Hot Child in the City

Today was my fourth consecutive gym workout (still no KBG!). I was feeling a little guilty and indulgent on my walk to the gym this morning, thinking about how I'm reaping the benefits of climate control in this Year Without a Summer. In addition to the obvious benefit of air conditioning in the gym as a whole, arriving at 5:45am also means I have my choice of treadmills, and can (and do) select one with a built-in fan. I might as well have the manicure lady from the spot next door come over and do my nails and put porn on my personal treadmill TV. I mean C-SPAN. Yeah, C-SPAN is definitely involved in my fantasy workout...

Anyway, I slogged it out for about and hour (and no, I didn't watch any TV) and then headed upstairs to do my squats. I try to do squats and lunges 2-3 times per week for "power," but in actuality I do them whenever my ass is looking or feeling particularly cottage cheesey. Typical catalysts include drunk ordering Papa John's (that's happened much more often than necessary of late) and after spending any time at my parents house, where Dudley tends to stuff me with so much food I wonder sometimes if he's preparing to eat me. For the record, the incident that prompted this morning's bout of lower body strength training was a program on Fox (naturally) called "More to Love." It's essentially the Bachelor for plus sized people. In addition to age, occupation, and hometown, contestants' height and weight are also displayed. Natashia, who sadly was sent home this week, was 5'10" and weighed 279 pounds. She was wearing a dress I own...

Back to the gym: I walk upstairs to do my lifting and stretching. I turn the corner to face a wall of mirrors and think, "Christ, that girl sweat a lot!" Oh wait, that girl is me! Keep in mind, this is after an hour of running in an air conditioned gym with a fan blowing directly on me. I'd be shocked if all three Hanson brothers don't want to take me home after 4 hours in Chicago...

"Aw, Honey, You Baked!"

Look what I made! Vegetarian pizza!

Ingredients:

Whole wheat pita

Tomato sauce

Arugula

Vegan ground "beef" (Morningstar Farms' "MealStarters" is really good. Defrost it first.)

Crumbled bleu cheese

Combine above ingredients in a pizza formation. Invest in a toaster oven. Turn it on. I went with 350 degrees, which worked, but that was mostly a coincidence. Put the pizza in. Cook it until it looks done. 14 minutes did the trick for me. Cut it into four pieces so you don't feel like a huge fat ass for wolfing the whole thing down in minutes. Run extra the next day on account of the bleu cheese...

Define "workout"

Just got back from 5 at the gym. I caved this morning and risked seeing Knee Brace Girl (she wasn't there!) after I walked onto my balcony at 5:35am and thought perhaps I had walked into an oven. That was moist. And dark. Crap, steam room is the analogy I should have gone with. Anyway, other than wishing I had set up some type of time elapse photography to watch the pigeons outside Molly's devour a large mound of vomit in the time I was at the gym, nothing particularly exciting happened, so instead, I'll write about why I didn't post yesterday.

Slept at the 'rents on Sunday night and made the dreaded Metro North commute yesterday morning, so I planned to go to the gym AFTER work yesterday. Got home from the office, changed into my gym clothes, and then, being the ever-efficient multi-tasker, grabbed the dress I needed to return to Bloomingdales and headed uptown. My plan was: return dress, go to the MetLife Building, workout at the gym there, which is huge and has good air conditioning, go home, feel accomplished. Alas, the whole plan was derailed when I remembered - it was the evening of the Bachelorette finale. I have my priorities, damnit!

"Well, fine. I'm already in these gym clothes. Why don't I walk home from Bloomingdales (37 blocks) and let that be my workout!" Never mind that 37 blocks is less than 2 miles. It was something, and I wasn't going to let a pesky upcoming 26.2 mile race or my hopes and dreams of finally breaking 4 hours get in my way of The Episode Before The After The Final Rose Part One End of Season Special of the Bachelorette!

