Spartan Spirit

Shout out to my sister(s). Jingles and a Spartan brew. Making the most of my vacation...

En Vacances: Le Premier Jour

10 day vaca is off to a great start, if a little light on the running.  Don't worry though - it's been heavy on the beer drinking.

4 this morning in Connecticut.  I forget how hilly this place is.  Seems rather unnecessary to workout here to prepare myself for the "fast and flat streets of Chicago."  Props to the marathon marketing team for driving that point home in every email they send.  Did some squats and lunges, because no one has complimented my ass in a few days.  Could be related to the aforementioned heavy beer drinking.  Looking forward to spending the rest of the day playing with Ryan, who kindly lied to her office, said she was going to Montauk for the weekend, and used a vacation day to entertain me during my forced vacation.  I anticipate further beer drinking, and possibly Googling of things she "did" in Montauk this weekend.  

Hope you're all having great Mondays at the office.  Suckers!

Bring Back the Brolly

Legs were tired this morning, and tummy was full of AMAZING pasta feast (dinner at Le Zie with Cate last night. Go there. Immediately). Woke up to light rain. Ran 5 and lifted at the gym. Wish anything comical had happened, but even Comically Overdressed for the Weather girl (who also goes by "I Wear This Sweatshirt to Cover My Body, but Also to Attract Your Attention So You Recognize Just How Skinny I Am Based On How Loosely It Hangs About My Skeletor Frame") took the day off.

A few programming notes: At 6:00pm today, I'm on (forced) vacation. For the next 10 days, I plan to have a lot of solid runs and drink plenty of beers. I will write about both of these things. I just can't promise you working stiffs will have something to read the moment you get to work in the mornings, as I plan to use my (forced) vacation time to NOT wake up at 5:30am. Furthermore, I will be making my annual pilgrimage to Old Forge, NY beginning on Thursday morning, where I will take in the restorative powers of fresh mountain air and Saranac beer. I won't be blogging from Thursday until my return on Monday (Labor Day). I hope you can find a way to go on without me.

It's Friday. We made it.

P.S. - Miley Cyrus is on the Today Show?! Cough, cough, I'm sick, can't go to work today...

To Brooklyn

Ten miles this morning, which is unusual for a weekday, but I felt good, have cushy, cloud-like new sneakers, and ate a not insignificant amount of Thai food last night so I had plenty of fuel. Also, the weather is shockingly nearly ideal - cool, overcast, a little breezy. Decided to run over the Brooklyn Bridge (pictured above, though that's actually a shot I took last summer).

For anyone who's never crossed the Bridge by foot, I highly recommend it. But don't wuss out and just walk straight down South Street. Follow the bike path directions, which take you through back alleys of Chinatown (it's seedy. But in a charming, "if I don't get knifed this is a cool experience" kinda way). Cutting across Henry Street feels like you're definitely not in New York, and then to come out on Centre in front of the courthouse and the downtown Manhattan makes you nostalgic for new episodes of Sex and the City.

The one drawback to going over the Bridge is how crowded it can get. I've done this run on a Saturday, and by 8:00am, pedestrians were already walking four abreast. On top of that, bikers are navigating their way through the crowds. The bridge itself is 1.13 miles long and a hilly challenge, but with the crowds it can take even longer than it should.

I made the crossings before 7:00am today (a Thursday) and I was still nearly run down by a rogue biker pedaling at quite a clip, who shouted "Get out of my fucking lane!" 1) Good morning to you too! Your positive attitude is exactly what I want to encounter at 6:45am! Have a great day! 2) Just because you're looney tunes and a douche doesn't give you the right of way. I took my road test in New York, I know what I'm talking about. 3) Your bad attitude ruined it for everyone else, and now I take back my previous exception granted to outdoor cyclists. Sorry Nina, hope you got a ride in yesterday during your one day grace period. Bike riding sucks.

On Spinning

Had a good fiver at the gym this morning to break in the new sneakers, which incidentally are the exact same as the previous 9 pairs of sneakers I've had. If it ain't broke... In any case, the only drawback I noticed was that, upon catching a glimpse of my (pale, lanky) lower legs in the mirror in front of the treadmill, clad in white socks and too-new looking sneakers, I felt for a minute like I was looking at Forest Gump's legs. "From that day on, if I was ever going somewhere, I was running..."

Finished my run feeling pretty perky for the early hour and headed upstairs to lift. Most unfortunately, I was confronted with the gruesome reality that spinning meets at 6:30 on Wednesday mornings. I HATE spinning. For several reasons, which I will list here:

1) Rebranding - "Spinning?" Really? Since when is this activity not "stationary bike riding?" I don't know when this pursuit was rebranded, or what idiot came up with this idea, but it's among the dumbest things I've ever heard. Changing the name doesn't mask the fact that it's still among the worst things you can do in a gym (for reasons I'll delineate below). Under such precept, what I engage in is not "running" but "stomping" or "urban trailblazing." Furthermore, I could go ahead and change my email signature to read "Claire C. Walsh, Money Hunter." At the end of the day, I'm still spending my 45 hours a week coming up with synonyms for "generous" and "support." It's stationary bike riding people. Let's not kid ourselves.

