Parting Thoughts

Well I’m not entirely sure how this happened, but suddenly I’m less than 3 days away from my departure for Corning, NY for the scenic Wineglass Marathon. Yes, that kind of wine glass, like Corningware. No, I had never heard of that until I registered for this race. I thought the only people who made wine glasses were Simon Pearce and Riedel. Besides, everyone knows I’m a pint glass girl, myself.

But back to the task at hand: In less than 3 days, I’ll be at the starting line of my 8^th marathon (God that makes me feel old… I mean, accomplished…), tackling my biggest challenge to date. My aim: to cross the finish line in 3 hours and 40 minutes. If I’m successful, I’ll not only be cutting 7 minutes from my previous personal record; I’ll be qualifying for Boston.

How do I feel? Well for starters, it took a lot to get me to this place, metaphysically speaking (it didn’t actually take much to get me to this place, in the geographical sense, since I’m sitting in my apartment). 16 weeks of training, through one of the hottest summers we’ve ever had in New York City. Not that the Big Apple is the only place I’ve logged my training miles. Since June, I’ve run in Old Forge and Montauk, in Stamford and Fairfield, in Camden, Maine, and in Dublin and Maynooth, Ireland. I’ve run many miles alone, but many with friends, with family, with strangers, and once with Nina riding her bike next to me. I ran two races in two days. I threw up during one of them. I ran before work and after work, and on weekends I got up early to run even though I didn’t have to go to work. I ran mile repeats, hill repeats, fartleks, tempo runs, marathon pace runs, and vacation pace runs. I ran past a convent in hot pants. I ran for LGBT Pride. I didn’t run on Wall Street, but I did get drinks after the race with friends who did. I ran 21.53 miles at once. I ran into Cate coming back from my first track workout. I ran into TK in Central Park. I ran into Katie B often. I ran through three pairs of sneakers. All told, I’ve covered 567.47 miles since June 14^th. And I’m not done yet. I’ll run my last 3 miles on Saturday morning before I hit the road.

But how do I feel? At the immediate, Claire-specific, physical level, I feel good: stronger and faster than ever (also skinnier. Bitches). June, July, and August were each record-setting months for me in terms of miles (At 165, September will rank second, behind last month’s 170). I’ve cut more than 20 seconds off my mile repeat splits. I’ve had no injuries (knock on wood), discounting hangovers, heartbreaks, and the occasional blister.

But how do I feel? At the big picture level, I am overwhelmed. I’ve faced some obstacles; a common marathoner mantra is “trust the training,” and many of the last 16 weeks were tests that trust, and of my faith – in my training, but also in myself, as a runner and beyond. I was challenged to not get distracted or lose sight, in the face of everything else going on in my life. But I’ve come this far. And if my biggest problems now are getting to western New York during foliage season to run 26.2 miles for the eighth time in my life on my own two (well-muscles, 26 year old, nubile) legs while simultaneously dodging a storm of Biblical proportions, only to get back to New York City in time to find a new apartment of my very own, which I will afford with the salary raise I was just given because I am a bad-ass professional, then I guess my problems aren’t so bad.

A few weeks back, my friend Michelle informed me about a Gandhi quote I’ve had rattling around in the ole potato since then, and I’ve found it more relevant than you could possibly know: "Every worthwhile accomplishment, big or little, has its stages of drudgery and triumph: a beginning, a struggle, and a victory." Drudgery and struggle, you say? You’re kidding!...

Here’s to the triumph. May we all find our own victories.

(Please don’t take that to mean I expect to win on Sunday. Or that my plans to run for 26.2 miles over 3 hours and 40 minutes are as noble or as difficult as a three week hunger strike. I start sweating if I don’t have lunch by 11:45.)

Hero Worship

Kara Goucher emailed me today.

Stop. Reread that.

Kara Goucher emailed me today.

Yes, that Kara Goucher.

The disciple of Alberto Salazar and Nike Oregon Project. The women I joked just a few weeks ago could run faster while in the delivery room giving birth than I can on a good day (and the woman whom I hope didn’t read that awkward analogy and become horrified at what a creep I am). The 2:25 marathoner who became the first American women to reach the podium in the New York City Marathon in more than a decade.