It's worth noting that, because of my errand at Bloomingdales, I was carrying my purse, full of things like my wallet, Blackberry, work ID, a few pens, some makeup, a grocery list. Distinctly un-gym like. Furthermore, since I had come from work, I was also wearing a not insignificant amount of makeup and have blow dried, straightened, and generally over-styled hair. Nonetheless, I begin my trek home down Third Avenue, clad in sneakers, shorts, a technical tee (Country Music Marathon, no less), and the aforementioned huge Coach bag. Naturally, I made it about halfway before running into a friend from high school.

"Claire, what are you doing in this neighborhood?"

"Oh, I had an errand uptown, so now I'm just getting a little exercise." Significantly overcompensating for my sheepish prioritizing of the Jillian-Ed-Kiptyn (and Reid!) saga, I'm talking in a tone that suggests "don't question me. I run marathons."

"Yeah. I see." (Clearly reading my shirt and trying to reconcile what I look like with the sneakers on my feet. "You look so... put together for a workout. Do you always carry all that in your marathons?"

So busted...

P.S. Heelgate 2009 update: Last 2 workouts (not counting last night's grueling walk...) have been on the tready, and it's feeling okay today. Will continue to monitor.

P.P.S. Nina gave me a track workout. 20x100, then 10x200. That sounds truly awful. But depending on the weather tomorrow morning, perhaps I'll give it a try. Stay tuned.

Running in Circles

I wouldn't call what I did this morning a "track workout" - it was more like a "single lap around a track" (stop judging, I had to run to and from the track as well). I can say with some confidence that I haven't been on a track, unless it was crossing over it to get to another destination, since the winter of 2001. Unless you count the night of the Jurassic 5 concert, during which I probably ran a few laps before calling the pizza delivery man, forgetting my own phone number, laughing hysterically, and then crying.

In any event, there is a track in the East River Park that I pass every morning. I never use it though, because I'm not entirely sure how to do a track workout. I mean, if it's just running, well then I'd rather keep going in a straight line and see new and different things, as opposed to running in circles and seeing the same homeless man passed out on the bleachers each lap (and buddy, if you're going to pass out in the sun, you need some sunscreen). But I felt like this was a missed opportunity on my part, and there are always plenty of people working out on the track in the mornings, so as I passed it on my return uptown this morning, I went in!

Clearly I'm no track expert, and the one I worked out on in high school (Go Garnets!) was made of concrete and 1/3 covered in goose shit, but this track is pretty bad ass. It's made of that spongy track material (I'm pretty sure that's actually recycled sneakers, which reminds me that everyone should donate/recycle their old sneakers!) and as soon as I stepped out there, I felt like there was tremendous potential to do awesome things. What those things are though, I don't yet know.

So, my next project is this: find a track workout. I think this will be to my benefit, because track workouts are generally for speed (right?), and that's what I need for Chicago. That, and 26.2 miles of endurance. Suggestions are welcome, as are running companions and spectators. You can sit next to the homeless man on the bleachers.

P dot S still have that left heel pain, especially in the morning, which indicates plantar fasciitis. Ugh. Will call the podiatrist if not healed (heeled! BA-dum-dum) by Monday. And I'll save the story of my last encounter with the podiatrist for another time...

Happy Friday friends! Let's do this.

Mmm Bop!

I forgot to mention something rather crucial: Hanson is playing at the House of Blues in Chicago the weekend of the marathon. Let the countdown begin!

That third Hanson fellow on the right there doesn't appear to subscribe to the clean living the others support...

It's a Hell of a Town

I'm going to make it quick this morning because I smell God awful from such a humid run. Just wanted to share some insights on the amazing, gorgeous, bad-ass things you see when you wake up at 5:30 to run in New York.

The Williamsburg Bridge (the turnaround for my short runs). Not the most photogenic of mornings, weather wise, but sometimes I just think "how awesome is it that this is my workout?" Will follow up with a Brooklyn Bridge pic tomorrow, hopefully. Even more awesome.

The midtown skyline. Again, a hazy morning, but I love seeing the East River on my right and the whole city on my left. And not just because that means I've turned around and am on my way home. There's something amazing about running in the city and yet being in a park and therefore just removed enough that you're not dodging the bus coming up to FDR Drive (of note, Kelly Killoren Bensimon on the Real Housewives of NYC was 100% making up the fact that people run in traffic. Unless those "people" want to die.).