2) Pain factor - Let me be the first to put it out there that running 26.2 miles doesn't feel that good. Your toenails get black. Your body chafes anywhere there is a seam, stitch, or other mild irritant. I've come close to actually shitting myself more than once. But I run marathons just twice a year. Why in God's name would someone elect to participate in a weekly athletic class that gives you CHRONIC PAIN OF THE CROTCH? I don't get it. Unless you're a triathlete (which is questionable on it's own, but a marathoner can't really judge), a physical therapy patient, or a child under the age of 12, you shouldn't be riding a bike, especially not indoors. Which brings me to another point.

3) The studio - As I've mentioned, running on a treadmill sucks, and I'd much rather be outdoors. But at least I have that option. The whole concept behind "spinning" is that it's indoors. That's idiotic. Who in their right mind would say "here's an outdoor activity that some people like because it gives them the chance to enjoy the beautiful weather where ever they live. Let's adapt it and remove the last shred of desirability from it." These people deliberately congregate in a room with all the lights turned off, crammed in 30 deep, staring at the sweaty backs of the people in front of them until their genitals are numb. I will make an occasional exception for those who bike as a means to see new and interesting things, but spinning class is absolutely out of the question.

4) The instructor - This is my big problem, and the true fuel for my rant this morning. I wish I had been keeping track of how many mornings my lifting session has been ruined by the spinning instructor, who leaves the studio door open and then spends an hour shouting "Here we go! 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Now sprint! 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1." You know what's annoying? When you're lifting, counting the reps in your head, and get to 9 as the spinning instructor starts her countdown at 8. Suddenly, you're back at 1 with no recollection of how it is you got there and arms that are quivering from doing 40,000 reps you don't even remember doing! It's infuriating. And unnecessary. There's music playing in the studio FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE of giving these spinners a beat and means of counting. It's beyond unjust to both subject me to the Golden Girls Theme Song techno remix AND scream out numbers at random intervals. "Thank thank you for being a friend friend friend friend friend."

It's Wednesday. Let's do this people.

An Actual Conversation at Paragon

The setting: Claire is on the bottom floor of Paragon, dressed in business clothes and carrying a pair of pungent sneakers. She is in front of the rack of men's running sneakers, not so much browsing as focused on finding precisely the pair she is looking for. She spies it, 4th row down, and goes to find a salesperson.

Jose, the salesperson: Can I find something for you?

Claire: Yes, I'd like to try this in a 9 1/2?

Jose: Okay, great. (Pauses, studies shoe). This is a men's.

Claire: Yeah, that's okay.

Jose: So what size would you like?

Claire: 9 1/2?

Jose: Women's?

Claire: No.

Jose: 9 1/2 men's?

Claire: Yes

Jose: Oh.

Looking forward to testing out my sneakers tomorrow. Maybe afterwards, I'll shave my mustache and snap my towel at Caroline. I'm sure that will go over well...

That Sucked

First outdoor NYC run in several weeks. "The salty sea air, the wind blowing in your face!" That said, it sucked.

Ankles and calfs were very tight and upper back felt all smooshed (I went to med school). Struggled for 3 and a half. Going to put on recovery socks (for the ankles/calves) and lie on the floor (for the back) and contemplate maybe changing my Chicago flights to spend a weekend in Tahiti...

Cosmic Intervention

I hate working out at night. I am tired, and hungry, and sweating from walking home from work. All I really want to do when I get home from the office is take my pants off. And not put running shorts on. Which is why I wake up so early and get my run out of the way. Except when my eyeballs are glued shut, as they were this morning from a particularly drunken weekend which left my neck unable to turn. As such, I spent the day today popping Advil and mentally preparing for working out tonight.

When I am forced to workout at night (which I try to do at the gym, after that time I got jumped by adolescent thugs under the Brooklyn Bridge), I try to time it to ensure that the post-work crowds are gone and I can have the place mostly to myself, as I do in the mornings. I left my apartment about 8:10 this evening, figuring folks would be en route home to watch whatever is on TV on Mondays. I got as far as the corner of 3rd Ave when I realized I left my heart rate monitor upstairs. 6 floors above me, in the building with arguably the slowest elevator in Manhattan. Much as I hate working out without it (it's like the workout didn't even happen! There's no record!), I couldn't bear the thought of going back upstairs, so I continued on my way to the gym. Whereupon I found no fewer than 7 people waiting online to use the next available treadmill. Or the next 7 available treadmills. No way I was going to deal with that. But I couldn't just walk out - what would the ID scanner girl think?! So I went upstairs to do squats and lift and remind myself that unless I've consumed my weight in beer (which, perplexingly, would increase as I were drinking, leaving me pounding Bud Heavies to infinity), I have to go to the gym in the mornings.

On that note, I'm going to drink a beer (relax, just one) and hit the sack. If anyone has a spare neck brace, lemme know.

It's Not Officially a Hangover...

