the air in my town is toxic with viruses and we need to get out while the gettin's at least partially good. It's supposed to be nearly 60 degrees on Thursday in PA, and I'm gonna feel that air on a 5-mile run if I have to sacrifice my kid's comfort on a 7-hour car ride to do it. Selfish? Callous? Cruel? Yeah, bite me. I'm a woman on a mission, equipped with bottles of Children's Motrin and Robitussin. I only have one kid, so I have to do my best to screw this one up. I won't get another one to mess with.

While I'm driving my listless child to PA tomorrow, why don't you sit back at the ole computer and crank out 500 words for the Runner's Lounge Book Project? The deadline is Saturday 2/28, and we need your writing. Don't make me say your names. Vanilla. Nitmos. Neal. Sarah. Mr. Doodle. Xenia. And the rest a ya. I read your blogs; I know you're not running. If you're not running, you might as well write about running, damnit.

On the Mend and Onto Crazy Ideas

2009-02-22T15:22:00.006-05:00

I think I'm finally, finally coming out of this god-forsaken virus. Of course, I would start feeling better the day I opted to skip a half-marathon. I ran 3 miles yesterday in honor of Nancy (a week late, due to the sickies), and they were a very slow and crappy 3 miles. The forecast was for cold rain in Hyannis this morning, so I took that with my residual cruddy feeling and stayed home from the race. I'm bummed about it, though not nearly as much as I would be if I were planning to run the full marathon. That would place my mood in the red zone of bummed-out-ness. Apparently my vocabulary suffers when I get sick.

It's been a rough month around here, with the germs running rampant and me not running much at all. For the first time in a while, I think Brian might hand me my running shoes and push me out the door. The other day, I told him I want to run a 50K in the fall. He looked at me like I was insane, and I think maybe he contemplated forbidding it before thinking better of making such a statement to a woman with defiance issues. Now I think he's hoping it was a fever-induced delusion and that I've forgotten about it.

But I haven't.

The way I see it, once you run the marathon in 3:40 (today my glass is half full), tacking on 4 more miles at a much slower pace a few weeks later shouldn't be that bad. Right? Right? A marathon in 8:20 pace versus a 50K at a 10-minute pace: the 50K is probably even easier than the marathon. Get your virtual hand off my forehead. It makes sense to me.

One of the moms in my study said to me that she believes the marathon will soon become the half-marathon, and that all of us will have to start running ultras to feel like we're doing something significant. If that's the case, I want to be ahead of the curve. And if I can't qualify for Boston, then I might as well run further to make myself feel better. That's logical, isn't it?

Always Go With Green

2009-02-19T10:00:00.010-05:00

It's been eight days since my last run. This is longer than I was off with pneumonia, making it the longest I have gone without running in a few years. I am a blob. I used to be a strong, fierce running maniac a la Flashdance, but without the stripping. Now I am ectoplasm. Ectoplasm in my Valentine's gold hoops and jammy pants.

It's very hard to run if you are ectoplasm.

Yesterday I even got a pair of Pearl Izumi shoes to test and review*, and I just kind of looked at them wistfully before launching into another round of coughing.

Oh, here's a tip for you: if you want antibiotics and your doctor asks if your phlegm is yellow or green, always go with green. Green gets you drugs. Yellow gets you crap. Ectoplasm? Green. In fact, I should have told the doctor my phlegm is black. I bet I could get some good stuff for black.

I'd try to run if not for the fever. I can handle a run with a stuffy nose and a cough, but the fever just makes it impossible. Plus it's hard to garner sympathetic child care from my husband so I can lie in bed doing crossword puzzles if I just put in a little 5k around the neighborhood. A wife must play these things very carefully.

Since I can't test out the shoes yet, we have to operate on first impressions, and I would like your honest opinion of how these shoes look. I know we're supposed to go with function over form because we're serious runners who take running very seriously and can't be distracted by non-serious things like aesthetics. But let's be honest, people. The shoes need to make you look like a serious runner and not an aerobics instructor from 1988**.

So let me know what you think of the look of these shoes. I'm kind of on the fence.

Thinking maybe they'd look better in green. They'll be perfect for the couch-to-5k program I'm going to have to join when I finally feel better.

*I'm selfish and inconsiderate, so I didn't think to give them away like Vanilla. No wonder people don't like me.
**Not that there's anything wrong with 1980s aerobics instructors. I idolized you in the 1988.

Why I Love My 3:57 Marathon

2009-02-17T16:31:00.003-05:00

For the first time in memory, my eye is producing snot.

This thing is positively the nastiest illness I've endured in a while, including the pneumonia. At least that didn't give me eye goop. The eye thing makes it clear to me (ironically) that I got what Henry had a week or so ago, which is of course the way it usually works. His eye cleared up before we called 'conjunctivitis' so I assume mine will, too.

I went to see the doctor today, and I'm a bit mad at myself for switching practices because my old doctor would write a prescription for a hang-nail, but the new one has principles and no sympathy for my Rudolph nose. She told me I'd start to feel better by the end of the week, and was unamused when I tried to make the copay worthwhile by getting a scrip for Vicodin for the pain in my ass that was this trip to the doctor. The best she could do was Robitussin plus codeine. Bah. I'll just take a double shot of NyQuil and forget the pharmacy hassle.

This all leaves me in a very familiar position. I have a half-marathon in Hyannis on Sunday, and I haven't run since last Wednesday. I wasn't planning to bust out a PR anyway, but I don't want to race if I'm going to drip eye snot on a fellow runner. A seagull, perhaps, because they're a nuisance, but I'd like to maintain my good reputation in the running community. (Quiet down, peanut gallery, my bitchy online persona does not extend into the local running 'hood.)

No matter what I decide about running the half on Sunday, I would just like to pause and express my gratitude again to those who made it possible for me to run a marathon in January--my mom and dad, good ole gran, and Jessica. Because if not for PF Chang, I'd be banking on Hyannis and in a very, very miserable state of affairs right now, given the whole illness what-have-you.

3:57 PR, I love you so, so much.

Fluey

2009-02-15T10:24:00.003-05:00

I'd planned this whole elaborate post about the logic of tapering before a half-marathon, complete with a poll and quotes from the experts... blah, blah, blah ... and then late Friday I got sick.

And I'm still sick so my whole internal debate about whether to run 10 or 13 today, a week before the Hyannis half, is now moot. So I don't really care about the logic of tapering before a half anymore. I just care about not feeling like crud and what Pixar selection my son will watch while I moan in bed and cough up nastiness.

I'll be back when typing doesn't hurt.

Compensating Much?

2009-02-13T16:27:00.003-05:00

In the name of all that is tacky, the Little Rock Marathon has revealed this year's medal, keeping with their claim to fame as the marathon with the largest finisher's medal. I love garish as much as the next gal and covet nothing more than a sparkly necklace hanging over my gut that reads "BIG" in 72-point font, but perhaps this is a bit, well, too much of too much?

The medal is 7 1/4 inches long x 6 1/4 inches wide and weighs a pound and a half-- because everybody wants to run 26 miles and then hang something really heavy around their necks. A disappointing chip time is enough of an albatross for me, thank you very much.

Wishing you all a beautiful Valentine's Day, or at least a Saturday of great sublimation through running.

One Mile, Four Minutes

2009-02-11T13:55:00.006-05:00

Sometimes people wonder about the sadist I paid to make me treadmill that 4 x 4 miler back on October 22*. I've even had a couple readers ask for my coach's contact info, which I assume isn't because he looks like Owen Wilson, but because they're masochists, too.

I actually want to train again with Nate to break 1:40 in the half-marathon before I work for a BQ again, but woe-is-me, he's moving to Colorado. He swears it's not because his most public client ruined his reputation with her race in Phoenix, but I think he might be entering a witness protection program for coaches because I embarassed him.

I'm trying to consider his reputation and not show up where he's running these days. Thanks to the magic of video, I can stalk him on the Internet. Nate's been competing really well in the indoor season this year and is making his local groupies proud, but we'll surely forget his name the second he bails on us for the cool kids in Colorado Springs. A week or so ago, he helped promote the new anti-gravity (alter-G) treadmill at the joint where I get my massages from The Elbow. I haven't tried the alter-G yet and promise to report on its spacey perfection as soon as I get a chance to zip myself into it and instantly shed a large percentage of my body weight. With that feature, I have no doubt this treadmill would resolve the bodily insecurities of most women I know.

Nate hopped on the alter-G to see if he could run a 4-minute mile without all that pesky gravity that is the bane of any runner's existence. I can't embed the video because I think the code is wonky and I got no html skillz, so check out the video here if you:

a) want to see if Nate accomplished his goal
b) want to see Nate in tight shorts and something that resembles a tutu
c) are bored at work this afternoon and find treadmill videos a good diversion**

*I remember the date not only because it was traumatic; I ran it on Henry's birthday.
**That would seem to be a lot of you, given the number of comments on my gait post last week.

The Athlete's Guide to Yoga (DVD), or I Like People to Wear Pants When in Public

2009-02-09T16:15:00.004-05:00

So I’ve been going to ashtanga yoga once a week for a while now and loving it. The difference in my hamstrings after 90 minutes is unreal. Plus, any time I can spend in an 80-degree room this time of year is worth $16 a class. My pasty, flaky skin is so happy to feel the totally artificially heated air. I don’t get why all the other women come to this hot class in pants. It is my only chance to take off my socks and wear shorts and a tank all winter. At home, I even shower in fleece.

