Upcoming Awesomesauce

I wanted to take a moment to tell you how much better my life is than yours. Here is a list of reason, which is by no means exhaustive, which means my life is better than yours for these plus more reasons:

1) Tomorrow I'm going up to Cooperstown to celebrate America, drink beers at Ommegang, eat Klondike bars, run in clean Adirondack-y air, and commemorate the 2 year anniversary of this here blog. My gal pals and I make this pilgrimage at least once every summer and have a great weekend with Nina's fam, who very generously open up their home to us savages. This year, my parents are coming. So basically, it'll be the same awesome fun with friends as usual, except I won't even have to pay for my own food and beer. That's how family vacations work even as an adult, right?

2) I booked my flights for the San Francisco Marathon at the end of July. SF resident and fellow trouble maker Megan has recommended I look into going to the Sierra Nevada Brewery. Which sounds like an ideal pre-marathon plan. "Why not save the drinking for after the race, Claire?" You idiot; after the race I'll be drinking California wine and engaged in grueling hikes among tall trees in unfamiliar forests on depleted legs. If anyone needs tips for planning their next marathon, I'm obviously your gal.

3) And speaking of next marathons, I registered for mine! Or, my next, after this next one. So my next next. Whatever. Number 12: Smuttynose Rockfest in Hampton, NH, on October 2nd. It's meant to be flat and fast, which is what every marathon (except San Francisco, I suppose) is selling themselves as these days. But apparently is one really is. And it's sponsored by... Wait for it... A brewery! Yes, it does indeed take unwavering determination to involve beer so heavily into all of my race plans.

4) And speaking of unwavering determination:


Nah, not the crossing the finish line part. It takes unwavering determination to grow a beard that awesome! Look how luscious and robust it is! And my life is great because I have unrestricted access to it (except when IMan says "it's really annoying when you dig your fingers into my beard; please stop it." He mostly says that when he's trying to sleep. God IMan, don't be so selfish). Does your boyfriend have a robust beard? No he doesn't. I know because I was with him last night - heyo!

In summation, I am vastly superior to you. I bring that up because we're heading into the Independence Day weekend (my office is closed tomorrow - yet another reason my life is better). And in the spirit of Patriotism and the freedom to live your American lives however you so choose, I wanted to take the opportunity to point out you should have made better choices. Such as, the choices I made.

Happy Independence Day, kids. Have a running and beer filled, safe holiday weekend!

Health, and Wealth: Victory Golden Monkey Brew Review

For breakfast on Tuesday morning, I had some cereal, yogurt, a banana, and a spoonful of peanut butter, mixed up into a gross looking but delectable breakfast bowl. Fiber, calcium, protein, and fat: it was the perfect, healthy start to my day.

I spent the next 10 hours eating nothing but Raisinets and Swedish Fish (don't tell Four).

I came home from work and ate cheese and crackers for dinner.

I washed that all down with a Victory Golden Monkey, a tripel that clocks in at 9.5% ABV.








Golden Monkey has a strong, cut grass, sour aroma to it. It poured golden (shocking...), but without the creamy head tripels are known for. Though maybe its head just dissipated quickly and I was distracted by whipping up cheese and crackers...

It was quite bitter, with a fruity hoppiness to it. Spicy, with a little banana, which is not my favorite characteristic in a beer.

Also, it cost $17.94 for a six pack, which is also not my favorite quality in a beer.






That's $2.99 a bottle.

The big beer flavor was sort of a lot to take in on a hot, sticky night, but I think that's more a characteristic of tripels in general than the Golden Monkey in particular. I'd save this one for late summer, when you can sit outside in the breeze and enjoy it, not stand have to stand in your underwear directly in front of the air conditioner. Be careful with that 9.5% ABV though. Tripels are deceiving like that. Says the girl who had to get up to run hills at 6:00am today...

Monday Wrap Up: Proud on Many Levels

Dear New York State,

Thank you, and happy Pride!

With love,
A New Yorker for Marriage Equality

Pride on Sunday was awesome and exciting and the perfect capstone to a great weekend. I've never seen so many people who were as genuinely happy for one another in my life: marchers, spectators, cops, and random tourists on the streets. The enthusiasm and joy was infectious. Pride is a wonderful thing in any context, and this year's LGBT Pride March was extra special. I was proud to participate.

