Sick As A Dog...

...Which is ironic, since I'm Catman.

Fighting a sore throat that is fighting back. Haven't run since Monday, which does not bode well for my all-spandex Halloween costume... Why didn't I get my flu shot early?

I Haven't Run in 2 Days, But Let's Focus on Brad!

I can write plenty about beer consumption this week, but not nearly as much about running. Got into the office at 7:30 yesterday morning, so clearly a trip to the gym didn't happen before that. After spending 11 solid hours writing about "intergenerational sexual risk prevention interventions" (it's like a tongue twister for your typing fingers), I met Naomi for beers, where we discussed running, so it definitely counts. A fellow runner, Naomi was kind enough to listen to me retell the whole Chicago marathon story yet again. Never gets old.

Speaking of marathons, Brad's first is on Sunday here in NYC! Everyone sent Brad your positive vibes (particularly to the groin region... which is far less sketchy than it sounds). Having benefitted from Cate's drunken support in Chicago, I told Brad I was going to cheer him on in my Halloween costume, which because of the copious amounts of makeup it will require, means I cannot go to bed on Saturday night (Cate, you're an inspiration!). But, because I'm a good friend, I'm willing to run up First Avenue in a silver lycra zippered leotard and black mullet wig in support of my favorite Garnet-y Mule. Go Bradlius! Obviously I will provide pictures.

People Have More Exciting Mondays Than Me

People whose Monday were more exciting than me:

1) Kelly Elizabeth O'Brien (Vives). Obviously.

2) The woman on the treadmill next to me tonight. Her bottom half was walking, but her top half appeared to be reenacting the Single Ladies music video. While I liked it, I decided not to put a ring on it.

3) The gentleman outside the Blender Theatre, whom I passed on the way home from the gym tonight, and who was in the process of being arrested, having been forced to the sidewalk in the prone position, clad in hand cuffs and bleeding from the facial area. Call me prude, but I think anything that facilitates incarceration is a bit much for a Monday evening, no?

5 on the treadmill tonight watching Monday Night Football. My whole body is sore from this weekend. Probably from all my activity yesterday. What's that? I didn't engage in any activity yesterday? I didn't even take off my pajamas and left my apartment only once, to get ice cream? Hmm, then perhaps that's not the reason for my soreness. Let's chalk it up to running, dancing, drinking, falling down, and engaging in one solid hour of full contact leotard trying on and call it a night, shall we?

TGIF

Cold and windy post-run work. Wore tights and a long sleeved top and wasn't over-dressed. Didn't do my usual East River route because it was pretty deserted (I guess there are people who have plans other than watching Dateline on Friday nights) and I didn't feel super-safe. First time, actually, that I haven't felt safe running in New York, but it's extra dark because of the crappy weather. Spitting/misting. Definitely needed some of Munich's finest to warm me up.

In the spirit of Oktoberfest, I picked up a sixer of Löwenbräu. At first pour, I must say I wasn't very impressed. I've seen Natty Lights with darker color. It smells very "beery." Maybe this is what 15 year old German kids drink when they sneak out after curfew and drink at their elementary school playgrounds...

AJ Burnett, I Hope You Self-Combust

Not only did the Yankees lose last night because CC Sabathia is the only pitcher who can do his job, but because of the late game, I didn't run today, so now I have to go after work. Joe Girardi, I hope there's no room on the plane back to New York and you have to travel from LA in an overhead compartment.

Chili Mac and the Perils of Peristalsis

I am the victim of unfortunate circumstances: I love delicious foods, and I have a terrible stomach. I’m not going to get into a pissing match about who has a weaker stomach, because I will win. For a stretch in college, I could eat almost nothing. Even Cheerios made me sick. At its worst (which is blissfully behind us), this was a socially debilitating condition: I dated a fellow on and off for some two years and never once ate in front of him for fear of how my body might react. I could name every bathroom in the state of Maine from Kennebunk to Kingfield. I will spare you from the details of what this condition entails; suffice it to say that there are a great many foods that don’t sit well with me. What’s worst, there appears to be a direct correlation between deliciousness of food and propensity for said food to cause grave intestinal discomfort. As you might imagine, “Chili Mac” does not go over very well.