Apparently I’m not the only person who feels this way, however. A couple weeks ago, I go to class, put down my mat, and notice another pair of bare legs, which is unusual because I’m always the only person in shorts. I turn my head and immediately snap it back.

Dude has no pants on.

And he’s not wearing short shorts or boy shorts or shorts of any kind. He’s in his yoga Speedo, sans shirt. It is a sight to behold, but one I wish I could erase from its place in my mind’s eye.

Thankfully another woman placed her mat between us, an act I’m sure she regretted as soon as she did it, but you can’t really gracefully move your mat in that situation. I’m just glad she had to be the one adjacent to his very prolonged and proud back bend, which revealed why he had no shame in his chosen yoga fashion. Hello, Shanti.

Speedo Man is now a permanent fixture in my Monday morning class, but there are days when I just don’t want to tarnish my vinyassa with his bits and pieces. We’re also trying to live frugally right now, so my $16, 90-minute sauna seems a little indulgent. But without yoga class or a massage addiction I can’t justify when I’m not in serious training, what’s a runner girl to do?

Enter The Athlete's Guide to Yoga, the new DVD by Sage Rountree. Now I have tried a lot of yoga videos in my life, so I feel qualified to make the statement that her DVD is the absolute best at-home yoga I have tried. Not only does it have sessions that target typical runners’ ailments like IT Band trouble, but you have the option of programming the routine for your specific needs (such as flexibility or strength).

Plus, Sage’s DVD gives you sequences that are new and fresh for those of us who are a little burned by all those sun salutations. Moon Salutations! Who knew?!

Last, the video quality is superb and Sage leads the sequences with the right amount of narration and no superfluous fondling of your spirituality. I know there are folks who like the spiritual bit, and I actually love hearing my yoga teacher chant before class, but once I get into the poses, I’m all about the physical and don’t reap much benefit from vague references to my heart wheel.

My only difficulty came with wanting more time spent on each pose, but once I get the routines down, I can take the poses on my own time, so it’s not a huge issue.

The best review I can give for this DVD is that not once did I pause it to check my email or to update my Facebook status, something I know Sage can appreciate. Finally, everyone in the video keeps their private bits well concealed. It’s worth the $20 just for that consideration of my modesty. It might just be me, but I think yoga should never make you want to gouge out your eyes.

When Flexibility Is a Bad Thing

2009-02-06T15:26:00.004-05:00

I have a question in my interview guide for the book that asks, "What would you say if you were told you could never run again?"

The question usually elicits a deep sigh, and while a few people have said they would find another fitness outlet, most have expressed sadness at the thought and a refusal to accept it. One particularly witty mom even said, "I'd get a second opinion." I can't speak for people in other demographics, but as a running mom, being told you can't run again is not unlike being told your children will never grow up and move out. More than a bit stifling and scary.

So imagine the gasp I let out when I read that Non-Runner Nancy of the virtual races, Beijing schwag, and all around goodness was given that horrific diagnosis. And I'm not only upset that the only person who hosts races I win is forced to lay off our sport. Pauvre Nancy! I can't believe that flexibility can ever be pejorative, but our dear Nancy is just too stretchy. This is the biggest spandex nightmare since stirrup pants. Is it possible your body is made of Lycra, Nancy?

In honor of Nancy's inevitable transition from running to yoga, a virtual 5k race has been set for Valentine's Day, thanks to US Jogger. So before you slap on the lipstick for that someone special (I'm lookin' at you, 'Nilla, since Nitmos went AWOL and I can't rag on him anymore), put some on for Nancy and join us for a short run. As an added tribute to Nancy, I'll even stretch afterward so that I'm more flexible, too.

Hearts Aflutter

2009-02-05T07:27:00.004-05:00

I've come up pretty empty with blogging material this week--you know it's bad when you're blogging a long and monotonous video of your gait. I don't know where my mojo went, but I usually have posts lined up for a week in my head, and all I've got today is my recent observation that all the safety pins in my house are grouped in fours.

I'm running less, but still enough that I should have something to say. I have a review to do for the DVD The Athlete's Guide to Yoga (thanks, Sage!), but I want to give it the thought it deserves, unlike how I treat most of my posts and reviews.

So I was intrigued to see Om Gal's post this morning--timely as it was--on things that send her heart aflutter. It's a fun thing to think about, if like me, you currently have no coach to rage against with Snoop impersonations or a race to make you lose your marbles.

What sends my heart aflutter?

Dark, nearly bitter, chocolate.

Henry's description of a pizza we ate the other night as "lovely."

This poem. Swoon. Partly because it is about lying down, not running.

Cavallini and Co. calendars. I save them from year to year and now the playroom is covered in them.

An honest-to-goodness letter. In my mailbox, not my inbox.

Sun.

Gel pens.

What sends your heart aflutter?

Hawt!

2009-02-02T15:48:00.005-05:00

Wanna see something really titillating?*

This sexy little video of my overpronating gait in an old pair of Asics 2120s has been viewed 1,640 times on You Tube. While I do think my calves are decent and it's a good example of rolling over my arches, I don't really comprehend the viewership.

I'm a little concerned it was embedded on some Asics porn blog.

*No need to watch all of it; there's nothing tantalizing at the end of the video.

All You Need Is (Creepy Internet) Love

2009-01-31T17:10:00.001-05:00

I was tagged by Lil Runner a good while ago, but had a backlog of reviews to post, so here is my belated tag list...

4 Favorite Memories of 2008
Boston Marathon
Watching the women's Olympic Trials in person
Bruce Springsteen at Gillette Stadium!!!!
Running hills with Henry

4 Favorite TV Shows from 2008
Lost
Weeds
Big Love
Olympic Marathon coverage

4 Places I loved in 2008
Wellfleet, MA
Hopkinton, MA
York, ME
Lexington, MA (for you, Annie)

4 Favorite Foods in 2008
Starbucks Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate
My mother's Christmas dinner
Anything eaten after a 20 miler
Peanut M&Ms

4 Running Events I loved in 2008*
Running 18 miles with Anne in the pouring rain
Running with Johna
Running with Kevin
Running with Linn
*have run with other great company already in 2009

4 Things I liked in 2008
Surge in blog readership
Running with people way out of my league
Brian starting a great new job
Electricity

4 Things I'm Looking Forward to in 2009
Writing this ever loving book
Covered Bridges Half-Marathon
Bruce at the Garden in April!!!
More frequent hair cuts

And can I just say that Marcy's post and all of the comments that followed redeemed almost every middle school trauma I may have had?
Even though you expressed your lurve for me immediately following a reference to fellatio. Or perhaps because of that.

Anyway, I luv you, M, and if you start stalking me, well then I'm gonna stalk you right back and we can go to the courthouse together to file our restraining orders. There's so much fabulous creepy love on the interwebs, and I'm honored to be a part of it.

Beyond the Epic Run

2009-01-30T15:13:00.003-05:00

Some people get to go to movies, even, like, in the nighttime. I'm not usually one of them, what with the whole bed, bath, and beyond exhaustion thing I've got going on. It kind of sucks because there's one I want to see on Monday, and no, it's not Hotel For Dogs, even though I'll probably have to sit through that one at some point.

I was invited to a pre-screening of the documentary Beyond the Epic Run, which will be showing in Arlington, MA for people who have lives after 7 p.m. or can get baby sitters and whatnot.

According to the press release, the film is "about a Swiss couple who live their dream to run around the world. Together, Serge and Nicole Roetheli leave on an epic adventure that leads them out of Europe, through Africa, the Middle East, Asia and the United States, testing their boundaries, strengthening their minds and challenging their bodies. Running the equivalent of a marathon every other day, Serge, the endurance sports runner, runs over 25,400 miles in five years, while wife Nicole rides her Yamaha motorcycle."

It sounds pretty awe-inspiring. Here's the trailer:

Why can't I have a drummer play beside me on my runs, man?

So if you're local to Boston, check it out Monday at 7:30 p.m. at the Regent Theater, 7 Medford St., in Arlington, MA. Not sure if you have to RSVP to secure tix, but you might want to email mike [at] beyondtheepicrun [dot] com to find out.

If you can't make it, the film will be released to more theaters in April.

Where Is Facebook Rehab?

2009-01-28T17:11:00.005-05:00

We're getting 10 inches of snow, followed by ice, followed by rain, which means I've spent the day stuck at home with a 4 year old and conversations that go like this:

Henry: What comes after people?
Me: You mean, what chases people?
Henry: No, I mean first there were dinosaurs, then monkeys, then people. What comes after people?
Me: Computers

To avoid these conversations, or perhaps to address that particular one, I've plugged Henry into Wall-E so I can shovel the driveway twice, since I don't know how to use the snowblower. I thought running was supposed to give me overall fitness? I might have some decent gams, but running does not equip me for a couple hours of squat-and-snow-toss.

While I'm shoveling and, to be honest, during my entire alone time the last three days while Brian is in California, I can't seem to avoid giving myself constant third-person Facebook updates in my head. I think the DSM-IV calls this dissociative identity disorder, but I'm starting to forget if I'm the subject or the object of the updating, which probably qualifies me for some psychiatric intervention.

Do you get wireless in rehab?

