As I mentioned, I was inspired to pick up some Smuttynose the other night because I'm considering a Smuttynose-sponsored fall marathon. As you may have realized if you've been reading this blog for awhile, or can read at all, I enjoy both running and beer, so a brewery sponsored marathon, which obviously provides free beer at the finish, seems ideal. (Though I will say: unlike New York or Philadelphia, Chicago does provide free beer to finishers, which means it ranks high in the Big City Fall Marathon bracket. Demerits for selling out in 35 seconds.)
While I did have one of these bad boys paired with raw cookie dough and cheese the other night (awesome dinner, btw), it was after some random Imperial IPA I found in the fridge, which meant I couldn't give it a fair and unbiased review. So here I am, on a Friday night, alone in my apartment (save for Four, who is still alive), writing a beer review on my blog. Sweet life, Walsh (let the record show I had a long and busy day; I woke up very early to meet the gals for a bridges run... And also to watch the royal wedding. And to speak in a British accent all day. It was exhausting).
But that's a good jumping off point for this review. Smuttynose Summer Weizen is allegedly brewed with chamomile tea. BRITISH! And "old lady who stays in with her pets on a Friday night!" I really had no idea what this implied. And perhaps it would mean something to me if I were, say, a tea connoisseur. But the only British cultural phenomena in which I'd consider myself well-versed are: Harry Potter, fish and chips, the Spice Girls' debut album, and snogging. So to me, this beer neither smells nor tastes like chamomile. It does, however, give off a subtle yeasty, bready smell. People get grossed out every time I say that, but that's because Subway restaurants have scarred you. A yeasty smelling beer is no less a sign of spring than a 17 year old girl wearing her most hookerish summer shorts in April.
When it got down to tasting this beer, however, I was having some trouble. Not with drinking it, of course; I've never had trouble putting a pint to my lips. But the taste was so... Watery. Not exactly Bud Light watery, which is so close to actual water I've documented drinking it when I'm too drunk to have another (actual) beer and just need to rehydrated myself. There were some flavors in this beer, but they all seemed sort of vague and far away.
After much sipping and thinking, I ended up with a taste of a wheaty hops and some grass. The aroma seems incongruous with the beer, and the flavor profile I think seems a little unbalanced. Because the flavors seem so watery, everything is gone as soon as you swallow, but you're left with an unpleasant bitterness that sort of metastasizes on your tongue through the finish. This beer is practically begging to be consumed with raw cookie dough, if only so that you have some type of enjoyable flavor left in your mouth.
All that said, this beer is actually very drinkable; because the flavor profile seems so muted, its easy to just keep on drinking without thinking too much about what the brewers at Smuttynose were intending. I'll have no trouble finishing this six pack (tonight), but if I run Smuttynose, I'll be glad this beer won't be in season.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Expert Advice: How to Stock Your Pantry
If you came to Will Run For Beer today because you Googled "how to stock your pantry" and were directed here, I'm sorry. You will be sorely disappointed. (And Google is sorely mistaken about what it is I do.) Because I imagine that, if you're the type who's prone to Googling "how to stock your pantry," you're envisioning a near-future with a warm and cozy kitchen, smelling of cleaning products and scented candles, maybe a big casserole dish of Engagement Chicken bubbling away in the oven, your significant other on his/her way home to dole affection upon you, all against the backdrop of sea salts, cilantro, rosemary, and extra virgin olive oil. That sounds really lovely, of course. But those aren't the kitchen essentials I picked up tonight, and not just because I think cilantro is an affront to my intelligence and a threat to national security.
Beers. Cookie dough. Cheese.
Yes.
The cheese is in fact a pantry staple for me. the cookie dough was an impulse buy. That I've made several times... But the Smuttynose Summer Weizen was an inspired choice.
You may have heard that today was the New York City Marathon lottery (Brad described it as "the only lottery I never want to win again). I was not among the 8% of applicants selected. So now the world is my oyster in terms of a fall marathon. And another PR (I'm a greedy bitch). A repeat appearance at Wineglass is high on my list. But I'm hearing great things about the Smuttynose Hamptons Marathon in New Hampshire as well. It's close to New York, it's in October and likely to have great marathoning weather, it's flat and fast, and it's sponsored by a brewery. All signs are pointing to "yes."
But before I register, I should be sure. Not sure about the course or my plans 6 months from now. I just want to be sure this is something I'd enjoy drinking after 26.2 miles. I'll let you know.
Beers. Cookie dough. Cheese.
Yes.
The cheese is in fact a pantry staple for me. the cookie dough was an impulse buy. That I've made several times... But the Smuttynose Summer Weizen was an inspired choice.
You may have heard that today was the New York City Marathon lottery (Brad described it as "the only lottery I never want to win again). I was not among the 8% of applicants selected. So now the world is my oyster in terms of a fall marathon. And another PR (I'm a greedy bitch). A repeat appearance at Wineglass is high on my list. But I'm hearing great things about the Smuttynose Hamptons Marathon in New Hampshire as well. It's close to New York, it's in October and likely to have great marathoning weather, it's flat and fast, and it's sponsored by a brewery. All signs are pointing to "yes."
But before I register, I should be sure. Not sure about the course or my plans 6 months from now. I just want to be sure this is something I'd enjoy drinking after 26.2 miles. I'll let you know.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Sunday Wrap Up: Into The Wild
I'd like to remind you that on Monday of this week, a mere 6 days ago, I ran a marathon. 26.2 miles. In certain circles, that would give me a tremendous amount of credibility, maybe even inspire some awe, and certainly earn me a free pass at laziness and gluttony for weeks to come. (I'll be honest, I only do the running thing to prompt unsuspecting people to tell me I'm awesome and deserve another cookie/beer/Car Bomb/toke from the crack pipe. That's what it's all about, amirite?!) But unfortunately, I don't travel in those circles, which is how I found myself not sleeping in, eating pancakes, or reading the Sunday Styles section in my pajamas this morning, but engaged in my first ever trail run. And not just a "casual little flat dirt path for a couple of miles" type of trail run, either. I spent more than 7 and a half miles in the wilderness (it would have been about 4, but apparently orienteering skills are both a valuable life skill and something not taught at Colby; my directional instincts point me in the exact opposite way of the most direct route to any intended destination), clamoring up mountainsides propelled solely by my fear of being eaten by bobcats. Day of rest, my (very sore) ass.
Given that I'd really never run on actual trails before (well-manicured suburban beach paths surely don't count. Though maybe sprinting away from the police through backyards as an underaged and over-served high school student does...), I didn't really know what to expect as we pulled into the Ward Pound Ridge Reservation. I sort of figured this would be just like road running, only with a little bit of mud, encountered more as a way fulfilling the trail running experience than out of necessity. Unsurprisingly, I was total wrong about virtually everything. To spare you from having to learn these lessons by making the mistakes yourself, I have compiled a list of Things To Know About Trail Running Before You Can Legitimately Say You're A Trail Runner.
1. Rocks can hurt you even if you don't fall down on them. It's true; I have a history of falling. And so confronting the sharp and stabby rocks on the trails this morning was asking for trouble. Miraculously, I didn't fall down at all. But I did roll my ankles no fewer than 47 times each. Rocks are the worst.
2. Anyone who says they run trails for the beauty of the great outdoors has never actually run trails. If they had, they wouldn't have any idea what the great outdoors looks like. You must remain constantly vigilant in your staring at the ground looking for rocks, sticks, mud, puddles, horse shit, and bobcats, and that leaves no time for looking at your surroundings. For all I know, Ward Pound Ridge Reservation might have been in Paris, but I was too busy watching the trail to see the Eiffel Tower.
3. The great outdoors is a scary place, and you need to be prepared for many obstacles. Even if, like mine, your trail is in a well-maintained park, you should spend the entire run envisioning your eminent death. You could break your ankle and be left for dead. You could get hopelessly lost and never found. You could run out of food or water. You could be eaten by a bobcat. You could experience any combination of the above. You might as well picture all of them happening, all at once. It'll make whichever one does actually happen pale in comparison. For example, I was so busy looking over my shoulder for bears this morning that I wasn't that scared (or surprised) to discover I didn't know where I was.
4. Which reminds me, the built-in compass on an iPhone does not count as a survival tool...
4a. ...Especially if you don't have a map.
5. Pace doesn't apply on the trails. I'm not just saying that because I was running 11 minute miles out there this morning. Okay, mostly I'm saying that because I was running 11 minute miles this morning. In fact, as we were scrambling up one sheer cliff face or another this morning, I thought "God, there is no way I can do this for much longer." I looked down at my watch and saw I'd been running for precisely 5 and a half minutes.
As a whole, I rather enjoyed my trail run this morning, and as we were finishing up, I think I started to run a little taller, feeling a bit more hardcore than I had before. And then a Jack Russell terrier and his octogenarian owner passed me on an uphill. Maybe I'll stick with road running after all.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 36. The Monday marathon really bumps up the weekly mileage. So, too, does the fact that "we" are (I use that loosely, since I am most assuredly not) apparently already in week 2 of San Francisco Marathon training, according to the daily training emails I get. Yes, this was an unpleasant surprise to me. I cannot be expected to run hills two days after my last marathon, no matter what Training Peaks wants from me. I was busy getting drunk. So let's just hope Week 3 is the new Week 1.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 12.
