Monday Wrap Up: Wearing Hot Pants to the Convent

Happy Memorial Day Weekend, kids! Mine was an active one, including hill repeats, hiking in Newport, mansion fantasizing, golf ball dodging, sun bathing, Beirut-playing, 2 trips to Home Depot, and one morning spent "supervising" I-Man as he repaved his driveway. Which is to say I stood outside in a bikini handing him trowels and pointing to spots that looked lumpy. I was, however, handsomely rewarded for my efforts: I am now the proud owner of a Garmin 405, thanks to the generosity of I-Man!

Eager to break in my new toy, I headed out for a hilly run this afternoon to see just how I'd fair. The answer: not well. After trying to impress myself with my pace for the first 3 or 4 miles (Oooh, how fast am I going now? What about now? Now? How am I doing now? Now?), I had nothing left in the tank and 2 and a half hilly miles standing between me and the cold beer at the finish line (by "finish line" I mean "parents' house," where the beers are free for me). I haven't had a chance to sync my workout to my computer, but I trust when I do, my splits will offer some comic relief.

Let's go to the wrap up:

Number of Miles Run This Week: 25. 116 for the month of May. As reward, I'll close out the month with some Two-Bite Brownies as an appetizer. And dessert. And perhaps as a palate cleanser between courses of dinner.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 3 Thursday, 7 Friday, 987243 Saturday, and 2 Sunday. Mine is more of a kegerator than bikini body.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Quite a mixture, actually. Best of all was the Magic Hat Summer Seasonal, which says it's brewed with beet juice or something weird that Vermont hippies are into, but does NOT stain your mouth red. I also had more Bud Light with Limes than I care to admit, along with a Newport Storm Summer after our hike yesterday. I ordered it because it sounded like an American Gladiator. That would be my American Gladiator name. Nobody better read this and steal it from me. I had a Victory Whirlwind Witbier which was not good. Tasted yeasty, but like all the yeast had died. I envisioned drinking a sea monkey farm, which I never something you want to picture when you're trying to tie one on.

As for the title of this post, I'll leave you with a piece of advice I learned while on my run this afternoon: no matter how hot it is outside, and no matter how much you may think you can and should expose your hard-earned marathon running gams, running in hot pants gives you a camel toe to which you should not subject innocent bystanders. Least of all 4 sisters from the Heart of Mary Convent.

I Think I Just Ran Back in Time...

Kicked off the holiday weekend and official start of bathing suit season today with an 8 miler. I wear one of those old school bathing costumes, you see, that's more of a romper than a traditional "bikini," so I wanted to make sure my legs were looking toned. Okay, no I don't. But I'd probably waste less time doing planks, which I've decided are worthless, if I did. Oh to be a repressed woman of the 1920s... Just kidding, those chicks didn't drink.

Anyway, hi. I'm back from a route I've never run before, at least all at once. I decided to make an 8 mile route piece meal out of several routes I usually run. The benefit to this, aside from giving me something to look at besides the same old crazy folks doing calisthenics under the Brooklyn Bridge, is that tabulating the total distance my new route would take me on the fly distracted me from the fact that I was actually running and not, I don't know, sleeping in and not going to be among the only people in the office today. You see, I'm not good at math. I've mentioned this. On Sunday. Never mind the fact that I work in development and therefore spend a good portion of my workday playing with budgets and financials. (Here is my secret: Excel does all the math for you!) Anyway, I'm not good at math, and so having to calculate my house to the Williamsburg Bridge + Williamsburg to Brooklyn + Brooklyn to Williamsburg + Delancey to Lafayette to Broadway to home again takes focus. So much focus, in fact, that I nearly tripped over a gal in a dress and high heels sleeping on the East River running path. In fact, there were lots of people, draped all over the running path - many more than usual. And they all seemed to be wearing nice clothes (well, depending on your definition of nice. Damn hipsters can't dress...). Quite a few of the guys were wearing tuxes. At 6:00am. And then I realized - these were prom goers!

Now I went to quite a few proms in my day. 6, to be exact. Not because I was easy (I swear, Mom!), but in at least 2 cases, because I ran indoor track, a sport where the girls' and boys' teams practiced together. (Comical sided note: I was a sprinter. Keep in mind that my 5k PR is 23 minutes and change...). So I seemed non-threatening to the track guys. Also, I had boobs. Anyway, as a bona-fide prom expert in the not-too-distant past, let me tell you what it's like to go to prom in New York:

You go someplace that could be a wedding location. A good example (and one I coincidentally passed on my run today!) is the Puck Building. I went to 2 proms there. But before you even get there, you get on a party bus, which is either pre-stocked with liquor, or takes your group to whatever location you've used as your booze hiding spot. You drink. With reckless abandon. Horrible drinks, like wine coolers. And Zima. Does Zima even exist anymore, or am I just dating myself with that reference? Dreadful stuff. Like sugary arsenic. No wonder I only drink beer nowadays. I was scarred at a young age.

So, you get liquored up with sweet, melon flavored drinks, and inevitably someone throws up before you even get there, and because you're on a bus, the vomit flows down the aisle and someone's dress drags in it and she's momentarily devastated until someone hands her a Mike's Hard Lemonade and instructs her to drown her sorrows and then all is right with the world.