Kristina hates snow.
Kristina doesn't know how to use her own #%$&ing snowblower.
Kristina would like to rent your husband to clear her driveway.
Kristina can't stop updating herself.
Kristina needs to get the hell off Facebook.

Make. It. Stop!

What happens if I quit Facebook? Do I instantly lose 97 friends, acquaintances, and random people who think they know me but who I couldn't reject? Is it like Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and quitting Facebook makes you forget the memories that go with each person?

You know it's becoming a problem when your child asks for a glass of milk and you tell him to hold on a second while you see if anyone's written on your wall. "Stop whining, sweetie, someone just poked me."

Here's a curious Facebook head-scratcher for you to analyze. My mother is on Facebook. But she hasn't friended me. If you're a Freudian, you can now see the origins of my status update dissociation problem.

One thing is clear from this affliction; I can read the writing on my Wall. I need another marathon. If I had a race to preoccupy me, I would be much less concerned with
narrating my entire existence in single pithy sentences.

Alright, I haven't updated my status in the last 90 seconds, so I better go and do that.

Kristina is a freaking head case.

No Stinkers

2009-01-25T20:02:00.013-05:00

If you use Map My Run as your log, you might have noticed a freaky new feature when tracking your workouts. There you are, clicking away at the usual stuff--distance, quality, effort, etc--when all of a sudden the log gets all up in your bizness by asking you to rate an aspect of your run that doesn't seem to be well-served by longitudinal study.

Workout Odor

In other words, are you a fragrant spring blossom or a repulsive stink factory?

As if there were any doubt, I myself am always fresh as a daisy, when I don't smell like chai. Even last week, when I wasn't running and therefore forgot to shower for a couple days (sad but true), I was a dainty rose petal. It is a total coincidence that Brian hopped a plane to California this morning.

So my first impulse when seeing this feature on Map My Run was frankly to take offense that they might think my workout odor could potentially fall into the category of "intolerable." Me, intolerable?

Hey shut up, you back there.

If you do find that your workout odor necessitates regular tracking and the data shows that you're a repulsive stink factory, why not give WIN detergent a try? (said the bubbly voice-over with more than a hint of irony)

This being the Chinese New Year, I know for a fact we are entering the Year of the Ox, but given all the blog reviews lately, I'm tempted to think it's the Year of the Sport Wash. At first I was just going to plagiarize the reviews of WIN detergent already posted by others, but my conscience and "career" as a writer got the better of me (hate when that happens). So instead of my usual--buying more clothes at Target when my drawer came up empty--I reluctantly did some laundry.

Which meant I had to go down the stairs to the washing machine. Such. a. chore.

Which meant that I had to wait until my post-marathon quads were willing to make the schlep. Or until I could nag Brian into being my WINning washer man.

The latter Won.

If you want a much more thorough review than mine, consult Joy. Laundry bores me, and writing about laundry isn't much better. But I took the free sample, so I'm gonna write about it.

If you want to know if WIN can a) de-stank week-old marathon clothes, b) refresh some pee jammies (Henry's, not mine, thank you very much), and c) remove a stain from a melty piece of chocolate that fell onto a certain anonymous air traveler's new race shirt, I'm your girl.

a) De-stank the marathon clothes?

Yes it can.

b) Refresh the jammies?

We have a WINner.

c) Remove the chocolate?

Outta luck.

Not that WIN claims it can take out chocolate stains, but in case you're noshing on a Milky Way on that next long run, I'd go for the Stain Stick. prior to taking the WIN for a spin cycle. But if you pee in your running shorts--and who hasn't, right? (too much information?)--go for the WIN.

And there you have it. WIN works on the nasty wasty clothes of a fragrant spring blossom.

Hurry home, sweet Brian. I have another load to do.

The SPI Who Loved Me

2009-01-23T09:52:00.007-05:00

A couple weeks before the marathon, I was hooked up with the people at SPIbelt who offered me a free belt to use in the race and review on the blog. Knowing that it's always smart to try new things in a marathon, I said "Heck, yeah!"

Coincidentally, the SPIbelt rep who contacted me was also running PF Chang, and as I told you all before, I let her know that the ultimate endorsement would be the presence of that belt in my finish line photo. If there was any discomfort from it, I knew I'd ditch it along the way because I had pockets in my shirt and shorts.

I'm actually kind of surprised that any photos of me were identified because the belt did obscure my number a little (as did my hand in that shot), but otherwise it was the best option I've used in a long race. Other options like waist packs that clip onto your shorts tend to flop around too much for me, and loading up my pockets with gels makes me feel like I could be running with my shorts around my ankles at any moment. In fact, there was a shirtless guy in our pace group whose shorts kept migrating downward for this very reason. I would've lent him my SPIbelt because 20 miles of his rear was not the Arizona vista I was promised, but I wanted to keep the belt for myself.

So there's an extra endorsement: the SPIbelt is worth 3 hours of some guy's bum in my face.

You can wear it around your hips if that's your preference, and as you can see in this photo of me (Those are my abs. Really. Definitely my abs. Not lying at all.), you will instantly have an amazing 6-pack if you do. That said, I discovered in a trial run that the fabric on my split shorts bunches up in the belt if I do that, and unlike the bum-flasher guy, I prefer to keep my rear end to myself. So I wore it around my waist, which did feel a tad dorky, but the belt is so sleek that it wasn't too much of a fashion crime. There was no chaffing at my stomach, even with my belly button ring (learned something new about me, didn't ya? That's a story for another day).

The pouch looks small but easily holds 4 Gus, and I bet I could've gotten my cell phone in there to call a cab (or a shoe store) at mile 21. The "buckle" is some serious clippage, and the elastic of the "strap" would probably work as a Thera Band if you need one. The pack comes in enough colors that I stared at my screen for a good ten minutes picking one. There are also belts for kids, arm bands, and belts with extra pouches.

Thumbs up on the SPIbelt. My only gripe is that it doesn't come with a pen that conceals a video camera and dart shooter. Nor does the belt remind you to restore your electrolytes. Can the next iteration maybe have an alarm for that sort of thing?

**********************

I used an online random number generator to pick the winner of the Bart Yasso book, numbering each comment from 1-63. And the winner is...

Comment #29 from Scheri! Congrats to Scheri!

Email me so I can mail you the book: marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net

*********************

And if you find yourself still needing just a little bit more of me after my epic posts this week (you kind of worry me if that's the case), I'm on Open Mic Friday at the Runners' Lounge. Somehow I managed to make it sound like I enjoy running, so check it out.

Making With the Funny Stuff

2009-01-22T14:57:00.008-05:00

There's something you should know. What I posted yesterday was the funny version of my race report. Did that not come across? I even deleted the video from the beginning of Little Miss Sunshine with the homely little girl in glasses practicing her pageant wave in front of Miss America on TV. That's pretty much the kind of marathoner I feel like.

Jokes, Pinto, jokes.

Mental note to self: must work on ratio of humor to hopelessness.

Well here's something worthy of a belly laugh:

Just look at those nice even splits after mile 22. Beauty.

And if that doesn't do it for you, consider Henry's response to my marathon time:

Henry: How long does it take you to run a marathon?
Me: A little less than 4 hours.
Henry: [blank stare.]
Me: That's like watching Nemo two times in a row.
Henry: Mama, I'd just fast forward it.
Me: Good idea. I'll do that next time.

Thanks for all of your good cheer and marathon suggestions. If you haven't commented with a suggestion (and an offer of your futon on race day) and want to be entered in my drawing for Yasso's My Life on the Run (to be held tomorrow), feel free to add your comment to yesterday's post by noon EST Friday.

One thing is clear from your comments: the running community looks after its own. The boost you gave me yesterday was far better than the malt liquor and heroin I was considering, so I just drank vodka last night. A new running cocktail resulted (I have a tendency to create cocktails after races). May I present to you...

The Phoenix Rising
shot of vanilla vodka
6 oz. grapefruit soda from Trader Joe's
spash of orange juice (triple sec might also be good)
parasol

This morning I was conducting an interview with a great woman who leads a running group of ex-pat mothers in London and within 30 minutes, she'd offered me a spare bib and her guest room for the London Marathon in April. Holy Paula Radcliffe, if I had the means for the flight, I would very seriously consider it. Maybe I'll sell Henry's old toys. Or Henry. (KIDDING!)

Without a jaunty trip across the pond, I have to stick to the fall marathon plan so that I'll have time to write some book chapters this spring.

The other project that will keep me off the roads and out of trouble is an exciting venture from Tom and Amy at the Runners' Lounge. If you've not heard, they're compiling a first-of-its-kind book of essays from runners for runners. And it's time for me to break out my musty old Strunk and White because I've taken on the role of editorial task master.

As such, I'm asking you to join our ranks and contribute to the book. The details:

The book will be comprised of individual articles around 500-600 words (not as long as you might think) from writers who answer this question(s):

You’re in a conversation and you just caught someone’s attention by mentioning you’re a runner. They’re interested in running but you only have a few minutes to tell them what you know.

What would you advise them about what consistently and predictably works for your running?
What would you say to explain what running means to you?

OR

If you could tell them what you know now that you wished you known then about running, what would it be?

Additional guidelines for submission, contact info, and prompts to get you started are found on the Runners' Lounge web site. You need not be a blogger to contribute, so please share your wisdom, wit, and/or wealth (that last one is just to get me to London).

