Remember how just a few short (seriously, short. It was only 6!) days ago, I blogged about my aquatic roommates, the Triplets? By Monday, their numbers were reduced by two thirds. In the absence of his siblings, the lone hold out (who was renamed Twin, per my initial interest in having one fish who looked like me) seemed a little off. Sure enough, by Wednesday, it was just me and the ceramic octopus in the aquarium.
Cate told me "this has no bearing on your potential child-rearing skills (in case that was a concern)." Which it wasn't, until she mentioned it.
Perhaps this is fate; I had initially said the Triplets could help me field a triathlon team, but I don't even do triathlons. Perhaps the universe knew I therefore did not need triathlon teammates, and the Triplets' fate was sealed from the outset. The thing is, I'm rather heavily invested in fish supplies.
With that, I must try again, and I mention it here, on this sport-minded blog, to ask that any triathletes out there bestow their blessings on my forthcoming underwater roommates and animal athletes. Or if you happen to moonlight as an ichthyologist (botany is close enough, Caroline), I invite your feedback on my attempts at Brooklyn-based fish farming (a goldfish is like a really small Chilean Sea Bass, right?). I need to do something to keep me distracted during the Taper Madness.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
I Don't Do False Modesty
Ladies and gentlemen, I just made mile repeats my bitch.
6:43, 6:40, 6:41. Yes, I only had to do three today, and yes I maybe almost threw up after the second one, and yes I realized after the first 400 of the last mile that I was a full 20 seconds off the pace and I'd better both hurry the eff up and take note of the fact that human metronome I am not. But still. I ran my fastest mile repeats tonight, 18 days out from Boston, on a windy track, in shorts that were not nearly short enough to expose my Notting Hill (+1.5. You have to drink extra for that because of the exchange rate between US dollars and British pounds) which I have already proven makes me run faster than usual.
Between those splits and the fact that I'm also a Bikram yogi, I frankly don't know how you survive, given how inferior you are to me. Have I mentioned I make thousands of dollars a year?
6:43, 6:40, 6:41. Yes, I only had to do three today, and yes I maybe almost threw up after the second one, and yes I realized after the first 400 of the last mile that I was a full 20 seconds off the pace and I'd better both hurry the eff up and take note of the fact that human metronome I am not. But still. I ran my fastest mile repeats tonight, 18 days out from Boston, on a windy track, in shorts that were not nearly short enough to expose my Notting Hill (+1.5. You have to drink extra for that because of the exchange rate between US dollars and British pounds) which I have already proven makes me run faster than usual.
Between those splits and the fact that I'm also a Bikram yogi, I frankly don't know how you survive, given how inferior you are to me. Have I mentioned I make thousands of dollars a year?
Monday, March 28, 2011
Marathoning is for Wimps
Oh sorry, did you run a marathon and think you were a bad ass? Did you run more than one? Maybe you even qualified for Boston or placed in your age group or looked really good in short shorts when you got your race pictures back. It doesn't matter. If you've never done Bikram yoga, you just haven't worked that hard.
Let's back track: I don't really do much cross training. Maybe once a week I lift, and occasionally I drink wine instead of beer. But that's about it. Or it was, until my pal Caroline suggested we try Bikram yoga. For the non-self righteous - oops, I mean "enlightened" - out there, Bikram yoga consists of 26 poses, completed over the course of 90 minutes. In a room heated to 105 degrees. Equipped with that breadth of knowledge, and the fact that each of us knew one or two really skinny socialitey types who OMG totes swear by Bikram and sweating out toxins and subsisting on ice cubes and Splenda, we decided to give it a shot. At best, we'd come out of it weighing a few pounds less (hello, race weight!), and at worst, I'd have something to blog about. Or, we'd die of heat stroke.
I met Caroline (heretofore "Crazy Train" or just "Train") after work and we anxiously changed into our Bikram attire. My boss, a Bikram practitioner, advised us on what to wear. The answer? As little as possible. This week: Claire's Genitals Work on Their Flexibility at Yoga!
We waited for the studio to empty from the class before ours and were rather concerned by how sweaty and red faced the participants were. "I dare you to ask them if it's really hot in there," I goaded Train. But we didn't, because it was time to go find our spots and my boss had tipped us off to get spots away from the heaters. Also, we didn't want to be near any dudes because we didn't want dude sweat to drip on us.
So, how hot is it? It's really hot. And really humid. Like a July day at the beach, minus the sea breeze (and the huge expanse of water you can jump into to cool off. And the alcohol). Train and I spent maybe five minutes in the studio before class started, sitting still and talking (about how hot it was. We were absolutely those annoying girls), and by the time the instructor was ready, I was rocking a sweet sweat stache.
Because there were a good number of first timers in the room, Bruce (the instructor) and his microscopic bathing suit briefed us on what to expect. It's hot, he said. Don't leave the room unless you're actually having an emergency. Don't move to sit or lie down during a pose. And when the going gets tough and you think you can't stand/stretch/lengthen/deepen any more, use your breathing to get through it. Focus on even breathing and you'll bring down your level of panic (and heart rate). A ha! Here was my take away message for Boston! But, did I have to stick around for the next 88 minutes of torture?
Guys, I sweat a lot. I have run through brutal summers and played tennis under the baking sun and hiked in nothing but a pack and my underwear. But I am not exaggerating when I say I've never sweat like this. 15 minutes in, sweat was pouring off my face like a shower. I leaned over in our first forward bend and saw sweat beads coating the fronts of my thighs. I've never seen that before. Ever.
I handled the first 40 minutes pretty well. I'm not the most flexible girl out there (the physical therapist actually told me I was one of the least flexible runners she'd encountered), but I was able to get into at least something resembling the assigned pose, fairing surprising well in the heat. That ended very soon.
For the next 50 minutes, I did everything I could to not die. I focused on my breathing. That got me through approximately 5 minutes of agony. Then I started praying Bruce would crack a door or window, or even that Caroline would exhale on me. Anything to get some relief. My water had rapidly gone from cold to tepid to the exact temperature of the inside of my mouth, but every time Bruce allowed us to take a sip, I enthusiastically did as I was told.
By the last 20 minutes, I was sitting down every other posture. The pounding in my head was unreal, and any sudden movement made me dizzy. I know this is stating the obvious, but IT WAS SO HOT. But by that point, I was just proud of myself for staying; while no one is supposed to leave the room during class except for emergencies, I'd guess a good dozen bowed out early (not without some judgement from Bruce). I tried to redouble my efforts, knowing I had 10 minutes to go, and managed to finish the class alive. Barely. Train and I exchanged high fives, which took a considerable amount of effort, and lay on the floor trying to collect ourselves.
After class, I headed to the locker room to change. I didn't know what to do. My clothes (just a tank top and shorts) were absolutely soaked through. Like I'd run through a thunderstorm. I couldn't believe all that sweat, plus to two towels I'd sweat through, had come from me. In just an hour and a half! Exceedingly thankful I hadn't unpacked from Sunday's race, I stripped down, threw everything in a plastic bag, and put on my running warm up gear for the trek home.
So, will I do Bikram again? Probably. I'm really proud I was able to last the whole 90 minutes (did I mention it was really hot in there?), and I think a Monday, when I don't have any running scheduled and have just come off a long run, was an ideal time for me to try it; I'll be sure to report back on how I feel tomorrow, but I hope I'm feeling stretched and limber. Would I recommend Bikram? Only if you're regularly highly active. 90 minutes of sweating like this is no joke, and that's before you bring the postures into the mix. If you're looking to increase your flexibility, try regular yoga first. Jumping into Bikram is kinda like jumping right into a marathon. Only with way more sweat, nausea, anxiety, and pain. Basically, way more bad ass.
Let's back track: I don't really do much cross training. Maybe once a week I lift, and occasionally I drink wine instead of beer. But that's about it. Or it was, until my pal Caroline suggested we try Bikram yoga. For the non-self righteous - oops, I mean "enlightened" - out there, Bikram yoga consists of 26 poses, completed over the course of 90 minutes. In a room heated to 105 degrees. Equipped with that breadth of knowledge, and the fact that each of us knew one or two really skinny socialitey types who OMG totes swear by Bikram and sweating out toxins and subsisting on ice cubes and Splenda, we decided to give it a shot. At best, we'd come out of it weighing a few pounds less (hello, race weight!), and at worst, I'd have something to blog about. Or, we'd die of heat stroke.
I met Caroline (heretofore "Crazy Train" or just "Train") after work and we anxiously changed into our Bikram attire. My boss, a Bikram practitioner, advised us on what to wear. The answer? As little as possible. This week: Claire's Genitals Work on Their Flexibility at Yoga!
We waited for the studio to empty from the class before ours and were rather concerned by how sweaty and red faced the participants were. "I dare you to ask them if it's really hot in there," I goaded Train. But we didn't, because it was time to go find our spots and my boss had tipped us off to get spots away from the heaters. Also, we didn't want to be near any dudes because we didn't want dude sweat to drip on us.