It’s worth noting that Kara’s marathon debut in New York in 2008 was just shy of two full hours faster than my marathon debut. Is your brain processing this information? Because mine is completely defunct, since KARA GOUCHER EMAILED ME TODAY.

I’ve already printed this email. In triplicate. One copy is hanging on the wall in my office, right next to my pace chart for next weekend (screw you, 8:23 splits). One copy I’ve brought home with me, to frame or just file away someplace so that whenever I am feeling particularly in the pits about running and the like, I can take it out and look at it and say “Kara Goucher wants me to succeed!” Because I am an after school special. As for the third copy, I haven’t yet decided what to do with it, but the prospect of pinning it to the shirt-side of my race bib has crossed my mind. It would make me fast, like osmosis. Only without water or semipermeable membranes. So, not like osmosis.

I suppose you'd like to know how this all came to pass? In short, my friend Jason is the most thoughtful, considerate, and supportive person possibly ever. Also, he is himself a badass runner/tall person/American hero (fact – and thank you for your service!). And to top it all off, he knows famous runner people. So Jason said “Hi, my old pal Kara Goucher! My new pal Claire is trying to BQ next week. She loves you in a totally respectful and non-stalkery way (tell me you did in fact include that part, Jason…). She would probably die if you sent her a note that says good luck.” Of course, it would have sucked if I actually did die, or have had a heart attack as a result of this, the most exciting moment of my adult life (like Mark Dantonio. Get well soon, my Spartan friend!). But I didn’t. I just FLIPPED THE EFF OUT AT MY DESK and started typing nonsensical things to anyone within e-reach. For example:

me: jGzjkcGAJKSDRGJKasgdjkagsdkjgaskgasdjkgd

YOUR BOYFRIEND IS THE MOST AMAZING PERSON EVER

ahsidhaksdhalksdhlaksdbnklashflkajshfkljashfjkasf

I AM FREAKING OUT

kajshdkljashdklashdklashdklhaklsdj

still freaking

ioasdhkajshdklashdlkasdh

Nicole: hahaaaa glad you're happy!

I was sort of excited.

Well, would you like to know what Kara Goucher said?

Claire,

I heard from your friend Jason that you are down to it with tapering for your upcoming marathon. I just wanted to wish you Good Luck! I know that you are trying to qualify for Boston, so I sincerely hope you get that goal. But don’t over think it, just enjoy the ride! Have a great run and I look forward to hearing how it went. –Kara Goucher.

Not only does Kara Goucher hope I qualify for Boston, but she looks forward to hearing how I do. Well, shit. As if I weren’t already feeling the pressure, now I’m accountable to Kara Goucher?! Thanks a lot, Jason.

(No, seriously, thank you. Thank you a billion times over. I would like to buy you fifty-four thousand beers to show my gratitude to you. This really was the most thoughtful thing ever. Are you single? Did I just make this weird? Sorry, Nicole…)

Via A Random Number Generator, A Winner Is Declared

To: Nina

From: Claire

Subject: Random Number

Can you please choose a random number between 1 and 12? I'd ask Cate, but that wouldn't be random because she picks 4 every time.

To: Claire

From: Nina

Re: Random Number

Seven

To: Claire

From: Nina

Re: Random Number

Did that do it?

So eager to please, that Nina.

But anyway, congrats to the commenter assigned the number 7 (this was a double blind drawing... or something technical like that) - Karen! Karen shared a wonderful (horrifying) story about her husband's nipples that read something like a Penthouse Letter. Just kidding, it was totally family-friendly (it involved Mickey Mouse!) and runner-centric, and she very thoughtfully wondered if it was even acceptable to use the word "nipple" on this blog. Karen must be a new reader, since nipple is the least obscene word I've ever typed. So Karen, shoot me an email at willrunforbeerblog at gmail dot com with a mailing address (don't send me porn spam. The nipple story was enough) and I shall send a Bondi Band your way. And maybe some nip guards for your husband, before he destroys Disney for future generations of runners.

Thanks, all, for playing. That was pretty fun, eh? I'll find more stuff to giveaway. Mostly because I like going to the post office. Oooh, stamps!