A semi-automatic weapon with a homemade bayonet. Forgive me for the blurry and off-center shot (no pun intended), but I took this one on the fly this morning for fear that perhaps the craftsman of this weapon might find the taking of photographic evidence objectionable. In any case, I'm thankful for the things that remind me to pick up the pace.

P dot S - Was dealing with some heel pain in my left foot yesterday and this morning. Hoping it's not plantar fasciitis, which is a huge pain (literally) to deal with. Stay tuned...

The Year Without a Summer

When my alarm went off at 5:24 this morning, I was actually psyched (that's a lie. Unless "psyched" is a synonym for "suicidal."). I've been feeling pretty nauseous and just generally not my athletically-inclined self for about a week, but I think I'm finally getting my shit together and was excited to go out for a run this morning. Alas, it was not to be. For this is New York, and I dare you to find a place that has worse weather in the summer.

Now, don't get me wrong, I've been known to run in the rain. And to be sure, if there's a downpour on race day, I'm still at the starting line. But after my 5 day hiatus, I was looking forward to conditions that would entice me a little bit more. "What about the gym?" you ask. It's true, I (and by that I clearly mean my dad) pay a significant fee to belong to New York Sports Club, and it's that very gym membership that not only got me through long winters with mornings too dark to run, but also provided me with the fodder for my previous yogic post. But I will only run at the gym in the mornings if I really, really have to. Not because I don't like treadmill running, or because I don't like the facilities. It's because of Knee Brace Girl.

Knee Brace Girl has the power, singlehandedly, to ruin my mornings. I think she knows it too, because out of 25-odd treadmills at the gym, Knee Brace Girl will, without fail, get onto one in my vicinity. I know, I know, there's nothing wrong with a girl wearing a knee brace. Except if you're Knee Brace Girl. I am seething just thinking about her.

My relationship with Knee Brace Girl began sometime over the winter or early spring, when I was at the gym most mornings preparing for Nashville. I would arrive shortly before 6:00am and set up shop at the far end of the gym, where the employees would be less likely to notice that I was committing the mortal sin of morning exercise - exceeding the 30 minute time limit (sidenote - I think my next experiment will be training for a marathon in 30 minute increments. Then, after I die during the race, someone should point this fact out to New York Sports Club, and suggest that maybe they rethink this policy). Knee Brace Girl would arrive between 6:30 and 7:00 and position herself a treadmill or two away. Now here's the kicker. Knee Brace Girl, as you may have guessed, wore a knee brace. HOWEVER, said brace was worn OVER her running tights. FURTHERMORE, this brace was pulled up about 2 inches too low, which positioned the hole of the knee brace directly below the knee. IT INFURIATED ME. There is no possible way this knee brace was providing even the minimal support or assistance it is intended to provide. AND I am of the opinion that people who wear Neoprene braces OVER their clothing do so for the sole purpose of hinting to other gym-goers that they are badass. Let me tell ya something, Knee Brace Girl - you are far from badass.

Anyway, so I'd be there, blowing my nose into my t-shirt and doing my thing, and Knee Brace Girl would get on the treadmill next to me and start walking. Fine, no judgment here. Friday night I couldn't so much as walk myself from the bar to the street to hail a cab. But then she would peer over at my treadmill. Presumably, she checked out how fast I was running, for how long, what my incline was. Hell, maybe she was looking at my heart rate. The point is, KNEE BRACE GIRL WAS JUDGING ME!

In summation, I only go to the gym in the mornings if I really can't avoid it, and being 3 months out from Chicago, I'm willing to sacrifice my workout this morning for the sake of not holding a girl's face against the treadmill as it's moving. Too much?

P dot S - The ten day forecast for Gotham City includes rain, everyday. Something tells me I'm going to have a few gems to post as the week progresses. Until then, be well.