So, how hot is it? It's really hot. And really humid. Like a July day at the beach, minus the sea breeze (and the huge expanse of water you can jump into to cool off. And the alcohol). Train and I spent maybe five minutes in the studio before class started, sitting still and talking (about how hot it was. We were absolutely those annoying girls), and by the time the instructor was ready, I was rocking a sweet sweat stache.
Because there were a good number of first timers in the room, Bruce (the instructor) and his microscopic bathing suit briefed us on what to expect. It's hot, he said. Don't leave the room unless you're actually having an emergency. Don't move to sit or lie down during a pose. And when the going gets tough and you think you can't stand/stretch/lengthen/deepen any more, use your breathing to get through it. Focus on even breathing and you'll bring down your level of panic (and heart rate). A ha! Here was my take away message for Boston! But, did I have to stick around for the next 88 minutes of torture?
Guys, I sweat a lot. I have run through brutal summers and played tennis under the baking sun and hiked in nothing but a pack and my underwear. But I am not exaggerating when I say I've never sweat like this. 15 minutes in, sweat was pouring off my face like a shower. I leaned over in our first forward bend and saw sweat beads coating the fronts of my thighs. I've never seen that before. Ever.
I handled the first 40 minutes pretty well. I'm not the most flexible girl out there (the physical therapist actually told me I was one of the least flexible runners she'd encountered), but I was able to get into at least something resembling the assigned pose, fairing surprising well in the heat. That ended very soon.
For the next 50 minutes, I did everything I could to not die. I focused on my breathing. That got me through approximately 5 minutes of agony. Then I started praying Bruce would crack a door or window, or even that Caroline would exhale on me. Anything to get some relief. My water had rapidly gone from cold to tepid to the exact temperature of the inside of my mouth, but every time Bruce allowed us to take a sip, I enthusiastically did as I was told.
By the last 20 minutes, I was sitting down every other posture. The pounding in my head was unreal, and any sudden movement made me dizzy. I know this is stating the obvious, but IT WAS SO HOT. But by that point, I was just proud of myself for staying; while no one is supposed to leave the room during class except for emergencies, I'd guess a good dozen bowed out early (not without some judgement from Bruce). I tried to redouble my efforts, knowing I had 10 minutes to go, and managed to finish the class alive. Barely. Train and I exchanged high fives, which took a considerable amount of effort, and lay on the floor trying to collect ourselves.
After class, I headed to the locker room to change. I didn't know what to do. My clothes (just a tank top and shorts) were absolutely soaked through. Like I'd run through a thunderstorm. I couldn't believe all that sweat, plus to two towels I'd sweat through, had come from me. In just an hour and a half! Exceedingly thankful I hadn't unpacked from Sunday's race, I stripped down, threw everything in a plastic bag, and put on my running warm up gear for the trek home.
So, will I do Bikram again? Probably. I'm really proud I was able to last the whole 90 minutes (did I mention it was really hot in there?), and I think a Monday, when I don't have any running scheduled and have just come off a long run, was an ideal time for me to try it; I'll be sure to report back on how I feel tomorrow, but I hope I'm feeling stretched and limber. Would I recommend Bikram? Only if you're regularly highly active. 90 minutes of sweating like this is no joke, and that's before you bring the postures into the mix. If you're looking to increase your flexibility, try regular yoga first. Jumping into Bikram is kinda like jumping right into a marathon. Only with way more sweat, nausea, anxiety, and pain. Basically, way more bad ass.
Monday Wrap Up: Colon Cancer Challenge 15k Race Report
Yesterday, I walked through a colon. A "super-colon," actually. Basically, if it's a body part that should be covered by your bathing suit, it played an integral part in the week that was. Thank God its taper time; I don't know how I could possibly encounter any more private parts in the context of running. Not that I'd want to see a jogging scrotum or something.
But back to the colon. Yesterday was the Colon Cancer Challenge 15k in Central Park, and Cate was kind enough to allow me to accompany me for her first 15k (Nicole would have been there too, but this race coincided with her semi-annual need for reconstructive knee surgery. She is recovering well, and she won't get out of racing that easily next time). After my 22 on Saturday, I was a little creaky and stiff, so I got uptown early for a couple warm up miles. "A couple" turned into 3 and a half; I was that stiff. But eventually I got all my parts in working order and headed to Columbus Circle to meet Cate.
After bag check, we headed over to the corrals, where we met up with the lovely Maura and shot the breeze while various NYRR representatives and Earl the Pearl addressed us in a stiff, late March, not at all seasonable, breeze. Soon enough (not soon enough - the talking points need to be cut down 50% for all races held between the NYC Marathon in November and the Brooklyn Half in May), we were on our way.
As usual, the first mile was pretty congested, and Cate and I started in the Green corral (despite the fact that I've somehow tricked NYRR into seeding me in the Red corral), so we had some weaving to do. But by mile 2, we'd carved out some real estate for ourselves and could run side by side, so we didn't have to shout across other runners to discuss the horrifying prospect of giving birth (for real, that's what we discussed). As we approached Cat Hill, Cate asked why it was called that. I introduced her to the Cat, and as usual, gave him a surreptitious middle finger as we passed.
The great thing about this course was that it took us across the 102nd St transverse, so we avoided the Harlem Hill. Not that the west side hills are a cake walk, but the absence of that Harlem beast provided lots of relief.
As we headed across 102nd St, we came up behind Joe. He was looking fierce as usual, which was a particular accomplishment given that he was up making chocolate milk at 3:00am. Joe's daughter is a genius; it never even occurred to me as a child that I could demand snacks at 3:00am, and because a parent's love is unconditional, they might give them to me. Does that work as an adult too? Nicole, I'll be testing this out on you one morning this week; prepare yourself.
Cate and I continued along, handling the west side hills with surprising ease. The sight of the Time Warner center ahead was a welcome sign; we threw it into cruise control as we headed downhill to 59th Street and hooked around past the start for the second lap.
Cat Hill round two was beastly; everyone around us had stopped talking and was just focused on getting to the top. It definitely felt longer the second time around, but Cate didn't let up at all, and not wanting her to show me up, I hung on for the climb. As we crested and cruised behind the Met, we decided to let up a bit. It was definitely a case of "a little goes a long way;" we only slowed about 10 seconds/mile and immediately felt relief.
We hit 102nd the second time and unfortunately saw someone take a tumble. Thankfully, several runners and a volunteer came to his aid immediately, as and we passed, the volunteer confirmed the medical crew was on their way. Friendly reminder: thank your local race volunteers.
As we came to the west side hills, I found 2 guys running about our pace and decided to practice drafting. At first, Cate was confused as to why I wasn't passing. I explained (in hushed tones, because drafting kinda makes me feel like a dick) the concept: that you let the guy in front of you do the work by breaking through the wind (and hoping he doesn't break wind - heyo!) and stay tucked in behind him so you don't have to fight the resistance. For the third of the hills, Cate tried it too, and she was amazed at how well it works. Sorry to the dudes we drafted; I owe you. But you should be glad you helped teach a runner a new trick!
With about a mile to go, we were both ready to be done. I checked Carl and couldn't believe how we'd pushed the pace; I was running on tired legs, and Cate was racing 15k for the first time ever. We kept at it until we hit the 72nd Street transverse and made the sharp left to the finish. I dug my heels in, thinking Cate was already maxed out, and watched as she sped off down the finish chute. Jerk! I teach you my tricks and this is the thanks I get?! I gave it what I had left and barely kept pace with Cate. We crossed the line in 1:19:13.
I was seriously impressed with my buddy! Averaging 8:30-ish for 15k is legit. (Cate does not realize that you should set the bar low for your first race so that you can continue to get PRs in the future). Best of all, after we finished, we picked up our bagels (French toast flavored?!) and went inside the super-colon. Actually maybe that wasn't the best part of the day, since it was gross, and cancer isn't very uplifting. And we were inside a plastic replica of a giant colon. But as a whole, a delightful way lead in to Taper Time.
Number of Miles Run Last Week: 58. Two 58 mile weeks in a row. Last week I was so impressed with myself for it, and this week I'm already jaded.
Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 0
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: n/a
Day one of the taper and I'm already having marathon anxiety dreams. Last night, I was trying to break 3:30 in the New York City Marathon, but wanted to simultaneously participate in a bar crawl my friends were doing. I was so mad that drinking kept undermining my running. Also, I'm 80% sure this dream could be made a reality if I run New York again.
Happy three weeks til Boston, everybody!
But back to the colon. Yesterday was the Colon Cancer Challenge 15k in Central Park, and Cate was kind enough to allow me to accompany me for her first 15k (Nicole would have been there too, but this race coincided with her semi-annual need for reconstructive knee surgery. She is recovering well, and she won't get out of racing that easily next time). After my 22 on Saturday, I was a little creaky and stiff, so I got uptown early for a couple warm up miles. "A couple" turned into 3 and a half; I was that stiff. But eventually I got all my parts in working order and headed to Columbus Circle to meet Cate.