After an hour or so of that, you go to the actual prom at the aforementioned wedding location. No one remembers what it is like, though I can assure you they don't serve alcohol there. So your friends leave for "after prom" as soon as everyone has danced to whatever club hit is popular at the time (I seem to recall "I'm In Love With A Man (Nearly Twice My Age)" and whatever those Ashanti songs that were big in the late 90s being popular at proms I attended. But not before you've dirty danced in front of your principal/faculty advisor/teacher who is writing your college recommendations. Yes you are drunk, but you're also in high school and therefore shameless to begin with.

"After prom" takes place at a nightclub somewhere with a singular name (Tunnel, Level, and Exit were all choices in the 90s, though I don't still frequent clubs in the meatpacking district so I happily do not know if these places still exist). You have changed into something trampy, which no doubt looks odd since you're a nice girl from the suburbs and seem sort of awkward in your mesh tube top (hence the alcohol). 40% of your friends don't even make it into the club on account of the Zimas. Those who do go in realize that dancing is pretty hard when you're intoxicated. Also, that 18 year old boys are terrible dancers. Someone starts crying. Someone gets lost and everyone panics that she's been kidnapped, but really she's telling her life story to the bathroom attendant. It's time to go home.

Like spring break, my children will not be going to prom. They will be at home, watching PBS in long sleeved shirts and long pants, with no make up. They won't be allowed to dance. Not just on prom night, but ever. It'll be like Footloose, before Kevin Bacon. In fact, since they'll be at risk inheriting their mother's math skills, they should probably just spend that night doing problem sets.

Hump Night Musings

I was sore and tired when I woke up this morning, and figured I could use a rest day after 4 days “on.” Naturally, when I left work and it was 892734 degrees out, I was full of energy and desperate to expend it. Never before in my life have I wished for bun huggers, and if I hadn’t been fearful I’d traumatize the other gym-goers, I would have run in a bikini top (you’re welcome, New York Sports Club). That's right, I wussed out and ran on the dreadmill tonight. Quit judging me, it's crazy hot out there. As this was the first time in literally months I've been on a treadmill, I had forgotten how much easier it is to sprint. I ran a 7:47 fourth mile! I mean, there must be some faulty mechanism in there. It was probably a 7:47 half mile or something. But I'll take what I can get.

That said, if I hadn't been on a 'mill with a fan, I most certainly would have expired right there; my fingers are almost too slippery with sweat to type. As such, I’ll just throw out a couple of talking points on which y’all can ruminate tonight.

1) When I got to work this morning, I was genuinely concerned my underboob sweat would be showing through my dress. Happy summer, colleagues. I’m going to be ugly until Labor Day.

2) Yesterday my dad said to me, “I hope you don’t mind my remarking on this, but you didn’t drink very much while you were home this weekend.” Several things:

a. I like how my dad felt badly calling me out on not drinking very much, knowing full well it was an attack on my character

b. I reminded him that after having 4 beers on Saturday morning, I then split a bottle of wine with him at dinner, and in doing so, passed out in the backseat of my parents’ station wagon on the ride home. Perhaps his standards for consumption are even higher than mine.

3) Apparently someone paid $250 million for PBR (the company, not a sixer). The internet is rife with jokes about how that’s a lot of money for a very cheap beer. I say you can’t put a price on good taste. Especially if it comes in tall boys.

The Power of Pomegranate. And Beer.

Hi there.

I probably should have warned you that was coming. It's nearly Memorial Day here in NYC. A time when outdoor enthusiasts begin the transition from eagerly anticipating their workouts without fear of frostbite, to having to bring a change of clothes to the office because one works up a tremendous sweat from commuting. On the subway. Which is air conditioned. Oh New York, we love you, yet your weather sucks roughly 8 months of the year...

That said, I'm back in NYC after a largely successful day off yesterday (keep in mind my definition of success includes drinking during the day): I had a great run with my Dad along the water, followed by a trip to my favorite running store to get new kicks (the proprietor looked at the soles of my old ones and said "a real forefoot striker - good girl!" and I felt accomplished), and of course the aforementioned day drinking.

Thumbs up for Monday afternoon beers!

Ryan and I had a lovely, if impromptu, lunch to celebrate her birthday - this first year she has started to decrease in age. We're already looking forward to re-celebrating her 21st birthday in 2014!

Birthday beers at the Tiki Bar.

Surprisingly, there were not a lot of other Tiki-goers at 3:00pm on a Monday afternoon in May.

No matter; we made our own fun. If only every Monday lunch consisted of chicken fingers and pints...