But first, I had to get there. And 13.1 hilly miles (and traffic on 95. And locking my keys in the car. And MetroNorth) stood between me and Fifth Avenue on Sunday.

This year, a whole slew of running buddies were coming up to Connecticut for the Fairfield Half Marathon, a notorious (by my standards) hilly and humid beast of a course. Among them was Cate, who was making her half marathon debut (I left out the "hilly and humid beast" part when I was selling her on it back in March). So I decided to host a pre-race slumber party at my parents' place in Connecticut, so we'd have an easy trip to the start early on Sunday morning. Cate arrived mid-afternoon, and she, IMan, and I headed to the grocery store to pick-up some pre-race provisions: pasta, peanut butter, bananas, and beer. Such a runner's grocery list...

The rest of the Runner Army (Sharon, Elyssa, Sam, and Josh) arrived around 6:30 and I got to work cooking up a pasta feast. And those ungrateful bitches criticized me the whole time I was slaving over the hot stove.

So I spit in their dinners.

Just kidding!

OR AM I?

We ended up enjoying some salad (thanks Cate), spaghetti and meatballs, strawberries, and cookies (and beers) while we talked briefly about races and mostly about times we had almost shat ourselves, and made fun of people. Nothing too rowdy happened (we didn't even prank call teachers, which was a favorite pastime in high school. Oh. Uhh. What I meant to say was, in high school I was really cool and was what Taylor Momsen tries to be...) and we all went to sleep. Or tried to, while the neighbors launched fireworks for many hours.

We woke up Sunday morning and got the coffee brewing, the toaster toasting, and the toilet flushing. We hopped in the cars about 7:15 and headed up to Fairfield. I did not almost rear end IMan on the way and give my passengers whiplash.

The line for the shuttles to the start was long, but went quickly, and soon enough we were at the beach, checking our gear and collecting our bibs. Cate took a last minute trip to the Porta Potties, and we set out for the women's start (we joined the men at the 1 mile mark). Cate was looking and feeling good and didn't seem nervous at all. Even with all the self-defecation stories the night before.

The first mile was very crowded, and Cate was a bit worried that we clocked the first mile at 9 minutes and change. "How do you ever PR if you lose so much time getting by people in the beginning?" Patience, grasshopper. Actually, I think what I actually said was "Shut up and leave the pacing to me; if you are going to ask for the pace every 30 seconds, I'm not running with you." Cate was happy to defer to me though, and I placated her by telling her by the end, we'd be picking tons of people off on the downhills.

Somewhere in the third mile, there's a big incline that knocks out a lot of people every year. I don't know if the woman behind me was intimidated by it, or just focused on looking uphill to get over it, but she tripped and fell to the ground, grabbing my calves as she went down. I managed to stay upright, and she managed to not knock her teeth out, which was sort of miraculous. She was really apologetic, and unharmed, so it was fine, but a little scary.

Once we had a few miles under our belts, I let Cate in on the secret: this course is sort of... shitty. Not all finish times are created equal, and today, with the hills and the humidity, we needed to be a little conservative. Cate agreed and decided she'd be happy with a 1:55.

Conservative, shmonservatie; Cate was busy charging uphills like this was just a regular stroll and not her first half marathon. She wasn't at all daunted by the inclines, and did no whining whatsoever. I cannot say the same for myself. It was hot and I was thirsty. Also, the hills are really beasts. We saw Sharon somewhere around mile 4 as Cate was charging up yet another hill and I said to her, "Cate's such a little bitch." Sorry friend - I didn't mean it!

Thankfully, this year I did a better job at remembering where these hills were (fifth time's a charm!), so I was able to help Cate know what to expect. Either she found this helpful, or was annoyed but too polite to tell me so.

I took a look at where we were, pace-wise, with 6 miles to go and figured we might hit the low 1:50s with some smart pacing for the rest of the race. I did not share this with Cate for fear she'd interpret it as "start sprinting now." Not that she isn't a highly skilled runner, or that she wouldn't be able to sprint for 6 miles (in fact, I worried she could, and would end up smoking me), but the adrenaline of a first race is hard to tamp down, and we'd settled on 1:55. I was determined to help get us there in one, non self defecating piece.

With three miles to go and the worst of the hills behind us (okay, maybe 1 bad one left... It's hard to keep track when there were so many), I told Cate we were ahead of 1:55 pace. I could tell she had a lot in her legs, and told her she should take off if she wanted, but I was going to stay where I was. She decided to stick with me, and we pressed on.