For dinner last night, I had 5 beers (Leffe Blonde) and a side of potato chips. While it's true that this "meal" is high in carbs, it's not necessarily one I would recommend if you are aiming to have a productive and effectual workout.

Fast 4 this morning. Probably ran it so fast because I was so dehydrated from booze and salt that I would have done anything to get to a water fountain. Lifted. Gym was deserted, which was convenient because I completely sweat through my light yellow running top. You're welcome (sorry?) to the one guy doing push ups with me.

Happy Friday, friends!. Stay cool, drink beer, be safe.

Looking Back, I Don't Think Nickleodeon Should Have Glamorized Nuclear Waste Like That

Guys, look how tired/sad I was this morning! And look at what a creep show I am that I sit in my room alone at 5:30 in the morning taking pictures of myself... Anyway, would you like to know why I was so tired? Because sleeping in my room is like putting a pillow on the surface of the sun.

For reasons that are both complicated and boring (unless voltage and circuits are your thing), my room isn't air conditioned. This hasn't actually been a problem so far, because this is the Year That Had No Summer Until This Week. But last night it was bad.

That said, I want to throw my alarm clock out the window and jump out along with it this morning. But since I rested yesterday and have plans to consume cocktails this evening, I dragged myself to the gym (yes, in the air conditioning. Don't judge me, it's a damn miracle I work out at all and didn't just reset my alarm and take it with me to sleep another two hours in the freezer). I was more alert after seeing two rats on the way to the gym, but still sleepran through the first mile. After that, though, I started to perk up. Maybe it was the healing powers of the organic beer last night. Whatever the case, I finished up a 6 miler headed home. At which point my face started to melt off from the heat and I became a puddle of goo a la Alex Mack. Which is making it hard to type.

TGIT. It would appear that I have something like 17 or 18 miles scheduled for day this weekend. Unfortunate. But also, excellent excuse to gorge myself on pasta and sit at home in my underwear on a Friday night. Rock out.

People in Glass Houses

After going on my rant about the treadmill and the rat race and the Man and whatever else I was spewing the other morning, naturally Gotham has been hit by Hurricane WillItEverStopRainingThisSummer. I was very nearly electrocuted last night as I tried to sleep in front of a plate glass window in an apartment on the top floor of a building while the sky literally did not darken because of all the lightening. I’m already at disproportionate risk because of my height, so this unnerved me significantly. Anyway, going to monsooni again today and rather than redact my statement of yesterday and consent that treadmills are, in certain circumstances, necessary (like when you’re 5’11” and not fast enough to out run lightening), I’m spending the day “resting” (read: drinking). Back tomorrow, rain or shine. Or possibly indoors, confronting my own hypocrisy…

P.S. I know this is bold, but I'm drinking Peak Organic Pale Ale tonight. It's actually not that bad. Looks/smells like regular beer. Pretty hoppy. Will check back regarding potency in 2 beers.

It's Official -Summer is Finally Here...

... And I know that because the entirety of 23rd Street smells like puke and festering trash.

Onto the running: much as I love the Giants (which is a lot), working out at night sort of sucks. The problem, you see, is that if you are a morning runner, as I am, but you break the cycle and run at night, as I did yesterday, you eventually must correct this scheduling snafu, which I attempted this morning. Even coming off the high of the G-men last night, the full weight of my depression bore down upon me on the treadmill this morning as I realized I was doing the very same thing I had been doing not 7 hours earlier. It was like Groundhog Day, only my dad wasn't awkwardly snickering in the background (Dudley loves Bill Murray). Even as someone who claims to enjoy running (which is, again, a lie I tell to myself. Others include "pizza is healthy" and "beer is an appropriate breakfast drink"), there's something rather dispiriting about spending QT with the treadmill. While the lure of the air conditioning in the summer is what draws me to the gym, you're literally running in place, gaining no ground despite your exertion. Whoa, this is getting heavy for a Tuesday morning.

My point is this: while I am by no means one of those weirdo running purists, I think the treadmill sort of takes the pleasure out of running and turns it into just another one of those dumb ass daily obligations, like going to work or paying your bills or brushing your teeth (how much of a hassle is that, by the way? You want me to rub this wet stick back and forth in my mouth? For a couple of MINUTES? Jesus...). While there are many mornings I've been running along the East River and thought "this is pretty sweet, that I can start my morning like this," I've never once thought "I am so excited to spend the next hour watching myself sweat in a mirror without actually covering any ground." Though I've also never seem an assault weapon with a homemade bayonet at the gym, so I guess it's a toss up.

In the spirit of Groundhog Day (and if you haven't seen it, definitely add it to your Netflix because it's hilarious), I'm going to go binge eat on the balcony with no pants on until my neighbors call the cops. Happy summer, friends. Try to get yourself outside to enjoy it. Use that lovely photo of Dudley playing mini golf as inspiration.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It was pretty brutal leaving Maine yesterday and saying goodbye to the fam, the coast, the outdoor activities, and the beer (FYI - Gritty McDuff's Vacationland is OUTSTANDING. And it takes more than 2 to get you drunk as a skunk, unlike Geary's Summer Ale, which is feels like getting hit by a truck, in a good way. Obviously, both effects can be useful, depending on the circumstances). On top of that, my flight was delayed so I didn't get back to the cozy confines of my apartment until after 11:00pm last night, which is waaaay past my bedtime. Though I was up at the usual ass crack of dawn, I decided to laze about this morning and run after work today.