And as your potential editor, I swear I won't make you memorize the Chicago Manual of Style. Fine, not all of it. But if you're having some trouble typing that first word, here are some tips:

1. Go for a run. Almost all of my blog posts occur to me while I'm running, so take a few miles to give it some thought.

2. Write without finality. If you start writing by thinking every word is engraved on the page, you won't get anywhere because of the pressure. Relax and just write what you want, then edit later.

3. Check out Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. It's the best little book on writing. And everything else.

4. Drink a Phoenix Rising. I also often blog while over the legal limit.

Please join our collaboration on this project. The running community takes care of its own, remember? You don't want all of those new runners out there in tennis whites, do you?

Tomorrow I'll have the winner of the Yasso book and a review of my SPIbelt. (I'll review the WIN detergent next week when I can actually walk down my stairs to do laundry.)

Sky of Longing and Emptiness: PF Chang Race Report

2009-01-20T16:04:00.005-05:00

So. Grab a cup of coffee (or wine), this is a long one.

There are places in this country where it is apparently quite warm in January. These places are not where I live and train in conditions that sometimes shock people. When visitors fuss about our cold, I smile, but I don’t get their discomfort.

I think our blood is different.

As it turns out, I like running when it’s 25-40 degrees. And if you read my post about my last 22-miler, you’ll remember how well that went. My body was happy, strong. I averaged 8:44 and ran mile 21 in 7:52.

As it turns out, my body is about as adaptable as a St. Bernard spending Christmas in Miami.

All day Saturday, I looked at the blue sky, the sun, the palm trees, the cactuses, and the desert and marveled at the contrast to where I live. Where I live looks like this right now:

That's my back door.

What does one do in desert? One drinks water, right? Lots and lots of water. When you think desert, do you think “Better eat some pretzels?”

Me, neither.

A 50-degree temperature change from one 20-miler to the next makes a difference in what happens at the 20-mile mark. Things — spooky, foreign things — happened in my body, and I didn’t recognize their implications until it was too late and I was reduced to shuffling — damn that shuffling. There was no wall to break through. The only wall was behind me, and I was tied to it and forced to pull for 6 miles.

So Kevin once shared a story with me about one runner's pithy retort to the typical race report rationalizations of why a race went sour. To those weather/nutrition/injury/illness/clothing problems, he simply quipped: “So you're faster than you really are?"

I’m totally with that guy. You’re as fast as the day makes you, no excuses. You don’t get to say you’re faster than you perform because that’s not how it works.

But I’m not as fast as I really am.

I started the race with the 3:40 pace leader, John, who I’ll begrudgingly admit was from Minnesota—also not known for its 70-degree Januaries. I was glued to John. I obeyed John like he was the Boss. I ran in John’s shadow like his little sister.

John 3:40, I loved you, man.

John 3:40 got me to the half feeling solid, with something like 40 seconds in the bank. I was positive, optimistic, trying to decide if it would be inappropriate to outkick him at the finish line after he’d paced me the entire course. I was on track, step for step, positive but without hubris.

At mile 14, John looked around at his flock of women under 35 and said, “I know what this is. These are the Babes Going to Boston. That’s who I’ve got. I’m gonna get as many babes to Boston as I can.” I smiled. John was taking me to Boston.

John 3:40, I wanted to be your babe.

Needless to say, John 3:40 probably leads the most coveted group of all the pacing teams: women under 35. We followed him like skanky girls waiting backstage for Steve Tyler.

John 3:40, what I would give to be among your finish line skanks.

Around mile 16, my left calf said, “WTF? Where’s wintah? I am your leg and Jesus, it’s hot today. How ‘bout some watah?”

Oh no, I am so not pulling a Nitmos. I don't get cramps. Ever. My calves make it through just fine, always.

With almost a minute in the bank, I reasoned, “I’ve been drinking at every stop because that’s what smart people do in the desert, but more water would be fine! They’ve got plenty! Cups and cups and cups of water. It cost me $110 to run this race and with that cotton t-shirt as disappointing as it was, I should get my money’s worth in water!”

As we made our way through the teens, I drank the water. I poured the water over my head. And then I drank some more. Totally loving the water.

And yet, my right calf joined the chorus. “We’re hot, woman!” They began to tighten up, apparently not very satisfied by the water. So they convinced my feet to grow.

If you’ve ever been pregnant, you might have reached a point when all of a sudden, it occurs to you that your shoes are two sizes too small. “How did that happen?” you think. You don’t notice them swelling and then one day, you realize the fabric on your shoe is pushing on your toes from all sides and maybe your toes actually curl up because there is just no more room.

That can also happen when you run a marathon.

You can hit the nearest shoe store to size up when you’re pregnant, but Zappos don’t deliver to mile 18.

By mile 19, it occurred to me that my toes could quite possibly pull an Alien and bust through my shoes. And I would have been totally cool with that. If I’d had a knife, I’d have cut the fabric right off the top of my shoe.

At mile 20, both calves were so contracted and cramped, I felt like they were hiding from the race. “Maybe if we just get real, real tight and make two little balls, she won’t even know we’re here,” they said to each other.

Yes, my body parts talk.

My quads, hamstrings, and glutes were good to go, but everything below the knee was pissed.

Shortly after mile 20, the switch flipped. I push through a lot of walls on a long run; there is never just one. Mile 20 wasn’t a wall. It was a power outage. For the first time, I was behind John 3:40 instead of at his elbow.

And then he was gone.

Everything screeched to a halt. I was still running, yet everyone but the walkers streamed around me like I was a tree planted in the middle of the road.

By the time I realized that maybe I needed salt and not water, it was too late. I ate the salt packet that a medic along the course was holding out, but my calves and feet wanted a Supersize box of fries, not a dash to flavor my Roctane. I hadn't had any Cytomax because that stuff upsets my stomach and I always figure the Gu covers the electrolytes. Just an amateur, I guess.

The 3:45 guy passed me. My brain screamed bloody murder. Enough anger to push through any wall, but my power was out. I refused to walk because I knew the second I stopped to walk, my calves would call it a day and I’d never resume a running pace, no matter how slow. I didn’t even walk through the water stops.

The 3:50 guy passed me, his flag held more like a relay baton because he’d lost his entire entourage. Christ. I can’t even run it in with the poor 3:50 bachelor.

Instead of writing eulogies for my family and friends, I started to write my own.

Loving mother. Foolish runner who wanted more than anything to transcend mediocrity through marathons. Died on a long stretch of road in Phoenix. Had potential, rarely did much with it. Made a good quiche.

Miles 23 through the finish are a blur, sadly not because I was picking up the pace. Two Springsteen songs came on in a row, as if my iPod sensed my grief and wanted to make a last ditch effort with “Cadillac Ranch” to give me some pep. I sang along.

Open up your engine, let it roar. Tearing up the highway like a big old dinosaur.

Not today.

I just kept going, one orange cone after another. After “Cadillac Ranch” came “The Rising.” I didn’t sing.

Can’t see nothin in front of me
Can’t see nothin coming up behind
I make my way through this darkness
I can’t feel nothing but this chain that binds me

At several points, I wished I could know my exact mileage. About 15 minutes later I remembered I had a Garmin and could find out whenever I wanted. I guess the brain needs salt, too.

Lost track of how far I've gone
How far I’ve gone, how high I’ve climbed
On my back's a sixty pound stone
On my shoulder a half mile of line

At mile 26, a guy in the crowd looked at me and yelled, “Four minutes to four hours!”

And that’s when I found my salt. Salty tears streaming down my face, making salty rivers in the salty crust on my face. I wouldn’t even get a five-minute PR.

3:57:54

All those treadmill speed workouts. Two long runs a week. Seven 20-milers. Most people agree that the Boston Marathon is around 10 minutes slower than a flat course. I cut four lousy minutes with more training than I ever would have thought possible.

I crossed the line without any pride whatsoever. I couldn’t care less about my finish line photo. I saw the long queue of runners waiting to have their picture taken with their medals on and walked right by without thinking for a second that I wanted to join them.

A medic saw me looking disoriented and took me to the medical tent. She asked how often I drank water during the race. “Every stop from mile 2.” Her eyes got wide, and she asked if I took any salt. I couldn’t remember when, but told her it was somewhere in the early 20s. “Too much water. Not enough salt. And your body isn’t used to the heat.”

I stumbled around for a little while, looking for Jessica*, who had finished well ahead of me. I had no clue how I’d find her family in the sea of people with my brain functioning on reserve battery power. I was elated when I spotted her gorgeous little red-headed boys sitting in the grass.

And that’s kind of where the race ends. I took good care of my salt deficit with some margarita love that night, but there’s no uplifting resolve at the end of this one. I entered the training wanting to see how fast I could get if I ramped up the preparation tenfold. I expected I might get close to 3:40, very confident I’d beat 3:45.

Today, of course, is supposed to be about hope and humility. And I’m not self-important enough to wallow over my silly race results while we're in the middle of history. So I’m working on the hope. But deep down in my greedy, vain little dark place, I’m tired of having to be self-deprecating. Just once, I want to be cocky and plaster that BAA unicorn on my blog.

If you've made it through this race report, you already have more endurance than I do. I just wanted to add a major thanks to all of you, particularly my pacers Kevin, Jill, Linn, Anne, Judith, Johna, and Brian. And my commenters also get special thanks for constant encouragement that must get tedious to type all the time. I know I'm a Murphy's Law marathoner and that I kind of force to you tell me to keep my chin up. And thanks for the memories, Nate. It was actually kind of fun to pretend I could be a good marathoner and train out of my league for six months.