Last Chance Workouts

I don't have anything terribly exciting to report on this week, as I am a) sober, and b) tapering. Yesterday I saw a bike crash while I was running. Then I came home and found a bug with 8923423 legs in my room. I smushed it with my sneaker, and discovered that, while half of it stayed on my shoe and the other half was ground into the floor, legs on both halves were still running. If I am grievously injured in Corning in 11 days (oh God, how did time go so fast?), I can only hope that whatever body parts remain attached to my legs will cross the finish line in 3 hours and 40 minutes. And 59 seconds.

After the bug incident, I spent some time watching The Biggest Loser, which seems to get more depressing each season. Did anyone catch the clip of the woman who was implicated in the deaths of three of her little brothers? A real uplifting 2 hours of television, I assure you... Anyway, the Biggest Loser buzzwords "Last Chance Workout" reminded me that I should give everyone one last chance to enter my Bondi Band giveaway by leaving a comment on the original post here. I shall then use a highly scientific random number generator (Nina, don't be busy at work today, because I"m going to ask you to give me a random number) to determine the winner. This, I recognize, seems like a big production for one free headband, but I've got plenty of time on my hands with the taper. So check back tonight for the winner.

Monday Wrap Up: Okay, Now I'm REALLY Tapering

This weekend was near perfect: party on Friday night, gorgeous weather and great run on Saturday, followed by some shopping and a huge victory for Michigan State. Then a relaxed and easy 15 miler yesterday morning, followed by a solid afternoon of football, which included losses by the Cowboys (to the Bears!) and the Redskins (though that Gary Kubiak is a real a-hole. I almost felt bad, were he not using his powers for good in the toppling of Donovan McNabb). Then the Giants had to go and screw it all up. Dear Tom Coughlin, you've been through 3 defensive coordinators in the last 3 years. Could it be that they aren't actually the problem? That's not to say that I'm not questioning the appointment of Perry Fewell, whom I doubt for no other reason besides the fact that he came from Buffalo. Do you remember the 1990s, when Buffalo went to the Super Bowl approximately every year for a decade, and won zero times? People started to say that "Bills" stood for "Boy I Love Losing Super Bowls." I remember that time acutely, as my dad is from Buffalo. I had a difficult childhood.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 46. I've run 97 miles in the last 12 days. That seems... excessive. This week will feel like an actual taper, though, since I'm back down to just 34 miles. Maybe with my free time I'll review tape from this week's game and come up with a game plan for the Giants to not suck.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0. I went to a bar to watch the games yesterday afternoon, and was reminded of something I particularly miss about drinking during football season. Buckets of beer. I have a soft spot in my heart for things that are individually packaged. Like 5 beers in their own carrying case. A perfect serving size.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: N/A. I should do a separate post of best beers for mass consumption. One beer that wouldn't be on that list? Coors Light. Not only is the Coors Family made up of right-wing homophobes, but those press conference commercials are so irritating and un-funny.

Don't forget to enter my Bondi Band giveaway by leaving a comment on the original post here. I'll pick a winner on Wednesday.

End of an Era

Today was a milestone of sorts for me, and one I'm proud and relieved to have finally reached. Today was my last track workout. Well, my last track workout until the week after Wineglass, when I will return once again to that auburn ring of doom for track sessions leading up to the New York City Marathon five weeks later. Remind me again why I registered for two fall marathons?

I've been really dragging this week, weighed down by crazy busy days at work (and the fact that I've been training harder than ever for 14 weeks...), and even though I committed to an early bedtime last night, I tossed and turned for a few hours before I could finally settle down and get some sleep. As the alarm sprung me to life, I was mentally backing out of track work.

Coffee helped though, and soon enough (okay, not that soon...) I was clad in a reflective vest and making my way to the East River track. My warm up miles (3) were more like adventures in cross country, and I bounded over great big puddles and downed branches from last night's storm-nado. (In my mind, I gracefully bounded over. In actuality, I plodded through, at one point stepping on a medium-sized branch that bit back and whacked me in the shin. I'm like a cartoon farmer). When I finally got to the track, I took one lap to map out the soggiest sections in my head, and then toed the line for my repeats.

I only had three on the agenda today, with 3x400 recovery segments. Still, these were my best to date. I felt relaxed and smooth, and my splits were faster than ever: 7:08, 7:05, 7:04. Plus, since I was running in lane 3 to avoid the puddles on the inside, Carl clicked off each mile a few dozen yards ahead of where I started, which surprised and delighted me each time. It also made me realize I should be taking every corner as close as possible in Corning; that shit adds up!