After bag check, we headed over to the corrals, where we met up with the lovely Maura and shot the breeze while various NYRR representatives and Earl the Pearl addressed us in a stiff, late March, not at all seasonable, breeze. Soon enough (not soon enough - the talking points need to be cut down 50% for all races held between the NYC Marathon in November and the Brooklyn Half in May), we were on our way.
As usual, the first mile was pretty congested, and Cate and I started in the Green corral (despite the fact that I've somehow tricked NYRR into seeding me in the Red corral), so we had some weaving to do. But by mile 2, we'd carved out some real estate for ourselves and could run side by side, so we didn't have to shout across other runners to discuss the horrifying prospect of giving birth (for real, that's what we discussed). As we approached Cat Hill, Cate asked why it was called that. I introduced her to the Cat, and as usual, gave him a surreptitious middle finger as we passed.
The great thing about this course was that it took us across the 102nd St transverse, so we avoided the Harlem Hill. Not that the west side hills are a cake walk, but the absence of that Harlem beast provided lots of relief.
As we headed across 102nd St, we came up behind Joe. He was looking fierce as usual, which was a particular accomplishment given that he was up making chocolate milk at 3:00am. Joe's daughter is a genius; it never even occurred to me as a child that I could demand snacks at 3:00am, and because a parent's love is unconditional, they might give them to me. Does that work as an adult too? Nicole, I'll be testing this out on you one morning this week; prepare yourself.
Cate and I continued along, handling the west side hills with surprising ease. The sight of the Time Warner center ahead was a welcome sign; we threw it into cruise control as we headed downhill to 59th Street and hooked around past the start for the second lap.
Cat Hill round two was beastly; everyone around us had stopped talking and was just focused on getting to the top. It definitely felt longer the second time around, but Cate didn't let up at all, and not wanting her to show me up, I hung on for the climb. As we crested and cruised behind the Met, we decided to let up a bit. It was definitely a case of "a little goes a long way;" we only slowed about 10 seconds/mile and immediately felt relief.
We hit 102nd the second time and unfortunately saw someone take a tumble. Thankfully, several runners and a volunteer came to his aid immediately, as and we passed, the volunteer confirmed the medical crew was on their way. Friendly reminder: thank your local race volunteers.
As we came to the west side hills, I found 2 guys running about our pace and decided to practice drafting. At first, Cate was confused as to why I wasn't passing. I explained (in hushed tones, because drafting kinda makes me feel like a dick) the concept: that you let the guy in front of you do the work by breaking through the wind (and hoping he doesn't break wind - heyo!) and stay tucked in behind him so you don't have to fight the resistance. For the third of the hills, Cate tried it too, and she was amazed at how well it works. Sorry to the dudes we drafted; I owe you. But you should be glad you helped teach a runner a new trick!
With about a mile to go, we were both ready to be done. I checked Carl and couldn't believe how we'd pushed the pace; I was running on tired legs, and Cate was racing 15k for the first time ever. We kept at it until we hit the 72nd Street transverse and made the sharp left to the finish. I dug my heels in, thinking Cate was already maxed out, and watched as she sped off down the finish chute. Jerk! I teach you my tricks and this is the thanks I get?! I gave it what I had left and barely kept pace with Cate. We crossed the line in 1:19:13.
I was seriously impressed with my buddy! Averaging 8:30-ish for 15k is legit. (Cate does not realize that you should set the bar low for your first race so that you can continue to get PRs in the future). Best of all, after we finished, we picked up our bagels (French toast flavored?!) and went inside the super-colon. Actually maybe that wasn't the best part of the day, since it was gross, and cancer isn't very uplifting. And we were inside a plastic replica of a giant colon. But as a whole, a delightful way lead in to Taper Time.
Number of Miles Run Last Week: 58. Two 58 mile weeks in a row. Last week I was so impressed with myself for it, and this week I'm already jaded.
Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 0
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: n/a
Day one of the taper and I'm already having marathon anxiety dreams. Last night, I was trying to break 3:30 in the New York City Marathon, but wanted to simultaneously participate in a bar crawl my friends were doing. I was so mad that drinking kept undermining my running. Also, I'm 80% sure this dream could be made a reality if I run New York again.
Happy three weeks til Boston, everybody!
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Animal Kingdom Athletics, and Other Sober Thoughts
I got goldfish yesterday. Three of them. The are all white ones, with orange on the top of their heads. I picked them deliberately because I too am very white with orange on top of my head. I wanted to get one big one and name him Twin, but apparently would have needed to keep him in the bathtub. Who knew a fat goldfish could require so much water? I am happy with three small ones though, who go by the joint name Triplets. With me, we're actually quadruplets, but I wasn't really thinking when I named them. Though the don't have their own names, you can in fact tell them apart; one has an orange spot on its tail, one a black spot, and one is sorta fat and sucks at swimming. The third is obviously my true twin.
When I first got the idea for Twin (this addition to my household was several weeks in the making), I decided s/he and I could be two parts of a three-member triathlon team (given that I now have three fish, I could fill the team and have an alternate. The third of the Triplets would be cut from the team, as it is lacking the crucial skill a fish can provide to said team). What member of the animal kingdom can I recruit for the biking portion?
(You people are lucky I'm not a biker. Think about how many genital euphemisms you'd have to read about [and drink for] if I blogged about that!)
In other news, today I ran the last of my 20+ milers, knocking out 22 miles in 3 hours and 5 minutes. I felt pretty great throughout, though by 18, coming through the west side hills in Central Park, I was ready for a break and ducked in behind a dude to draft for awhile. After a half mile or so, he stopped very suddenly, and my face met his extremely sweaty back. Drafting is overrated.
Tomorrow, Cate and I (and Brad! And Floofy!) are "racing" the Colon Cancer Challenge 15k. I put racing in quotes because I am most certainly not racing. My last long run definitely wiped me out; it's 9:34pm on a Saturday night and I'm under the covers, watching Sorta Fat and Sucks at Swimming suck at swimming. I don't suspect I'll be up for pushing the pace tomorrow, no matter what my bib says (7:30/mile, incidentally. Thanks but no thanks). Mostly, I'm in this for the brunch. I'll still give you a race report tomorrow; expect it to be heavy on descriptions of pancakes.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
In Which My Genitals Go to the Track
Here's a fun game: drink every time I use a euphemism for vagina in the text below. Drink twice for every time I use "vagina" outright. You're up to 4 already...
Before I get started with my lady parts (+1) exercising, I should probably touch upon why I was at the track tonight at all, given that I do speed work on Wednesdays and today is Tuesday. The calendar may indicate that it is spring. And maybe you were even convinced after that rogue 70 degree day last week. But you, and the calendar, are wrong. And tomorrow, when I would ordinarily be at the track, Gotham City will be blanketed with a "wintry mix." That is a precipitation type that has its corresponding season right in the name. Clearly, it is not spring. Furthermore, running on the track during a wintry mix is miserable (I assume. Or think I remember from my days of high school indoor track, which was practiced outdoors at my school most days). Whereas running on the treadmill, while brutal once you've been teased with 70 degree days, is a skill I've honed living in a city whose weather sucks for much of the year. So instead of taking a leisurely 6 miler tonight and facing 800s either indoors or in a wintry mix tomorrow, I swapped the two workouts and took myself to the track after work.
Now, despite the fact that I've just spent a paragraph detailing how it is NOT spring in New York, it IS almost spring racing season (26.2 days until Boston, according to the BAA - get it?!). So in order to 1) keep myself occupied in the evenings when I would ordinarily be drinking, and 2) give myself enough time to properly wear-test my race day gear, I've begun the process of selecting my Boston ensemble.
Let me stop there. I don't strive for color coordination or "OMG totes adorbs 143 my bff!!!!" running gear. I have lots of wicking tech shirts and well-worn running shorts and non-chafing socks in my arsenal of apparel. But I do think it helps get you (or me, at any rate) in the racing mindset to have a special race day outfit that makes you feel like a bad ass. Enter the short short.
(Here comes the drinking part).
I first started wearing short shorts last summer when it was 437,000 degrees in New York and it was all I could do not to writhe naked in heat-induced dementia before I even set out for my run. In all seriousness, I commuted to work in one set of clothes, then had to change entirely when I got to my office because I'd sweat through outfit number 1. I'm pretty. So anyway, in an effort to wear as little as possible, I started wearing short shorts running. Not only did they keep me cool, but they kept me cool. Like, I feel like a bad ass, cool. And bad assedness is precisely what one wants to conjure when going for an aggressive PR at the Big Dance of the marathoning world. Notice, I said "bad ass," and not "bad bajunafish" (+1, and you can thank my sister for adding that term to my lexicon).