I got home to my 26.2 Marathon Stories book from Marcy (thanks, M!) and feel the need to both pay it forward and reward anyone who is still reading this post. I also want to end this whine-fest on a more hopeful note. So if you're interested in my copy of Bart Yasso's new book, My Life On the Run, leave a comment with your suggestion for a fall marathon, and I'll put you in a drawing for it. I'll mail it to the lucky winner whose name I draw on Friday. It's a good, fun read.

*We had a blast the entire time we spent together this weekend, but we didn’t end up running the race together, which is good because it would have been the one negative experience we shared during my stay.

Your Daily Dose of Schadenfreude...

2009-01-19T11:50:00.003-05:00

..brought to you by yours truly.

3:58:49

Will return when I have something nice to say.

Thanks for your six months of encouragement. It helped a lot more than the speed training and unrelenting 20-milers to shave those 3 minutes off my PR.

Update: Due to slow updating of my chip time on the race web site, my finish time ended up being 3:57:54.

Jetting

2009-01-16T12:00:00.003-05:00

Well, as it's 9 degrees here, I'm gonna go ahead and leave for Phoenix. I've packed every running-related item in my possession, as well as my new Purell holster to freak out the TSA at the airport (not to mention the 6 packets of Roctane).

If you're stalking me on Sunday, you can see the results of my suffering in hours and minutes here. Race is at 7:30 am MST, and I'm #2691.

Thanks for your nice comments this week; you know I devour your love and support. Good luck to Vanilla, Pat, Mr. Doodle and all the other PFers out there--I know there are a slew a ya.

Alrighty, I'm off to rock a bit less than a third around the clock (or a sixth, depending on your interpretation of the song)....

Windfalling

2009-01-14T14:52:00.007-05:00

I like free things. A lot. When the UPS truck makes that slow crawl up our driveway and leaves a little somethin'-somethin' at the door, I get all warm inside without even knowing what it is. It could be a box of ear wax and I'd still be thrilled by the scent of the packing tape.

A recent running windfall began with the Roctane, but then last week the folks at SPIbelt sent me their sexy little fanny pack [insert "Sexy Back" pun here] to test in the marathon. I've taken it for a couple short runs to make sure I want to use it in the race, and already I think it's great. Not at all the dorky-guy-on-a-cruise like its ancestors. I'll give a full review next week after it gets the marathon treatment. The ultimate endorsement will be if you see it in my finish line photo because I won't have ditched it somewhere along the course once I've emptied it of gels.

Then last night, Brian went out to fetch a T-Rex from the car and came back in with a little box that the Man in Brown had left by the back door. I opened it to find three big bags of M&Ms. Written on half of the M&Ms was "26.2" and the other half read "Boston Marathon." They were sent by a fellow member of the M&M fan club (not to be disastrously confused with the Eminem fan club, please), the friend who unbelievably paced me for 21.5 miles a couple days after Christmas. How nice is that?

And then this morning I was strolling through my blogroll and saw that I won Marcy's marathon book giveaway. My first thought was "Hey, there's another Kristina with a K who reads Marcy's blog." I actually forgot that I entered, but I realize now that my comment on her blog the other day amounted to an entry in her drawing. Score! She asked which fellow bloggers I would want to run with, and I answered Britney, Lindsay, and Paris--so I could make them run 800s until they agreed to wear underpants all the time. But now I'd also want to run with Marcy, and not just to make her wear underpants.

Free schwag is delightful, and I'd like to express publicly my desire to review the Yoga for Athletes DVD (hi, Sage, how are you today?), the Zensah arm sleeves, and Captain Morgan rum.

I like free running advice as well. I'm kind of greedy for it, in fact. I bombard Nate's inbox with running minutia and love pithy running wisdom. So imagine my pleasure to see Nate walk in while I was leaving my pre-race massage this morning. I haven't actually seen him in person since the summer, so I drooled over the opportunity to extract some last minute advice in person.

"So what should I do on Sunday?" I asked.

"Run," he said.

That was it. Run. No negative splits, no complex pacing strategy. I didn't even get a Yoda quote out of him. Well fine then, I'll run. Thanks for the wisdom, dude.

My favorite pre-race pep talks always come from the Dana-Farber coach, who is currently vacationing in Hawaii so he won't even see this shout-out. But Jack tells us to see the marathon as a graduation ceremony and not a final exam, to have a good race regardless of the clock. Now that's more like it.

Distractions

2009-01-12T16:53:00.003-05:00

In an attempt to distract myself from the pressure of staying healthy and accident free until Sunday, here are some news bits I've been accumulating and not yet posted...

Something to make the runner men and ladies yet to lease their wombs wish they'd endured childbirth: Paula Radcliffe and scientist people explain how pregnancy is better than speed work. However, my six months of Over Pro Nate amounts to a shorter gestation, even though it hurt about as much as back labor.

Feeling guilty about not stretching? You're absolved. The NY Times explains why a pre-run stretch is bogus and could actually hurt you. So use the time to check Facebook like I do.

Wishing you earned less money? Dummy. However, you're not the only stupid person looking for personal fulfillment, so go ahead and quit that lucrative job you're lucky to still have so you, too, can become a personal trainer. Or just wait to get laid off.

Wanna buy an eyesore for your kids that they'll love for 60 seconds?

Don't you go thinking that head cold means you can stay in bed. Get up, lazy bones! And take it from me, if you really want to get out of a run, better make it pneumonia.

And finally, the best acts in rock music will not be lining the course of the PF Chang Marathon on Sunday because they were already booked for a bunch of squares in Washington. There goes my fantasy of seeing Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce at a water stop. Damnit. Way to go, Smash Mouth, for having your priorities in order.

Self-Disclosure

2009-01-09T16:22:00.004-05:00

My kind host and RBF in Phoenix wrote a very funny post yesterday about telling her husband that I'm coming to their house for a few days next weekend. I was relieved to read his response was pretty nonchalant, but I feel the need to reinforce that I am not a total cyber freak and am pretty average, to be honest, despite my eager willingness to fly across the country and show up at a stranger's house for the weekend. (It's a good thing I met my husband the old-fashioned way--in a college dorm--or a naive desperation for romance in the internet age would probably find me in some dodgy scenario lookin' for love.)

To reassure Jessica's husband (and maybe Jessica, too): I am so average, you might regret inviting me because I'm boring, not because I'm weird.

Hair color? Brown.
SAT score? 50th percentile.
Salsa flavor? Medium.

I drive a station wagon. I shop at LL Bean. I go to bed at 9:30. I majored in psychology, which--along with English--is the most common college major for women. I am perhaps the furthest thing from edgy, exotic, or exciting. In fact, all of my strange qualities are wrapped up in running.

Sitting in ice baths? Running makes me do it.
Obsessing over hundredths of a mile? Running makes me do it.
Fixating on finding the perfect sock? Running makes me do it.

So now that you know I'm mostly average, I'll prove I'm going to be a good house guest.

I make my bed. I can set the table. I like kids and dogs. And the beautiful cactus wren. I love the Saguaro blossom. I'd like nothing more than to travel to the land of sunshine, the land where life is young.

So thank you again for taking me in next weekend. You'll know me at the airport because I'm the one with all the piercings and the pet skunk.

For Running's Sake

2009-01-08T09:49:00.005-05:00

Wow, who knew that people have such strong opinions about leg wear? Will you help me decide what to make for dinner tonight?

After your more-or-less unanimous (an oxymoron, I know) vote for shorts and checking the weather in Phoenix for the next 10 days, I've opted for tights. Just kidding. We'll go with the shorts. I don't want to jazz things up too much with tri shorts because I've never run in them before, so I'll just have to suffer from breezy nethers if it comes to that. Incidentally, the weather in Phoenix for the next 10 days pretty much looks like this:

Not to worry my gracious host, but it is quite possible I won't leave Arizona. It looks like it could be the perfect place to be a runner (except maybe in the summer), and I could see that if I lived somewhere dry with highs in the low 70s, I'd run every day just for the sake of running, without needing a race to motivate me to train. I can't do that here, where we need a heated driveway to go anywhere in the winter and the plows see my street as a hopeless case not worth their time.

My husband endures all this and runs for the sake of running anyway, but I need races. He won't register for the Hyannis half in February because he's cheap and self-motivated and figures a PR set on a random run alone is as good as one set by a chrono-chip. I would like to be this way, but I have a chair-rail to build.

I'm trying to acquire enough bib numbers from races to make a chair-rail around our treadmill room, which is not very big so it shouldn't take me too long. But I do need to run races in order to get them and the significance would be kind of lost if I just asked my friends for their old bibs.

I'd toyed with treating 2009 as a "fun run" year after six months of pretty intense training, but then it occurred to me that I need goals and plans and a feeling of progress toward something. I won't let myself register for another marathon until I finish writing the book, which is actually great motivation to write, but I would really like to break 1:40 in the half-marathon this year. Hyannis isn't going to be the race that I do it in but I want to run it anyway. I gave Brian dibs on Hyannis because someone has to watch Henry, but he hasn't registered. My guess is he'll pick some day in February and run 13 miles around here and be happy with that.