Back in New York and back to reality today. Headed out to test out the new sneakers on an easy 4 miler today, which turned out to be less than easy on account of the humidity. Rather than refueling with a cold one tonight, I'm sucking back some pomegranate juice, sent me to gratis from the lovely folks at Pom Wonderful. I'll admit I was hesitant to try it; despite hearing good things (and enjoying the Pomegranate Margarita at Dos Caminos), I was skeptical that the Pom Wonderful marketing folks thought their beverage would resonate with my "commitment to healthy living." Since I don't believe I've made such a commitment. That said, this stuff is really good, and I further compliment Pom Wonderful for their comprehensive website, which includes recipes for alcoholic Pom drinks. Much more my speed! Regretfully, none of these are beer-centric cocktails (does such a thing exist? Once in Germany I accidently ordered what turned out to be half beer, half lemonade. I hope to never repeat the experience again). Perhaps I should start my own America's Test Kitchen (Manhattan's Wet Bar, perhaps?) and try out a few Pom Wonderful-and-beer beverages. And perhaps this taste test should coincide with the night before a rest day, lest I find anything I like too much...

Sunday Wrap Up: Brooklyn Half Marathon Race Report

When my alarm went off at 4:30am yesterday morning, I was momentarily confused. Not because I was waking up so early on a Saturday, but because when I did awaken, all the lights in my apartment were on. In fact, someone was definitely moving around in the kitchen. At 4:30 in the morning, as I was getting out of bed and getting ready to run 13.1 miles, my roommate was getting home. Life is sometimes unfair.

Coffee brewed, bib affixed, and gear bag packed, I headed out the door at 5:45 and got in a cab to Prospect Park. "In Brooklyn?" the driver asked? Did I need a passport or something? Barreling over the Manhattan Bridge, we arrived in Brooklyn and I felt both exotic and out of place. Though the only people on the streets at that early hour were the winos, even they seemed hipper on this side of the East River.

I was dropped off outside the park and joined the throngs of runners making their way to the gear check, which was easily more than a mile away. Though I had plenty of time for the walk, I felt cheated that I was logging extra miles before the race had even begun. Maybe I'd just stop the race at mile 11.5 and call it even.

I met my friend Nathan at gear check, made a pit stop at the porta-potties, and headed to start corral number 4. Having run together last year, we both decided that we should feel free to speed up or slow down when we wanted and just plan to regroup after the finish, where we planned to drink beers on the Boardwalk. Never mind that if all went according to plan, that would be by 9:00am... We spent the first mile shuffling through the crowd and trying to find room to run. We chatted about how the conditions were much better than last year, but the crowd was much thicker. As we headed uphill at mile 2.5, we got separated and I pressed on alone... with 7,000 other runners.

At mile 3, I was lapped by the leader, who was alone and flying on his second lap as he headedout of the park. Rather than making me feel like the middle-of-the-pack recreational runner that I am, seeing the race leaders (even when they're passing me) always fires me up, and I kicked up my speed in spite of the hilly terrain. My 6 mile split was 51:30 and I was still feeling good, so I headed out of the park confident that even if I crashed, I'd easily come in under the 2 hour mark. Those 9:00am beers were calling my name.

At mile 7, a fellow runner cut in front of me and clipped my shin with his heel, leaving me dirty and bruised and feeling exponentially more bad ass (battle wounds!). I limped a few strides before realizing I would probably survive this attack and turned onto Ocean Parkway, where I began my race math.

I suck at math. The only multiplying I can do are the 8- and 9- times tables, because my splits are somewhere in the middle so I get a lot of practice. Mile 7 at 59:00, so I wanted to be to mile 8 ahead of 1:08. Mile 8 at 1:07:20, so I want to be at mile 9 by 1:06... and so on. I guess that's not even multiplication, it's addition. Whatever, you see where I'm going with this, right? The point is, I reached mile 11 at 1:32 and change and thought if I motored, I could come in sub 1:50.

Turning onto the Coney Island Boardwalk at mile 12.5, I was pretty sure I was going to catch a loose board and knock out my teeth before I reached the finish line. Taking the lead of those ahead of me, I stayed to the right, where the boards ran parallel to the beach, and prayed that I didn't get impaled by a rusty nail. I hit the mat at 1:49:16 - a new PR! Even better, my 8:20/mile pace put me ahead of BQ pace. Now if only I can do that over twice the distance, 5 months from now...

I felt surprisingly good as I snagged a banana and a chocolate chip (!) bagel and headed to gear check to meet Nathan, who was hot on my heels. Finishing in 1:58, he too was pleased with his efforts and ready to celebrate.

We made our way back to the Boardwalk and were disturbed to find the first bar we passed was not yet open. Surely we weren't the only ones thirsty at 9:15am! Thankfully, a few doors down we found Ruby's, site of our post-race tequila bender last year, was open and serving up cold brews. Cheers!

In all, a great day both for performance and for fun (and for intoxication by 10:30am, which I feel is a mark of success). Unfortunately obligations called us away from the bar and back to Manhattan before lunchtime, otherwise I would have stayed in Coney Island all afternoon.

On to the wrap up!