BEST DECISION EVER! Call it fate or serendipity or my soul mate connection with Michael Strahan (miss you #92!). Whatever the reason, I timed my workout perfectly to coincide with the Giants' preseason game against the Panthers. I literally could have stayed on the treadmill all night long. I am sure, however, that the other people in the gym were praying I would either break my leg or have a heart attack, because the periodic whoops and war cries may have been a distraction for them. No matter. It was one of the most pleasurable (okay, least horrible) runs I've had in awhile, and eased the transition back to the working world just a little. The only thing that could have made it better would have been if I had worn my Manning jersey. There's a reason he's the highest paid player in the NFL (ahem, Brad).

Fired up for a fall full of great Sunday afternoon runs. I may even have to invest in an old school portable radio to take with me and listen to games while I'm running on the road... The possibilities are endless!

(First person to remind me that I'll be dry for the first month of football season is the first person cut out of my will...)

15 Mile Mid-Coast Morning

Longest run in almost 4 months (eek) - Dudley was kind enough to join me on the first 3.5 of my 15.5 miles this morning. Unusually hot and humid. First half was on a boring stretch of asphalt Dudley described as "The Griddle." Second half was a shady but very hilly trail run that took me past some of my favorite spots in the area: Aldermere Farm and the Belted Galloway cows, Megunticook Gold Club, and Dudley's favorite spot - the Rockport dump!

Too tired and thirsty to think of funny things. What's this? A Geary's Summer Ale? How convenient!

Fishing this afternoon and some more tennis tomorrow morning (those are both "cross training," as is drinking wine instead of beer, according to my mom), then sadly leaving Maine Sunday night. Dagger.

Have a great weekend, friends!

The Way Life Should Be. With a Few Tweaks.

Didn't get to my running until this afternoon because of my late arrival to Camden yesterday. And the fact that upon arrival, Dudley immediately thrust a drink into my hand. It was 2:00am. That said, I had the rare chance to sleep in this morning. I love Vacationland.

It's a gorgeous Down East afternoon here, so I was really looking forward to my run. As one might imagine, the conditions in August in Maine are infinitely better for running than they are in New York; cooler temperatures, brisker breezes, fresher air, and the motivating factor of the exorbitant amount of cholesterol in lobster are all great reasons to get out there and run. There are, however, 2 things I forgot about running here, and they suck.

1) Frost Heaves: Lots of people forget that Maine exists in the winter. As someone who lived here for 4 years, I can tell you that a) it exists, and b) it sure is cold. Like, REALLY cold. Winter lasts from October through the end of April, and as a result of so many months of cold, snowy weather and the associated plows, salts, and drunk college students, the roads are, generally speaking, in terribly condition (maybe not so much because of the college students). That's bad enough on your car (and I give a special shout out to the folks at Topsham Volvo, who fixed countless ailments my car faced each winter), but I forgot how bad it is for your body. Pot holes are easy enough to avoid. But the frost heaves are killer. While a frost heave looks like a series of cracks, innocuous enough, it's actually an ankle-rolling accident waiting to happen. It's lumpy in unexpected ways, and no matter when you plant your foot, you never seem to find level ground. It's sort of like running on an expanse of roller skates that have their wheels facing up ("Really Claire? You have a lot of experience with that?"). You'd think the solution to this problem would be simply to keep your eyes on the road and look for heave-free spots, but that's complicated by problem number 2.

2) Traffic: I know it sounds ridiculous for someone from New York to complain about traffic in Maine, but the issue is actually your proximity to traffic as a runner. Maine is, of course, known for its outdoor activities, so you might expect drivers to be conscientious. You would be wrong. The issue is that every other Maine sport keeps you away from cars; you are either on the water (kayaking, canoeing), in the woods (skiing, hunting), or on a vehicle of your own (snowmobiling, which Mainers regard the same way I regard beer drinking - it is the leisure pursuit of choice). As such, drivers don't have a lot of interaction with runners, and don't necessarily realize they should consider moving over when they come upon a girl lumbering up a precipitous peak. No, no, don't you worry about me. I'm only gasping for air in the baking sun trying to keep one foot in front of the other. You just drive on, buddy.

In beer news, I'm rehydrating with a Geary's Summer Ale, from Portland, ME. Delicious. A little tangy, with a mildly fruity flavor, which makes it a good pre-dinner drink. Frankly, it's also a good during-dinner drink, as well as a suitable after-dinner drink, and one you can take with you into bed. That's the best kind of beer.

Tomorrow's a rest day, so don't be looking for my nifty mile counter (to the right) to change. Unless there's a way for it to track fish caught or fishing guides flirted with, in which case, it'll be going through roof tomorrow. Captain George, call me!