So, in my effort to find a suitable and suitably bad ass racing outfit, I picked up a few pairs of shorts and a few singlets one evening this week (the iPad would like to autocorrect "singlets" to "winglet," which I think could be a new euphemism for vagina. +3 for that sentence). Among the shorts were a pair from Under Armor that were similar to a pair I own and like, but which are made of a scratchy fabric. Rejoice! This new pair were made of a soft Lycra-y material (if ever there were foreshadowing of wardrobe malfunctions, "Lycra-y" is it). In the store, they looked normal and felt great. I even jogged in place in the dressing room. I swear.
So this morning, I packed my bag with precisely one pair of bottoms, these being the aforementioned Lycra-y shorts, and come quitting time, excused myself to change in the bathroom. "Well these are mighty short for the office," I thought, "but it's not as though you can see The Stuff That Monologues Are Made Of" (+1, and that was a good one).
I walked back from the ladies' bathroom to my desk and was acutely aware as more and more of my ass cheeks were revealed with each step I took. My desk is approximately 200 meters from the bathroom. My scheduled workout with 8x800 meters, plus 8x400 meter recoveries, plus 2 miles each warm up and cool down. I started to get worried.
I headed outside and felt the non-spring breeze in my face. And in my Beautiful Flower (+1, and the feeling that phrase elicits in me is why I dislike feminists. Ew). I started running East toward the Hudson and the East 6th St track, garnering or imagining many stares from the rush hour crowd. At least they'd be more forgiving of me and my camel toe (+1) at the track, where surely other women were scantily clad in the name of athleticism.
Not so much. Since it's not really feeling very spring like, everyone else at the track seemed to be wearing long tights, hoodies, gloves, and generally not "shorts" that cover less than some thongs. "Let's just get this over with."
After the first 800, I was nearly positive I should have gotten a bikini wax for the occasion. But on the plus side, my pace was pretty solid. I picked my frontal wedgie, temporarily hiding my goat knuckle (+1, and that's the agrarian cousin of the camel toe), and took off for my second 800.
The cycle continued much like this for all eight 800s. I ran. I tried to casually swipe my hand in front of my crotch to determine precisely how much of my meat wallet (+1, and that is BY FAR the funniest, and I'm sorry Mom and Dad) was exposed. I adjusted the meager amount of fabric. I ran again. Thank God it started to get dark after the fifth repeat.
So here's the thing: these were my best 800s ever. My splits were 3:14, 3:11, 3:09, 3:14, 3:16, 3:12, 3:12, 3:10. Fast. Evenly paced. And, on average 18 seconds ahead of where I need them to be. That's crazy. I think the fish taco (+1) shorts are magic!
So now I'm torn: do I risk exposing all of Boston to my hatchet wound (+1) in the hopes of running 3:30 and PRing next month, or for the sake of the physical safety and emotional well-being of my fellow marathoners, do I wear non-bearded-clam (+1) exposing bottoms? The short shorts work for my idol, Kara Goucher. But Kara Goucher will finish an hour before I do, and can hurry up and put real pants on. Also SHE'S KARA GOUCHER.
Well I don't know why I'm even bothering to ask you, since surely you're black out drunk after participating in my little drinking game. And if you aren't, you ought to be, because some of those vagina (+2) euphemisms are truly horrifying. And hilarious. God, being a middle school boy must be so much fun.
Before I get started with my lady parts (+1) exercising, I should probably touch upon why I was at the track tonight at all, given that I do speed work on Wednesdays and today is Tuesday. The calendar may indicate that it is spring. And maybe you were even convinced after that rogue 70 degree day last week. But you, and the calendar, are wrong. And tomorrow, when I would ordinarily be at the track, Gotham City will be blanketed with a "wintry mix." That is a precipitation type that has its corresponding season right in the name. Clearly, it is not spring. Furthermore, running on the track during a wintry mix is miserable (I assume. Or think I remember from my days of high school indoor track, which was practiced outdoors at my school most days). Whereas running on the treadmill, while brutal once you've been teased with 70 degree days, is a skill I've honed living in a city whose weather sucks for much of the year. So instead of taking a leisurely 6 miler tonight and facing 800s either indoors or in a wintry mix tomorrow, I swapped the two workouts and took myself to the track after work.
Now, despite the fact that I've just spent a paragraph detailing how it is NOT spring in New York, it IS almost spring racing season (26.2 days until Boston, according to the BAA - get it?!). So in order to 1) keep myself occupied in the evenings when I would ordinarily be drinking, and 2) give myself enough time to properly wear-test my race day gear, I've begun the process of selecting my Boston ensemble.
Let me stop there. I don't strive for color coordination or "OMG totes adorbs 143 my bff!!!!" running gear. I have lots of wicking tech shirts and well-worn running shorts and non-chafing socks in my arsenal of apparel. But I do think it helps get you (or me, at any rate) in the racing mindset to have a special race day outfit that makes you feel like a bad ass. Enter the short short.
(Here comes the drinking part).
I first started wearing short shorts last summer when it was 437,000 degrees in New York and it was all I could do not to writhe naked in heat-induced dementia before I even set out for my run. In all seriousness, I commuted to work in one set of clothes, then had to change entirely when I got to my office because I'd sweat through outfit number 1. I'm pretty. So anyway, in an effort to wear as little as possible, I started wearing short shorts running. Not only did they keep me cool, but they kept me cool. Like, I feel like a bad ass, cool. And bad assedness is precisely what one wants to conjure when going for an aggressive PR at the Big Dance of the marathoning world. Notice, I said "bad ass," and not "bad bajunafish" (+1, and you can thank my sister for adding that term to my lexicon).
So, in my effort to find a suitable and suitably bad ass racing outfit, I picked up a few pairs of shorts and a few singlets one evening this week (the iPad would like to autocorrect "singlets" to "winglet," which I think could be a new euphemism for vagina. +3 for that sentence). Among the shorts were a pair from Under Armor that were similar to a pair I own and like, but which are made of a scratchy fabric. Rejoice! This new pair were made of a soft Lycra-y material (if ever there were foreshadowing of wardrobe malfunctions, "Lycra-y" is it). In the store, they looked normal and felt great. I even jogged in place in the dressing room. I swear.
So this morning, I packed my bag with precisely one pair of bottoms, these being the aforementioned Lycra-y shorts, and come quitting time, excused myself to change in the bathroom. "Well these are mighty short for the office," I thought, "but it's not as though you can see The Stuff That Monologues Are Made Of" (+1, and that was a good one).
I walked back from the ladies' bathroom to my desk and was acutely aware as more and more of my ass cheeks were revealed with each step I took. My desk is approximately 200 meters from the bathroom. My scheduled workout with 8x800 meters, plus 8x400 meter recoveries, plus 2 miles each warm up and cool down. I started to get worried.
I headed outside and felt the non-spring breeze in my face. And in my Beautiful Flower (+1, and the feeling that phrase elicits in me is why I dislike feminists. Ew). I started running East toward the Hudson and the East 6th St track, garnering or imagining many stares from the rush hour crowd. At least they'd be more forgiving of me and my camel toe (+1) at the track, where surely other women were scantily clad in the name of athleticism.
Not so much. Since it's not really feeling very spring like, everyone else at the track seemed to be wearing long tights, hoodies, gloves, and generally not "shorts" that cover less than some thongs. "Let's just get this over with."
After the first 800, I was nearly positive I should have gotten a bikini wax for the occasion. But on the plus side, my pace was pretty solid. I picked my frontal wedgie, temporarily hiding my goat knuckle (+1, and that's the agrarian cousin of the camel toe), and took off for my second 800.
The cycle continued much like this for all eight 800s. I ran. I tried to casually swipe my hand in front of my crotch to determine precisely how much of my meat wallet (+1, and that is BY FAR the funniest, and I'm sorry Mom and Dad) was exposed. I adjusted the meager amount of fabric. I ran again. Thank God it started to get dark after the fifth repeat.
So here's the thing: these were my best 800s ever. My splits were 3:14, 3:11, 3:09, 3:14, 3:16, 3:12, 3:12, 3:10. Fast. Evenly paced. And, on average 18 seconds ahead of where I need them to be. That's crazy. I think the fish taco (+1) shorts are magic!
So now I'm torn: do I risk exposing all of Boston to my hatchet wound (+1) in the hopes of running 3:30 and PRing next month, or for the sake of the physical safety and emotional well-being of my fellow marathoners, do I wear non-bearded-clam (+1) exposing bottoms? The short shorts work for my idol, Kara Goucher. But Kara Goucher will finish an hour before I do, and can hurry up and put real pants on. Also SHE'S KARA GOUCHER.