Number of Percentage Point My Tolerance Decreased Over the Last 5 Weeks: 37,000. I wish this were an actual unit of measure; I could have a delightful time training to improve me score. But hey, at least I'm a cheap date for the time being.
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: My celebratory post-Boston beers were from Blue Hills. I rounded out the week with samplings from Blue Moon, Guinness, Sierra Nevada, Brooklyn Lager and Pilsner, and good old Bud Light. I ordered those on Friday night, when I knew I didn't need more beer but couldn't not have more beer. Because that's the sign of a controlled and healthy individual...
Well, the great news is that I don't feel burnt out from running at all. Quite the opposite; I'm fired up for the summer season! There are many miles to be run, and many beers to drink in celebration! Granted, I'll probably suffer a debilitating sunburn the next time I hit the trails and have to undergo painful and expense treatment, and my rolled ankles are already hurting quite a bit. But I guess I'd take that over a bobcat mauling any day.
Given that I'd really never run on actual trails before (well-manicured suburban beach paths surely don't count. Though maybe sprinting away from the police through backyards as an underaged and over-served high school student does...), I didn't really know what to expect as we pulled into the Ward Pound Ridge Reservation. I sort of figured this would be just like road running, only with a little bit of mud, encountered more as a way fulfilling the trail running experience than out of necessity. Unsurprisingly, I was total wrong about virtually everything. To spare you from having to learn these lessons by making the mistakes yourself, I have compiled a list of Things To Know About Trail Running Before You Can Legitimately Say You're A Trail Runner.
1. Rocks can hurt you even if you don't fall down on them. It's true; I have a history of falling. And so confronting the sharp and stabby rocks on the trails this morning was asking for trouble. Miraculously, I didn't fall down at all. But I did roll my ankles no fewer than 47 times each. Rocks are the worst.
2. Anyone who says they run trails for the beauty of the great outdoors has never actually run trails. If they had, they wouldn't have any idea what the great outdoors looks like. You must remain constantly vigilant in your staring at the ground looking for rocks, sticks, mud, puddles, horse shit, and bobcats, and that leaves no time for looking at your surroundings. For all I know, Ward Pound Ridge Reservation might have been in Paris, but I was too busy watching the trail to see the Eiffel Tower.
3. The great outdoors is a scary place, and you need to be prepared for many obstacles. Even if, like mine, your trail is in a well-maintained park, you should spend the entire run envisioning your eminent death. You could break your ankle and be left for dead. You could get hopelessly lost and never found. You could run out of food or water. You could be eaten by a bobcat. You could experience any combination of the above. You might as well picture all of them happening, all at once. It'll make whichever one does actually happen pale in comparison. For example, I was so busy looking over my shoulder for bears this morning that I wasn't that scared (or surprised) to discover I didn't know where I was.
4. Which reminds me, the built-in compass on an iPhone does not count as a survival tool...
4a. ...Especially if you don't have a map.
5. Pace doesn't apply on the trails. I'm not just saying that because I was running 11 minute miles out there this morning. Okay, mostly I'm saying that because I was running 11 minute miles this morning. In fact, as we were scrambling up one sheer cliff face or another this morning, I thought "God, there is no way I can do this for much longer." I looked down at my watch and saw I'd been running for precisely 5 and a half minutes.
As a whole, I rather enjoyed my trail run this morning, and as we were finishing up, I think I started to run a little taller, feeling a bit more hardcore than I had before. And then a Jack Russell terrier and his octogenarian owner passed me on an uphill. Maybe I'll stick with road running after all.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 36. The Monday marathon really bumps up the weekly mileage. So, too, does the fact that "we" are (I use that loosely, since I am most assuredly not) apparently already in week 2 of San Francisco Marathon training, according to the daily training emails I get. Yes, this was an unpleasant surprise to me. I cannot be expected to run hills two days after my last marathon, no matter what Training Peaks wants from me. I was busy getting drunk. So let's just hope Week 3 is the new Week 1.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 12.
Number of Percentage Point My Tolerance Decreased Over the Last 5 Weeks: 37,000. I wish this were an actual unit of measure; I could have a delightful time training to improve me score. But hey, at least I'm a cheap date for the time being.
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: My celebratory post-Boston beers were from Blue Hills. I rounded out the week with samplings from Blue Moon, Guinness, Sierra Nevada, Brooklyn Lager and Pilsner, and good old Bud Light. I ordered those on Friday night, when I knew I didn't need more beer but couldn't not have more beer. Because that's the sign of a controlled and healthy individual...
Well, the great news is that I don't feel burnt out from running at all. Quite the opposite; I'm fired up for the summer season! There are many miles to be run, and many beers to drink in celebration! Granted, I'll probably suffer a debilitating sunburn the next time I hit the trails and have to undergo painful and expense treatment, and my rolled ankles are already hurting quite a bit. But I guess I'd take that over a bobcat mauling any day.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Best. Run. Ever.
Not because I was feeling great. Of course not. While I've spent two days walking as much as I can (like, for exercise. It's like running, but slow. I enjoy it quite a bit), which has gotten me limber enough that I look totally normal, running is another story. After 35 minutes of walking this morning, I started an easy run. I felt like one of those plastic Lego people whose legs only have one joint and can't move independently of one another. If only I had a drawn-on black mustache!
Despite that, this was indeed an awesome run, because as I shuffled along, a fellow runner came up behind me and spied my Boston Marathon 2011 jacket, which I was obviously wearing because I haven't taken it off since I left Boston. As he passed (definitely cruising along faster than I was), he asked "Did you finish Boston on Monday?" I said, "yes!" and picked up my pace a bit while resisting the urge to continue "and I ran a PR! 3:33! Wheeeeee!"
He followed up with, "And you're running today?"
"Well this is my first run back, so we'll see how it goes," I said, not bothering to mention I'd spent the first 35 minutes of this workout walking like a 1 inch tall plastic figurine.
"You're really badass!" Yes, seriously! He said that! I couldn't have been more excited if he'd told me the NFL lockout was over and the Giants had the first pick. If only the magic jacket powers were transferable outside the running world; I'd love to have strangers buy me beers tonight in honor of my badassedry. But I suspect random strangers would avoid a girl wearing a sweat-in track jacket at the bar. Unless we were in Europe, where that'd be totally normal.
Anyway, here are a few of the official MarathonFoto pictures from Monday. Though not at all flattering, I will drawn your attention to the first image, where I'm giving the thumbs down and sticking out my tongue. I'm pretty sure that was in Newton.
Despite that, this was indeed an awesome run, because as I shuffled along, a fellow runner came up behind me and spied my Boston Marathon 2011 jacket, which I was obviously wearing because I haven't taken it off since I left Boston. As he passed (definitely cruising along faster than I was), he asked "Did you finish Boston on Monday?" I said, "yes!" and picked up my pace a bit while resisting the urge to continue "and I ran a PR! 3:33! Wheeeeee!"
He followed up with, "And you're running today?"
"Well this is my first run back, so we'll see how it goes," I said, not bothering to mention I'd spent the first 35 minutes of this workout walking like a 1 inch tall plastic figurine.
"You're really badass!" Yes, seriously! He said that! I couldn't have been more excited if he'd told me the NFL lockout was over and the Giants had the first pick. If only the magic jacket powers were transferable outside the running world; I'd love to have strangers buy me beers tonight in honor of my badassedry. But I suspect random strangers would avoid a girl wearing a sweat-in track jacket at the bar. Unless we were in Europe, where that'd be totally normal.
Anyway, here are a few of the official MarathonFoto pictures from Monday. Though not at all flattering, I will drawn your attention to the first image, where I'm giving the thumbs down and sticking out my tongue. I'm pretty sure that was in Newton.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Damn the DOMS
Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness, you're a bigger bitch than Newton. How does it just materialize over night? I got up this morning and toppled over, completely unable to use any muscles in my legs.
Back to the real world today, if I can manage to tackle subway stairs and a couple blocks of crosstown walking. I'm hoping the walking part will loosen me up somewhat. I'm also hoping I can find work appropriate footwear that allows me to wear running socks, since my ruptured blister has taken over my entire left foot. I'd hoped to be able to get a short, easy run in tomorrow, just to get moving and fight the DOMS (and, oh hai, Reach the Beach Relay, Fairfield Half, and San Francisco Marathon in May, June, and July), but the blister is making it hard to stand at all, let alone walk or run without changing my gait, so I think I may be sidelined a few more days. Fact: when I checked out of my hotel yesterday, I felt like a crackhead (ha! Ipad wants that word to be "deaconess," which is NOT the same thing), because the bathroom was littered not with needles but safety pins, all used for blister popping. Yum.
And speaking of yum, is it wrong to be hungry again? Would you change your answer if I told you I ate 2 and a half slices of pizza last night?
In case you didn't believe me, here's proof I started my Monday way out in Hopkinton:
Back to the real world today, if I can manage to tackle subway stairs and a couple blocks of crosstown walking. I'm hoping the walking part will loosen me up somewhat. I'm also hoping I can find work appropriate footwear that allows me to wear running socks, since my ruptured blister has taken over my entire left foot. I'd hoped to be able to get a short, easy run in tomorrow, just to get moving and fight the DOMS (and, oh hai, Reach the Beach Relay, Fairfield Half, and San Francisco Marathon in May, June, and July), but the blister is making it hard to stand at all, let alone walk or run without changing my gait, so I think I may be sidelined a few more days. Fact: when I checked out of my hotel yesterday, I felt like a crackhead (ha! Ipad wants that word to be "deaconess," which is NOT the same thing), because the bathroom was littered not with needles but safety pins, all used for blister popping. Yum.