Happy Friday to all. Should be a great weekend. Get outdoors and be active. Or at least get your beer in a to-go cup.

Go Giants!

Nightswimming. Actually Running. But REM Didn't Write That One

I've been working late this week, and unfortunately also early, which is a combination that leaves little time for running or fun. But I had the forethought yesterday to pack my running clothes, so that when I finally slipped out of the office, I could start running immediately and not get delayed (or unmotivated) on my commute home. This plan also meant I got to go to the NYSC in Chelsea, which was sort of hilarious. It's exactly like going out in Chelsea, only without alcohol!

I dropped off my work things and changed into running clothes and headed out to door and west towards the Hudson - a route I've never run in the evening before. The traffic getting across town was beastly, but when I finally made it to the running path, I was glad I'd survived; another perfect night. I headed uptown for 3 1/2 miles before turning around, snapping a few iPhone photos as I went:

Push button for luck? Yes I will. I'll stand there and hold it for 3 hours and 40 minutes if necessary.

The Intrepid

This is for you, Colin. I have no idea why this is etched into the sidewalk, unless it's a monument to the greatest cities of the modern world. Which is probably is.

Looking downtown. Donald Trump owns basically everything pictured on the left side.

Once it got too dark to take any more pictures, I made my way back downtown, satisfied with my run and feeling less discouraged by work (it's been 12 hours since then, and I assure you, that feeling was fleeting...) When I approached the Intrepid, I saw a guy ahead of me running alongside a bike, which he was guiding with his hand. When I caught up to him at 34th Street, I said "You know, it goes even faster if you get on!" (when I wrote that it sounded creepy and vaguely sexual, but I swear I wasn't picking up randos on the West Side). He said "Yeah, I blew a tire." I said, "Bummer. Well you're moving pretty fast for running with a bike," which he was. 8:30s? He should do team triathlons and just work the transitions. Anyway he said "Yeah, I've got it down by now. My tire blew at 90th St." Dude was wearing flip flops, running 8:30 miles with a bike, and had been doing so for the last 55 blocks. Bad ass. I still chicked him though.

Off to fight the good fight (and probably pick a couple, just for kicks) at the office. Rest day today, but I'm back at the track tomorrow for one less session of mile repeats. We've made it this far. Onward, kids.

Digging Deep, and Giving It Away

When my alarm went off at 5:30 this morning, I was having none of it. Eff. That. I buried my face in the pillows (especially the balsam one my mom got me because I like the smell of Christmas trees regardless of the time of year or potential for being stabbed in the eye by pressing pine needles against my face) and pulled the covers up around my ears. And then I tossed and turned for another hour because my body sometimes forgets how to sleep. It's probably a side effect of the training as I mentioned on Sunday. But possibly it's a side effect of the sobriety.

In any case, while I didn't get my run in this morning, I had to get it in at some point; "taper" doesn't mean "stop running altogether," it just means "gradually run less." In this case, it appears to be very gradually because I still have to run 45 miles this week which seems a little unfair, but I guess that's why I wasn't asked to write the training plan. So anyway, after work, I told myself, "You will go for a run, and you will like it!" And I did. The weather was great, and I was treated to a late summer dusk as the lights came on in lower Manhattan. And I almost wished I had my camera. And then I was glad I didn't, because this was a present just for me for getting my ass outside for my run. Also because I broke my camera in Ireland, so carrying it with me for 8 miles just would have been annoying.

But speaking of presents, I have one for you! The lovely Rebecca at Bondi Band sent me some samples to try! It is amazing how kind and generous people are, especially if you ask. Still waiting for that to work out at the office, where I kindly asked that an additional zero be added to the end of my salary...

I tested out Bondi Bands this weekend on my long run. At first I was skeptical; what makes this any different than any other headband? Aside the fact that my roommate mistook it for a do-rag... First of all, it stays in place, even without those grippy rubber things that often rip tufts of hair from one's scalp. I don't know if it's my very large melon, my silky-smooth mane, or the fact that my tresses aren't generally the most squeaky clean when I'm running, but I cannot find a hair restraining contraption that both stays in place and doesn't leave me bald. Until now!