But I kind of think that for me, a race is a fun run. So maybe 2009 will be the year of the fun run anyway.

Preaching and Practicing

2009-01-06T12:51:00.002-05:00

I've got a blog post about winter fitness and mental health up over at the Athleta web site today if you'd like to cruise on over there. Within days of writing it, I went for my 22-mile run, leaving the house when it was below 22 degrees and the base of my driveway looked like a skating rink. By mile 19, my water bottles had frozen on my fuel belt, which of course I didn't notice until after I had an envelope's worth of Roctane in my mouth. I did not like winter so much in that moment, but I stand by the mental value of winter exercise. The Athleta post also has a little tidbit from the interviews I've been conducting with running moms.

In other less interesting news, I am having a very intense internal debate between capri tights and shorts for the Phoenix race. I've never been to Arizona and while I imagine it's a good deal warmer than here at 7:30 a.m., I don't think it's going to be a sauna (thankfully). One thing's for sure, I don't think I'll need to worry about frozen water bottles. Or will I? This is a serious fashion conundrum, people.

The 7th 20 (Plus 2)

2009-01-04T12:26:00.004-05:00

Sweet, sweet taper love. I did my last 20-miler (22, if we're gonna get technical) this morning. I can't believe that I did seven 20-22 milers in this training, with three of them over 20 miles. A ginormous thanks to my dad, Kevin (x2), Brian, Johna & Lori, and Jill for running a lot of those miles with me. Next Sunday's 12 is a long-awaited dream.

And as much as it pains me to credit Nate, piling up on 20-milers apparently makes them easier. This morning's run was by far the easiest 20 I've ever run, and I didn't lollygag on it. Having Jill Of The 2:58 Marathon (as she shall henceforth be known, until she becomes Jill Of The Olympic Trials) pace me on the last 12 with great conversation and a lot of "almost there!"s helped me average an 8:44 pace with the last two miles at 8:13 and 7:52.

It was exactly the confidence boost I wanted from my final 20 in November before the Philly taper, and I feel so ready for this thing that I'm going to have to really focus my attention on staying healthy for the next two weeks. Beyond my daily regimen of Emergen-C (twice a day) and my pathological application of Purell, I'm not entirely sure what else I can do to avoid germs. If something gets in the way of this marathon, I will quit running forever. Or until Hyannis.

Aside from a viral or bacterial impediment, the rest of my body feels really strong. I'm in the process of breaking in a radically different pair of shoes since Nate realized I was running in an idiotic combo of orthotics and stability shoes--like lacing up a pair of loaf pans perhaps. It seems a tad risky to switch to a new brand and a neutral shoe with two weeks until the race, but my feet seem happier and I have the Over Pro Nate stamp of approval, so we'll go with that. Today's run was the first one in 6 weeks where neither my arch nor my glutes/hamstrings were bothering me. In addition to the Sauconys, I credit yesterday's hot yoga and I'm going back tomorrow for another class to loosen up what contracted today.

As a follow-up to some of the expert feedback I got on my yoga post, it turns out I wasn't taking bikram; it's ashtanga. Attention to detail is not my forte. Regardless, the hot and sweaty stretchy stretchy (the translation of "ashtanga," no?) works. A lingering question I have is whether or not the final corpse pose has a physiological benefit because I'm always tempted to say my namastes and skip out from class at that point, so maybe Sage or Om Gal can answer that if they're reading this post. Mentally, the pose seems quite useful for generating a grocery list, but I'd love to know if it's also when the yoga sparkles saturate my muscles and make the ouchies go away.

Other than Henry's truly appalling restaurant behavior (has your kid ever yelled "Don't touch me!" in the middle of a packed room?--apologies to the Sullivan family who endured it), there's little amusement from my weekend to share. I think this might be a good thing, since I usually draw humor from my Murphy's Law moments. Don't worry, some bone will surely snap or I'll develop heat stroke from yoga by Friday. Then we'll all have a good chuckle together.

A Year in Review

2008-12-31T15:40:00.027-05:00

My favorite year-end summaries are always the photo essays in Time and the New York Times because of what you can glean about the year just from pictures, so I'm going to summarize 2008 in 12 photos instead of writing it up. Also, I'm lazy.

January
I was diagnosed with early plantar fasciitis, but once I started a love affair with ice, it cleared up.

February
I ran the Hyannis "Narathon" Relay with Brian and fetched a PR of 1:45:40 and a strong dislike of race photos not taken by my husband.

March
A winter of record snow accumulation made running very unpleasant, but I never missed a long run.

April
I completed my second marathon, in Boston, with a PR of 4:01:22 and a ridiculous grin at mile 17.

May
My new job exhausted us all, and I resolved to run faster in order to maintain the work-family balance.

June
We went to Cape Cod, and I stared at the ocean in one of my last moments of calm contentment before I got a coach who embarassed me in front of some Kenyans and then told me to run 24/7.

July
To impress my new coach the week I signed on with him, I pushed a 5k and got an unexpected 3rd place age group finish; I also made a mental note to stand up straight.

August
Running was inconsequential this month because I had an imaginary affair with Bruce Springsteen while Brian took Henry camping. I did, however, quit that job to write a book about mothers who run.

September
I found out I really, really don't like hot trail races, but later in the month I PRed in the Maine Coast half-marathon with a 1:43:34 after a pep talk from Kathrine Switzer.

October
I ran part of one of my 20 milers at the Lowell Sun Half-Marathon; Henry appreciated the foil blanket far more than I enjoyed that day.

November
I found out I really, really don't like watching races from the sidelines, but I was proud of my dad's 2:01 half-marathon nonetheless.

December
The month was marked by losing power for several days after an ice storm, but I'll prefer to remember that on the last day of 2008, I taught my son to x-c ski and snowshoe.

I was planning to write my resolutions with this post, but on second thought, I don't feel like my next year in running can begin until I finish out this marathon season. After Phoenix on Jan 18, I'll come up with some resolutions, but right now, all resolutions are channeled into my resolve to run that race as well as I can.

Happy New Year! I'm going to bed--yes, at 8:15: I have speed work on the mill tomorrow morning.

Back For Reals

2008-12-29T20:29:00.004-05:00

First we were kicked out of the house by a 4-day power outage. Then we came back, unpacked, and three days later repacked and left again for 8 days in PA. But now we're back for keeps, or until they foreclose on the house because we spent the mortgage to pay for Henry's Christmas.

With only one kid and few friends who don't think my name is "Henry's Mom," the holidays are rarely a swingin' social scene for me. So I was surprised that I felt overwhelmed by merry making and couldn't find my way to Blogger for a few days. My first resolution for 2009? Reprioritize so that holidays of love and cheer with my family don't take the place of the spiritual fulfillment of watching blog comments roll in.

It wasn't all hugs, rum balls, and nog toasts last week, however. (Although eating the rum balls did take a lot of quality time.) I deposited another 20 miler in the training bank--a 21.5 miler to be precise--with a knitting buddy of my mom's who ran 3 marathons in 5 weeks this fall. Not something I'll aspire to, but impressive nonetheless. I also don't think I'll ever be a runner who will agree to do 20 miles with someone I've never met just to be nice, though for all the people who have done that for me this year, I'm feeling the karmic pressure to pay it forward down the road. I have one more biggie (22 miles) left before the taper, and we'll see who I can sucker into running with me.

It could be dear sweet Brian, who's back to running and pulled the stunt of all stunts on Sunday by running a solo half-mary under 1:50 after not running further than 8 miles in almost a year and never running 13 miles that fast. While I may have quite possibly told him the act was really stupid, what's more stupid is that a) he did my speed workout for this week (13 miles @ MP), b) he told me about it afterward, and c) said he felt good doing it.

"Hello, Babysitter? I need you for 2 hours so my husband can pace 13 miles for me on Thursday."

Dummy. But a debonair, witty, intelligent dummy whose dinner I "cook" (fine. "heat") nightly and to whom I gave this cherub:

Glad Tidings and Whatnot

2008-12-24T06:00:00.003-05:00

We've been in Pennsylvania since Saturday, after deciding it best to get out of Massachusetts while we could. We left--we thought--between storms, but it turned out that we drove through heinous snow until New York and arrived in southern PA to beautiful town void of the white stuff (snow, not 10X sugar--they have plenty of that).

I was supposed to run 20 last weekend, but begged Nate to let me ski instead on Saturday before we left. I didn't get to ski because we couldn't leave the driveway until Brian argued with the snowblower for an hour and then got bit by the neighbors'
dog. We had to skip town before ths driveway was covered by powder (snow, not cocaine) again, so the skiing didn't happen.

When I got up Sunday morning, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a greenish lawn and ice-free roads. Damnit. I knew I had to suck it up and run my 20. Suck being the operative word, I struggled through the hellaciously windy run with a particularly hyper bladder, shoes that were chafing my left foot, and some cranky hamstrings. I did the run--with the company of Brian for the final 8 miles--at an average 8:45 pace, which made me happy and now I've got a solid 20 in the bank. I reminded myself of this strong run today when I blew off my speed work in early celebration of the birth of the baby Jesus. Oh yeah, I'm religious now.

I'm to run another 20 with a friend of my mom's on Saturday. She's another of those hard core people who will run 20 miles with me "just cuz."

Since I'll probably not post before that run, I'll wish you all a day of gluttony and lethargy tomorrow.

...because Peace Joy Electrolytes was taking things a bit too far.