Chili Mac is an outstanding conglomerate of cuisines, combining vegetarian chili with Velveeta shells and cheese, and topped off with sour cream, salsa fresca, and tortilla chips. I recognize than in describing it, I am garnering no sympathy; is it any wonder that such a feast left me doubled over at my desk, popping Immodium like it was going out of style? I acknowledge that, yes, I should have known better. But is it fair that my sister, my own flesh and blood, can eat a box of mac and cheese with a side of Doritos, a glass of milk, and Devil Dogs for dessert and suffer no ill affects? Must I suffer alone, and in silence?

Apparently yes, because people don’t really want to talk about bowels. Though I should count my blessings that, miraculously, this predisposition hasn’t affected me during races, which is more than Deena Kastor can report (read about her tummy troubles in Chicago via Runner's World. Eek).

Anyway, the other unfortunate side effect of Chili Mac and its kitchen contemporaries is that it’s not super healthy (shocking, I know). To counteract this, I dragged myself to the gym and knocked out 7 after work today (after I had recovered from lunch). Much as I complain about working out after work, if I can actually get myself to do it, it's not too bad; there are sports on TV, and by 8:30, very few people there to irritate me with the way they look, run, smell, dress, or otherwise behave. Plus, running in the evening makes drinking a beer when you’re finished a lot more socially acceptable…

The Great Outdoors/The Left Coast

Treated to a pretty purple and orange sunrise over Queens this morning. 4 along the East River. Starting to get cool (though not so cold as to prevent me from rocking my short sleeved Chicago Marathon shirt). Otherwise uneventful.

I may have mentioned this before, but I'm considering running my next marathon to coincide with my birthday - February 7, 2010. "26 miles for 26 years" kind of thing. In order to ensure maximum enjoyment of football playoffs, I would not go dry for this one and run it just for the enjoyment of... wait this is sounding dumber and dumber as I keep typing. Well whatever, let's not get into the logic behind this. Suffice it to say, I could run 26 miles on my 26th birthday, which happens to be a Sunday, and have a convenient excuse to go to someplace that's warm enough to have a marathon in February. After a little Google Mapping, I realized that the Surf City Marathon in Huntington Beach, CA, is just 15 miles from the Boccuzzi home in Long Beach. Could be a contender...

I Hate Sports

I can't even talk about what happened between the hours of 1:00 and 4:30pm yesterday (except for brunch, which was delicious). But tonight? Tonight was to be different. Until it wasn't. Fuck you, Yankees, for spending 4 interminable hours (while I was at work) playing baseball, then spending 2 innings doing nothing (when I got home from work and could give you my undivided attention), and then waiting for the precise moment during which I was in the elevator going to the gym (to watch you on TV) to blow it all away. I hate you for many reasons, not the least of which is that you waited until I wasn't looking and therefore couldn't adequately berate you for losing. Too bad, suckers, because I have a blog, and I'm going to use it to berate you until the cows come home. Or until 7:30pm tomorrow, when I will kiss your collectives asses and ask you not to disappoint me again. Please?

Since I couldn't watch the Yankees at the gym tonight, I watched House, which was highly engaging and almost made me forget that this whole running thing was a lot easier 8 days ago. Almost.

Walsh Family Olympics

Came home to CT to celebrate Dudley's birthday this weekend. Somehow, trips to North Stamford (also known as my Free Home, whereas my apartment, where I pay to live, eat, be warm, and have lights, is my Paid Home) always result in impromptu athletic endeavors of no fewer than five unique sports.

I arrived yesterday evening for dinner, a sport in and of itself with my family, given that my father force feeds me like he's preparing Redheaded Pate. Naturally, in addition to copious amounts of red wine and pasta, birthday cake was involved. Following dinner, we had family baseball watching, much to the chagrin of Mom, who ranks baseball just below traveling to cold places on the list of things we make her do that she really, really doesn't like.