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

I have a confession to make. I, Claire Courtenay Walsh, am a liar.

I know, I know, this is hard to believe. After all, I have wholeheartedly dedicated myself to fighting AIDS, plus I selflessly devote myself to guiding blind runners in my free time, and I'm a good friend, and I am philanthropic, and I love puppies! How could I be a liar when clearly I'm am an above average human?

The truth is this: some days, when the runs are extra challenging for whatever reason, I lie to myself. I say "at the next telephone pole, you can walk." Or "in 2 more minutes, you can decrease the speed to 6.0." This very morning, for example, I did the Brooklyn Bridge run. Though I've done it countless times, for some reason it was a struggle today. So I started lying to myself. "At the Williamsburg Bridge, you can turn around." "At the Manhattan Bridge, you can walk." "When you get to the baseball field, you can slow down big time." "Get to the gas station at 23rd and FDR and then walk home from there." But instead of taking myself up on any of these compromises, I slogged it out for the duration of the run.

While you may be saying "What's the problem here? This strategy appears to work," my concern is that I am onto me. I am both the Boy Who Cried Wolf and the Villagers. I know I'm lying, and I fear that soon, I'm going to stop believing myself. I'm not sure where that will leave me. I guess technically, if I stop believing that I will allow myself to stop running, the outcome will be that I continue to run without stopping, which I what I am doing now. I'm confused... Anyway, the point is the I fear I am running out of these little tips and tricks. After 5 marathons, I've really exhausted all the possibilities. If you know of something that gets you to keep going when you don't want to (besides thinking about what you're going to eat when I get home, because a: I already do that, and b: I don't even like roast beef sandwiches, Cate, so that's not going to work), please share them with me.

Off to Maine tonight. Looking forward to some good runs/hikes/fishing trips/feasts.

Visualization

Straightened out the laundry situation and got myself to the gym after work for an easy 4 on the treadmill after work.

First of all, major kudos to anyone who works out after work. First, you have to motivate yourself to change out of work clothes and into gym clothes. Then you have to not eat everything that's not nailed down in your apartment. Then you have to go to the gym. But it's not over yet. Because once you get there, you have to deal with the 8 million other New Yorkers who are also at the gym after work. I walked in tonight around 8:15 and there were 3 other people in line for treadmills ahead of me. Infuriating. There are probably 25 treadmills at the gym, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that in the mornings, I'm often the second or third person there (those anorexic girls sure wake up early. Possibly because beer has calories and they therefore didn't drink 50 of them the night before. That must be nice). To have to wait for a treadmill was unconscionable. But the Yankees were on TV, so I did.

Anyway, so even though I was in the air conditioned gym for my run, I did not have my choice of treadmill which meant I did not have that little personal fan I've spoken so highly of in the past. To distract myself from the heat, I decide to spend my run thinking about the finish at Chicago. I got this idea from our high school track coach, Mr. Yedowitz. I remember once, during the winter of our sophomore year, Coach Yed instructed us all to lie down on the floor of the multi purpose room and close our eyes while he turned off the lights (this is not going where you think it is). He then lead us through some mental exercises about picturing ourselves in our respective races, etc etc. I remember picturing the hurdles, and in this visualization, I finally nailed the right pattern of footfalls between hurdles. The next day, at the big meet, I thought about that visualization exercise as I stood on the starting line. The gun went off and I cleared the first hurdle. Then, I did not nail the footfalls between the first and second hurdles. Actually, I don't even know if I thought about that at the start. I have no idea what happened at that meet, but I can tell you, unless I visualized myself sitting on the floor of the field house at Rockland Community College for 6 hours, consuming several thousands of calories in preparation for an event that lasted 10 seconds (fine, 20 if there were 2 heats), this kind of mental stretching didn't do shit for me in high school.

However, at the gym tonight, I started thinking about what it would be like to come down to the last mile in Chicago and look at my watch and know I was going to break 4 hours. I upped my speed a few notches. I pictured Nina, wasted, cheering in the finish chute (I assume you'll be pregaming for the Hanson concert, no?). A little faster. I imagined myself crossing the finish line and pulling a Mia Hamm (see above), which I'll try hard not to do in real life since my abs aren't quite comparable to hers. I looked down at the gauges on the treadmill and realized I was running 7:30s! The powers of visualization at work!

Except that's the worst plan ever because if I run the first 4 miles in Chicago at 7:30 I won't make it much further than 5.

In all seriousness though, it pumped me up and made me super psyched and maybe I'll even do a sit up or two tonight, I'm so inspired. So thanks, Coach Yed.

Ed. Note: Apparently this is a picture of Brandi Chastain, not Mia Hamm. My apologies to these athletes, as well as to any fans of women's professional soccer and/or feminists who may be reading this blog (there's only one of you) for my misidentification of what is, apparently, "women's lib personified." Drrk.