Namaste

My apologies, dear reader (okay, that means you, Nina) for the delay in new material. As you may have heard, my weekend was a bit OMG WTF?!?!?!?! But, never one to shy away from adversity (actually, I ALWAYS shy away from adversity, so I don't really know what's come over me), I went to yoga last night. OMG WTF version 2.0.

Many elite marathoners are strong proponents of yoga as "active rest." I'm more of a proponent of actual restful rest, myself. Anyway, it's meant to "engage your core" and "strengthen and stabilize" shit and also obviously stretch parts of you that you probably didn't know you had. Well that it did, and my backus middlus proximal to the spinius hurts like fuck. Oh sorry, I mean, "feels elongated." Whatever.

I walk into this class last night, which I've attended a few times before, and the instructor, who's been on vacation it seems, asks who attended the class with the substitute in his absence. He asks how the sub was, and a few students say "she was easier than you." Uh-oh. So then he starts talking about how "we" are an advanced class and "we" are always willing to try hard poses and deep stretches and he knew "we" could handle anything he threw at "us." Lovely.

You're supposed to clear your mind for your yoga practice, which seemed like a good enough reason for me to go. The instructor suggested that if we were having trouble letting go of our thoughts, we try a manta. His personal favorites are "Let Go" and "Surrender." I went with "Fuck You." Worked like a charm.

This class is advertised as 1 hour. About 45 minutes in, as I am standing on my left leg, holding the toe of my right foot outstretched in front of me in the "yoga toe lock," with my left arm wrapped around my back, I glance at the clock (deeply frowned upon in yoga. My "Fuck You" mantra works on all those pretentious yoga students judging me too, you know) and think, "Thank God, in about 5 minutes, we get to the lying on the floor part." But what's this? Planks and warriors? Those are fancy names for push ups and lunges. I'm onto you, yogi man. Flames are literally leaping from my thighs, and at one point my arms actually collapsed and I fell directly onto my chin, Brennan Joyce circa 2002 style. Get to the lying on the floor part!

At 70 minutes in, I'm concerned that I'm doing significant intestinal damage by grinding my right heel into my left hip crease while engaged in a forward bend and spinal twist (just go with me, here). I am also pouring with sweat and getting pretty tired of looking at the dirty feet of the girl in front of me.

Finally, at 80 minutes, the best part - corpse pose. Lie on the floor. Don't move. This, I can get into. After about 5 minutes, the instructor "calls back to our consciousness" and the class is over. "Sorry I ran over today, I was just so excited to be back with all of you." I think my mantra for next week will be "Don't Go."

Found one

In case it's in any way unclear, the above is a picture of me, taken by the lovely people at marathonfoto.com, at the Vancouver Marathon in 2008. I'm blowing a snot rocket.

I'll drink to that.

NBC wants photos, so photos they shall get.

Do you know what these are? (And if you stay “a dumpy pair of legs” I’ll reach through this monitor and rip your face off). These, dear reader, are compression socks. “Engineered to promote circulation” and “improve veinous function,” they’ll run you about $50 a pair, and being the most expensive of their kind, I naturally bought a pair.

They are pretty awesome actually. After hard runs, I put these bad boys on before bed and I swear to you, my legs feel not God awful when I wake up. They’re like coffee for the extremities, minus the (albeit helpful) increase in digestive velocity. Best of all, they keep my dirt ass feet from making my sheets dirty while I sleep, which is exceeding helpful given that my dry cleaner (also the most expensive of its kind) has recently lost a good portion of my wardrobe and I may have burned my bridges with them when I went bonkers and threatened to call the Better Business Bureau. Okay, and maybe I also threatened to DELIVER FLOWERS TO the place. Whatever.

Anyway, I feel I should mention not just that I’m a proponent of these recovery socks, but that I’m also, generally speaking, not a gimmicky athlete type. Having gone to college, I acquired quite a few cotton t-shirts advertising various parties, sporting events, friends’ Greek affiliations, and in one instance, my penchant for body art, whipped dairy dessert, and baby talk. In any case, aside from race shirts, I see no need to indulge in the finest microfiber wicking outlayers and underwears and the things I see That Girl (you know the one) running in at the gym. Unfortunately, that also means that while some runners are matching and put together on race day and get photos that like they came from the pages of Runner’s World, mine look the Montauk Monster is out for his daily workout.