The other good news about Bondi Bands (and this is great for sweathogs like yours truly) is that they're made out of super fast drying materials. Rather than approximating a drippy sponge strapped on your forehead like a bandana does, Bondi Bands hold back your hair without directing your own sweat directly back into your eyeballs.

Since Rebecca is such a generous person, and since I, in turn, like you and want you to be happy and not blinded with sweat, nor bald, I have a Bondi Band I'd love to bestow upon you. In the spirit of fairness, I won't just give it to the funniest person (because, duh, that's me and I already have one!), and no, Cate, I won't just give it to you. Leave a comment below (about anything you like, though I wouldn't hate it if it were a funny story related to hair/sweating) and I shall randomly select a winner. You have until next Wednesday, 9/22. In the meantime, go to the Bondi Band website because they have lots of pretty styles and also, partner with the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, which gets the stamp of approval this bleeding heart non-profit professional.

Sunday Wrap Up: Over Trained is not Better Trained

Ladies and gentlemen, I made it. I hardly believed it was possible, but here I am, 13 weeks of training under my belt, staring down another taper. To be honest, it couldn't have come at a better time. I'm moody. I'm tired. I have insomnia. My legs are restless. My times are slow. I'm overtrained.

"Overtrained" does not mean "trained so much as to exceed your goals." In fact, it means the opposite. Overtraining makes you slow. Your body can't recover fast enough to keep up with your workouts, and your performance suffers. So does your health; your immune system is weakened, you're prone to injury, and running becomes less fun. Joie de vivre? More like blah de vivre.

I shouldn't be surprised. This was my highest mileage week to date, and I crammed my workouts into five consecutive days. Of course, this sort of thing doesn't happen in just one week, but having been on the cusp for a few weeks, I think I pushed myself over the edge. I actually said on Friday that if I don't BQ in Wineglass, I don't know that I have it in me to try again at NYCM. I am worn out, burned out, and sick of running.

The good news is this: it's taper time! What better way to recovery from the symptoms of overtraining than to reduce training? In fact, just getting to this point has lifted my mood already! And it's football season, for God's sake! (If the Giants lose today, my spirits will once again be dashed).

On to the wrap up!

Number of Miles Run This Week: 51. Today's LSD was 21.53 miles. 21.53 miles. All at once. Not in 7 marathons have I gone that far in my training. I had to wake up at 6:00am to get it done with enough time before kick-off. 6:00am on a Sunday?! I better win this damn thing.

Also, that picture above is me in the ice bath after my run this morning. I haven't taken an ice bath in ages, and this one actually felt good. As good as sitting in frigid water while wearing water logged shorts for 12 minutes can feel, I mean.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0. Okay so that might also have something to do with my depression...

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: N/A.

In other news, I do have some good things coming up this week: a review of the Guinness Storeroom in Dublin, plus some product reviews and giveaways for running things I've tried lately and think you should try too! Plus, I still have something like 45 miles on the schedule next week, so I'll have plenty to write about. For today and tomorrow, though, I plan on embracing the taper. Feet up, football on. Have a great Sunday, everyone!

It's a Hell of a Town...

I ran Yasso 800s this morning, which were a definite challenge; still not 100% after this weird foreign-born cold ("Dey tuk er jerbs!") and the congestion made it tough to suck wind as gratuitously as I'd like. Plus, watching football on the treadmill last night had me so fired up that I pushed a little harder than I should have. But anyway, I dragged thineself to the track for 2 miles of warm up, 8x800 at 3:40 with 8x400 recovery, and 2 miles cool down. I like workouts that allow me to use an x. Makes me feel like Flo Jo. Minus the drug use. Unless we're talking about alcohol as a recreational drug. I should stop digging this hole now...

Anywayyyyyyyy, coming off a cold and with only 8 hours between workouts, I was fearful I was going to drop my pace for some of these 800s. But miraculously, I knocked out all 8 right in line with my goal pace: 3:30, 3:29, 3:36, 3:37, 3:30, 3:30, 3:34, 3:33. I say "miraculously," because with only 400s for each recovery segment, I felt as though I was running like the Tinman in the Wizard of Oz at the start of each repeat. As I've said before, 400 is the worst recovery distance: long enough to trick you into thinking your legs are recharged, but short enough that as soon as you start your next set, your legs seize up. Delightful.