Number of Miles Run This Week: 32. I closed things out with an easy recovery run with Dudley this morning in CT. He and my mom are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary today! He partly expected her to leave him while we were out running.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 4 post race (I was serious about 10:30am intoxication... Gu isn't exactly the most alcohol-absorbing food item out there), and another 7 or so throughout the week. But I have dinner plans tonight and no work tomorrow, so let's go ahead and assume I'll get up to 15. And by that I mean 25.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Worked through some Stellas at my apartment during the week, then rehydrated post-race with a Bud Light before switching to Brooklyn Lager. I then tried to drink Ruby's house brew, whose name I didn't know, and ordered from the elderly barkeep who was probably part of the construction crew that built the original Cyclone, he was so old. I said "I'll have a draft beer, the one that isn't Coors Light." Naturally, he returned with a Coors Light.

Number of Ice Cream-Oriented Foods I've Had Today: 2. Christ, Claire, it was just a half marathon. Step away from the Snickers Ice Cream Bars.

Next on tap, I have a double race weekend coming up in June, with the NYC Pride Run 5 miler on Saturday, 6/26 and the Fairfield Half Marathon on Sunday, 6/27. That sounds hard. I should probably go take a nap to prepare...

Oh Come On, New York

Buddy,

Please don't try to hand me a copy of AM New York while I'm running across Houston Street. Seriously. It's 6:30am. I'm probably not just running to catch the bus. I'm not carrying anything, like a briefcase, or a lunch. I'm wearing shorts and sneakers. I mean, I'm sort of offended. Can't you tell?

I'm a New York Post kind of girl.

Love,

3:59:59. Bitches.

On Fartleks

The fartlek is the kind of workout every runner likes. Its name means "speed play" in Swedish or German or Pig Latin or something, and the "play" part is a crucial component of the fartlek. Without measure or premeditation, the fartlek entails randomly altering one's speed as much or as little as the runner likes, for as long or as short as she pleases, as many times as she wants during the course of the run. Sprint like you're fleeing the scene of a bank robbery, then jog virtually in place like some weird old school track coach (not naming any names, Coach Yed). What's not to like? Plus, the name "fartlek" is funny, and is inclusive of those runners who grapple with frequent and significant GI distress (not naming any names, 3:59:59. Bitches).

When I woke up this morning, I had just finished a dream in which I ran a 3:33 marathon, qualifying for Boston with room to spare and celebrating with copious amount of beer. Imagine my dismay when I realized a) I am 7 minutes away from a BQ in real life, and b) it was 5:25am on a Wednesday and therefore an inappropriate time to celebrate with beers. And so, I set out for my usual 7 mile route to the Brooklyn Bridge. However, I couldn't shake my dream, and I decided that even though my BQ training hasn't formally begun, it couldn't hurt to engage in a little speed work. But I hate the track (based on the one time I went there last year...), and besides, I have a half marathon to run Saturday and don't need to kill myself beforehand. Seemed like the fartlek was the perfect workout for me.

I broke my speeds into roughly 4 groups: 25% (aka, the old school track coach shuffle); 50% (plain old running speed); 75% (faster than tempo pace, but not yet throwing up); and 100% (fleeing the bank robbery and getting nabbed by the fuzz because I'm doubled over dry heaving from running so hard). With no rhyme or reason, I alternated these for the duration of my 7 mile run, and was delighted to find I finished the route 60-90 seconds faster than I normally run it. I think I'm onto something!

Towards the end of my workout, 75% started to feel more like 88.5%, but overall I'd call this workout a success, and am particularly proud of the distances over which I was able to maintain my sprints. The man with whom I ended up passing, then getting passed by, then passing, then getting passed by, then passing again probably didn't enjoy my workout as much as I did. In fact if I were him, I'd be blogging about that annoying lunatic girl this morning who couldn't hold a steady pace if she carried it in a bucket. Chill out Gramps, there's a method to my madness.

An easy run on tap for tomorrow morning, then resting until my early wake up call for Saturday's Brooklyn Half Marathon in Prospect Park. 7:00am start time. That puts me on the Coney Island Boardwalk around 8:45am. Not sure how to marry this timeline with plans to have drinks with some coworkers after the finish...

'Tis The Season

While I was out on my run tonight (definitely slept for 12 hours last night to recover from AIDS Walk and didn't run this morning), I thought back to Sunday's Wrap Up and realized something terrible: I neglected to mention a type of beer I drank! And given that I have fond memories of Sam Summer Ale, I felt obligated to rectify this error (and yes, I recognize that perhaps drinking a six-pack of the stuff may have contributed to my inability to remember that I did in fact drink it. It's a vicious cycle).

My senior year of college, I took a seminar that met on Wednesday's from 1:00pm - 3:30pm. Or something like that. My friend and freshman year roommate Cathy also had seminar on Wednesday afternoons (hers was art-related, while mine was African). Every Wednesday after seminar let out, Cathy and I would meet to drive to the next town (scenic Winslow, ME) to visit The Pointe Afta. In a sea of Central Maine dives, The Pointe Afta was something special.

I have no recollection of how we found this place since it certainly wasn't frequently by kids from our school, or anyone else under 40, but it became ritual for Cathy and I to pull up around 4:00pm on Wednesday afternoons that senior spring, and each order a lobster roll (perk of a Maine education), an order of fries, and a Sam Summer Ale. And then another. And another.