And speaking of yum, is it wrong to be hungry again? Would you change your answer if I told you I ate 2 and a half slices of pizza last night?
In case you didn't believe me, here's proof I started my Monday way out in Hopkinton:
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Race Report: The Boston Marathon, aka, Screw You, Newton
Marathon number ten is in the books, and it was a doozy. I ran 26.2 miles in 3:33:40, and walked (stumbled... I was twice asked if I'd like a wheelchair by the diligent finish line medical staff) away with a new PR and another Boston qualifying time. I couldn't be happier or prouder of my efforts out there on Monday. And I couldn't be more convinced that the old New York adage is true: Boston sucks.
I know, I know: that's a statement that is going to get me in plenty of trouble. Boston is hallowed marathoning ground, and believe me when I tell you I'm honored to have run and finished. But do they have to make it so difficult to enjoy?
In part, it was my fault; I went into Boston looking for a PR, which meant I had to spend my race working for it and not just taking it all in. Part of what I liked about the New York City Marathon was that I went out there to have a good time. In Boston, I went out there to hurt.
That said, anyone who tells you the beginning of Boston is "all downhill" is a rotten liar. I honest to God wondered as I ran if perhaps I were on the wrong Boston Marathon course, given all he pre-race advice I'd gotten to run conservatively downhill. Oh yes, there were plenty of downhill stretches. But also plenty of uphill ones. I was pretty sure Heartbreak Hill wasn't at mile 3, but then what was I running up?
Lets start at the beginning: The Expo
So everyone knows that this year's Boston Marathon sold out in a record 8 hours, which is why I actually spent the start of the Boston weekend in Narragansett, Rhode Island, watching IMan run the Gansett Marathon (in his second fastest, 3:07. NBD). After a morning spent trying not to get blown into the Atlantic in Rhode Island and praying the weather would be warmer for my race 2 days later, IMan and I headed from Rhode Island to Massachusetts for the second marathon in 3 days. 52.4 miles between us in 72 hours, with just 6 hours and 40 minutes of them spent running. What did you do this weekend? (That brings my average down to 3:20 - can I get guaranteed entry to NYCM with that?)
After getting situated in scenic Milford, MA - out by the start - we headed to the expo. Back to that record sell out I mentioned above: while this race sold out faster than ever, I don't think it had any more participants than usual. Which is why it was sort of shitty that on Sunday morning, the expo was so picked over. The official race merchandise section was a disaster, with t-shirts every where, and they were sold out of both the official race poster and the Boston Marathon pint glasses by the time we arrived. Not to be nit-picky, but for a race touted to be The Best, they didn't do a whole lot to make you feel special.
Thank God, I found a wayward poster left behind in some random exhibit booth I was able to swipe (not that IMan didn't threaten to rough some people up to get me one) and by chance, as we took a final loop through the merchandise section, spied one lonely pint glass which IMan snagged for me immediately. I took both of these to be extremely good omens. And I'm also extremely glad I pre-ordered my Boston jacket online.
My parents rolled into town on Sunday afternoon and we spent a few hours snapping photos and eating things in downtown Boston. Despite a crappy start to the day, weather-wise (I gladly took a Did Not Start for the 5k on Sunday when I heard how hard the rain was pounding and the wind was blowing), Sunday afternoon was gorgeous, and a sign of things to come. We gladly walked much of Boylston Street before heading out to Cambridge for a pre race feast.
Sunday night was spent engaging in traditional pre-race rituals: laying out gear, setting up the coffee maker, and foraging for food. For this race, I also added "rereading inspiring emails from Kara Goucher and my Uncle John," the latter of whom provided me with a detailed race plan for Monday. It rocked.
Race Day:
The beauty of staying out by the start meant that while some schmucks were boarding buses at 6:30am in Boston, I was sleeping peacefully (fine, I was fitfully tossing and turning) until almost 7am. I made a pot of coffee in the room and watched some pre-race coverage on the local news before heading to the hotel lobby around 8am for the complimentary shuttle to the start.
Sitting on the shuttle was this first time I realized "whoa, this isn't JV anymore. This is the Boston Marathon." Listening to those around me talk about their (impossibly fast) anticipated finish times, I felt a bit like an outsider. You're going to run a 3:10 and you're how old, buddy? But I tried to talk myself off that ledge; I qualified to be here, and not just by the skin of my teeth either. I channeled my inner Kara Goucher (who was channeling her inner Joan of Arc when she said recently, of Boston) "I am not afraid. I was born to do this."
The shuttle was pretty quiet as people contemplated their own race strategies. At one point, the woman sitting next to me took a phone call. We could only hear her half of the conversation, of course, but it went like this:
"Hi"
"Sure"
"Okay, yes that's right"
"Yes ma'am"
"Yes well I'm actually not going to be there because I'm in Boston today."
The whole bus erupted in laughs, thinking of this woman's boss calling her into an important meeting or something. We were delighted when she ended the conversations with "okay, gotta run!"
Athlete Village:
The Athlete Village at Hopkinton was much like that at the NYCM, in that it was full of food, port a potties, people dressed in trash bags, and took place on a windswept patch of grass. Because I had the luxury of a later arrival, I didn't have too much time to kill, so after I used the port a potties, I grabbed a bagel (Boston cannot make a proper bagel), took out another bag to sit on, and waited until they called the corral to check our bags. They had plenty of music playing to fire us up, though "Too Little, Too Late" was an odd song choice for the moment...
One advantage Boston has over New York is that bag check doesn't close until after your wave has been called to the start. I was able to keep my warm gear on right up until I headed to the corrals, and the race started promptly as we got settled into each corral. But the Red Sox still suck.
The Race
My Wave (2) took off right on time at 10:20, and I was across the start just 4 minutes later. Holy shit, I'm running the Boston Marathon right now! My goal was to go out at an even 8:00/mile pace and just try to hold it there. My Uncle John had cautioned me against trying to bank time on the course, and instead save something for the Newton hills late in the race, and I was going to try my best to do just that. Unfortunately, because it was still pretty crowded at mile one, my first split was 8:11. I had expected people would really charge out of the gate, so I was thrown off right from the get go. One mile in and already 11 seconds behind? I hate this race already.
Luckily the crowd and pace evened out over the next few miles and I was back on track by mile 3. What did not even out was the terrain. While everyone had told me "the first 6 (or 10, or 13, or 16) miles are downhill," they neglected to mention that net downhill is not the same thing. As least not to me. The first five miles were filled with little rollers. Sure, the downhill stretches were longer and steeper than the uphills, but the terrain definitely threw me off. I really did wonder if maybe I was experiencing some Boston rite of passage, whereby all previous finishers must tell newbies it's all downhill. Was I being hazed?
Splits 1-5:
8:11, 7:52, 7:47, 7:51, 8:01
The next 5 miles were much of the same; net downhill, but definitely some rollers in the mix. I was feeling good about my pace, though by mile 7, the soles of my feet were burning with hot spots. The same thing happened in the NYCM, and it never happens on my long training runs. Painful, distracting, and disheartening. 19 more miles on sore feet sounded like a shitty prospect. But I anticipated seeing my parents at mile 10 in Natick, which gave me something to look forward to.
Splits 6-10:
7:53, 7:56, 7:59, 7:55, 7:56
Like in the Wineglass Marathon when I BQed, I was surprised to find myself a touch ahead of pace with 10 miles already under my belt. I felt good, but like I was working for it, and was starting to get nervous for the Newton Hills ahead. Seeing my Dad at 10 was a good boost, and the Wellesley girls at 12 were everything I'd hoped for. Literally every girl had a sign that said "Kiss me, I'm (fill in the blank)." I made sure to run on the right along the line of spectators. I slapped many hands, but exchanged no kisses. I looked for a girl with a "Kiss me, it's my first Boston!" sign, but apparently I was the lone virgin at mile 12.
The half marathon split was in downtown Wellesley and I had a few seconds to my name. But with Newton up next, I decided to try to keep on pace for 3:30 until I got there and then just run the hills without looking at my Garmin and stressing about my splits over the hills. Racing is stressful enough, and I needed to conserve my mental energy as much as my physical.
Splits 11-15:
7:58, 7:56, 7:52, 7:57, 7:59 (enjoy those now; shit's about to get real on these hills)
Newton, I seriously hate you. You are, in fact, as bad as they say. Worse, maybe. Especially the second of the four hills. Perhaps running Newton is like running in Central Park; those west side hills aren't nearly as bad when you know exactly how many there are and what they look like. But in Newton, I knew only that I'd be hit with 4 hills in 5 miles, and so I tried to start counting and just hang on.
Hill one was okay. "If they're all like this, I won't die. Probably." Unfortunately, what I hoped was hill two was really just the continuation of hill one, and so by the time I got to the Newton Fire Station at mile 17, I'd already run more than four hills by my count. This was going to be a slug fest.
Seeing Josh and Laura around mile 17 was awesome, and they did excellent spectating work by rallying those around them to cheer for me. Sorry I looked like I was going to the slaughterhouse when I saw you, guys. I sort of was. I missed IMan at mile 17, which was a bummer because I would have advocating we make this race a relay, and he take it on home from there. But without that option, I pressed on.