The real sporting, however, began this morning, when Dudley and I were scheduled to go for a run. Alas, the Nor'easter bearing down on us prevented such a run from happening. Far from stymied, we went into the basement to engage in tandem lifting (I can't believe what I'm writing is actually true). What's worse, by tandem I mean "Dudley and Jingles," as I arrived in the basement to find him talking to the cat while doing push ups. Wow.

I doubt that any other 25 year old has engaged in strength training with her father, but for those who may have, what on earth possessed you to do such a thing? Here is how it went:

The scene: The television is on, with the volume at level 87. Thousand. Dudley, having finished doing push ups with the cat, has now gotten on the bike. Claire is doing biceps curls, planks, squats, and other activities that require counting reps.

Dudley: WHOA! Look at that guy! Look! Look look look! LOOK!

Claire, losing count: Guh. Yeah.

Claire starts again at 1. 15 seconds elapse.

Dudley: Hey! What do you do that for? Is that hard? Does that help with running?

Claire: Huh. Yeah.

Claire loses count, commences again.

I think I did about 47 reps per set. And yet, the workout isn't over. I've been instructed not to shower or change yet, because after Dudley finishes his ride, we will engage in his two favorite sports: box-unpacking and furniture moving.

I have no idea where these boxes come from, most especially because my parents moved into this house nearly 3 years ago. And yet, every time I come home, there are boxes to unpack. I am not sure why this process involves me either; last time I was here, we unpacked a box of books that belonged to Dudley himself. "Claire! I'm so glad we did this and have unearthed this most precious copy of Richard Feinman's psychics lecture, which has been living in this moldy box in the garage since 2007 where we keep all our most prized possessions!"

After the box unpacking, we will move a cabinet from the front hall where the delivery people left it upstairs into my room, where apparently it is going to live (the fact that someone delivered this in the first place and didn't just bring it upstairs is not lost on me). The cabinet ("cupboard," Mom says, giving the false impression that this could be made more exciting by the presence of an Indian inside) is approximately 8 feet tall, 4 feet wide, 2 feet deep, and made of solid pine. I can't wait.

I Forgot How Hard This Is

Several things:

1) Beer is excellent. Hangover are NOT excellent. At all. I had forgotten this fact until all the Advil in my apartment was gone and a certain Boston qualifier was throwing up for the second (possibly third) time this morning.

2) Running is hard. I just ran four miles at the gym in approximately 3:47:55.

3) Low-calorie Gatorade tastes like Robitussin

That's all for now.

Fill Up My Cup. Mazel Tov!

One thing I neglected to mention in my race recap is that I got extra energy at the mile 9 water stop from the Black Eyed Peas' "I Got A Feeling." To pay homage to Fergie and Friends, tonight I've decided to drink He'Brew Genesis Ale, made by Schmaltz Brewing Company. L'Chaim indeed!

Brewed in Saratoga Springs, NY and marketed as "The Chosen Beer," I have to say this is pretty good (and kosher!). It's nutty and flavorful and goes well with... these sweat pants and this couch. It has that legit "microbrew" taste. Which I guess is just "not Natty Light." Even though it has a strong taste (though not necessarily "beer-y"), I don't feel drunk after the first one. Don't worry though - the night is young.

Did I mention I'm going to try to run in the morning?

The Big Day

Someone's excited to run...

Garnet pride

We didn't suck!

By now, you know the good news – I came in well under four hours on Sunday. I’ve been stumbling around in stupor since then (not because I’m drunk… yet), but every so often, I think “holy shit, that was fast!” and get really excited all over again. Until my legs buckle underneath me. But it’s so worth it.

We got to Chicago on Friday evening around 10:00. It was effing freezing, and I was dressed for an in-flight peep show. Awkward. But we were also starving, so after we checked in and dropped of our things and covered our boobs (I-man shows a lot of cleavage too), we set out for proper Chicagoan food – deep dish pizza. We had a little trouble finding the restaurant, and stopped to ask some friendly Midwestern drunks for directions. After kindly pointing us towards food, said drunks asked if we were from out of town.

“Yes,” I said through chattering teeth. “New York.”

“We don’t serve Saltines with ketchup on them in Chicago!” Apparently, New York style pizza isn’t viewed with much esteem in the great state of Illinois. Fond as I am of pizza you can fold in half, I will say that deep dish pizza was delicious. Though I would have eaten a shoe with ketchup on it, I was so hungry.