If you've never spent a winter in Maine, you can't possible understand the feeling you get on the first sunny, warm (comparatively) day in May, when the snow has finally melted and every person in the state is in a good mood. The Pointe Afta gave us that feeling every week. The locals were friendly, the music was good, and baseball was on TV. Plus, the lobster rolls were made without mayo, which is both a rarity and the only way I'll eat 'em. It was a damn good couple of months. I can't look at a Sam Summer Ale the same way after that semester at The Pointe Afta, and I hope I never do.

I just got misty-eyed over a beer.

Sunday Wrap Up: AIDS Walk/Ab Work

Am I the only person who sometimes gags so hard brushing my teeth that I feel like I'm getting an ab workout? That does count as an ab workout, right? Because I regularly say to myself "I don't need to do core today; had a hard session with the ole t-brush this morning!" And that is why my stomach looks like its made of mashed potatoes... On to the wrap up!

Number of Miles Run This Week: 30. Holler. Ready to rock the Brooklyn Half next weekend. Ooh, that's two parks in two weekends!

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 11. And counting.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Flying Dog Doggie Style Classic Ales and Stellas. Delish. There may have been a Bud Light in there - an impulse buy at happy hour. Also worth noting: the pomegranate blueberry margarita at Dos Caminos is insanely good. Didn't those POM Wonderful people say something about sending me product samples?

It's shocking how tired I am after the walk today, given that a) it's a walk, b) it's 10k, and c) I only followed the route to 110th Street before I retreated back to my volunteer command post. Granted, the 3 Saturday night margaritas might have had something to do with it... Anyway, thanks to the financial and emotional support of my friends and family, I'm pleased to report that the 25th Anniversary of AIDS Walk New York was a tremendous success today! And I'm even more pleased to report that I told my boss I don't want to do any additional work for the remainder of the fiscal year, so I'll have plenty of free time to work on my running and my beer sampling. But for now, I'm taking this beer into the shower, then getting another one on my way to bed.

The Legacy of Length

I am admittedly rather tall. At nearly 5'11" barefoot, I am not, nor have I ever been, a small person. I seem to have gotten a handle on my lot in this life, and have come to feel that I manage my stature quite well. This was not always the case.

Once, in about 5th grade, when I was already almost this tall, but exponentially more gangly as my body mass hadn't quite caught up to an appropriate ratio, I was playing frisbee with a friend in the street in front of our houses. An errant frisbee was tossed far to my left, and I took off running to shag it down. Unfortunately, I gravely misjudged how much room I took up, and instead of striding under a tree branch in my path, I caught it directly across the bridge of my nose. It knocked me flat on my back, and gave me a black eye and a concussion. So then I was a gangly, bruised, and dazed 5th grader. With braces. I had an awesome childhood.

Anyway, this morning I was running down the East River running path, as I do most mornings, and enjoying the beautiful weather. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tree coming up on my right. I did nothing to alter my path and was subsequently clocked on top of the head by it. The man on a bench in front of me sat bolt upright, looking at me like "Did that really just happen?" Spacial awareness is evidently not my forte.

I'll be back tomorrow with a special AIDS Walk edition of the Sunday Wrap Up, but if you can't stand the suspense of not knowing how the world's largest AIDS fundraiser goes, please join me and 45,000 of my closest friends in Central Park tomorrow at 10 am. Until then, look before you leap. Or run.

1001

When I'm running strong, I try to keep pretty good form: shoulders down, back tall, arms parallel, head high. In maintaining this posture, my hands are just out of range of my peripheral vision. Of course, it's tough to keep that stance when you're dog tired (I think in the Surf City Marathon I finished virtually doubled over. Eff you, California sunshine), and with about 1/2 a mile to go on this morning's 7 miler, I started to let my left side pull a little bit. With each stride and pump of my arms, my left hand crept closer and closer into view. Naturally, because I wasn't expecting this, when I finally noticed my own hand reaching forward, I flipped out and thought an attacker was behind me, trying to reach out and grab me. I am an idiot.

Editor's Note: Since I started keeping track of these things back on August 11, 2009, I've logged 1001 miles. Not too shabby. Based on the ratios presented in my weekly wrap-ups, I'd guess I've consumed roughly half that many beers in the same time frame. Given how many delicious beers there are out there, that doesn't sound like nearly enough.

Pizza Picnics, Science Projects, and Near-Misses

On my way home from work yesterday, I picked up two slices of ‘za. When I got to my apartment, I grabbed two beers from the fridge (Flying Dog Classic Ale, which I’m liking more and more… could I be a hops girl afterall?), a pint glass, and a plate, and took all these supplies to my bedroom. I took off my suit (did I mention I had to wear a suit yesterday? Like, an actual, matching-jacket-and-pants, you-look-like-you’re-playing-dress-up suit. So lame), put on sweatpants, and got into my bed with my feast. It was 7:30pm.