Just about mile 17, I felt my left foot go from hot and painful to wet and painful. With a strong suspicion that I'd ruptured a blister, I kept glancing down to see if I was bleeding through my sneaker. I couldn't see anything from my vantage point, but I'd like to think my feet were moving so fast I couldn't tell at the time, because I did indeed bleed through. Gives the shoes character, I guess.
Josh and Laura were just at the start of hill 2 (the real one; it was hill 27 by my count), and it was a beast. As we crested, I heard someone ask "That was it, right?" A woman nearby said, "No, Heartbreak is at 20. But that was the worst one." Well it could only get better from there then, right? Indeed, by comparison, hill 3 was manageable.
Splits 16-20:
8:09, 8:16, 8:23, 8:09, 8:21
Okay Heartbreak, it's your turn. I'm bloody. I'm tired. I'm sunburned. I've been running for 2 and a half hours, and I have to pee. Lay it on me.
"Oh, if you've been training on hills, you'll hardly notice it." STOP LYING, PREVIOUS BOSTON FINISHERS! Thats not true at all. The only way you'd hardly notice it is if you were already in the ambulance being taking to Boston on a stretcher. I did plenty of hill work in the lead up to Boston, and that was still ugly. And while it was downhill from there, the downhills really did eat you up too. My quads didn't lock up or anything, but I had nothing in me to just open up on the downhills like I would like to late in a race, and I just tried to run short steps right underneath me body to keep myself upright.
The crowds all around me - runners and spectators - were fired up coming down the backside of Heartbreak, which brought a smile to my face. Special thanks to the fellow runner who offered me a congratulatory fist bump. And to the BC boys, who loved my short shorts!
At this point, I knew making up for time I lost on the hills was going to make going for 3:30 a miserable experience, but I was feeling pretty confident I'd lined up a PR and sub-3:35 time as long as I didn't make any mistakes. In spite of the roaring crowds, I just tried to run smooth and relaxed. Though I did get pretty excited when Holly jumped in with me around mile 22!
The downhill between 23 and 24 was really hard on both my legs and the soles of my feet, and there was not nearly enough water available through this stretch. It was after 1:30 in the afternoon, the sun was strong, and the NEWTON HILLS HAD TAKEN MY LIFE FORCE. For at least one water station, there was no liquid relief on the left side of the road, so I missed a drink when I most needed one. Thank you, friendly spectator who gave me ice water!
At 24, I first spied Cate, then Caroline and Lydia, and tried my best to look like I was not wanting to die (I was). I nearly choked to death on an ice pop I had gotten when I saw my Colby girls, and really had to will myself not to gag and puke as I ran by them.
Splits 21-25:
8:44 (seriously, Heartbreak Hill is worse than you think), 8:11, 8:21, 8:23, 8:19 (I know these look like I bonked, but seriously I was feeling so happy and proud I didn't drop off even more).
As I ran down Beacon St I couldn't hear anything over the roaring crowd. Plenty of folks around me were walking now, and I couldn't imagine being so close to the finish and not being able to close the deal. Newton ruins lives.
We made the right turn on Hereford and the one block hill, and then turned left of Boylston. Christ, the finish seemed so far away. I really wanted to conserve my energy even here, because I didn't have enough left to sprint the whole way home, so I kept chipping away until the last .2 miles (.4 by my Garmin, because I suck at running tangents) Then, I laid it all out.
Splits 26-26.4
8:15, 2:54 (7:09 pace)
Gah. Boston. You little bitch. You almost had me. But I beat you. Hell, I even PRed on your nasty hills. I qualified to come back to you, but to be honest I'm not sure I want to. As they say, fool me once...
Ironically, we had post-race beers in the hellhole that is Newton. I drank 2 Blue Hills' Red Imperial IPA (9% ABV) and was drunk. Which then inspired me to order an Irish coffee. My parents were so proud...
That was really long (that's what she said), so thanks for those who read the whole thing. I'll do a pictorial version when I get my race shots and upload my digicam. Get excited.
Until then, thank you a million times over to everyone who's been in my corner for this one. My parents and sister, Uncle John, and my whole family were super supportive, my amazing friends back in NYC tolerated 5 weeks of Sober Claire (she's not very fun), everyone who came out to watch and cheer in person or track me online, the Twitter and Dailymile community has been incredible to me... I hope I can have a beer with each of you. Thank you.
Here's to the next great adventure!
I know, I know: that's a statement that is going to get me in plenty of trouble. Boston is hallowed marathoning ground, and believe me when I tell you I'm honored to have run and finished. But do they have to make it so difficult to enjoy?
In part, it was my fault; I went into Boston looking for a PR, which meant I had to spend my race working for it and not just taking it all in. Part of what I liked about the New York City Marathon was that I went out there to have a good time. In Boston, I went out there to hurt.
That said, anyone who tells you the beginning of Boston is "all downhill" is a rotten liar. I honest to God wondered as I ran if perhaps I were on the wrong Boston Marathon course, given all he pre-race advice I'd gotten to run conservatively downhill. Oh yes, there were plenty of downhill stretches. But also plenty of uphill ones. I was pretty sure Heartbreak Hill wasn't at mile 3, but then what was I running up?
Lets start at the beginning: The Expo
So everyone knows that this year's Boston Marathon sold out in a record 8 hours, which is why I actually spent the start of the Boston weekend in Narragansett, Rhode Island, watching IMan run the Gansett Marathon (in his second fastest, 3:07. NBD). After a morning spent trying not to get blown into the Atlantic in Rhode Island and praying the weather would be warmer for my race 2 days later, IMan and I headed from Rhode Island to Massachusetts for the second marathon in 3 days. 52.4 miles between us in 72 hours, with just 6 hours and 40 minutes of them spent running. What did you do this weekend? (That brings my average down to 3:20 - can I get guaranteed entry to NYCM with that?)
After getting situated in scenic Milford, MA - out by the start - we headed to the expo. Back to that record sell out I mentioned above: while this race sold out faster than ever, I don't think it had any more participants than usual. Which is why it was sort of shitty that on Sunday morning, the expo was so picked over. The official race merchandise section was a disaster, with t-shirts every where, and they were sold out of both the official race poster and the Boston Marathon pint glasses by the time we arrived. Not to be nit-picky, but for a race touted to be The Best, they didn't do a whole lot to make you feel special.
Thank God, I found a wayward poster left behind in some random exhibit booth I was able to swipe (not that IMan didn't threaten to rough some people up to get me one) and by chance, as we took a final loop through the merchandise section, spied one lonely pint glass which IMan snagged for me immediately. I took both of these to be extremely good omens. And I'm also extremely glad I pre-ordered my Boston jacket online.
My parents rolled into town on Sunday afternoon and we spent a few hours snapping photos and eating things in downtown Boston. Despite a crappy start to the day, weather-wise (I gladly took a Did Not Start for the 5k on Sunday when I heard how hard the rain was pounding and the wind was blowing), Sunday afternoon was gorgeous, and a sign of things to come. We gladly walked much of Boylston Street before heading out to Cambridge for a pre race feast.
Sunday night was spent engaging in traditional pre-race rituals: laying out gear, setting up the coffee maker, and foraging for food. For this race, I also added "rereading inspiring emails from Kara Goucher and my Uncle John," the latter of whom provided me with a detailed race plan for Monday. It rocked.
Race Day:
The beauty of staying out by the start meant that while some schmucks were boarding buses at 6:30am in Boston, I was sleeping peacefully (fine, I was fitfully tossing and turning) until almost 7am. I made a pot of coffee in the room and watched some pre-race coverage on the local news before heading to the hotel lobby around 8am for the complimentary shuttle to the start.
Sitting on the shuttle was this first time I realized "whoa, this isn't JV anymore. This is the Boston Marathon." Listening to those around me talk about their (impossibly fast) anticipated finish times, I felt a bit like an outsider. You're going to run a 3:10 and you're how old, buddy? But I tried to talk myself off that ledge; I qualified to be here, and not just by the skin of my teeth either. I channeled my inner Kara Goucher (who was channeling her inner Joan of Arc when she said recently, of Boston) "I am not afraid. I was born to do this."
The shuttle was pretty quiet as people contemplated their own race strategies. At one point, the woman sitting next to me took a phone call. We could only hear her half of the conversation, of course, but it went like this:
"Hi"
"Sure"
"Okay, yes that's right"
"Yes ma'am"
"Yes well I'm actually not going to be there because I'm in Boston today."
The whole bus erupted in laughs, thinking of this woman's boss calling her into an important meeting or something. We were delighted when she ended the conversations with "okay, gotta run!"
Athlete Village:
The Athlete Village at Hopkinton was much like that at the NYCM, in that it was full of food, port a potties, people dressed in trash bags, and took place on a windswept patch of grass. Because I had the luxury of a later arrival, I didn't have too much time to kill, so after I used the port a potties, I grabbed a bagel (Boston cannot make a proper bagel), took out another bag to sit on, and waited until they called the corral to check our bags. They had plenty of music playing to fire us up, though "Too Little, Too Late" was an odd song choice for the moment...
One advantage Boston has over New York is that bag check doesn't close until after your wave has been called to the start. I was able to keep my warm gear on right up until I headed to the corrals, and the race started promptly as we got settled into each corral. But the Red Sox still suck.