After dinner, I passed out almost instantly in the most comfortable bed west of the Mississippi (note to self: check map to determine where Chicago is in relation to the Mississippi). It was even better than sleeping inside the seagull stomach in my apartment!

Saturday morning, I-man and I went for a short run around Chicago, and then headed to the race expo to pick up our numbers. I-man BEGGED me to take a picture of him with his number… We picked up our numbers, shirts, and some Gu, and learned a lot about various cancers before heading up to Lincoln Park to meet Nina and Cate for brunch. After gorging ourselves on fried potato products and watching Cate perform minor surgery on leather goods with a dull spoon, we headed back downtown to check out Michigan Avenue, Millennium Park, and various other Chicago highlights, and invest in an extra layer for I-man, who looked slightly like a resident of Boystown in the sweatshirt Nina kindly offered to lend him.

Nina picked a great spot for dinner Saturday night, within walking distance from her apartment (and a condemned building where I-man used to live) – Sapori Trattoria. Plenty of Ryetards joined in the festivities, including Lizzie, Todd, KJ, Cate, and Nina, as well as Lynda and her sister Jamie, and a sweet sweet lax dude named Waldo. He suggested that it would be more impressive if we got wasted the night before the race and ran drunk. While I agreed, I decided not to test this theory. Instead, I set three alarms and went to sleep.

Race morning! A cup of coffee, a granola bar, and a last minute outfit change (layers are tricky) and we were out the door. It was FREEZING. Full race morning attire included shorts, a dri-fit tshirt, a long sleeved cotton shirt, sweatpants, a long sleeved hooded top, a hat, and gloves. After scrambling over a fence with 45,000 other people, I parted ways with my layers at gear check, made one last visit to the bathroom, wished good luck to the I-man and hopped into my race corral. Go time!

Did I mention it was freezing? It was so cold. When the gun went off and we shuffled towards the start line, I thought to myself “this isn’t my day. It’s just too cold to push myself.” But as I crossed the start, the Boss started singing “Born to Run.” Maybe this was my day after all!

I started looking around for familiar faces in the crowd around mile 4, where the girls expected to be. While glancing around, I did spy some friendly fans with a sign that read “Free Beer For Runners” but I decided it was a bit early (both in the race and in the morning) to partake. The two lane road was divided by a tree-lined median, and I feared I had missed my friends, until I very nearly crashed into Nina at mile 6. Re-energized from the encounter, I pushed on.

At mile 9, while I tore into my first Gu and mourned the loss of two (!) other packages of the stuff, Cate and a fellow named Casey jumped in to run with me, a feat for which they deserve extra credit as they were acutely intoxicated and had not yet been to bed. It’s worth noting that I thought Casey was a random Cate picked up in a bar the previous evening, which would have made for an even better story, but he’s the colleague of another Chicago Ryetard. Cate was an excellent companion and regaled me with tales of her night (or what she remembered of it), and fired me up once again. After a few minutes, I had forgotten my worry that my legs were already tired.

Alas, the running must have given Casey the bed spins, for they were forced to drop out shortly before mile 10 (and get into bed. Hubba hubba). I was alone again. Just me and my legumes. “I was runningggg.”

The rest is sort of a blur. At 13.1, I remember thinking, “this isn’t so bad, but I’m about 6 minutes ahead of pace. I should slow down.” At 16, I had my last Gu. At 19, I thought “this is just like a run to the Brooklyn Bridge and back.” At 20, a friendly fellow gave me a Jolly Rancher (kids, don’t take candy from strangers!). About 10 minutes ahead of pace at that point, I realized I could probably break 3:50 if I felt strong, but decided not to push it just yet. At 22, I thought “this is a run to the Williamsburg Bridge and back.” At 24, I threw caution to the wind and passed the 3:50 pace group. At 25, I was furious to find a hill on my way into Grant Park. At 26, I spied Nina, holding up a sign that said “3:59:59. Bitches.” I pointed to it and shouted “Fuck yeah!” (P.S. Dear Nina, sorry for shouting expletives while you were in the NBC Press Box). At 26.2 I crossed the finish line in 3:47:55. Bitches.