Happy holidays, everyone! Wishing you health, wellness, and your personal best in 2009.

Makes Your Run Taste Like Pie

2008-12-19T15:24:00.004-05:00

So I have a small confession to make to the Roctane people: I'd already tried their Gu before they offered to send me some to review. But the fact that I was willing to "test" it already shows that I endorse the stuff. I didn't use gels much before this year but decided I needed to try them again because the jaw action of chewing those beans was wearing me out, and no one wants to bonk from jaw fatigue.

I went to the running store and asked the owner about Roctane, and he looked at me and said, "You know it has twice the stuff of regular gels, right?" He hadn't tried it but thought it might not be the best option for someone of my size, implying that my constitution was better matched to cotton candy or something equally fluffy. His raised eyebrows and suggestion that it was too powerful for me of course meant that I bought three of them, thinking I'll show him how well I can handle bowels lined with concrete.

I brought it on a sultry 16-mile run this summer and took one at mile 13. Suffice it to say, it was the run where I averaged marathon pace for the entire distance.

The stuff is good.

I had begun to flag when I downed the Roctane, but within a minute, it was like my battery had been recharged, and I ran the last three miles of that run like the prior 13 hadn't happened.

The stuff is that good.

There were no concrete bowels, so I've used it ever since, even though it costs more, and now I will use it more often because I have a whole lot of it for free. I might even describe the little packet of goo as beautiful, if that isn't going too far, which it might be, so I will stick with "really, really good."

Now "good," of course, can mean different things. Roctane is good fuel, quicker to take effect and more powerful than beans, Bloks, or other gels I've tried in the past.

Does it make me gag like the other gels? A smidgen of a thick-throated hiccup may have occurred, and it still takes me three gulps from the envelope to get it down, but the results are worth it. Besides, the gagging may have more to do with the blueberry flavor's allusion to the clinic scene in Juno where the receptionist associates the condoms with pie. Sorry to share that, but there you have it.

The vanilla-orange flavor conjures no such images and so it has been my preference, though if you have a powerful enough imagination, your mind will probably take you to a similar place. Sorry again.

So, Roctane people, I love your product, regardless of what it makes me think of because it is powerful, awesome stuff and it makes me like running when I otherwise would hate it. More flavor options would be appreciated, maybe something that makes me think of frosting on a doughnut. Of course then I might actually just eat it for a snack when I'm bored, and that might not be a great idea.

Powerful, But Blue

2008-12-17T11:07:00.004-05:00

We're home and powerful again. It took four days and an $850 windfall for our plumber, but we're happy to be in our house in time to watch 4 inches of snow delay my speed work today. I won't complain, though, because friends are still without electricity today and have no lights in their sights*. More snow is due on Friday, and I'll be running a frigid 20-degree 20 miler on the 20th this weekend. If not for the poetry of the triple-20**, I might have a hard time finding motivation to do it.

When I came home Monday to check on the house, I found a box from the Roctane people, who have asked me to test out and review their Gu. I gave a little insanity-giggle at the fuel on my doorstep, kind of like the laugh we got when the oil truck showed up Saturday morning to fill our tank while the plumber was blowing water out of our pipes so they wouldn't freeze. I opened the Roctane package to find enough Gu to see me through a dozen marathons (or kill me if ingested all at once), and I'll review it after my 4 x 3 miles @ MP on the treadmill this afternoon.

I'm just getting back to blog reading--62 posts in my reader kept me from commenting. I did see a post, however, that merits sharing. Dick Mansfield of Vitesse Press blogged a new book called The 8 Colors of Fitness, which uses a short personality quiz to determine your fitness style. I'm blue--committed and conscientious about my very boring fitness routine. I don't try wacky new trends like stripper aerobics*** and tend to be prefer straightforward and proven training plans. This all sounds pretty accurate, though I'd much prefer to be a saffron seeker of truth than a plain-and-simple running droid. My favorite quality of blue runners? "They'll have fun some other time." That sounds about right for me lately.

*I have proposed a January cocktail event so that we all might "get lit" to celebrate the survival of the ice storm. She who lost power longest wins an evening of free drinks. And perhaps a supply of candles, water, and batteries.
**That, and the expectation of a giant slab of red meat and a lot of liquor Saturday night to reward myself.
***Perhaps to the chagrin of my husband.

So How's Your Weekend Going?

2008-12-14T09:13:00.009-05:00

This story begins on Wednesday in northern Massachusetts, when it was 60 degrees and raining. The story isn't over yet.

It rained nonstop from Wednesday to Friday morning. Very early Friday, around 3 a.m., I woke up to hear Brian bumbling around the house with a flashlight. The power was out. I wasn't worried because the power went out a couple weeks ago and came back in a few hours. He said he was hearing freaky noises--crashing noises. He couldn't see anything weird in the house so he came back to bed.

When we got up Friday morning, the house was frigid--still no power. We built a fire in the fireplace and I sent Brian down to the road to see what was up. Trees down across the road to the left, and a power line down across the road to the right. Not good.

This was the backyard.

Ugh.

Our neighbor intimated it would be days before the lines were repaired, so after Brian drove out to find coffee (yes, across the downed line and several others along the way), I went to find a hotel. Our town looks like a tornado blasted through. The rain overnight froze on the trees and the weight of the ice coupled with the wind brought down branches, entire trees, and the power lines they fell on. We were fortunate that nothing fell on our house, but we lost power, heat, water, phone, and cell service.

The thing is, a devastating ice storm looks and smells beautiful, like winter on crack. The smell of pine and sap is thick and the crisp air is cleansing to inhale. Neverless, we were disempowered and displaced.

I found a hotel on the other side of our town that had power, booked a room, and came back home to fetch the boys, who were letting the fire burn down. The hotel has a great gym that I used to belong to, so I was actually pretty upbeat at this point. I knew I could keep some normalcy just by keeping my running routine alive, and the hotel would be like a mini-vacation for Henry.

At home, I packed the most essential things: Garmin, running clothes, gels (I had a long run to do), and maybe some clothes for my kid. I grabbed a bottle of rum--wouldn't want to let that go bad--and a box of cookies, and we were all set.

We got to the hotel around noon and by 1:30, my watch was charged. The good and bad of running is that you can do it anywhere, so living out of a hotel, ice falling like shattered light bulbs, and power lines dangling from the sky like vines, I thought it would be a perfect time to do my long run.

Fourteen miles with the last three miles sub-MP later, I was back at the hotel. I didn't electrocute myself or fall victim to any crashing trees, but a couple cars in front of the hotel nearly hit me. Figures.

I walked back into the lobby very happy with the run (despite the persistent arch pain) and saw something I was not happy to see. Lights out. Good God. Back in the room, I was told the power had shut down 10 minutes before.

We scrambled for a Plan B (C?) and after an early, MSG-rich dinner at the first restaurant we saw with electricity, we were back at the hotel to pack up our stuff. We decided that Brian needed to keep the home fires burning, quite literally, so the pipes wouldn't freeze. Henry and I dropped him off for a cold, dark prison sentence in our house, and Brian spent a loooooooooooong night without any contact with the outside world. He read and dozed and chucked logs on the fire from 7 p.m. to 10 a.m., when Henry and I drove back from our Plan C lodging in Somerville to liberate my scruffy, sleepy husband. I couldn't believe there was actually rum left in the bottle I'd donated to Brian for the night.

Saturday morning, I'd called the plumber from the road and he met us at the house to drain the pipes so Brian wouldn't have to spend another 48 hours imprisoned in our living room. While the plumber charged us God-knows-what for Saturday emergency service, Henry packed more clothes and we assaulted the utility crew at the bottom of the driveway with doughnuts and questions.

They knew nothing in terms of when power would be restored and had not seen damage like this in their 30 years of work for the power company. They appreciated the doughnuts, however.

I took Saturday off from running. Instead, I ate at Dunkin Donuts, MacDonald's, and Red Bones, a great bbq joint in Somerville.

After the pipes were drained and the house winterized, we considered hopping a plane to Florida for a month, but opted to stay closer to home. We spent another night in Somerville, where poor Henry reached the pinnacle of his disorientation after spending two days at home-hotel-home-Somerville-home-Somerville.

So we're still in Somerville, where Henry is tormenting a cat and playing princess. And we're drinking rum. I can't wait to feel empowered again.

To be continued...

Yoga Is Not Running

2008-12-10T20:08:00.004-05:00

It's a Thursday blog post so what do you want? What I mean by the title is that yoga is probably the closest thing to the active inverse of running. It's the antidote.

After dealing with arch pain for the past month--even with 10 days off running in there--I finally decided to do something about it. Coincidentally, I was drinking cocktails with Life As I Know It when she revealed that bikram (hot) yoga was quite possibly a life altering experience when she used to take class from Baron Baptiste. Not usually one for hyperbole, Life's bikram encounters intrigued me. I, for one, would like my life altered, and even if yoga can't alter my entire existence, maybe bikram could alter the bottom of my right foot.

So I impulsively took a bikram class yesterday morning. The last time I tried bikram, I was classified as a top-quality privy, a compliment that gave me the confidence to try it again this many years later. After yesterday's 80-degree flex and sweat session, I am happy to report that I am just as much the brick shithouse I was at 25: unbending and still full of crap.