The Race
My Wave (2) took off right on time at 10:20, and I was across the start just 4 minutes later. Holy shit, I'm running the Boston Marathon right now! My goal was to go out at an even 8:00/mile pace and just try to hold it there. My Uncle John had cautioned me against trying to bank time on the course, and instead save something for the Newton hills late in the race, and I was going to try my best to do just that. Unfortunately, because it was still pretty crowded at mile one, my first split was 8:11. I had expected people would really charge out of the gate, so I was thrown off right from the get go. One mile in and already 11 seconds behind? I hate this race already.
Luckily the crowd and pace evened out over the next few miles and I was back on track by mile 3. What did not even out was the terrain. While everyone had told me "the first 6 (or 10, or 13, or 16) miles are downhill," they neglected to mention that net downhill is not the same thing. As least not to me. The first five miles were filled with little rollers. Sure, the downhill stretches were longer and steeper than the uphills, but the terrain definitely threw me off. I really did wonder if maybe I was experiencing some Boston rite of passage, whereby all previous finishers must tell newbies it's all downhill. Was I being hazed?
Splits 1-5:
8:11, 7:52, 7:47, 7:51, 8:01
The next 5 miles were much of the same; net downhill, but definitely some rollers in the mix. I was feeling good about my pace, though by mile 7, the soles of my feet were burning with hot spots. The same thing happened in the NYCM, and it never happens on my long training runs. Painful, distracting, and disheartening. 19 more miles on sore feet sounded like a shitty prospect. But I anticipated seeing my parents at mile 10 in Natick, which gave me something to look forward to.
Splits 6-10:
7:53, 7:56, 7:59, 7:55, 7:56
Like in the Wineglass Marathon when I BQed, I was surprised to find myself a touch ahead of pace with 10 miles already under my belt. I felt good, but like I was working for it, and was starting to get nervous for the Newton Hills ahead. Seeing my Dad at 10 was a good boost, and the Wellesley girls at 12 were everything I'd hoped for. Literally every girl had a sign that said "Kiss me, I'm (fill in the blank)." I made sure to run on the right along the line of spectators. I slapped many hands, but exchanged no kisses. I looked for a girl with a "Kiss me, it's my first Boston!" sign, but apparently I was the lone virgin at mile 12.
The half marathon split was in downtown Wellesley and I had a few seconds to my name. But with Newton up next, I decided to try to keep on pace for 3:30 until I got there and then just run the hills without looking at my Garmin and stressing about my splits over the hills. Racing is stressful enough, and I needed to conserve my mental energy as much as my physical.
Splits 11-15:
7:58, 7:56, 7:52, 7:57, 7:59 (enjoy those now; shit's about to get real on these hills)
Newton, I seriously hate you. You are, in fact, as bad as they say. Worse, maybe. Especially the second of the four hills. Perhaps running Newton is like running in Central Park; those west side hills aren't nearly as bad when you know exactly how many there are and what they look like. But in Newton, I knew only that I'd be hit with 4 hills in 5 miles, and so I tried to start counting and just hang on.
Hill one was okay. "If they're all like this, I won't die. Probably." Unfortunately, what I hoped was hill two was really just the continuation of hill one, and so by the time I got to the Newton Fire Station at mile 17, I'd already run more than four hills by my count. This was going to be a slug fest.
Seeing Josh and Laura around mile 17 was awesome, and they did excellent spectating work by rallying those around them to cheer for me. Sorry I looked like I was going to the slaughterhouse when I saw you, guys. I sort of was. I missed IMan at mile 17, which was a bummer because I would have advocating we make this race a relay, and he take it on home from there. But without that option, I pressed on.
Just about mile 17, I felt my left foot go from hot and painful to wet and painful. With a strong suspicion that I'd ruptured a blister, I kept glancing down to see if I was bleeding through my sneaker. I couldn't see anything from my vantage point, but I'd like to think my feet were moving so fast I couldn't tell at the time, because I did indeed bleed through. Gives the shoes character, I guess.
Josh and Laura were just at the start of hill 2 (the real one; it was hill 27 by my count), and it was a beast. As we crested, I heard someone ask "That was it, right?" A woman nearby said, "No, Heartbreak is at 20. But that was the worst one." Well it could only get better from there then, right? Indeed, by comparison, hill 3 was manageable.
Splits 16-20:
8:09, 8:16, 8:23, 8:09, 8:21
Okay Heartbreak, it's your turn. I'm bloody. I'm tired. I'm sunburned. I've been running for 2 and a half hours, and I have to pee. Lay it on me.
"Oh, if you've been training on hills, you'll hardly notice it." STOP LYING, PREVIOUS BOSTON FINISHERS! Thats not true at all. The only way you'd hardly notice it is if you were already in the ambulance being taking to Boston on a stretcher. I did plenty of hill work in the lead up to Boston, and that was still ugly. And while it was downhill from there, the downhills really did eat you up too. My quads didn't lock up or anything, but I had nothing in me to just open up on the downhills like I would like to late in a race, and I just tried to run short steps right underneath me body to keep myself upright.
The crowds all around me - runners and spectators - were fired up coming down the backside of Heartbreak, which brought a smile to my face. Special thanks to the fellow runner who offered me a congratulatory fist bump. And to the BC boys, who loved my short shorts!
At this point, I knew making up for time I lost on the hills was going to make going for 3:30 a miserable experience, but I was feeling pretty confident I'd lined up a PR and sub-3:35 time as long as I didn't make any mistakes. In spite of the roaring crowds, I just tried to run smooth and relaxed. Though I did get pretty excited when Holly jumped in with me around mile 22!
The downhill between 23 and 24 was really hard on both my legs and the soles of my feet, and there was not nearly enough water available through this stretch. It was after 1:30 in the afternoon, the sun was strong, and the NEWTON HILLS HAD TAKEN MY LIFE FORCE. For at least one water station, there was no liquid relief on the left side of the road, so I missed a drink when I most needed one. Thank you, friendly spectator who gave me ice water!
At 24, I first spied Cate, then Caroline and Lydia, and tried my best to look like I was not wanting to die (I was). I nearly choked to death on an ice pop I had gotten when I saw my Colby girls, and really had to will myself not to gag and puke as I ran by them.
Splits 21-25:
8:44 (seriously, Heartbreak Hill is worse than you think), 8:11, 8:21, 8:23, 8:19 (I know these look like I bonked, but seriously I was feeling so happy and proud I didn't drop off even more).
As I ran down Beacon St I couldn't hear anything over the roaring crowd. Plenty of folks around me were walking now, and I couldn't imagine being so close to the finish and not being able to close the deal. Newton ruins lives.
We made the right turn on Hereford and the one block hill, and then turned left of Boylston. Christ, the finish seemed so far away. I really wanted to conserve my energy even here, because I didn't have enough left to sprint the whole way home, so I kept chipping away until the last .2 miles (.4 by my Garmin, because I suck at running tangents) Then, I laid it all out.
Splits 26-26.4
8:15, 2:54 (7:09 pace)
Gah. Boston. You little bitch. You almost had me. But I beat you. Hell, I even PRed on your nasty hills. I qualified to come back to you, but to be honest I'm not sure I want to. As they say, fool me once...
Ironically, we had post-race beers in the hellhole that is Newton. I drank 2 Blue Hills' Red Imperial IPA (9% ABV) and was drunk. Which then inspired me to order an Irish coffee. My parents were so proud...
That was really long (that's what she said), so thanks for those who read the whole thing. I'll do a pictorial version when I get my race shots and upload my digicam. Get excited.
Until then, thank you a million times over to everyone who's been in my corner for this one. My parents and sister, Uncle John, and my whole family were super supportive, my amazing friends back in NYC tolerated 5 weeks of Sober Claire (she's not very fun), everyone who came out to watch and cheer in person or track me online, the Twitter and Dailymile community has been incredible to me... I hope I can have a beer with each of you. Thank you.
Here's to the next great adventure!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sunday Wrap Up: The Big Dance
In 2007, I ran my first marathon. Four years later, 9 races more experienced, and 46 minutes faster, tomorrow, I'll toe the line at my tenth. The Boston Marathon.
I'd love to be able to tell you this was the race I'd been dreaming off running my whole life, but it isn't. I didn't start dreaming of Boston until just 10 months ago, when I started training for my first BQ attempt. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in Boston before then; it had just never been in the realm of possibility. When I started this blog, I was looking for my first sub 4 hour marathon. Tomorrow, I'm looking for my first 3:30.
I have no idea if it will happen for me tomorrow. I could boost my confidence a little by rehashing the training that got me here, but at the end of the day, Yasso 800s and mile repeats and high milage weeks aren't marathons, and the only tool for telling you how you'll do in the marathon is to run the marathon. That's a terrifying prospect, isn't it? You train for 14, 16, 18 weeks - hell, I don't drink for 5 of them!- and put all your eggs in this one basket. But you really can never know how it'll go until it's already underway. And even then, you can't be sure. The marathon is a long race; you could feel great for 10 or 13 or 18 miles, and still have plenty of time to feel not at all great. The anxiety of that one race, 18 weeks in the making, not living up to your expectations is almost worse than the physical feeling, a few hours of labor, when it doesn't. I can (and do) run intervals until I'm blue in the face, but that quiet notion that the one day that you most need to be your day could very well not be never quite goes away. I think perhaps it even grows with each successive accomplishment.