Work has been slowly killing me over the past several weeks, and while I can sort of see the light at the end of the tunnel AIDS Walk, Sunday night seems very, very far away. Never mind that I’ve had a week full of meetings (hence the suit) and still have to submit a grant application by the end of the week. The pizza picnic seemed to have lifted my spirits (or maybe the beer just dulled the anxiety), so I was hopeful that Thursday would be one of those bad-ass, productive, I’m-awesome-at-my-job days. I made the mistake of checking my email when I woke up this morning, so for the first mile of my run, all I could think about was care coordination, patient navigation, COBRA case management eligibility, and hospital discharge to medically appropriate housing. Not the most head-clearing start.

But slowly I loosened up, and pretty soon I was thinking about maybe possibly pushing 5 miles in the Vibrams, instead of the planned 4. And so I did. And it felt good.

I inadvertently conducted two experiments in the Fivefingers today. The first was stepping on glass. Running across Delancey Street, I was momentarily distracted by the urgent need to blow a snot rocket, and was therefore turning my head to the side when I stepped down and heard a crack. Oh. Shit. Surprisingly, nothing happened. The glass was positioned in a way that got me right in the arch of my left foot, where the rubber tread of the Vibrams seems thinnest, but I didn’t feel any pain, and when I got home and examined the bottoms, there were no tears or even shards stuck in the little grippy things on the bottom. Not that I’d encourage you to run through a bottling plant in them, but I was pleased to learn that the Vibrams would in fact protect me from more than just rocks.

(In case you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about and read this blog because you’re interested in beer and/or a weird bodily function fetishist, this is what the “sole” of Fivefingers looks like)

Where they did seem to fail was in the category of uneven manmade terrain. Specifically, cobblestones. Now, don’t even get me started on why there even are cobblestone streets in New York anymore, but occasionally you’ll find them, especially downtown. One such cobbled road is at Broadway and Bond Street. Just crossing the intersection felt like running across a bunch of fists, some of which would occasionally reach out o grab you by the foot and wrench your ankle this way or that.

As I continued up Broadway to Union Square, I had completely forgotten about community follow-up workers and observational therapies, and was feeling downright great. Until I was very nearly taken out by a cabbie who swerved to avoid a minivan that had cut him off. I don’t have the best luck with cars, having crashed 3 (my mom’s, sideswiping a guardrail, a few weeks after getting my license; my own, into a tree, fishtailing in Leslie’s driveway in Vermont; and my friend Christian’s, which shouldn’t really count because someone crashed into us, but it was highly unfortunately that I was driving, and that this happened on the New England Thruway, on a holiday weekend, and the car that hit us flipped, and an ambulance had to come (everyone was fine). And no, I-man does not let me drive his Corvette. Occasionally he will let me sit inside, but mostly I get strapped to the roof), so I was impressed that I was able to maneuver my Fivefinger-ed feet out of the way and get home unscathed.

All that is to say, this morning’s run was exactly what I needed to forget about work for awhile (and work off that pizza). If I make it to Sunday, I think I’ll celebrate with another good run like this one.

On Brooklyn, and Bowels

Knocked out a hilly 10-miler this morning over the Brooklyn Bridge without any of the aches and pains I've been dealing with lately; foot gave me no trouble at all, and the only time my knee stiffened up was when I was stopped at a light waiting to cross the street. Bridge runs are always tough, so I was pleased to have gotten through this one feeling good. That is, until about 7 miles in, when the GI issues started. Not that it should have come as a surprise; among the foods I ate yesterday were Activia, dried fruit, and refried beans. It's like I have a death wish. When the day finally comes where I shit my pants while running - and believe me, that day will come eventually - I don't even think it will be that embarrassing. Everyone will say, "Her? Yeah, I saw that one coming." Still, I was glad that day was not today, and I finished the run without incident.

Glad to have gotten in hills and double-digits in preparation for next weekend's Brooklyn Half in Prospect Park. And so far no one has confused me for a pregnant lady, so I'd say this week is off to a good start. I hope the same is true for you.

I'm a Beast

Here's my t-shirt after just 4 miles on the treadmill this morning. While I normally wear my sweat stains like badges of honor, it sort of sucked to take of my shirt to take a shower only to be slapped in the face with my own perspiration.

And speaking of dreadmills, it looks like I may be getting reacquainted with the ones living in my neighborhood New York Sports Club, as I've just returned from a weekend in Connecticut spent unloading my winter clothes and packing in my summer gear to bring back to my apartment, only to be confronted with decidedly un-summery temps this week. Today's low? 38. So glad I swapped out my running tights for singlets this weekend...

Sunday Wrap Up: Happy Mother's Day

Following a delicious brunch out in the 'burbs with my parents to celebrate Mother's Day, I went out for a hilly but leisurely run to see how the foot was feeling after 3 days of rest. Since the weather was sunny if cold, there were plenty of other people out walking dogs and babies. As I approached one such couple, pushing a stroller with two babies inside, I wished the woman a happy Mother's Day. A dozen yards beyond them, I passed an older man walking a dog, who in turn wished me a happy Mother's Day. Please God let that be because I am in my child bearing years and not because he thought I was pregnant. If you need me, I'll be never eating brunch again. On to the wrap up:

Number of Miles Run This Week: 20. I only ran 3 days this week, which is less than ideal as I'm in my pre-BQ training phase, but I'm also proud of myself for taking a few days to rest my sore foot. For this afternoon's run, which was a good bit slower than usual, I wrapped my foot pretty tight, which did help with the pain. Fingers crossed this is the last in my admittedly long list of distractions from running.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 12. The vast majority of those came on Friday night, and as such I was feeling less than awesome Saturday morning. That seems to be happening an awful lot lately...