That's all really just background for the important part of today's blog post: As I was heading down to the track under the cloak of darkness at 5:30 this morning, I spied human poop on the street. I mean, if it wasn't human, then someone in Stuy Town has a 150lb dog who eats like a king. But thank God I spied it at all given how dark it was (the dawn, I mean, not the poop, though that too was quite dark, as poop tends to be), especially if it was human. On my way back uptown, it appeared as though some of my fellow runners were not so lucky...

And that, my friends, is how I shall begin my weekend here in Gotham City. I hope whatever you're doing this weekend, it involves no feces but your own.

Recovery Miles

Every year in the early winter, Runner's World and its ilk publish advice for managing workouts during cold and flu season. The adage is: if your symptoms are above the neck (stuffy nose, sore throat), go ahead and run. Below the neck (body aches, chills, stomach flu)? Better to rest. Feeling much improved from yesterday and with only neck-up symptoms (unless distended abdomen due to mass consumption of sausage counts as a symptom), I decided to head out for a run after work.

While it was hot and sunny for much of the afternoon, by 7:00pm it had cooled off substantially, and conditions were great for my triumphant return (I suppose that's sort of dramatic, since I only took 2 days off...). Or they would have been if Carl had been cooperating. Maybe he was still looking for satellites over the Emerald Isle, but after 5 minutes of waiting for him to find them, I decided I'd had enough and set out before he was ready. Besides, the plan called for 6 "easy" miles. It'd be okay if I didn't measure them to the millisecond.

I should backtrack. The plan actually called for Yasso 800s today: 8x800 at 3:40, with 8x400 recovery segments. That workout requires too much math for a girl with a Nyquil hangover. Besides, as I mentioned yesterday, I needed to retool my workouts this week to accommodate for my sickness. My whole "I'll just switch this week with next week" idea was summarily rejected when I discovered next week includes mile repeats. So I'm just getting in what I can of this week and respecting my body and this cold and also maybe my alcohol withdrawal.

So back to tonight's run: I'd do 6 easy miles, which was on the schedule for yesterday, and gauge how I felt to determine my workouts for the rest of the week. And what do you know? I felt surprisingly good; almost as soon as I started running, I'd forgotten how drained and stuffy I'd felt all day. Carl finally joined me after a half mile, and together we ticked off a couple 8:15-8:30s along the East River.

After turning at Montgomery and heading back uptown, I'd already concluded that whatever has been ailing me since Sunday probably isn't terminal. Which means I probably can't get out of doing those Yassos at some point this week. Bummer. But I was pleased to be feeling strong 45 minutes in. Which is when something glorious happened.

Coming towards me, what's this? 3 fun blondes! Ali and Katie B., my tablemates at the Cloona table at Kelly's wedding, along with their friend Amy! What a delightful excuse to stop running and have a chat. And here is a bench! Let's all sit down and not run and talk! You'd be surprised how much you can talk about when you've only gone 48 hours without seeing someone. We reminisced about Ireland for a few minutes when Katie asked "how did that 15 miler go for you on Sunday?" which reminded me that I was meant to be running at that very moment, particularly considering I'd spent Sunday convincing myself that 15 miles and 11.35 miles were the same distance. (Shockingly, I got a 2 on the AP Calc exam).

I bid adieu to the girls and headed home, knocking out 6.3 miles in a respectable 53:05. Is that race pace? I think it is! Suck on that, 15 miler.

While my health is on the up and up, I need one more night of solid rest before I push myself on the track, so I'm off to bed. I won't be able to sleep, of course, because tomorrow is my own personal Christmas: the start of the NFL season. But here's hoping Friday I'll be back on track - literally.

Tuesday Wrap Up: The Irish Flu

Hey there! Remember me? The tall one, with a pint glass in her hand? I bet you thought I wasn't coming back. You thought I'd dive right into the barley pit at the Guinness Storeroom at St. James Gate and live there happily forever and ever. But you were wrong! Also, that was a dumb prediction anyway, because having had consumed one of those barley kernels on Thursday afternoon, I assure you one wouldn't want to subsist on that stuff alone. Too much roughage.

Anyway, here I am, back from Ireland to regale you with stories of running and drinking. Well, mostly about drinking. But I did get some runs in, and so I shall talk about those first, before we get to the good stuff.