That said, I wouldn't give it up. It's nauseating and stress-inducing and sleep-depriving, but it also gives you a purpose. It's that very feeling that makes you dig deep when you'd rather throw in the towel. It's that notion of "you can't do this" that makes you find that extra gear. No; I will not let my 58 mile weeks, my 3:17 800s, my 35 days of sobriety, or my three falls goes to waste. Yes; I will fight tooth and nail for tomorrow to be my day. I'm going out there tomorrow to prove that notion wrong.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 10.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0
Types of Beers Consumed This Week: n/a
"It eluded us then, but that's no matter. Tomorrow we will run faster... Stretch out our arms farther- and one fine morning..."
I'd love to be able to tell you this was the race I'd been dreaming off running my whole life, but it isn't. I didn't start dreaming of Boston until just 10 months ago, when I started training for my first BQ attempt. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in Boston before then; it had just never been in the realm of possibility. When I started this blog, I was looking for my first sub 4 hour marathon. Tomorrow, I'm looking for my first 3:30.
I have no idea if it will happen for me tomorrow. I could boost my confidence a little by rehashing the training that got me here, but at the end of the day, Yasso 800s and mile repeats and high milage weeks aren't marathons, and the only tool for telling you how you'll do in the marathon is to run the marathon. That's a terrifying prospect, isn't it? You train for 14, 16, 18 weeks - hell, I don't drink for 5 of them!- and put all your eggs in this one basket. But you really can never know how it'll go until it's already underway. And even then, you can't be sure. The marathon is a long race; you could feel great for 10 or 13 or 18 miles, and still have plenty of time to feel not at all great. The anxiety of that one race, 18 weeks in the making, not living up to your expectations is almost worse than the physical feeling, a few hours of labor, when it doesn't. I can (and do) run intervals until I'm blue in the face, but that quiet notion that the one day that you most need to be your day could very well not be never quite goes away. I think perhaps it even grows with each successive accomplishment.
That said, I wouldn't give it up. It's nauseating and stress-inducing and sleep-depriving, but it also gives you a purpose. It's that very feeling that makes you dig deep when you'd rather throw in the towel. It's that notion of "you can't do this" that makes you find that extra gear. No; I will not let my 58 mile weeks, my 3:17 800s, my 35 days of sobriety, or my three falls goes to waste. Yes; I will fight tooth and nail for tomorrow to be my day. I'm going out there tomorrow to prove that notion wrong.
Number of Miles Run This Week: 10.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0
Types of Beers Consumed This Week: n/a
"It eluded us then, but that's no matter. Tomorrow we will run faster... Stretch out our arms farther- and one fine morning..."
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
In Praise of "Or Rest"
With 6 days until my next marathon, its no surprise that I have a pretty light running schedule this week. When I took a peek at the plan for today, I saw that I was slated for "5 easy miles, or rest." For the first time ever during training, I chose the latter.
Now please. Don't presume this to be a post on how I'm so awesome and fast and thin and hot and therefore am entitled not only to a rest day, but also to a new purse, fat diamond studs, and retiring at 30. I am not fast, nor especially thin, and working in non profit as I do, expect neither purses nor diamonds nor retirement before the age of 87. The awesome and hot parts are true, of course, but come naturally and therefore cannot be helped. But while I am not most of those things, I am still resting today.
Why is this? Afterall, Arthur Lydiard told us years ago: miles makes champions. Not eating cereal in pajamas at 7:30pm (though it is Wheaties), not watching Ray Suarez and his oddly groomed head on The News Hour, and certainly not conducting a thorough analysis of my own foot skin shedding patterns (Nicole, I swear I didn't do this in any shared space in our home. Like the kitchen...). Miles. Make. Champions.
Here's the thing: I don't expect to be a champion. Per paragraph 2, I'm not fast. I won't be pulling some come from behind (that's what he said! But no, seriously, like, way behind, since I'm in Wave 2, Corral 5) win on Monday. But more importantly, running 5 miles today, or not, won't have an impact on what happens on Monday. This isn't high school; cramming doesn't work. I've already invested all the work I can. Squeezing on 5 miles today instead of, say, trying fruitlessly to make my taper-crazed body actually go to sleep, or figure out if I have all the clothes and gear I'll need for the weekend, won't do anything for me physically except increase the odds that I'll have another fall down accident between now and Boston. Given that rest was an option built into the plan, (and that I'm beginning to wonder if your body's skin regeneration abilities are a finite resource), I think I'm making the right decision.
Now please. Don't presume this to be a post on how I'm so awesome and fast and thin and hot and therefore am entitled not only to a rest day, but also to a new purse, fat diamond studs, and retiring at 30. I am not fast, nor especially thin, and working in non profit as I do, expect neither purses nor diamonds nor retirement before the age of 87. The awesome and hot parts are true, of course, but come naturally and therefore cannot be helped. But while I am not most of those things, I am still resting today.
Why is this? Afterall, Arthur Lydiard told us years ago: miles makes champions. Not eating cereal in pajamas at 7:30pm (though it is Wheaties), not watching Ray Suarez and his oddly groomed head on The News Hour, and certainly not conducting a thorough analysis of my own foot skin shedding patterns (Nicole, I swear I didn't do this in any shared space in our home. Like the kitchen...). Miles. Make. Champions.
Here's the thing: I don't expect to be a champion. Per paragraph 2, I'm not fast. I won't be pulling some come from behind (that's what he said! But no, seriously, like, way behind, since I'm in Wave 2, Corral 5) win on Monday. But more importantly, running 5 miles today, or not, won't have an impact on what happens on Monday. This isn't high school; cramming doesn't work. I've already invested all the work I can. Squeezing on 5 miles today instead of, say, trying fruitlessly to make my taper-crazed body actually go to sleep, or figure out if I have all the clothes and gear I'll need for the weekend, won't do anything for me physically except increase the odds that I'll have another fall down accident between now and Boston. Given that rest was an option built into the plan, (and that I'm beginning to wonder if your body's skin regeneration abilities are a finite resource), I think I'm making the right decision.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Sunday Wrap Up: The ABCs
For those of you who are concerned about Four's anxiety, a couple things. First, thanks for your concern about me, dick. Second, don't worry - he's fine. They say goldfish have short memories, so perhaps he's forgotten what was troubling him. Or maybe since I've been out for much of the day, he can't sense my tension. Either way, this is an actual photographic record of what he looks like, happily swimming in his tank with his ceramic octopus friend:
I have a really low-tech camera. And Four is possibly related to a hammerhead shark.
Anyway, there's been too much talk about fish on this blog lately, so let's turn our attention back to running, shall we? As we tick off the days to until marathon number 10, lots of people have asked if I have a specific goal in mind. I do. But for the first time ever, I also have set a few back up goals. Apparently you're advised to do this all the time in marathons, but I'm a slow learner (not just in aquatic animal care), so its taken me 9 previous races to figure that out. The theory behind this is that you put in more than four months of training, so to only have one goal sets the stakes pretty high. To avoid feeling like you've wasted an exorbitant amount of time, you're meant to set "A," "B," and "C" goals. "A" is your banner day goal; if you're feeling your best, and all the uncontrollables (weather, etc) are cooperating, this is what you can do. "B" is still a reach, but more attainable, even if you or the day aren't at their best. "C" is pretty likely, but something you'll still be psyched to achieve. They don't have to be time goals, of course; in the New York Marathon, I wanted to hug and high five my friends and family, take pictures during the race, and drink a beer (sadly, I didn't achieve the last one. Remind me to add that to my goals for the San Fran marathon this summer, where I'm sure Megan won't let me fail). In any case, here are my 2011 Boston Marathon goals:
"A" goal: 3:30. I'll also accept 3:30:59, as I am a traditionalist and therefore adhere to the old BAA standards which granted you a 59 second grace period. Okay fine, I'm not a traditionalist, I just want those 59 seconds. So, < 3:31:00. This is what I've been training for, though as I told the Eissa, Elyssa, and Maria when we ran last week, if I don't make it, everyone is instructed to forget "A" goal was ever on the table and move straight to "B" goal.
I have a really low-tech camera. And Four is possibly related to a hammerhead shark.
Anyway, there's been too much talk about fish on this blog lately, so let's turn our attention back to running, shall we? As we tick off the days to until marathon number 10, lots of people have asked if I have a specific goal in mind. I do. But for the first time ever, I also have set a few back up goals. Apparently you're advised to do this all the time in marathons, but I'm a slow learner (not just in aquatic animal care), so its taken me 9 previous races to figure that out. The theory behind this is that you put in more than four months of training, so to only have one goal sets the stakes pretty high. To avoid feeling like you've wasted an exorbitant amount of time, you're meant to set "A," "B," and "C" goals. "A" is your banner day goal; if you're feeling your best, and all the uncontrollables (weather, etc) are cooperating, this is what you can do. "B" is still a reach, but more attainable, even if you or the day aren't at their best. "C" is pretty likely, but something you'll still be psyched to achieve. They don't have to be time goals, of course; in the New York Marathon, I wanted to hug and high five my friends and family, take pictures during the race, and drink a beer (sadly, I didn't achieve the last one. Remind me to add that to my goals for the San Fran marathon this summer, where I'm sure Megan won't let me fail). In any case, here are my 2011 Boston Marathon goals:
"A" goal: 3:30. I'll also accept 3:30:59, as I am a traditionalist and therefore adhere to the old BAA standards which granted you a 59 second grace period. Okay fine, I'm not a traditionalist, I just want those 59 seconds. So, < 3:31:00. This is what I've been training for, though as I told the Eissa, Elyssa, and Maria when we ran last week, if I don't make it, everyone is instructed to forget "A" goal was ever on the table and move straight to "B" goal.