Well I don't know why I'm even bothering to ask you, since surely you're black out drunk after participating in my little drinking game. And if you aren't, you ought to be, because some of those vagina (+2) euphemisms are truly horrifying. And hilarious. God, being a middle school boy must be so much fun.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Sunday Wrap Up: A Defense Against Heartbreak
Don't worry; I'm not getting all emo. The heartbreak in question comes in the form of a hill on the Boston Marathon course, and my defense comes in the form of a hill-acious 20 miler today. (Kara Goucher only ran 13.1 miles today. Granted, she came in third place, in 1:09, which is faster than I raced 10 miles last month, but let's just let me have this one, okay?) I went uphill. I went downhill. I went uphill more. I went downhill more. I trashed my quads, then asked them to keep going. And they did! The whole thing went pretty well- I felt good through the whole distance, despite the challenging course I had set out for myself. And then I ate Girl Scout cookies.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 58. I'm sorry, what? That's insane. In the past 10 days, I've run 93 miles. That's more than I ran in the entire month of January when I was grappling with my IT band.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0. But before you mock me for morphing into some weirdo healthy person, I did have ice cream for dinner last night. And am rapidly approaching a 1:1 ratio of miles run today to Girl Scout cookies consumed. Related: "Overweight" is the new "race weight."
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: n/a
Today's run was the second of three planned 20+ milers. The last comes next weekend, after a week scheduled to be chock full of miles (50, to be exact) including 8x800s and a 15k race with Cate. Pass me another Samoa; I need to begin fueling up now.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 58. I'm sorry, what? That's insane. In the past 10 days, I've run 93 miles. That's more than I ran in the entire month of January when I was grappling with my IT band.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0. But before you mock me for morphing into some weirdo healthy person, I did have ice cream for dinner last night. And am rapidly approaching a 1:1 ratio of miles run today to Girl Scout cookies consumed. Related: "Overweight" is the new "race weight."
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: n/a
Today's run was the second of three planned 20+ milers. The last comes next weekend, after a week scheduled to be chock full of miles (50, to be exact) including 8x800s and a 15k race with Cate. Pass me another Samoa; I need to begin fueling up now.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Things I've Suddenly Had Time For
Something weird happens every time I give up drinking (this is, to the best of my recollection, the third marathon for which I've been on the wagon; first was Chicago in 2009, which brought me a PR and my first sub-4:00 race, followed by Wineglass in 2010, my current PR and my BQ time. No pressure): I have so much time on my hands! My mom is mad because she anticipated this free time would mean more blog entries and therefore more ways for her to e-stalk me. But to be honest, nothing very noteworthy happens when I'm sober.
Things I've done with my newfound time:
- Gone grocery shopping. I'm a bad person and don't really do this, choosing instead to have my paychecks direct deposited into the account of the Whole Foods salad bar across the street from my office every day. "$87 for some chickpeas? Sure!" But this week I actually bought groceries and prepared meals at home. One day I even brought leftovers to work for lunch. It was me and that token guy whose wife makes him eat leftovers every day, and they're some kid-specific food like chicken nuggets that are impossible to reheat in the microwave. It was the saddest day of my life.
- Run. This isn't really a new addition to my routine (duh), but I've tacked on miles here and there this week just because I could. I'm at 30 miles for the week, and still have two more workouts to get through.
- Filled out an NCAA tournament bracket. My sister is in b-school at Michigan State. After putting two daughters through Division III liberal arts schools for undergrad (Fact: my college baseball team went 0-18 one season, even losing to the local high school in a scrimmage. By the Mercy Rule), this is sort of the best sports-related thing that's happened in my family. When Coach D'Antonio had a heart attack during the football season, my dad was clutching his chest right along with him.
- Watched my NCAA bracket get trashed. Fuck you, Michigan State.
We're on Day 6 (of 35...) of clean living (well, not that clean, since I didn't give up caffeine, dairy, or Girl Scout cookies), and so far it hasn't been too hard. The warm front that passed through Thursday and Friday did elicit the Pavlovian instinct to drink beers outside, but I tried to remind myself that it'll be even better day-drinking weather come April.
Well, I guess I'll go do... things. Soberly. Hope your weekend is much more fun.
Things I've done with my newfound time:
- Gone grocery shopping. I'm a bad person and don't really do this, choosing instead to have my paychecks direct deposited into the account of the Whole Foods salad bar across the street from my office every day. "$87 for some chickpeas? Sure!" But this week I actually bought groceries and prepared meals at home. One day I even brought leftovers to work for lunch. It was me and that token guy whose wife makes him eat leftovers every day, and they're some kid-specific food like chicken nuggets that are impossible to reheat in the microwave. It was the saddest day of my life.
- Run. This isn't really a new addition to my routine (duh), but I've tacked on miles here and there this week just because I could. I'm at 30 miles for the week, and still have two more workouts to get through.
- Filled out an NCAA tournament bracket. My sister is in b-school at Michigan State. After putting two daughters through Division III liberal arts schools for undergrad (Fact: my college baseball team went 0-18 one season, even losing to the local high school in a scrimmage. By the Mercy Rule), this is sort of the best sports-related thing that's happened in my family. When Coach D'Antonio had a heart attack during the football season, my dad was clutching his chest right along with him.
- Watched my NCAA bracket get trashed. Fuck you, Michigan State.
We're on Day 6 (of 35...) of clean living (well, not that clean, since I didn't give up caffeine, dairy, or Girl Scout cookies), and so far it hasn't been too hard. The warm front that passed through Thursday and Friday did elicit the Pavlovian instinct to drink beers outside, but I tried to remind myself that it'll be even better day-drinking weather come April.
Well, I guess I'll go do... things. Soberly. Hope your weekend is much more fun.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Beer Run Report: We'll Run For Beer, Spring Edition
You know who is probably the most excited for my self-imposed 35 days of sobriety? No, not my roommate Nicole, who saw me when I stumbled out of bed at 9:30 last night to get a glass of water, and who asked at that point, "Are you okay?" to which I mumbled, "Mmm, just drunk." No, not me, who drank 19 beers last week while simultaneously talking about the need to get down to race weight. I think the person most excited for me to not be drunk for 5 weeks is I-Man, who spent the tail end of his Sunday afternoon hosing me off in my kitchen sink (in a not at all sexxxy way) while I cried about how my hands were bleeding, and then cried more because he was being nice to me despite my bleeding all over him. One month and one week without beer tears is perhaps the best gift I can give him.
But let me start at the beginning, because the day was actually a blast, and kicking things off with a story of me bloodied and crying in my kitchen sink isn't exactly painting the best picture.
I woke up on Sunday morning and bounded out of bed. Well, not quite "bounded," because I was pretty stiff from Saturday's quick 15 miler. But I creaked out of bed, looked out the window, spied sunshine, and was delighted. "It's here!" I could hardly wait for my warm-up loop of Prospect Park - I wanted the drinking to start immediately.
As the masses assembled in Prospect Park, making small talk with one another and sizing up the competition (it was clear, of course, that I was a force to be reckoned with on the drinking front, and after the last "We'll Run For Beer," word had spread like wildfire not to try to keep up with Baker on the running side, so we were the natural ones to beat), I distributed my super-secret awesome gift - "We'll Run For Beer" koozies!
I only ordered 100, and obviously these are in high demand, but if you are very nice to me, I might consider giving you one too.
I made a few opening remarks, pointed out the fact that we could talk more momentarily, as the first bar was only a few blocks away, and made a special welcome to my dad, who came down from Connecticut for the festivities. After a group shot, we were off.
And just like that, we were done running. For the time being, anyway. The first bar, Beer Table, was indeed just three blocks from the start. With my planning, I had officially endeared myself to everyone more interested in drinking than running. And that was pretty much everyone.
The people at Beer Table could not have been more welcoming and accommodating, and I am so glad that it was our first stop - it really set the tone for a beer-centric afternoon. We filled the entire venue (and deterred a few would-be brunchers, who were intimidated by our ranks. And by the fact that wicking tech fabrics never quite lose their smell, even if you've only run 3 blocks and haven't even started sweating). The staff went through their draft list, saying a few words about each beer, and making recommendations for those who were looking for something specific. They were careful to point out which beers had a low ABV and which came in at 10% (I gave a cheer for that one). My first beer was a Mikkeller Koppi, an IPA finished with Ethiopian coffee. I was expecting bold coffee flavors, which I didn't taste, but there was something particular about this beer. The hops were almost grassy and a little citrusy. At first I thought I'd be given the wrong pour, as this also had a hazy, orangey yellow hue and not a darker coffee tone as I'd expected (FYI - that's the last of the actual beer reviews I'm going to be able to give...). But a nice beer that I hope to drink more of as the season (finally) warms up.