I made my way through the finish chute, collected bagels and bananas and beers (And, for my first beer review in 35 days, Goose Island’s 312 Urban Wheat Ale is delicious!), and stopped to ask a volunteer to help me tie my Mylar blanket on. I stuck an icepack down my shorts, collected my gear, and went to find the crew to celebrate. After being showered with love and attention from my adoring fans, I turned to I-man, who was looking remarkably composed. He ran a 3:10:14.

“OH MY GOD! YOU QUALIFIED FOR BOSTON! WHY AREN’T YOU MORE EXCITED?!” Oh, that’s right, because you’ve been done for nearly an hour… Needless to say, when streets are fast and flat, everybody wins!

Special thanks for the inspirational signs (above). Links to all the pictures can be found on my Shutterfly site

As for this blog, I still have many miles left in me, and the world still has many beers left in it. Here’s to the next great adventure!

xox,

3:47:55. Bitches.

3:47:55

Bitches!

"I Won't Say Break A Leg"

Well here we go - Chicago bound today! Thanks for all the well-wishes (especially Leslie's voicemail - both appropriate and considerate given the circumstances!). Send me your positive vibes on Sunday. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for updates.

With love,

4:01 for now...

Packing

Barring any run-ins with the law, castings in movie chase scenes, or Giants tickets giveaways in the next 2 days, I've just finished my last run in New York. Easy 2.5 through the East Village (running past Phebe's brought back plenty of half-memories of running past Phebe's, albeit in jeans and heels...).

The reason for not running again before Chicago is two-fold; obviously I'd like to rest my body, which is already displaying "Check Engine" lights for at least three of its systems. But it's just as important that I pack my sneakers today, rather than run tomorrow and undoubtedly leave them behind. I've thankfully never had the misfortune of forgetting something I need (knock on wood), but there's a first time for everything, and judging by the way this week is going, I will definitely leave at least my sports bra and my heart rate monitor in New York. And probably my wallet. Did much of my packing last night: my actual running clothes for Sunday (heretofore, my costume), an extra layer to throw out once I'm warm (Ryan Boccuzzi, I'm anticipating needing another Colby Men's Soccer shirt, when you get a chance), gloves, sweats, extra socks, slippers (to put on after the race... I'm a genius for thinking of this), recovery socks, magazines (because Ian hates talking to me, especially on airplanes), clothes for Saturday activities, pjs, and various products. I'll unpack and repack another 2-3 times tonight to be sure I have exactly what I need.

The prospect of not breaking four hours has sort of only just occurred to me, but I suppose I should consider it. It would really suck. But while there are good days and bad days, you hope that your training tips the scales towards good. And if not, you hope there's a cold beer waiting for at the finish.

Stressing Out

On the list of things competing for my attention this week, the marathon ranks third, which isn't a good place to be. Ran an easy 4 this morning in light rain to get my head right.

The rest of this week will be a test of my comparmentalizing (compartmentalization?) skills - work at work, run while running, be at home while at home. Somewhere in there I should add"eat a lot of bread" and "pack." Is cortisol a carb?

Sleeping In

How did I not realize how awesome NOT waking up at 5:30 is?! It rules! And what's even better is that I don't have to feel guilty about it! Oh race week, I love you!

I'll probably run short and easy after work today, just to keep myself busy. Stocked up on travel sized products yesterday, which is always a challenge because 4 packets of Gu take up the majority of space alloted in your Ziploc bag of liquids. Am checking the weather and thinking about race day attire. Will print a few copies of my pace band today. Anything I'm forgetting?

Also, I read this race recap of the Wineglass Marathon yesterday, and it fired me up. I recommend you read it to (preferably, aloud to me when I run past you in Chicago).

Baby We Were Born To Run

Tough run with Achilles this morning. Harder, faster, and hillier than I should have gone, but I'm a glutton for punishment I guess. My first run with Matt, who's a lovely affable guy. Low turnout this morning - maybe everyone's afraid of the rain.