"B" goal: 3:35. This would qualify me for Boston under the new standards for the 2013 marathon. For 2012, this would qualify and get me into the coveted pre-registration registration. (I realize it makes no sense that I'll accept an additional 59 seconds for "A" goal but not for "B." This is my race and these are my goals, so eat a weiner rather than find fault in my logic.) This would also be a PR. As a whole, "B" goal seems both pretty sweet in terms of what it means to me as a runner, as well as pretty doable, given my level of training.
"C" goal: 3:40. This would qualify me for Boston again next year. I'm 80% sure I wouldn't cry even if I only reached "C" goal.
"D" goal: Finish without shitting self. I am 100% sure if I don't reach "D" goal, you will never hear from me again.
Now, let's go to this week's wrap up, which, believe it or not, is not the last one before this race (longest taper ever...):
Number of Miles Run This Week: 36. Getting in my last 12 miler today was like pulling teeth. Even Nicole, who hates running, told me to just go and get it over with. Once I did, it wasn't too bad. Sort of.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0. I haven't had a drink in 4 weeks. I'm planning on making up for all those missed beers, all at once, in 8 days. Prepare yourselves.
Types of Beers Consumed This Week: n/a. I walked by Bierkraft this afternoon. I had to look away.
Well kids, that's pretty much it. The week ahead has just a couple short easy runs, and on Saturday morning I'll bid New York goodbye and head to New England. Until then, please keep your fingers crossed that the weather gods smile upon us, Four continues to live, and I don't fall down anymore. And that I don't shit my pants. Yes, during the race, but also, in general.
"C" goal: 3:40. This would qualify me for Boston again next year. I'm 80% sure I wouldn't cry even if I only reached "C" goal.
"D" goal: Finish without shitting self. I am 100% sure if I don't reach "D" goal, you will never hear from me again.
Now, let's go to this week's wrap up, which, believe it or not, is not the last one before this race (longest taper ever...):
Number of Miles Run This Week: 36. Getting in my last 12 miler today was like pulling teeth. Even Nicole, who hates running, told me to just go and get it over with. Once I did, it wasn't too bad. Sort of.
Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 0. I haven't had a drink in 4 weeks. I'm planning on making up for all those missed beers, all at once, in 8 days. Prepare yourselves.
Types of Beers Consumed This Week: n/a. I walked by Bierkraft this afternoon. I had to look away.
Well kids, that's pretty much it. The week ahead has just a couple short easy runs, and on Saturday morning I'll bid New York goodbye and head to New England. Until then, please keep your fingers crossed that the weather gods smile upon us, Four continues to live, and I don't fall down anymore. And that I don't shit my pants. Yes, during the race, but also, in general.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Even Four Has Anxiety
The good news is that Four is still alive! And not just clinging to life, either! He's like, swimming around and shit. The bad news, however, is that Four also seems to have anxiety. He spends a lot of time sucking up gravel with his fish face ("trouty-mouth"), swimming away, and spitting it out somewhere else. In addition to my concerns about his health (which are minimal; I've learned not to get too attached), I'm concerned about what this is doing to my mental health. Im already quite wound up and anxious about Boston, and it's hard to sleep at night when you're listening to the sounds of a goldfish (he's black, actually) orally rearranging his habitat, which is, it's worth noting, infinitely nicer than any I've lived in. Or when you're picturing your fourth fish in two weeks going belly up.
So this zoological observation begs the question: if dogs can sense fear, cats pester the one person in a room who doesn't want to give them attention, and pigs smell out truffles (that last one actually has nothing to do with this topic), can fish feel taper madness? More importantly, did I just phrase this entire second graf like I were a veterinary Carrie Bradshaw? If this means I'm expected to have sex with this goldfish, I want out immediately.
8 days...
So this zoological observation begs the question: if dogs can sense fear, cats pester the one person in a room who doesn't want to give them attention, and pigs smell out truffles (that last one actually has nothing to do with this topic), can fish feel taper madness? More importantly, did I just phrase this entire second graf like I were a veterinary Carrie Bradshaw? If this means I'm expected to have sex with this goldfish, I want out immediately.
8 days...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Fish Tales
This post has nothing to do with running or beer. But in the spirit of taper madness, it has everything to do with keeping myself busy and distracted so I don't go off the deep end in the final, sparsely run upon weeks of training for Boston. This is a post about goldfish.
As I mentioned previously, I had my heart set on getting myself a goldfish with a white body and orange head and who therefore looked like me and naming it Twin. When I went to the pet store, it was determined that I could house three such fish in my new aquarium. I took the Triplets home in a plastic bag and we were happy together. And 5 days later, they were all dead.
But I had a new aquarium! And decorative gravel, and a ceramic octopus, and about a pound of goldfish food. I was determined to start again. I dreamt of coming home at night to my fishy friend, of looking at him happily splashing in his seascape and being soothed. This fish had become, in my mind, crucial to my mental health during the taper madness, and I wasn't going to let the outcome of my Boston Marathon be determined by a couple of dead bodies in my toilet. I needed a new fish.
But I can't do anything part way. Just like I'd invested in an aquarium and decorative gravel and a ceramic octopus and a pound of fish food instead of a bowl and a few flakes, I was going to find my new fish from the best fish supplier in all of Gotham City. I poured over reviews on Yelp and finally found them: Manhattan Marine Supply. Or maybe that's not their name. Manhattan Aquarium Supply? Whoever they were, they had a long-running streak of being New York Magazine's "Best of New York." They would give me fish I could sustain. The fate of my Boston Marathon was depending on it.
And so, on Monday afternoon, I started walking. Oh wait, let me explain: the Best Aquatic Life Sustaining Store of New York is in Midtown East. My office is in Chelsea. But another aspect of taper madness for me involves walking. Everywhere. It gives me something to do, both in terms of taking up the free time with which I find myself, as well as being somewhat active while not putting stress on my training-weary legs or mind. So on Monday, I started walking from Chelsea and kept going until I reached 38th Street and Second Avenue.
I walked in a found two amiable guys working. They looked like they knew about fish (whatever that looks like). I was hopeful! I poured out my sob story about the Triplets, perhaps expanding their lifespan ever so slightly (it was weeks, not days) as I recounted it, not wanting to look like the homicidal taper-er I had become. I watched as the shopkeepers' expression went from pleasant to concerned to downright disturbed. This was not going well.
"Here's the thing: I'm not gonna sell you another fish, just to... have it die, you know? I mean, morally speaking." Oh my God. I'm mortified. Oh my God. "Morally speaking?!" Oh my God, you're sending the ASPCA to my apartment aren't you?! I put on my bravest face.
"So if you could bring us a water sample, at least 20 mL, but 25 would be best, we'll go ahead and run some tests..."
Run some tests? Jesus, are these fish dying of heart disease?
I smiled and nodded. "25 mL, sure, you got it..." I trailed off, backing out of the store. The ethical implications of selling me a goldfish were too much for New York Magazine's Most Humane Aquarium Supplier in New York. My dreams of staring into the pleasantly rollicking waves of my fishy friend's home within my home, easing all my pre-marathon stress, were being... Well, washed away.
No. I trained to hard for this. I TRAINED FOR THIS FISH. I RAN MILES. HILL WORK. TRACK WORK. I WENT TO PHYSICAL THERAPY FOR THIS GOLDFISH!!! Never mind that this logic didn't even make sense to me, even in my taper addled brain. I. Needed. A. Goldfish. Immediately.
Thank God for Petco. Not only do their employees appear not to have an ethics policy, but they guarantee their fish 30 days from date of purchase. With a water sample, of course.
As I mentioned previously, I had my heart set on getting myself a goldfish with a white body and orange head and who therefore looked like me and naming it Twin. When I went to the pet store, it was determined that I could house three such fish in my new aquarium. I took the Triplets home in a plastic bag and we were happy together. And 5 days later, they were all dead.
But I had a new aquarium! And decorative gravel, and a ceramic octopus, and about a pound of goldfish food. I was determined to start again. I dreamt of coming home at night to my fishy friend, of looking at him happily splashing in his seascape and being soothed. This fish had become, in my mind, crucial to my mental health during the taper madness, and I wasn't going to let the outcome of my Boston Marathon be determined by a couple of dead bodies in my toilet. I needed a new fish.
But I can't do anything part way. Just like I'd invested in an aquarium and decorative gravel and a ceramic octopus and a pound of fish food instead of a bowl and a few flakes, I was going to find my new fish from the best fish supplier in all of Gotham City. I poured over reviews on Yelp and finally found them: Manhattan Marine Supply. Or maybe that's not their name. Manhattan Aquarium Supply? Whoever they were, they had a long-running streak of being New York Magazine's "Best of New York." They would give me fish I could sustain. The fate of my Boston Marathon was depending on it.
And so, on Monday afternoon, I started walking. Oh wait, let me explain: the Best Aquatic Life Sustaining Store of New York is in Midtown East. My office is in Chelsea. But another aspect of taper madness for me involves walking. Everywhere. It gives me something to do, both in terms of taking up the free time with which I find myself, as well as being somewhat active while not putting stress on my training-weary legs or mind. So on Monday, I started walking from Chelsea and kept going until I reached 38th Street and Second Avenue.