After we bid adieu to the fine folks at Beer Table, we headed west to Gowanus, where our destination was a huge beer hall called Draft Barn. It reminded me of a bar I used to frequent when I was in Cape Town, called Forresters. If only they served biltong in Brooklyn... Anyway, again we were the only patrons (noon on a Sunday not being a big drinking time outside of football season, I suppose). Draft Barn had (from what I could see) 3 sets of 5 or 6 taps, and dozens of bottles - there were easily 50 beers to choose from. I went with a Dunkelweizen whose name escapes me. Any description of it escapes me as well, but I trust it was good, as I polished it off without trouble. Many people chose the Raspberry Hefeweisse on tap, and pretty soon the bar smelled like Chapstick. Perhaps it was the smell of edible things, or perhaps the effects of alcohol (but certainly not as a result of running, since we'd done approximately 1 mile of it), but people were starting to get hungry. Off to bar number 3 and the promised cheese fries.
Meghan doing some "cross training"
The third leg was a bit more challenging, as we had to head back uphill to Park Slope Ale House. Still, I think everyone was pleasantly surprised by the bar choice when we arrived. Of course, I had no doubt they would be; this is my local watering hole, and offered respite during many a playoff football game. Also, the cheese fries. Yessss. Perhaps most endearing to my non-Brooklyn friends, though, was that Park Slope Ale House was also hosting a child's birthday party downstairs. In a bar. The only thing that could have made it more awesome was if we too had been invited to have our faces painted.
I ordered an Ommegang and shared it with my dad, who was beside himself with glee over being joined at stop 3 by my friend (and his former colleague) Rob. While Big Mike talked shop with Rob, I sidled over to I-Man, Kelly, Brennan, and Katie, who had ordered chili cheese fries, which is why I am friends with them. With my help, we had no trouble finishing quickly (that's what he said).
Others, however, ordered food later, or didn't order food at all, and as a result, Park Slope Ale House was the first place we weren't all ready to move on at once. With 3 more venues to hit and nearly 3 hours under our belts thus far, we had to press on. We promised to regroup and bid adieu to those lost to cheese fries.
Leg 4 was the longest leg, and took us from Park Slope uphill to Prospect Park West, and around the north end of the Park into Prospect Heights. With our tummies full of chili cheese fries and beers, we started to struggle. We stumbled into stop 4: Washington Commons, and tried to compose ourselves. The patrons did not seem nearly as friendly as others had been. Also, there were a lot of dogs in the bar. Not, like, ugly people. I mean actual, furry, four legged animals. The whole atmosphere was confusing and I was overwhelmed. Or drunk. I took the drastic step of ordering a Bud Light, in an attempt to both rehydrate and keep drinking. I mulled over the route - should we skip stop 5 and go straight to the finish? We could even go all Rosie Ruiz and hop on the subway. Thankfully, Neal stepped in during my moment of weakness and talked some sense into me: we had committed to 6 stops, and we would run to each of them. It takes a true friend to convince you otherwise when you want to give up. Neal, you are a true beer running hero.
In a moment of surprise to all of us who managed to leave Park Slope Ale House, the cheese fry stragglers did indeed join us at Washington Commons! Without their fearless leader (duh, me) or a good grasp of Brooklyn geography, or much affinity for running (Cate, you're absolved from this last characteristic, but your map-reading abilities had me seriously concerned...), they found their way, sans cab, to stop 4. Cate, DeLoria, Train, Ryan, Meghan, KD, Uhl, and Rich - you, too, are beer running heroes.
But not a fashion hero...
We persevered. With the longest leg now behind us, and the fresh enthusiasm and athletic prowess of Eissa, who joined the fray at Washington Commons, we set out for stop 5. Which would have been easier had my own navigational skills not been inversely related to the number of beers I drank... But we stepped outside, I got my bearings, and we were off to our next venue: Plan B. DeLoria, all too familiar with Plan B in an entirely different context, was nervous, but we managed to get him and everyone else there in one piece.
Though the bartender who promised me I'd drink for free was nowhere to be found (convenient...), I was happy to order a Brooklyn Brown Ale. That Bud Light had been a moment of weakness, but I was back in action. And just in time, for Elyssa joined us at Plan B, fortifying our ranks for a strong finish. We drained our glasses in record time and, leaving behind a trail of "We'll Run For Beer" koozies (those things weren't free, you know!), we were off to the final stop: Bierkraft.
Back in Park Slope, I ushered everyone into the unassuming storefront that is Bierkraft, assuring them that "yes, this is the right place. No, this is not a random bodega." We made it! No one got in a fight, no one threw up, and no one got hurt. The second "We'll Run For Beer" seemed to be a success!
Confident that the beer runners could fend for themselves for a few minutes, I ran with I-Man back to my apartment to let him in to get his gear. With 5 beers and 9 miles under my belt for the day, and 2 blocks from my apartment, I tripped on an uneven slab of sidewalk and went down. I skidded to a stop a few feet from where I fell and lay still. "Are you okay?!" I-Man asked. My hands were bloody, my knee was scraped, but my face had been spared. So yes, I was okay. But also, I was drunk, and so I started crying.
I-Man brushed me off and walked me back to my apartment and hosed me off in the kitchen sink and squirted me with Neosporin and covered me Hello Kitty bandaids and then, confident that I would live through these injuries, sent me back to the bar. If that isn't ideal first aid, then I don't know what is.
I ran back to Bierkraft (yes, ran. Flesh wounds or not, I was in a hurry to get back to drinking) and found everyone contentedly drinking any number of the tons of drafts and bottles and noshing on incredible sandwiches (thanks, Brad, for sharing yours with me!). With a cold pint of some forgotten IPA held to my bloody palms, I looked around at the beer runners. 35 participants, 6 hours, 5 bars, 4.5 miles, 3 neighborhoods, and I was the only one bleeding. Not a bad Sunday afternoon.
Nothing a sandwich can't fix
Thanks so much to Beer Table, Draft Barn, Park Slope Ale House, Washington Commons, Plan B, and Bierkraft for your alcoholic expertise and hospitality. Thanks to CustomInk.com for making my koozies, which make me feel totally professional and badass and which I will now give out at every gift giving holiday for the next 35 years. And a very special thanks to all those who came out for the Spring Edition of "We'll Run For Beer:" Cate, Kelly, Katie, Brennan, KD, Meghan, Train, Ryan, Uhl, The Rossi, DeLoria, I-Man, Bradlius, Neal, Rob, Joe, Maria, Eissa, Elyssa, Sam, Steph, Baker, Abbe, Erica, Laura, Scott, Erin, Drew, Maura, Bryan, Michelle, Molly, and my Dad. You guys make me want to be a better beer runner.
Monday Wrap Up: Sober, the World is a Scary Place
First, a huge thank you to everyone who came out to the Second Edition of "We'll Run For Beer" yesterday. The event deserves, and will get, its own blog post, which I'll knock out later tonight. It will give me something to do as I tackle night one (of 35!) of no drinking. I'm terrified. In the meantime, here's what happened last week:
Number of Miles Run Last Week: 47. My long run was slated to be 20, but time constraints forced me to cut it down to 15. Still, I finished the week ahead of the planned 42 miles, thanks to things like yesterday's beer run. It's amazing how much more willing your legs are to carry you places when you've been drinking. A phenomenon appreciated by so many high school students, I'm sure.
Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 19. 19! I couldn't be more proud! I committed to going out with a bang, and that I did (literally - I fell down and ate it on the sidewalk yesterday, banging up my hands and knees. More on that in the Beer Run Wrap Up).
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Quite the variety. Some Blue Moons and Stellas, some Ommegangs, Stone Arrogant Bastard, Blue Point, Stone Cat Hefeweisse, Chelsea Sunset Red Ale, Harpoon Celtic Ale (this beer is truly vile. Tastes like banana flavored Runts, which I'm pretty sure are not part of my culture), Smuttynose S'muttonator (HUGE beer. Drank it before dinner while watching Aladdin. Am unable to tell you what happened for the rest of the evening. Except that Aladdin and Princess Jasmin probably get together in the end, even though he's a street rat), Tsing Tao, and whatever I drank at each bar yesterday. I'll spend the day today trying to figure out what those were...
Check back tonight for a full report and photos of yesterday's fun. Looking forward to doing it again in, oh, approximately 36 days...
P.S. About those 19 beers: forget what I was saying last week about making a conscious effort to get to race weight...
Friday, March 11, 2011
Final, Final, Actual Final Instructions
Oh heyyyy. It's me. Just blogging in a bar on a Friday night. NBD. Just wanted to point out several last minute notes for Sunday's "We'll Run For Beer." These are in addition to the recent email I sent, the subject of which was "Final Instructions." But now I'm serious. Final.
1. Sunday is the start of daylight savings time. This is the one where we set our clocks forward one hour. Yes, you lose an hour of sleep. The drawbacks of this include feeling like you're waking up extra early to hang out with sweaty people. On the plus side, you'll feel like a badass rebel drinking so early in the morning! On a Sunday! During Lent! Oh you are so on Jesus' shit list for this one!
2. Anyone interested in logging a few extra miles (you addicts! What's the matter with you?) shall meet at the aforementioned start (15th St and Prospect Park West) at 10:30am for a spin around the park.