Devil in the Details

Two quick notes:

1) I bounded out of bed this morning when the alarm went off, ready to get cracking on my workout. Except that yesterday I delivered all my clothes to Jiang, the lovely man who does my laundry, which meant I had no sports bras. While I debated doing a naked run, I thought better of it, so I have to wait to run until this evening when I pick up my clothes from Jiang. And yes, I realize all this could have been avoided if I weren't so enticed by the concept of paying for convenience and just did my own laundry in the on-floor washer/driers kindly provided by my building. Rule number one: don't judge me.

2) I am watching the Today Show in my underwear right now (the non-profit lifestyle may not afford me unlimited disposable income, but it does ensure I don't have to be at work before 10:00) and a news story just went by on the ticker - something about a blogger being arrested for threatening to kill someone (could have been a federal agent...). In no way do I condone violence of any kind, and as such, have rectified my previous post regarding my relationship with my former dry cleaner...

Anyway, sorry I couldn't provide you with anything good to read at work today. Come back later.

Cross Training

It's meant to get up to 4- or 5 hundred degrees today, so I went to the gym this morning for some "cross training." I put that in quotes because, in 5 marathons, I've never cross trained before. It seems sort of dumb to me to go to the gym to NOT run. But, in 5 marathons I've also never broken 4 hours. Deciding that maybe this Hal Higdon fellow is onto something, I "cross trained" this morning. Sort of.

Fine, I still used the treadmill. But in my defense, I'm not entirely sure where the bikes are located in my gym, and the yoga class I would ordinarily go to (is that even cross training?) conflicts with an appointment this evening. So I spent 15 minutes walking at a 5% grade. Then I spent another 15 minutes walking backwards at a 3% grade.

In addition to being not all that coordinated (my parents attribute it to my having arms and legs that are disproportionately long. Thanks for instilling that healthy body image in me...), walking backwards makes me exponentially sweatier than walking forwards, or even running forwards. So in addition to struggling to keep me balance, every time I reached to grab onto something to steady myself, my hand slipped right off. Safe.

Though the anxiety alone of that walking elevated my heart rate significantly, I wasn't quite sure exactly how much I was meant to be exerting myself in this "cross training," so I went upstairs to lift. There, I was greeted by two girls who were excitedly showing each other their sexually-induced injuries, one man who had taken his shoes off and spent a full 20 minutes just sitting on the floor and rolling his ankles around, and one guy who farted while he was doing sit ups on the incline bench. Loudly. Monday is off to a good start.

6 hours

The marathon is 62 days from today. As such, the workouts are getting longer, and thus requiring more of my time. One thing I find immensely gratifying as the miles add up is reviewing my workouts on my heart rate monitor. Because, like its cousin the Marathon Training Plan, the Heart Rate Monitor appears to be French or something, so it thinks the week begins on Monday and ends on Sunday. As such, Sunday evenings are the best time to engage in this self-satisfying activity. Having just returned from running 7 on the treadmill, I pressed a couple buttons and learned that I spent 5 hours, 54 minutes, and 57 seconds working out this week (no, ass, not just on that one 7 mile run). Nearly six hours. That doesn't include even include stretching (because I don't do it). That got me thinking - what else could happen in 6 hours? Because my friends are inspiring in every way, I looked to them and found infinite possibility. For example:

• I could watch 6 episodes of More to Love with Caroline and Kathryn. Or 1 "After the Final Rose Special Edition Extended Episode with Bonus Footage and a Secret Surprise Twist Ending of the Bachelorette." I would chose the first because I don't ever want to hear Jillian talk "aboot" her "famalee" again.
• I could drive round trip to Philly to visit Leslie and Meghan. Or one way if it were a Sunday during football season.
• Cate could get up from the nook once. It would be to answer to door for a cheese cake delivery from Silver Star.
• DeLoria could go on 3 dates. 2 of them would be with women over age 35.
• Ryan could get in at least 5 fights (definitely 6 if she had the full 6 hours). At least one of them would be a physical altercation.
• I could drive to Maine. My sister would only get as far as Boston.
• I could fly to San Francisco to visit Megan.
• Kelly could cry 3 times. Nina could make fun of her for it 4 times.
• Maddy could hit snooze 24 times during an afternoon nap.
• The Yankees could replay Friday night's amazing victory over the Red Sox.
• I could run 39.3 consecutive miles (a marathon plus a half-marathon). You may say that's an ambitious pace, but this is my list so suck it.

Busy week this week, and headed to Maine on Wednesday night. Will definitely snap some pics of runs up there. And naturally, will drink many beers. Geary's, I'm coming for you! Get ready.

Monday's coming. Let's make it a good one.

P.S. - WTF?!

If anyone has any insights as to how I might have chafed the inside of my belly button running this morning, please leave those thoughts in the comments section. In the meantime, I'll be lubing my abdomen (and yes, regretting that time I got my belly button pierced).

Saturdays in the Park with Brad

(See what I did there? That's a literary reference [I think]. I'm cultured.)

Woke up early this morning to join Brad in the Park. He had to do 13. I had 11 on my schedule for tomorrow, but being a thoughtful friend, joined him for 12 this morning. I did not want to.