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: A few Stellas, a few Guinnesses, a few Heinekens, a Flying Dog Classic Ale, and a Bud Light. And an order of cheese fries, which goes hand-in-hand with the aforementioned beers.

While I did have one day of two runs this week, I didn't have any double digit runs, and with the Brooklyn Half right around the corner, I need to get one in this week. As for other weekly goals, any week where a strange man doesn't confuse me for a pregnant lady is a good one. I aim high.

P.S. The 25th Anniversary of AIDS Walk New York is one week from today. Please consider donating: http://aidswalknewyork2010.kintera.org/walshcc

Brew Review: Flying Dog "Doggie Style" Classic Pale Ale

Happy Friday, kids! Took long enough, amiright? I started shutting my computer down at 5:40 today (you always think "I'll just get this started a little early so I'll be ready to walk out right at 6:00." Of course, shutting down your computer takes 35 seconds and then it's 5:41 and you're like "Shit, I'm still at work and now I can't even dick around on the internet." Story of my life.) and ended up sneaking out a few minutes early on account of... not wanting to be there anymore.

Having woken up with a pain in my left foot (here we go again...) I decided to forgo my planned morning mile repeats (which were a dumb idea anyway. Mile repeats? Who am I? I've been to the track once since college.) and wait to see how I felt after work. At 5:41, the pain was still there, and I figured instead of enduring the whole doctor song-and-dance again, I should probably just take another day to let it chill. But it was only 5:41. What was I to do with my evening?

I think you can answer that question yourselves:

From the label: "Dogs have it figured out. They sleep all day, lick themselves and eat everything but veggies." It does sound like a pretty sweet deal, so I thought I'd give the "Doggie Style" Classic Pale Ale a shot tonight. Also, it's Friday and this is called "Doggie Style." I mean, what else can I say (given that my mom reads this blog...)?

First sip was shocking in that it was so... watery. Is this Bud Light?! But then the hoppiness kicked in, followed by a malty finish. This is suspiciously IPA-y...

I always think hoppy beers would be better if they were just a little bit colder. But I pluck 'em right out of the fridge, so it's not quite possible. Is there some chemical equation going on in there I don't know about, that keeps the beer from getting cold? Should I start employing an ice bucket, like I'm hosting my own personal keg party? SHOULD I START HOSTING MY OWN PERSONAL KEG PARTY?!

I don't have time for this kind of fantasizing, as I've got to get a move on with the blow drying and beautifying. And the drinking. Anyway, send me your good wishes for an unsore foot tomorrow, and I'll do my best to keep getting drunk and blogging about it. Quid pro quo, no?

Two-A-Days

Even though I already ran this morning (you remember my twin, Jocelyn Wildenstein, below?), the weather when I (finally) left work was too nice to pass up. Plus I didn’t experience any fresh air between the hours of 8:30am and 7:00pm and was therefore desperate to spend some time breathing in air that hadn’t already been in someone else’s mouth and then recycled through the HVAC system. That’s foul to think about. Air that someone farted on the 5th floor at noon could be air I am breathing in on the 8th floor at 3:30. Sickening.

Anyway, put on the Vibrams for a short spin tonight and felt 49,734 times better than I did this morning. Could this be the end to my running doldrums? And more importantly, how can I recreate that feeling without having to run twice every day? Ran fast, felt awesome, and had no ponytail problems, allergy attacks, phantom pains, or other ailments to bitch about. I even passed some fit-looking dudes (fun running term: when I dude gets passed by a girl, it's called "getting chicked.") In the Vibrams! I rule!

Celebrating the return of my bad-assedness with a glass of wine (I run for that too sometimes, when the weather is nice and I happen to pass by the liquor store outside my apartment) and excited to not have to be at the office during the eight o'clock hour tomorrow. Life is good.

Another Run, Another Broken Ponytail Holder

I don't know what I did to upset the cosmic balance, but I appear to be paying for it dearly. After the broken ponytail holder at mile 2, I had to MacGuyver a hair tie out of a headband, which ended up squeezing my face tight enough that I looked like a downtown version of the Catwoman.

"You're beautiful, it's true."

Happy Hump Day. It can only get better from here, right?

Tin Roof? Rusted.

Awakened at 2:00am with a terrible sore throat, I tossed and turned and tried not to swallow (that's what she said) for an hour before finally getting up and changing the alarm from 5:15am to 7:15am. Tired and sick, I bagged the planned morning run.

By 3:00pm - 7 hours into my stint at the office, 5 cough drops, 4 Advils, and 2 doses of Claritin down (how serious are they about the "24 Hour" part of "Claritin 24 Hour"?), I was tired of working and sick of being indoors. I downed as much water and Airborne as I could stomach and was determined to hit the road after work.