I had two great runs in Ireland - one each in Dublin and Maynooth - for a total of about 18.5 miles. That is not the three runs I was meant to accomplish, nor it is the 30 miles I should have logged abroad, but frankly if you're going to judge me for that you can choke on sausage. Or a shepherd's pie. Or some fish and chips. Oh god I miss pub fare...

Friday morning, I-Man and I headed from our hotel along the River Liffey into Phoenix Park, which we'd heard from several sources (including a marathon runner we'd met in a pub the night before) was a great place for a run. Maybe it was being on vacation, or maybe it was because I wanted to impress I-Man, or maybe it was because I'd already consumed my weight in French fries, but we covered our 7 miler at a good clip. I even let I-Man push the pace to sub-8:00 minute for one mile. The park was huge (the biggest in Europe, so I hear) and absolutely deserted; I guess one of the good parts about vacation is that everyone else is at work at 10:00am. Here's our route, which I've included because the map looks so Euro and gives the impression that I am global and cultured:

Some things I learned on this first international run as a Garmin user:

- Carl still tells you things in miles, even if your host country works in kilometers

- People who use kilometers refer to them as such, not as "k's." I'm thinking of applying that to my next race. "Yeah, just going out for a 10 kilometer race today." You know what? Make that kilometRE. Told you I was global and cultured.

Run number two was a doozy. About 11.5 miles on and around a gorgeous golf course in Maynooth. This run was made up of three laps. On the first, charging up those golf course hills made me feel spry and leprechaun-y. "I can survive this horrifying severe post-wedding hangover!" I thought. On the second lap, I was less enthused, but I-Man was still within sight distance so I couldn't let him show me up. On the third lap, I prayed to get run over by a golf cart.

Here's what it looked like, for reference:

My plan had been to knock out 11 miles. Actually that's not true. The Plan had called for 15, but that seemed both aggressive and time-consuming for the day after Kelly's wedding, when I wanted to be relaxing in possibly the most gorgeous resort I've ever been to with my newlywed friends. So I revised The Plan to make it my plan, which was done on the fly. But by lap 3, I'd decided that I should finish out 11 miles and then stroll back up to the hotel's entrance for recovery. This plan was going swimmingly until I passed the green of some hole and was spied by Nina's parents - the most supportive and interested of all my (legions of adoring) fans. Well I couldn't let them see me walk! So instead of leisurely strolling, I put on a look of determination and charged up that roadway. Until I was out of sight, when I promptly hopped onto an unseen cart path and walked my tired self to the hotel room.

Sadly this is where our running story turns sour, and brings us to the title of this post. I hadn't been feeling great on Sunday morning when I woke up. But that was only natural, I decided, as I'd drunk more pints than could fit in a bathtub, danced until 3am, and participated in both a singalong to Mr. Big's "Be With You" and a rousing chant of "Hang the Huskies" (R-Y-E, R-Y-E, R-Y-E). Just a touch of the ole "Irish Flu." But when I had officially sweat out my myriad misdeeds from the previous night, I was still not feeling good. In fact, I was feeling worse.

By Monday I had a terrible throat ache which was only mildly soothed with Irish cough drops called Strepasil, which is a gross name for anything, especially a cough drop. I blew my way through easily 20 tissues on the flight home last night, and not even the one-two punch of Dayquil and chicken soup could get me through the day today. I'm coming to you live from my apartment, coated in Vick's Vapor Rub and completely unable to use my nose. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a mouth breather.

This is an unfortunate predicament to be in, as this is my last week before the taper. Today's run fell by the wayside, and if the number of tissues I've gone through thus far tonight is any indication, tomorrow's Yasso 800s aren't looking too good either. So what to do? I am thinking of a) getting better, and then b) switching this week and next week. With four weeks until Wineglass, I think I have adequate time to recover, even if I do push the taper back a week. I don't want to skip this week altogether, as it includes both my last Yasso 800 workout and a 20-22 miler, but I don't think I can tackle big workouts like those without being 100%. Even if I slept with Haile Gebrselassie tonight, that's not going to happen for me tomorrow.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 36. I'd probably feel less guilty and stressed about being sick this week if I'd run 47 miles last week. But it's not like pub fare isn't perfect race training food, so at least I have that going for me. What's that? It's not? Fry oil doesn't have electrolytes?! I want to speak with the manager...