Absolutely gorgeous this morning. 70-ish degrees, sunny, but with plenty of shady stretches. The only thing that would have made it better would have been not running. Okay fine, maybe just fewer hills. Regardless, we had a nice, if challenging run. Quads are sorer than they should be (not sure if that's a result from dancing at Sugar Ray on Thursday). Just ate two bananas, mostly because they would have gone bad if I didn't eat them, so maybe the potassium will work it's magic. Personally, that soreness is a reminder that I deserve to drink 43 beers tonight because I worked hard this morning.

Will do a 5-ish miler tomorrow. Hopefully something funny will happen because for today, I got nothing. Sorry.

Until then, have a great weekend!

Do Not Disturb

Shhh. I am very tired (from having gone to a Sugar Ray concert last night). As such, my only exercise thus far today has been a brutally cold shower which got my heart pounding enough to burn off a few hundred calories, I'm sure. In any case, I'll be back later with a recap of whatever physical exertion I can muster after work. If you need me in the meantime, you can find me napping under my desk.

They Can't All Be Winners

Nothing particularly noteworthy happened at the gym this morning, so I just have two quick anecdotes to share. The first is that, on my way to the gym (5:35am) I passed a man who was very much enjoying a Mike's Hard Lemonade on 23rd Street. Not only is that tangentially related to running (en route to the gym) and beer (malt liquor. Same diff), but it reminds me of my mom. Kathie loves Mike's Hard Lemonade and it's my blog, so I'll write about my mom if I want to. Hi Mom!

Second, while I was at the gym, I discovered a button on my heart rate monitor labeled "send." Having always been more of a tester-outer than a reader of the user manual, I pressed it. I'm not sure what I sent and to whom, but I'm pretty sure that none of the user options included entering my social security number and mother's maiden name, so how bad can it be? That said, if you got an email this morning indicating that my heart rate reached 493 yesterday, you can go ahead and forward that to me (and thank Nina for providing me with a track workout that necessitated use of the defibrillator).

On Beer, Briefly

Because this is, after all, a blog geared about running for beer, I thought it best that I post about beer. Not only because I think everyone should get as much pleasure from the hooch as I do, but also because an alcohol focus increases exponentially that chances that Cate can be a feature post.

Above is what I've been drinking of late (shout out to Maddy and Ryan for getting married and enabling me to throw a bachelorette party that features these festive summer coozies). It's Sierra Nevada Summerfest and it's delicious. True, after my track workout this morning, I'd think a virgin pina colada mixed with sawdust would taste good, but just go with me on this. I find it's best paired with pizza (because what isn't) and popsicles (because it's effing hot today). Grab a six pack and enjoy. Now that it's getting dark, I'm gonna head inside to polish these off and watch More to Love, then cry myself to sleep. Cheers!

Intervals

For those of you who are reading this for humor, you might want to go ahead and skip this post because it's pretty solidly about running (I have to send something to NBC Chicago, remember?). Feel free to use this time to reread what happened to me on Saturday morning. Topics for discussion include: what would you have done if you were the naked puking guy? What would you have done if you were me? What can plunging a sink full of vomit be a metaphor for? Come back tomorrow with your insights.

Now, onto the running. As I mentioned, this morning was to be my first track workout since the days of Coach Yedowitz, when Megan hid behind the field house instead of running and Leslie and I made enemies with that annoying hurdler from Yorktown. And it was!

The track is a little less than a mile and a half from my apartment, so I set out at an easy pace to warm up. I had a cramp by the time I got to 2nd Avenue. This wasn't looking good.

I arrived to find the track moderately crowded for an early morning, but hopeful that, if other runners were focused on their workouts, they were far less likely to notice me dry heaving in the straightaway. As I've explained, I don't really know how to do track workouts, especially not without Mitty shouting splits and threatening to add another set for every time Megan asked how many more sets we had. Nina suggested two of her workouts (and we all know Nina has both a passion for running and fond memories of workouts with her college coach) - 10 x 200m or 20 x 100m. I also took a peek at one of my marathon guides, which suggested 4 x 800m. That was, however, in the Advanced training plan, and given that this was my first track workout, I thought maybe I should work up to that level. Since 20 of anything sounds like a lot (except when it's miles into a race, at which point you still have 6.2... awesome), I went with 10 x 200m, with a 200m jog for recovery in between.

I had quite literally no idea how long this was meant to take. 2 minutes? We all know math isn't my strong suit. So I decided to run the first one at what I thought was a challenging but not uncomfortable pace and go from there. I ran my first 200 in 47 seconds, so I decided to set my goal at 45 seconds. I wish I had picked 2 minutes.

The first 5 were relatively easy and I finished comfortably in 43 seconds. But then I noticed that my evil running crush (a girl I see running most mornings who has many of the same race t-shirts I possess) was in fact doing 800s, and I felt inferior. 6-8 were 44 seconds. I needed water.

I managed to eek out the last 2 in 44 seconds only by throwing myself across the imaginary finish line (which is extra awkward when you're the only one "racing" and the "finish line" is in the middle of nowhere on the far side of a crowded track). Proud of my accomplishment and determined to work my way up to 800s, I set off for home. GODDAMNIT, I had another mile and a half to go.