I walked in a found two amiable guys working. They looked like they knew about fish (whatever that looks like). I was hopeful! I poured out my sob story about the Triplets, perhaps expanding their lifespan ever so slightly (it was weeks, not days) as I recounted it, not wanting to look like the homicidal taper-er I had become. I watched as the shopkeepers' expression went from pleasant to concerned to downright disturbed. This was not going well.
"Here's the thing: I'm not gonna sell you another fish, just to... have it die, you know? I mean, morally speaking." Oh my God. I'm mortified. Oh my God. "Morally speaking?!" Oh my God, you're sending the ASPCA to my apartment aren't you?! I put on my bravest face.
"So if you could bring us a water sample, at least 20 mL, but 25 would be best, we'll go ahead and run some tests..."
Run some tests? Jesus, are these fish dying of heart disease?
I smiled and nodded. "25 mL, sure, you got it..." I trailed off, backing out of the store. The ethical implications of selling me a goldfish were too much for New York Magazine's Most Humane Aquarium Supplier in New York. My dreams of staring into the pleasantly rollicking waves of my fishy friend's home within my home, easing all my pre-marathon stress, were being... Well, washed away.
No. I trained to hard for this. I TRAINED FOR THIS FISH. I RAN MILES. HILL WORK. TRACK WORK. I WENT TO PHYSICAL THERAPY FOR THIS GOLDFISH!!! Never mind that this logic didn't even make sense to me, even in my taper addled brain. I. Needed. A. Goldfish. Immediately.
Thank God for Petco. Not only do their employees appear not to have an ethics policy, but they guarantee their fish 30 days from date of purchase. With a water sample, of course.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Monday Wrap Up: It's Hard to Look Professional With Skinned Knees
Well, the good news is that, aside from open sores and road rash that is much more painful than I could have imagined, I'm fine. So fine, in fact, that I had a great run with Jason (he, boyfriend of Nicole and orchestrator of the infamous Kara Goucher email aka best day of my life) on Sunday in Prospect Park. When I saw Jason in running clothes on Sunday morning, I was terrified. A combat veteran and finisher of the Leadville 100 miler? Why yes, we should be perfectly matched as running partners. Don't mind these injuries I sustained tripping in a pothole on the rough and tumble streets of suburban Connecticut...
Jason was, of course, nothing less than a wonderful companion (except that he made me climb up a mountain I had not previously known existed in the confines of the Park. Twice. And saved his tips on how to make tackling the 34587589 stairs to the top easier until after we'd finished them...). I did my best to play it cool and look like I belonged, timing my questions to coincide with the hills so that I'd be free to gasp for breath while Jason talked easily. I also resisted the urge to ask questions like "So, what does Kara eat for breakfast? What kind of socks does she wear? How does she get her teeth so white and her hair so shiny?" But I really wanted to.
Number of Miles Run Last Week: 46.
Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 0. It's been 3 weeks since I've had a drink. That's sick.
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: n/a
Number of Times I Tripped While Running Last Week: 2. In addition to the major fall, I also crashed into the back of another guy in the Park on Sunday. So no, I was completely unsuccessful at "playing it cool."
Number of Days Until the Boston Marathon: 14. Ho. Ly. Shit.
Jason was, of course, nothing less than a wonderful companion (except that he made me climb up a mountain I had not previously known existed in the confines of the Park. Twice. And saved his tips on how to make tackling the 34587589 stairs to the top easier until after we'd finished them...). I did my best to play it cool and look like I belonged, timing my questions to coincide with the hills so that I'd be free to gasp for breath while Jason talked easily. I also resisted the urge to ask questions like "So, what does Kara eat for breakfast? What kind of socks does she wear? How does she get her teeth so white and her hair so shiny?" But I really wanted to.
Number of Miles Run Last Week: 46.
Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 0. It's been 3 weeks since I've had a drink. That's sick.
Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: n/a
Number of Times I Tripped While Running Last Week: 2. In addition to the major fall, I also crashed into the back of another guy in the Park on Sunday. So no, I was completely unsuccessful at "playing it cool."
Number of Days Until the Boston Marathon: 14. Ho. Ly. Shit.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Season of the Fall
To be clear, I don't mean "autumn." I mean this season (enduring winter? False hope spring? What are we calling it?), during which I've fallen to the ground with enough force to cause some degree of bodily harm on three (!) occasions. The most recent of these was today, when, nearly 3 and a half miles into a planned 15-miler, my foot found a pothole and my body found the blacktop. Casualties of this massacre include the skin on both palms, one knee, and one thigh, as well as one manicure.
This time around, I was running alone on a residential and seldom trafficked road in Connecticut. I saw the pothole, clear as day, but perhaps misjudged how much clearance to give myself. Or perhaps am so unbelievably wound up with anxiety I'm going to attribute to the taper or loss of my fish or both that I was too distracted to react. Anyway, I went from fully upright to skidding on my thigh across the asphalt faster than I could process what happened. An elderly man in an old diesel Mercedes, the first car I'd seen in ages, happened upon this scene just as it was/I was going down (and probably got quite a show, as I fell face first going uphill while wearing short shorts and he came upon me from behind. Which is what she said...) and stopped to kindly check on me just as I was brushing myself off. "Oh yes, I'm fine. Thank you for stopping." He pulled away and I promptly began crying. Hard.
For a few seconds, I didn't know what to do. I was alone and bleeding and far from... Anything. But as I brought my hands up to my face to survey the damage, I remembered I was holding a water bottle. A few squirts and one soggy sock later, I was at least not totally covered in tar. With no other plan, and between gasps and muffled sobs and general acts of self-pity, I started running again. Dirty and bloody and teary-eyed, but with no serious injuries, I dragged my sorry self through 11 more hilly miles, all the while thinking "at this rate, I'll be dead before Boston." And "well at least I have something to blog about."
Crying doesn't mean you aren't tough. Quite the contrary, pressing on when you're crying is the toughest thing you can do.
Wipes away a tear while picking gravel out of her thigh.
This time around, I was running alone on a residential and seldom trafficked road in Connecticut. I saw the pothole, clear as day, but perhaps misjudged how much clearance to give myself. Or perhaps am so unbelievably wound up with anxiety I'm going to attribute to the taper or loss of my fish or both that I was too distracted to react. Anyway, I went from fully upright to skidding on my thigh across the asphalt faster than I could process what happened. An elderly man in an old diesel Mercedes, the first car I'd seen in ages, happened upon this scene just as it was/I was going down (and probably got quite a show, as I fell face first going uphill while wearing short shorts and he came upon me from behind. Which is what she said...) and stopped to kindly check on me just as I was brushing myself off. "Oh yes, I'm fine. Thank you for stopping." He pulled away and I promptly began crying. Hard.
For a few seconds, I didn't know what to do. I was alone and bleeding and far from... Anything. But as I brought my hands up to my face to survey the damage, I remembered I was holding a water bottle. A few squirts and one soggy sock later, I was at least not totally covered in tar. With no other plan, and between gasps and muffled sobs and general acts of self-pity, I started running again. Dirty and bloody and teary-eyed, but with no serious injuries, I dragged my sorry self through 11 more hilly miles, all the while thinking "at this rate, I'll be dead before Boston." And "well at least I have something to blog about."
Crying doesn't mean you aren't tough. Quite the contrary, pressing on when you're crying is the toughest thing you can do.
Wipes away a tear while picking gravel out of her thigh.
Friday, April 1, 2011
I Don't Do False Modesty, Part 2
It was probably snowing on March First. Which means here on April First, things aren't all that different (Dear Winter, DIE. Love, Claire). Most things haven't changed much for me since the start of last month: I still live in Brooklyn and am insufficiently hip for it; I still have no pets (though for 6 days in March, I did. But I'm back to none to kick off April. Ahh, the circle of life); I still can't finish the crossword puzzle on Wednesdays. So really, the only thing that's any different is that my legs have 227 more miles on them.
Boom. 227. Miles. That I ran. With my legs. March surpassed my previous high mileage month (August 2010) by 45 miles. Either I somehow added another week to the calendar this month, or I'm awesome (hint: it's the latter). Better still, my mileage in August built up to my PR and BQ at the Wineglass Marathon. At the rate I'm going, I'll probably go sub 3 hours in Boston (read: I will definitely not go sub 3 hours in Boston). Hell, in 227 miles, I could have run to Boston!
Addendum (and I swear I am not making this up): My horoscope today, courtesy of the New York Post, is:
Boom. 227. Miles. That I ran. With my legs. March surpassed my previous high mileage month (August 2010) by 45 miles. Either I somehow added another week to the calendar this month, or I'm awesome (hint: it's the latter). Better still, my mileage in August built up to my PR and BQ at the Wineglass Marathon. At the rate I'm going, I'll probably go sub 3 hours in Boston (read: I will definitely not go sub 3 hours in Boston). Hell, in 227 miles, I could have run to Boston!
You know I love doing those MS Paint jobs. Hey, there's my pal Cate running to Boston with me!
Addendum (and I swear I am not making this up): My horoscope today, courtesy of the New York Post, is:
"You don't lack for confidence, but there is danger that you might start believing that nothing is beyong you, which could lead to you taking too many risks. Everyone has limits, even an Aquarius. Make sure you know what yours are."
Damnit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