I'm pretty certain bikram will be the magic elixir to running's poisons. What running shortens and inflames, 90 minutes of down dogs would seem to tug out. After class, I was talking to the instructor about feeling the arch pain on the right-side balancing poses, and she shared the guiding principle of yoga: "Stop if it hurts."

Huh. What a novel idea. "You're saying that there's no pushing past the yoga wall?"

So yoga is not running. The stretching and the stillness, the Enya and the Moby. There are no baseball caps and no numbers. The only digits are the ones on the mat, through which my heart breath is supposedly flowing in response to the sound of the gong. While it's possible that my third eye rolled a couple times during class, I definitely dig the down dogs. And my body loved feeling the opposite sensations to running. My hamstrings might have whispered "hallelujah" at one point, which was sufficiently spiritual for me. I do think I'll get into the philosophy of it as well, eventually. I'm just in a phenomenological place right now.

And this morning I woke up with a little less foot pain. But my triceps hurt like hell.

How To Get Money Out of People in a Recession

2008-12-09T13:53:00.003-05:00

Sorry I've been MIA lately; I know how much I mean to you (sarcasm alert). The return to serious training* and a manic interview schedule** for the book have zapped my will to blog. On top of that, I substituted yesterday morning's short run with some cross-training for my index finger while I tried to register for the Covered Bridges Half-Marathon, one of the most popular half-marys in the country, I would guess, based on the number of times I clicked Refresh to get into active.com, which was impenetrable from runners skipping their morning miles to secure a bib number. It took me 40 minutes, but I got in. The race closed in an hour.

While I was doing repeats with my finger, I considered the option of running the race for charity if I didn't get in. I trained for Boston two years as a member of the Dana-Farber team, and while this may be the worst possible year for fundraising since 1922, I did figure out some ways to raise money that could still work this year if you're running for charity.

The first thing to know is that it is surprising how much money one can raise running for charity. I thought I'd have to hound my family and friends for months on end, and while there were isolated cases where someone pledged but never donated, the majority of people were amazingly generous with just one request. I thought my friends were cheapskates like me, but it turns out they're kind and giving.... And now I'm coughing up money for their fundraising, too, so they made me generous in return. Go ahead, shed a tear.

Lesson 1. Ask everyone you know, and don't feel bad about it.

The blog has also been an inspiring source for fundraising. Donors like to know how your running is going, and you get the random outstanding readers you've never met who donate. These people rock my world.

Lesson 2. Start a blog. Get yourself a web presence.

More specific ideas that I've used have come from thinking creatively and looking for opportunities to raise money everywhere. I hope other DFMC readers and charity runners will comment on this post with their ideas, but here's what I've done to raise $13,000 in two years of fundraising:

Ask your salon to host a cut-a-thon. The stylists come in on a Sunday, donate their time, and the salon donates all money from that day of services to your charity. It's a tax write-off for them and an easy fundraiser for you. I raised about $2500 this way.

Sell stuff on Cafe Press. The site is easy to navigate, and it's straightforward to set up a shop. Although Cafe Press takes a big cut, you can generate a nice little monthly cash flow into your fundraising without doing anything at all after the original designs. I raised between $100-$300/month this way.

Sell your old crap (er, antique rarities) on ebay and donate the money to your charity.

Create and sell notecards or holiday cards. I raised about $600 this way.

I also considered running people's dogs in exchange for a donation, though I didn't ever follow through on it. Seemed like an easy way to multi-task fundraising with training, though.

Lesson 3. Look for options everywhere, especially ways that give people something in exchange for their donation. This is huge, especially in a tough economy.

Another thing is to make it known to everyone that you're running for a charity. Seriously. I know it might sound pretentious, but if you look for ways to be subtle about it, everyone will know without thinking you're obnoxious. I think. Ask my acquaintances; they might tell you I am rather obnoxious for dropping it into conversation. Regardless, this is how you find out who your real friends are. Real friends like you even if you are a pain in the ass. The point is that people will often donate if they know what you're doing, even if they aren't close enough to you to receive a letter requesting money. Most people will be impressed and not annoyed by you.

Lesson 4. Make your training known.

Finally, if you can at all manage it, fail to finish your marathon. After I suffered my DNF from injury, I emailed people to let them know what had happened. An anonymous donor gave $1500 immediately to help me meet my fundraising goal. The outcome? You can't always get what you want, but sometimes, you get what you need.

Lesson 5. Fail.

So there you have it. It is possible to raise money for charity without knowing Bill Gates, turning tricks on the town green, or selling your kid's ADD meds outside the high school. But those are other ideas you might consider.

*Did my first Nate-ified speed session in a month today, and I feel like toasted crap, which could be good or bad, depending on how you look at speed work. Workout was 12 x 1 mile @ marathon pace (8:20) with 1-minute rest intervals and a 1 mile warmup = 14.2 miles in the treadmill torture chamber with morning TV. Take-away lessons: This Jesse McCartney fellow is a scary piece of adolescence, and I liked Darius Rucker much better as Hootie. Also, it's trippy to watch clips Kathie Lee Gifford play with a yodeling pickle after taking Roctane Gu.

**We've crossed the 20-mother mark with lots more to go. Thanks, gals, for running away from your children and telling me all about it.

Snaps for all the awesome racers last weekend: Jess, Aron, Jill. Jill's 2:58 at CIM means we will never share the same hour in a marathon PR. Oh, well. You're still my mentor in running and beautiful hair.

Dear Santa,

2008-12-06T19:24:00.004-05:00

I have been very good this year. I raised $5500 for cancer research and donated to the NPR pledge drive. I also resisted the temptation to sell drugs to augment our dwindling 401k and made it through another year without Henry learning the F-word.

I know you usually reserve your efforts for the children, but I am very immature so I hope you'll consider my case. I also know that you're not God, but frankly you're pretty close to a deity in this country, so I think you might be able to give me the Christmas present I really want.

I don't need sparkly baubles or anything. And I know that like everyone, you likely need to cut costs*, so my request is more or less free.

I just want to stay healthy until January 19, 2009**.

I'm doing everything I can to make it happen on my own, but I figure it can't hurt to send a letter to someone who manages to stay healthy for the year's ultimate endurance event after a long season of sitting for photos with drippy-nosed youth. I've seen A Year Without A Santa Claus and know the kind of mayhem that ensues when you get a cold. Imagine all the hard work that would be wasted from walking pneumonia. Now you get me.

So, please, 6 weeks of health. It's all I want.

Unless you're feeling generous. Then, I'd like health and a 3:40 in Phoenix. And a gift certificate to the Sports Authority.

Thank you very much and good luck on your big night. Think negative splits, Nick.

Sincerely,

Kristina

**A subtle hint to my gift recipients this year: I hope you enjoy the poem and photo of Henry you're getting.

**To include cold, flu, running-related injuries, and injuries related to flying toys.

The Hills

2008-12-04T10:55:00.004-05:00

I have almost 7 weeks to get myself ready for Phoenix, so this week I'm back in training mode again. How much do I hate that my 10 days off only came from being sick? It was such a waste of lethargy. If I'm not going to run, I don't want the reason to be that I'm already soaking my jammies with sweat lying in bed.

Anyway, to "ease" me back into his (evil) training plan, Over Pro Nate had me do hill repeats this week for my workout*. I had to do a 15-second hill 8x with the instructions that I should run them like I'm "chasing down a kid in the street."

I'm a literal kind of girl, so Tuesday afternoon, I told Brian and Henry we were going outside. While I ran a 2-mile warm-up, Brian put our clueless kid in his headlamp and light-up shoes (it's dark at 4:00 here). I got back from my jog to see a beam of light bobbing at the top of the driveway, so I told Henry to come down, that we were going to run the driveway 8 times.

Being four years old, he lacked the common sense and knowledge of gravity to refuse. I wish I had a video of me chasing my kid up our driveway, particularly the moment when he told me he'd rather run down than up, as if to say, "Mommy, you're so stupid to run up. It's much easier going down!"

By the eighth round, the poor kid only made it about 50 feet before dropping. The rest of the way up I had to imagine the effort of rescuing him from traffic, darn it. Some kids are so uncooperative. I wanted to say that Santa doesn't bring toys to kids who can't run a hill 8 times, but I didn't want the neighbors to call DSS. So we came in, stretched, and refueled with chocolate milk.

Nate's response to my workout was great:

Very nice, not only do you get the right effort level, but short hills are super for the development of young ankle tendons and hip flexors. You improve and you help lay the ground work for little Henry's future olympic glory. I'm giving you an A+ all around for the day.

I got an A+! Now I wish I hadn't registered Pass/Fail. And with that kind of encouragement, Henry and I will begin to work on his core this weekend to lay the foundation for next week's workout:

12 x 1 mile @ marathon pace

Good luck to the racers this weekend, especially Jess in Tuscon, who will cruise her way to a sub-3:40. Also, good luck to Aron and Jill at CIM in Sacramento. Jill is going to break 3 hours this weekend after enduring an incredibly arduous season with Nate, twice as hard as what I'm doing.

*Isn't it classic that my coach calls the speed work my "workout," suggesting that the rest of the week's miles are more or less the equivalent of a day at the spa?

What do you think of these shoes?
Awesome in an ironic way, like a tribute to the post-Vietnam/pre-feminist Jane Fonda of the leotards No irony. They just ugly. Free is free. Quit your whining. This is a stupid poll. Go back to bed, Pinto.
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