3. This one is unrelated, but I'm sitting next to three suits at a bar in midtown right now, and swear to you I just heard one of them say "And that's why women should sleep with men as soon as possible!" If only I'd also overheard what the that is. I fear it is "otherwise they'll end up like that girl (gestures toward me), drinking alone with her iPad on a Friday night." Dear Sirs, Eat a dick; I'm obviously waiting for someone very important. I have tried to make this clear by checking my phone every 35 seconds, but evidently you three don't understand social cues. Love, Claire. P.S. Seriously, I'm popular.
See you Sunday!
1. Sunday is the start of daylight savings time. This is the one where we set our clocks forward one hour. Yes, you lose an hour of sleep. The drawbacks of this include feeling like you're waking up extra early to hang out with sweaty people. On the plus side, you'll feel like a badass rebel drinking so early in the morning! On a Sunday! During Lent! Oh you are so on Jesus' shit list for this one!
2. Anyone interested in logging a few extra miles (you addicts! What's the matter with you?) shall meet at the aforementioned start (15th St and Prospect Park West) at 10:30am for a spin around the park.
3. This one is unrelated, but I'm sitting next to three suits at a bar in midtown right now, and swear to you I just heard one of them say "And that's why women should sleep with men as soon as possible!" If only I'd also overheard what the that is. I fear it is "otherwise they'll end up like that girl (gestures toward me), drinking alone with her iPad on a Friday night." Dear Sirs, Eat a dick; I'm obviously waiting for someone very important. I have tried to make this clear by checking my phone every 35 seconds, but evidently you three don't understand social cues. Love, Claire. P.S. Seriously, I'm popular.
See you Sunday!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Race Weight
I know this will be a surprise to some of you (this will be a surprise to none of you), but I'm not particularly health conscious. Yeah: marathons, fitness, blah, blah. But also: beer. And cheese fries. Generally speaking, my "everything in moderation, including moderation" lifestyle works for me and my health and my weight. But when it comes to the final stretch of marathon training, even I put some emphasis on nutrition. Okay, maybe "emphasis" is the wrong word, since I'm eating Frosted Mini Wheats for breakfast right now, 6 weeks less one day from Boston. How about "attention?" That works. So in the last few weeks before a big race I pay more attention to what I eat. And this (coupled with the aforementioned sobriety) gets me to race weight.
What's race weight anyway? Well, again, since I'm not that health conscious, I'm maybe not the best person to ask. But as I interpret it, race weight is your ideal weight for, duh, racing. In my case, for going 26.2 miles. Not so heavy that it feels like you're dragging a physical therapist behind you (though, as you know, I can do that!). Not so light that you don't have enough energy to do anything but stand still and look dour with your sunken cheeks while someone takes your picture (and, not so thin that your boobs go away, because, duh!). A range that finds the right balance for strength and speed.
If there is a scientific or mathematical way to determine race weight, I do not know it (Let's ask Watson. "Beep boop boop." He says there isn't). For me, I came to discover my race weight by trial and error. Well technically the impetus was a bad breakup followed by a bout with the flu. The point is, my race weight is about 5 pounds less than my regular old "everything in moderation, including moderation" weight. I could probably go down 7 pounds and be good. And this is the part when I thank my lucky stars I'm not a 5k specialist, because I suspect my race weight would be about 15 pounds less...
So, how do I get there? Well, yeah, the sobriety thing is part of it. It serves a double purpose, because not only do the empty calories in 13 beers on a Friday night add up fast, so do those in the inevitable chicken fingers at 4:00am, post-13 beers (Lyric Diner, I miss you!). But mostly I just try to be more conscious of what goes in the ole gullet. I'm not really a Big Mac and chocolate covered potato chip girl to begin with, but about now is the time I start thinking "do you really need to celebrate the birthday of that intern in accounting whose name you don't know and to whom you have never spoken by having a slice of his birthday cake?" or "how many crab cakes are reasonably necessary to eat at this cocktail party?" I'm close enough to race weight normally that just being more cognizant of what I'm eating and making reasonably healthy (ish) choices can close the gap. Not that I don't resent the sacrifices this requires.
Which brings me to the point of today's story: this morning, I hopped on ye olde scale (after peeing and making sure that every last drop of moisture had been blow dried from my hair. I assume this is how every one weighs themselves, for optimal results) and saw I was actually just 3 pounds from race weight. Glorious! And then I put on a pair of pants and ripped them. Inglorious.
And then, because I have come of age in an era of oversharing, I tweeted this little anecdote. And then, because she is recently retired and now discovering the joys of the interwebs, my mom read this tweet. And then, because she apparently doesn't love me and isn't worried about giving me a complex, instead of sending words of encouragement, my mom tweeted back: "LOL."
I hate racing. Is it lunchtime yet?
What's race weight anyway? Well, again, since I'm not that health conscious, I'm maybe not the best person to ask. But as I interpret it, race weight is your ideal weight for, duh, racing. In my case, for going 26.2 miles. Not so heavy that it feels like you're dragging a physical therapist behind you (though, as you know, I can do that!). Not so light that you don't have enough energy to do anything but stand still and look dour with your sunken cheeks while someone takes your picture (and, not so thin that your boobs go away, because, duh!). A range that finds the right balance for strength and speed.
If there is a scientific or mathematical way to determine race weight, I do not know it (Let's ask Watson. "Beep boop boop." He says there isn't). For me, I came to discover my race weight by trial and error. Well technically the impetus was a bad breakup followed by a bout with the flu. The point is, my race weight is about 5 pounds less than my regular old "everything in moderation, including moderation" weight. I could probably go down 7 pounds and be good. And this is the part when I thank my lucky stars I'm not a 5k specialist, because I suspect my race weight would be about 15 pounds less...
So, how do I get there? Well, yeah, the sobriety thing is part of it. It serves a double purpose, because not only do the empty calories in 13 beers on a Friday night add up fast, so do those in the inevitable chicken fingers at 4:00am, post-13 beers (Lyric Diner, I miss you!). But mostly I just try to be more conscious of what goes in the ole gullet. I'm not really a Big Mac and chocolate covered potato chip girl to begin with, but about now is the time I start thinking "do you really need to celebrate the birthday of that intern in accounting whose name you don't know and to whom you have never spoken by having a slice of his birthday cake?" or "how many crab cakes are reasonably necessary to eat at this cocktail party?" I'm close enough to race weight normally that just being more cognizant of what I'm eating and making reasonably healthy (ish) choices can close the gap. Not that I don't resent the sacrifices this requires.
Which brings me to the point of today's story: this morning, I hopped on ye olde scale (after peeing and making sure that every last drop of moisture had been blow dried from my hair. I assume this is how every one weighs themselves, for optimal results) and saw I was actually just 3 pounds from race weight. Glorious! And then I put on a pair of pants and ripped them. Inglorious.
And then, because I have come of age in an era of oversharing, I tweeted this little anecdote. And then, because she is recently retired and now discovering the joys of the interwebs, my mom read this tweet. And then, because she apparently doesn't love me and isn't worried about giving me a complex, instead of sending words of encouragement, my mom tweeted back: "LOL."
I hate racing. Is it lunchtime yet?
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sunday Wrap Up: The "Dry" Run
With just a week to go until the Spring Edition of "We'll Run For Beer," I dedicated today to a "dry run" of the course. I was to:
- Run the route, ensuring that there were no major construction obstacles or road closures along the way
- Introduce myself to the bartenders and ask them to prepare for an onslaught of thirsty sweaty people next Sunday
- Get lost, so that all navigational errors were out of the way and I wouldn't end up leading hoards of thirsty sweaty runners in the wrong direction
I woke up early to rain, but was determined. After fueling up with a bagel and a coffee and my Sunday morning constitutional (New York Times Weddings and Celebrations, duh), I was ready. For a nap. I went back to sleep until 2:00pm.
I did manage eventually to drag myself out of bed and into the rain to accomplish the stated objectives. The good news - all bartenders and drinking establishments are on board! Some more than others (I happened to have a beer at Plan B in Prospect Heights last night - stop 5 on the run - and the bartender was extremely enthusiastic. He also mentioned his penchant for pot smoking, and I had bought him a shot, so these could have contributed to his excitement. One hopes he remembers me when I roll in with my plus 25 next weekend).
The bad news is that, as dry runs go, this was... not. It was pouring all afternoon, which made for some awkward introductions to bartenders ("Hi I'm Claire. I don't always look like I crawled out of the sewer. But I do always smell like this, and that aroma will be multiplied by 25 next Sunday, here in your bar. We cool?!"). After 10 soggy miles, there wasn't enough room in my bathroom to hang up all my dripping gear. The only bright spot (though again, not "dry") was that at stop 3 - Park Slope Ale House - I decided to warm up with a pint. Yes, I'm that dedicated to the craft. You can thank me next Sunday.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 48. Yesterday's long run was 23.4, unusually long for training - I typically max out at 22, and that's not until about 3 weeks out from race day. But the weather was nice, the company was chatty, and there were beers at the end. And now I can. Not. Stop. Eating. (Related: Holy hell, the Cheese Fries at Park Slope Ale House. If you come to the beer run and don't taste them, you are a communist and a threat to our national security).