Sitting on the couch catching some football before heading to Jersey for The Boss. I have a strong feeling that, post-marathon, I'm going to be a die hard fan of at least one time in every game Saturdays, and of course my G-men on Sundays, so that I can really make up for lost time in the bars this season. Can't wait.

8 days!

Dudley

My parents are pretty amazing people (see above, after my first marathon). They are smart and kind, generous (I work in non-profit...) and supportive (...for a company with "Gay" in the name). In addition to being a great team, they each have their own strengths. If this were a blog about selfless dedication to righting the world's wrongs, I could show you a picture of Kathie Walsh's face and call it a day. But when it comes to dick jokes, she can't hold a candle to my Dudley (which is for the best, since his diet is heavy on beer and peanuts, and open flames and flatulence don't go well together).

I mention this tonight because Dudley is fresh on my mind, having just gotten back from an evening run. And much as I complain about running after work ("I'm tired. I'm hungry. I ate 4 cupcakes at an office birthday party."), it does call to mind happy memories of running with Dudley in my youth. I would wait patiently for him to come home from work, change into running clothes, and tie his sneakers while Shields and Gigot wrapped up The News Hour. Then we would strap on our reflective vests and hit the streets of Rye.

Dudley and I had some great conversations on those runs, running the gamut from college decisions to politics to sports to, yes, dick jokes (nothing will top the time Dudley and my sister were tending to some yard work and Dudley instructed Liz, who was wielding a saw, to use "long, smooth strokes," which prompted me to call down "that's what he said!). I still get to go on the occasional run with him every now and then, but I'm sure I'd have far fewer inner struggles about whether or not to run if I knew Dudley would be there to entertain me. On the other hand, Dudley was there the first time I threw up in a race (Jingle Bell Jog, Greenwich, CT, December 1997) and the time I came closest to shitting myself (Boilermaker, Utica, NY, July 2000), so maybe it's best if he supports me from afar next weekend...

Fast 5 along the East River after work tonight. Stomach still isn't feeling right, but was pleasantly surprised that it didn't bother me on the run. Meant to pour tomorrow morning, Achilles might be a wash-out. Either way, will get a run in before seeing the Boss at Giants' Stadium. Baby, I was born to run...

Ruh-roh

I don't know what is up with my stomach, but it is not good. I'm going to chalk it up to stress about my impending race, coupled with the recent resignation of a co-worker, along with increased consumption of dried apricots. But knowing me, it's the onset of swine flu, and I will die, tragically and ironically, 3 hours and 59 minutes from the time of my diagnosis.

Laying low this morning and eating bland things with the hopes of putting in an appearance at the gym tonight. (Because it's not like I'm going to come home and throw back a few brewskies after work. Frown face).

Oh, that reminds me. My friend Brennan is a hilarious genius, and called me yesterday evening to see what I was up to. The voicemail, in its entirety:

Hello Clairence McBeasley. It’s your Boner. I’m just calling to see what you’re up to this evening. I didn’t know if you’d be going out for a brewsky or two - oh fuck. The marathon. Fuck my balls. Okay you may not be doing that.

Anyways, can’t wait for all this nonsense to end. Just kidding. It is not nonsense it’s wonderful. But! I would like to meet you for a brewsky, post-marathon.

Fuck my balls, indeed. Happy Friday, my friends. We did it.

Marathon Month is Upon Us!

According to Nina, the city of Chicago is getting fired up to see me next weekend. I bet the flat and fast streets are even flatter and faster if you get to drive them...

Received two excellent tips yesterday. The first was from Leslie, who suggested that, post-marathon, I vow to drink one beer every day consecutively for the same number of days I was not drinking. AKA, return to my normal lifestyle. I'd love to try doing this with a different beer everyday, though presuming I buy a sixer of each new beer, that may leave my fridge very crowded. Not that that's a bad thing...

The second idea came from the aforementioned Nina, who suggested that she follow my pace chart (below) and drink a beer per mile. While I appreciate the dedication, she could in all likelihood, die from that. Perhaps she, Cate, Lynda, and whomever else wants to watch could work out some system whereby this is a shared responsibility.

Rabbit rabbit!