I read in Runner's World once that if the symptoms of your illness are above the neck (headache, sore throat, etc.), you were cleared to run, whereas if you had any body aches, stomach ailments, or other flu-symptoms, you should take a rest day. So, head throbbing and throat aching, I laced up the Asics for a spin along the East River.

While this was one of those runs where you feel better the longer it goes on, I still grappled with feeling sluggish and run down. For the past several weeks, I've had random nagging pains, my legs have felt heavy, and runs have been harder than they should be. Maybe it is seasonal allergies, in which case I cannot wait for this effing season to be over.

Oh, you think it might be something else, do you? Oh, you mean how I said I drank approximately 45,000 beers last week? You think that might have something to do with it? Well funny you should mention it, my friend, because after I wrote that blog post, I said (only to myself and not to my readership, for the express purpose of not having to be accountable), I should probably curtail the weekday drinking, at least this week, given my intake last week. I even thought perhaps this would help put some spring it my step, or at the very least, decrease my rate of dehydration (science!). But alas these plans were foiled. Yesterday. I made it 24 hours. But in my defense, I had a work obligation yesterday evening. At a drinking establishment. And you see, in my line of work, this type of obligation somewhat necessitates a cocktail or two, to fuel the networking. Fine, it was company karaoke. But that's an even better explanation for why I had to have a drink.

Tomorrow, at Will Run For Beer: Coming To You From The Unemployment Line!

Psyche! Obviously, I was not fired for being fun and awesome. In fact, my karaoke partner was my boss, and we won best duet. It was Love Shack. The prize? A bottle of booze for each of us. Last time I ever make a promise to myself to stop drinking...

Sunday Wrap Up: Typing Is Making Me Sweat

It's hot. And the warmth radiating from my thighs on account of forgetting to use sunscreen on any parts below my waist today is not helping. On the plus side, this was a solid weekend. On the minus: it's over. Also: I was a total creep last night. But anyway, to the wrap up.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 24. Well technically 25 since I made it for one mile today before my ponytail holder broke and rendered me defenseless against a mane of locks sticking to my neck and back. I looked like that chick from Real Housewives who ran down the middle of Fifth Avenue, untethered hair blowing in the breeze behind her. Minus the blow out. Plus 40 pounds.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: As a guesstimate, I'd say 45,000. But that's kind of lowball.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: I had many kinds of beers this week. My weekend started with Rolling Rock, served in 8 oz plastic cups. It's hard to not look like someone with an alcohol addiction when you're drinking out of 8 oz cups. That's like one swallow! I had about 93 over the course of the evening. Saturday I started out the night with a beer with a bad ass label:

Look at that hawk! I warmed up with a couple of these Red Tail Lagers (from Mendocino Brewing Company, I believe) before heading down to Cate's for the main event. Which included this:

It's official: this is the worst beer ever made. It's Korean. It tastes exactly like water. Its tagline is "Cool and Fresh!" No, Hite. Lame and Ass-tasting is more appropriate. I hate you.

Other beers included some Sierra Nevada Summer Ale and a lot of Bud Heavy, which I carried down 11 flights of stairs in a state of emergency. Priorities: I haz them.

And speaking of states of emergency... Number of Firefighters Who Bore Witness to My Public Consumption of Bud Heavy: 30. Number for Whom I Cheered As He Climbed Up the Ladder: Just the one. Be mine, Scotto!

This week I did get in a short run in the Vibrams, and was delighted to find I wasn't paralyzed by calf pain afterwards, so I'm looking forward to spending some more time with them again this week. Having run out of excuses for not adding another half to my calendar this summer ("But Kelly, the Fairfield Half is the same day as your bridal shower!" "The shower isn't until lunch time. Run fast." Shit.), I've now got the Brooklyn Half coming my way in May and Fairfield in June, so I'm going to be spending more time with all my running gear I guess. I will do my best to ensure that this in no way impacts my ability to sample all the fine brews this city has to offer. I know you are all looking forward to my making good on that promise...

And a special message to all those who raced this weekend: you are so much more badass than I can ever hope to be. Seriously, I'm sweating right now, lying motion-less on my bed in the darkness (yes, I am blogging in the dark, alone in my bed on a Sunday night. Yes, I am the lamest person ever). Kudos to you folks for racing in some serious heat.

Starting Off on the Right (and Left) Foot

Happy May, kiddos! Stayed out last night dancing to 1980s Madonna tracks until about 3:00am, and capped that off with two slices of 'za. At least I walked home, right? Suffice it to say, I wasn't very quick to get a run in before the heat wave this morning. And by that I mean at noon I still hadn't even washed my face. Awesome.

Finally got out the door for a short one about 2:00pm and was glad there was a little bit of a breeze off the East River. Decided since I was going short anyway to do it in the Vibrams. Haven't seen those guys in about a month. Felt great, all things considered, and was pleased to find that the Fivefingers didn't drum up ye ole fankle injury. Did a little lifting for good measure.

Sitting on the balcony as I type this and looking down at the hordes of twenty-somethings carrying cases of Natty Light home from Duane Reade. What is it about nice weather that makes everyone want to day-drink? Whatever it is, I better go join them.