Anyway, I made it, my legs are extra tired, and I want to go back to sleep. But, I am going to do it again (maybe not until next week though...) and if I don't break 4 hours in October, I'm going to spend the week after the race sitting on the bleachers by the track in the mornings drinking and tripping people as they go by.

P.S. That, by the by, is a picture of my sock this morning. I mean, I know I'm fast, but unless I'm so fast I should be budgeting Chicago prize money into my Christmas shopping, there's really no reason my right sock should have a burn mark in it...

Freak Show: An Anthropological Analysis of the Lower East Side

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I'll Show You a Pipe Snake

Let me start this by saying that this is only very tangentially related to running, and only in the sense that it's the tale I am about to tell that kept me from running Saturday morning. Be warned: this isn't for the faint of heart. Or the judgmental.

As one might expect, given that I live in an (awesome) apartment with two other (smokin' hot) 25 year old girls in the (most fabulous) city, on any given weekend morning, one can find non-roommates who have spent the night. Some are girlfriends or siblings who have crashed on the couches, some are friends who have missed the last train home, and some, naturally, are gentlemen suitors.

I awoke at 6:45 yesterday morning to find one such suitor, standing in the hall outside my bathroom, covering his genitals with the towel I use to dry my face. Outstanding. Given that I was in a t-shirt (Dartmouth. Up, Up Big Green!) and underwear, I thought perhaps the best way to handle the situation was to pretend it wasn't happening. I went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass of water. Said suitor, still nude and getting to know first hand just how soft my (brand new) towels are, walked passed me, not speaking. Rather than go back to where ever he had spent the night, the suitor walked into my room. Naked. Dry humping my hand towel. Excellent.

Still unsure of how to react, I just watched (sorry I-man) as the suitor realized my room was not where he was meant to be and beat a hasty (naked) retreat to the bathroom. The urge to pee which had awakened me now forgotten in light of the circumstances, I returned to my room and mostly pretended I hadn't just witnessed a naked drunk fellow raping an Egyptian cotton bath accessory.

My eyes had been closed for about 4 minutes when I heard my bedroom door slam shut. Then, a lot of banging and rustling. Then the front door. I walked out of my room to come face to face with another of my roommates, who apparently had encountered our house guest as well. It seems the fellow was confused about where he was, and where he was meant to be. Also, where his pants were. In any case, all the lights were on and the front and bathroom doors were both open. Cautiously peering around corners on the lookout for any expanse of flesh, I crept into the bathroom. A tangle of towels sat atop the back of the toilet. The bath mat was upside down. And there, directly to the right of the toilet, which appeared unharmed, was a sink. Full of vomit.

A sink full of puke doesn't smell good. Even when it's been mixed with enough tap water to fill the entire basin, that pungent aroma doesn't dissipate. And I can say with certainty, puke clogs drains. This wasn't going anywhere.

It was now 7:10 on a Saturday morning. Our bathroom was permeated by the smell of someone else's dinner mixed with an unholy amount of grain alcohol. And I had to pee.

I decided that we needed to take decisive action, to tackle this dilemma head on. We made the 4 block journey to Duane Reade to purchase: Draino; a plunger; Fantastik multi surface cleaner; and People Magazine (you have to let Draino sit for 30 minutes, so we had some time to kill). Surprisingly, though we were clad in our pajamas and purchasing supplies for the world's strangest irrigation project, we weren't the weirdest people there. Two dudes behind us were buying enemas.

We return home, convinced that our resourcefulness will pay off and our problems will be solved. You would think that post-bender puke wouldn't be that tough to combat. It's mostly liquid (in this case, the suitor appeared to have had salad for dinner) after all. You would be wrong. After an entire bottle of Draino and enough plunging to absolve me from lifting all week, the sink was still filled to capacity. We were out of ideas.

Shockingly, our super wasn't very keen to come back from his apartment in Queens (with, presumably a fully functioning bathroom) to come to the aid of 3 twentysomethings with a sink full of vomit. His best suggestion was to scoop the excess water out of the sink into the toilet, and he could deal with it on Monday. Fearing that bile was even more powerful than Draino and our pipes could very well rupture in 2 days, we bit the bullet and called the plumber.

HOLY GOD have you ever seen a pipe snake (not the one the naked suitor was covering with my towel)? When I poked my head into the bathroom to check on him, the poor plumber was on his hands and knees in an inch of puke water sodomizing the drain. Then, I heard something that sounded like a drill. And splashing. It was unclear if that was the water coming out or the plumber exacerbating the problem by throwing up from the combination of Draino fumes and bile. Either way, this could have entertained me for a solid couple of hours.

All that said, I didn't make it up to Achilles this morning. It's a shame too, because even when I go back and explain to them why I wasn't there, a blind person really just can't appreciate what it's like to see his towels defiled by the genitals of a nauseous stranger.

P dot S - It's worth noting that apparently this suitor never did find his clothes. He did, however, leave the towel behind. His clothing, shoes, wallet, and cell phone were found in our apartment. The throw blanket from our couch, however, is still unaccounted for...