Remind me to find a suitable photo to share with you. Until then, I'll let you begin your weekend with the mental image I've just created.

Happy Friday, friends. Be well.

Breakfast of Champions

This morning I saw a flock of pigeons eating some puke. That is all.

Will run BECAUSE of beer

As I do every morning, I woke up this morning around 5:30. But something wasn’t right. Are my eyes glued shut? I pried open those peepers and looked around. It’s so hot in here. Why am I in a sweat suit? I swung my legs to the floor and, stepping over the detritus of a Papa John’s box, it hit me – drunk again.

There’s a reason most people stop going to dollar beer nights after age 22. I don’t remember what that reason is because I blacked out, but judging by how I felt this morning, that reason is still alive and kicking. Specifically, kicking me in the brain and back of the eyeballs repeatedly.

Needless to say, I went back to sleep, taking solace in the fact that I had made plans for a run after work with Brad. This being the Brad to whom I (apparently) sent the following messages last night (all should be treated as sic’d):

-Thank god we’re riunning post work because I’m dry heaving ion 22^nd street

-Rock star$

-Sleep til 9, why yes

-Omg my building is on fire

Evidently, the perceived fire didn’t detract me from calling Papa John’s and ordering a pizza for myself (which I seem to recall was difficult on account of the raging case of the hiccups).

Anyway, I'll skip the boring parts of how this impacted my day, such as how I ate an entire jar of peanut butter at my desk, and get to the aforementioned run after work. I tried like I've never tried before to cancel these plans. I offered to treat Brad to a mani/pedi (which I don't doubt he weighed heavily) but ultimately, we met as planned for a run in the Park. Upon arrival, I took a few steps and said out loud "are these even my running shoes?" They were.

On the plus side, I'm not going out tonight, unless you count the Bud Light in a solo cup I just took with me when I went to the bodega with Caroline, so I should manage to get some actual health benefits from tomorrow's run. Onward and upward, friends.

Blame Canada

It was a bit of a struggle to bounce back from the weekend, where I consumed no fewer than 47,000 delicious (and domestic!) brews, and arguably more bologna than there are living creatures who produce that bologna (what kind of creature that is, I do not do. If you do, keep that information to yourself). I did also discover quite possibly the world’s most perfect food: the Klondike Bar.

Have you ever had a Klondike Bar? You must have, because according to my friends, those compassionate, ego-stroking gals, I am “such a fucking idiot” for saying I’ve never had a Klondike Bar, and my “parents must really hate [me]” for never exposing me to such things during childhood. In any case, I’m glad I discovered them in my 25^thyear as opposed to not at all, because they are unreal. That chocolatey shell? The sweet milky ice cream filling? The satisfaction of polishing one of those puppies off is better than scratching really itchy bug bites while simultaneously having an orgasm. That’s never actually happened to me, but it sounds amazing. Maybe I should look into accomplishing that too. Anyway…

So, I ate and drank an awful lot this weekend, which meant that the temporary tattoo I put on my stomach stretched out and went from “patriotic hand making the peace sign” to “deep and deadly v-shaped crevasse on Mt. Everest.” “Don’t worry, you svelte young thing” I think to myself. “You’re a MARATHONER. You neeeeeeeeeeeed that fuel.” Never mind the noxious smells my body was emitting. I was eliminating toxins or some such holistic thing. So I return from my weekend retreat and open up the most recent issue of Runner’s World. As luck would have it, there’s an article in there about “fuels” that one should consume during race season to promote efficient biomechanics (I don’t know if that was it, I just feel like when you blog about running you should throw in terms like “efficient biomechanics”). In this timely article, which I undoubtedly read while eating a pizza, there’s a little box on snacks you might be eating that are poisonous terrorists and an assault on this great nation. What’s this? Under the “chemical weapon disguised as a delicious treat that will actually melt your face off” category? Looky here – the Klondike Bar.

Fuck you, Canada.