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: Let's say this was 47. At least I got to that number on one front.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Guinness by the gallon, with a few Smithwick's when I felt like a lighter beer. Yes, that was actually my logic this weekend.

Obviously there are loads more stories to tell, but my Nyquil is going to kick in soon. Besides, now that I'm sober until 10/3/10, I need to save up my booze-soaked stories to keep you people entertained for a month. You're so demanding.

Here, look at these while I drift off on a cloud of acetaminophen dreams...

Earning the Right to Imbibe, Just in Time

As I mentioned, I'm off to Ireland for Kelly's wedding this weekend, but before I could take off tonight, there was one thing I had to take care of first: the dreaded mile repeats.

It's been 3 weeks since I last tackled mile repeats, and while I was pleasantly surprised to have survived that first experience, this workout is still a beast, especially for someone with a pacing problem, such as yours truly. And what's that, you say? We're having yet another heat advisory? And an air quality alert? Delightful!

I took an extra long warm up (almost 3 miles) before I finally found myself on the track and ready to run. Though the sun wasn't yet up, the air was hot, and the track seemed to be playing host to a convention of corpulent middle aged women deeply committed alternating walking in the inside lane while speaking very loudly all at once, with lying on the turf under the guise of doing core work, all while wearing weird outfits. I knew it was going to be a great workout.

I tossed my handheld on the infield and set out for my first repeat at a comfortably fast pace. I felt fine. Dare I say it? I felt good. Granted I would have preferred to be running 800s (but I'll get that chance next week, when surely I'll prefer to run 400s. Or not at all...), but I clocked my first mile in 7:23. 3 weeks ago? 7:28.

As always, I took my recovery very slow. When I toed the line for number 2, I was expecting to feel that lactic burn I go to know all too well the last time I tried this workout. But after the first lap - nothing. Mile 2: 7:24. Last time? 7:27.

By my third repeat, the sun was starting to come up and it was getting hotter. Plus the loud-talking ladies convention attendees had by now been joined by what appeared to be their extended families: husbands and sons now strewn about the track, shouting to each other from lane one to lane six. Carl clicked off mile 3 a few yards short of what I'd expected was the finish line, on account of my bobbing and weaving through the track traffic. 7:20. Comparison: 7:30. Ooooh.

Last one, and the sun was fully overhead (or as fully overhead as it can be at 7:00am). My legs were now starting to burn, and I was cognizant of the big drop off I'd experienced in pace on my last mile 3 weeks ago. So long as I don't drop off that much, I'll be happy with this workout, I thought. I hauled ass around the track and really had to work (picture full on face grimace) to get myself through those four laps. 7:23. Last time: 7:40.

I win! I beat Claire From Three Weeks Ago! I was all around faster than her, and I was much more even in my pacing! Eat that, Claire From Three Weeks Ago. Tramp.

I think part of what helped in this workout were the recovery segments; three weeks ago, I only had 400 of recovery before the next repeat, but with 2 full laps between miles this week, I think I was able to not only catch my breath and get my heart rate down, but shake out my legs enough to keep them fresh. More mileage = faster recovery? That doesn't seem to make any sense to me at all, but it appears to be true, and that is why I am not the one writing the training plans.

And so that is how it is that I deserve to go to Ireland for five days to celebrate Kelly and Juan and also drink a great many delicious beers. And (this is what they refer to in the movies as the surprise ending, like in The Orphan when the little girl turns out to be like a 30 year old midget hooker. Oh please, you don't care that I ruined the ending. I didn't even see the movie. It's the internet; surely you already knew that's how it played out): when I return, I won't be drinking.

I know, I know, I sprung this on you right as I leave, and you'll be left alone to deal with the fallout of my sobriety. Don't worry, though - it's not permanent (God help me! Don't even think like that!). But Wineglass is a month from Sunday, and it's sort of become a tradition that I make myself miserable for a month before I go for a new PR or other important marathon milestone. I'm sorry. I know. But it's better this way. And I think we need some time apart. For both of us. So you can think about how you feel about this. It's a big decision. But I hope you'll stay with me, that you'll be here when I return. And I trust that I'll have enough alcohol-fueled stories from this trip to get us through these tough times. Be strong.

Happy Labor Day Weekend!