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 8. Bad news, friends. The beer run on Sunday is the last hurrah before Boston. Five weeks of sobriety ahead. I don't want to think about it. So I'll probably black out most nights this week so I don't have to... More on that next week. In the meantime, use these next few days to send me recommendations for anything I must try before then.
Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Brooklyn Lager, Brooklyn Brown Ale (this is a delicious nutty beer that I wish were on tap in more bars), Coney Island Lager - look at me, repping my adopted borough! Also, a Saranac and a Sam Adams. And a kamikaze shot... Don't judge me. Buying one for the bartender meant that my drinks next weekend are on the house. Let's hope my drinks next weekend do not involve kamikaze shots.
I hope those of you in the area will be at the Pritchard Square entrance to Prospect Park for "We'll Run For Beer: Spring Edition next Sunday, March 13th at noon. (You better be, because I ran 10 miles in the rain for you people today). The total course distance is roughly 4.6 miles, with 6 stops. Full route map and other info is here. Anyone interested getting some miles in the Park beforehand is welcome to email me at willrunforbeerblog@gmail.com to coordinate. Or just look for me out there. You'll recognize me from my drawings of physical therapy; I'm the one with orange hair and a therapist strapped to me by a bungee cord.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
If I Invent a Workout, It Will Be One That People Don't Hate
After my confidence-boosting track session last Wednesday, I wasn't looking at today's scheduled Yasso 800s with nearly as much trepidation as usual. Granted, this is an important workout; Yassos are among the best marathon finish time predictors out there (at least according to urban [running] legend, which is arguably more fear-inducing than the movie of the same name starring 1990s heartthrob Joshua Jackson). But I felt confident I could succeed at my Wednesday speed work again this week: 6x800 at 3:30.
And then I got to the track.
Remember my artistic yet entirely accurate rendering of resistance running at PT earlier this week? Standing on the track felt exactly like that, except that, instead of being tethered to a 120 pound physical therapist pulling me from behind, I was being forced backward by wind that I swear to you was coming at me head on from 300 out of 400 meters of the track. I know laws of physics (and meteorology) would indicate that's not possible, but I swear to you it was true. Exhibit A:
Remember my artistic yet entirely accurate rendering of resistance running at PT earlier this week? Standing on the track felt exactly like that, except that, instead of being tethered to a 120 pound physical therapist pulling me from behind, I was being forced backward by wind that I swear to you was coming at me head on from 300 out of 400 meters of the track. I know laws of physics (and meteorology) would indicate that's not possible, but I swear to you it was true. Exhibit A:
Usually, when I get to the track, I take one easy lap to survey the terrain and see if there is any standing water, cracks, snow, or hobos obstructing any of the lanes. Tonight, I took one initial lap and thought, "Well I should probably just not do this workout."As tempting as quitting before I started seemed, I decided I might as well see what the first 800 felt like before I made any rash decisions. As soon as I hit the windy section (or rather, as soon as I passed out of the small non-windy section), I could tell how much harder I had to work just to make forward progress, let alone keep on pace. All my usual exertion clues were totally useless in these conditions; I had no idea if I was struggling to meet pace, or overcompensating in the face of the wind. And my cluelessness showed. My first 800 was 3:06.
At first I wondered if perhaps I'd actually just blacked out and had only run a 400. 3:06 seemed ridiculously ahead of the pace. "Well now I have to do at least one more to see what happened on that first one."
After a 400 of recovery, I toed the line for number 2. This one was grueling. "I must be working a lot harder," I thought. And maybe I was, but my pace didn't reflect it. Number 2 came in at 3:13.
The rest of the session was much the same: Claire evaluates preceding efforts, attempts to use this data to run consistently for future efforts, fails miserably. Repeats 3-6 were:
3:19
3:10
3:16
3:16
Sure, these are fast - well ahead of the target 3:30 pace. But do they reflect years of experience practicing pacing? Not so much. Try again.
And what do you know? In 2 weeks time, I will be trying again! This time, with 8x800.
I don't know how Bart Yasso came up with this devil-work, or why he wanted to take credit for it, given how many people bitch about it. What I do know is that, if you ever hear of a workout with my name attached to it, it'll be the Walsh 12s. As in, 12 ounces. 10x12oz of beer. That's a pretty good Wednesday night workout if you ask me.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Put A Ring On It
You know when you go to the gym and see those girls doing workouts, inevitably with a trainer, that look so impossibly difficult and so agonizingly unpleasant that you can only hope they're doing it in preparation for their upcoming nuptials? They're always balancing their abs over stability balls and lunging 47 laps around the weight room and doing horrible things that make you think "I might be okay with spending the rest of my life with my cat, if that's what goes into preparing for a wedding." That is exactly what I was doing in PT yesterday.
And so here we are today. Well, here I am. I have no idea where Mary is. Probably torturing some other poor soul. Just like that, she's moved on, while I'm stuck here, alone with my memories, and also with the enduring pain in my quads, ass, and stomach. I do all those pre-wedding exercises for her, and Mary doesn't even take me to dinner.*
*In all seriousness, Mary is a really rockin' physical therapist - so good, in fact, I'm underminding my own clever sarcasm and wit to add this here caveat. If you are in NYC and need PT, shoot me and email and I'd be happy to put you in touch.
The good news is that both my IT band, which was the victim of my New Years Eve slip-and-fall, and my abductor, which went all crazy and overcompensate-y after the IT band shit the bed, have both been feeling great. Through mile repeats, tempo work, and an 18 miler last week, I had no problems at all. The bad news is that, since doctors encourage you to keep doing the therapy even after the pain subsides (I suspect this has something to do with co-pays), Mary the physical therapist has really been putting me through the paces of late. In part, I actually enjoy it; Mary is a Boston marathoner herself, and I believe her when she gets all fired up and says "Claire, you'll be thanking me in April, because this is going to help you kick ass up those hills!" But there is also a not insignificant part of me that wants to never go back to PT again. And that is the part of me that is having difficulty sitting up today because my abs are so sore.
Yesterday, Mary went full out psycho on me. First, she made me get on the stability ball for some "core work." My core is made of cupcakes and Guinness, neither of which are capable of doing any work at all, so it was unclear what Mary was expecting of me, but whatever. I lay down across the top of the ball and immediately had a flashback to nursery school, where we had those huge rubber balls on the playground, and I lay across the top of one exactly as I was doing in the PT studio, rolled forward, and smashed my face into the ground, giving myself a bloody nose while simultaneously thinking "My mom is going to be so pissed when she sees how much I just bled onto this pea coat." But, there in the studio, I overcame my fear and positioned myself on top of the ball.
"Now, bring your legs into your chest," Mary said. I assumed she meant to add "while leaving them on the ball," because had I just taken my legs down, it would have been easy enough for even the cupcakes and Guinness to accomplish. But I did as I presumed she wanted, and as I had seen those girls in the gym do, all the while looking down at their glinting engagement rings and thinking "this is worth it." I looked down at my unmanicured fingers and thought "Mr. Meowser and I are going to have a beautiful life together."
By the third rep, I was experiencing whole body shakes and sweat was pouring off my head (see image above). "Looks great!" Mary said. "Do 20. THOUSAND!"
Next, Mary wanted to work on - no, that's not right. Mary wanted me to work on. Mary doesn't work on anything during our little sessions except her voice, which I will admit is rather soothing in the context of so much physical exertion. And sometimes she also works on her hand strength when she uses her bear claws to massage me. Anyway, Mary wanted me to work on my walking lunges, which are good for both my piriformis (that's in the hipus assimus region), and my core. But since I had demonstrated my ability to semi-successfully complete walking lunges on my own already, Mary wanted to add resistance. Specifically, her resistance.
Mary strapped me into a giant ponytail holder, got in behind me, leaned back as hard as she could, and asked me to move forward, lunging, and then holding my foot up in the air when I brought it forward. This was made increasingly more difficult because my stomach was already so sore to the touch from the aforementioned stability ball work, so just buckling into the giant ponytail holder took a great amount of mental fortitude.
And so here we are today. Well, here I am. I have no idea where Mary is. Probably torturing some other poor soul. Just like that, she's moved on, while I'm stuck here, alone with my memories, and also with the enduring pain in my quads, ass, and stomach. I do all those pre-wedding exercises for her, and Mary doesn't even take me to dinner.**In all seriousness, Mary is a really rockin' physical therapist - so good, in fact, I'm underminding my own clever sarcasm and wit to add this here caveat. If you are in NYC and need PT, shoot me and email and I'd be happy to put you in touch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