With 2 miles to go, Cate said she felt like she was slowing down. "Do you want to ease up?" I asked. "No." A woman with determination! We headed down a big downhill and were picking people off by the fistful. "Doesn't this feel great?!! We're passing so many people now! You look great!" Cate let out some grunts I interpreted as "Fuck your enthusiasm, you devil woman; why did you make me run this?"

With a mile to go, Cate told me she couldn't feel her legs. She was lying, of course; we'd just put back two of our fastest miles, and she showed no signs of slowing. She told me to give her a countdown at half a mile to the finish. As we made our way back to the beach, Cate still showed no signs of letting up, and we started a kick at a half mile to go. Just before the finish, the course narrows into a little bottleneck, and I urged Cate to take the lead. She sped up even more, and crossed the finish line in an impressive 1:50:28. Beaming with pride and happiness for my friend, the half marathoner, I crossed just behind Cate in 1:50:35.

And about that whole "Fuck your enthusiasm, you devil woman; why did you make me run this?" Cate texted me last night as she looked online for her next half marathon.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 33. After the half, I headed back to the city (such a bitch of a journey - the one dark mark on my weekend), ran down Fifth Ave (literally), and met my friends at 17th Street to finish up the Pride March with them. Can I add those 1.5-ish miles to the weekly total?

Also, instead of a Saturday race, IMan and I ate ice cream, tried on shoes (I wanted to like the New Balance Minimus Road, but I just didn't; the felt like they were forcing me to roll my feet in, though in hindsight, that might help with my cracked and blistered left foot. Maybe I should revisit them...), went to the aquarium, and saw this:



It was amazing and if you don't love baby animals and Morgan Freeman, you are a plague on this great nation.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 12.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: I drank a lot of Shock Tops, randomly. Joe's coriander wittier was better, for the record. Also, my Dad stocked their house with beers for the slumber party Saturday night, I guess because he expects all runners to have the same pre-race routine as me (which is: drink. A lot). From his stockpile, I had a Cisco Brewery Sankaty Light, which was good, but I think I prefer their Whale's Tail Pale Ale (introduced to me by my smallest friend, Caroline!). And I had a Kingfisher, because went to Spice Market after Pride.

This was a really, really great weekend. I'm proud of New York, I'm proud of Cate, and of all the Fairfield Half racers, I'm proud of IMan and me for actually accomplishing things from our Summer of Fun list, and I'm proud of my short shorts, which I obviously left on for Pride. I wish I could relive this weekend for the rest of my life. After all, every life needs more parades. And more movies featuring baby animals. And more ice cream. Definitely more ice cream.

Ask 3:59:59. Bitches

Every month, Runner's World hosts a column titled "Ask Miles." Runners write in to ask Miles - who, it is said, has "been around the block a few times" - various questions about running, racing, and etiquette related to our sport. Usually the questions are dumb and obvious - "Dear Miles, Is it considered poor form to blow my snot rocket onto the baby in the jogging stroller going by?" But I think I could really bring life to a column like this. I think Runner's World should be paying me to address these answers. After all, I too have been around the block a few times... (I meant to imply that I'm promiscuous, but I realize that earlier this week, I literally ran around the block a few times because I was a couple minutes short of a full hour. So I'm not slutty, I'm just a dork).

To prove my worth, here is a sample column for "Ask 3:59:59. Bitches:"

Dear 3:59:59. Bitches,
What say you about people who speed up right as you are approaching to pass? Annoying douche bags, or just sharpening their competitive edge?
Love,
Potential Passer in Pasendena

Dear Passer,
I say those dudes - and they are almost always dudes - have teeny, tiny penises. Why else would they feel the need to engage in this useless act of faux machismo?

To me, this is a cardinal rule of running etiquette; if you are going to be passed and aren't in a race, let it happen. Don't be a dick and force the would-be passer to adjust their pace just because you don't want to be shamed; you have no business messing up someone else's workout to spare your ego. Instead, say "good morning!" or "nice job!" or "you have a lovely ass and I'd like to grope it." You can always catch up again later, but to speed up to avoid being someone else's roadkill is lame. If you're going to be a flagrant asshat, you might as well just become a biker. ZING! New York City bikers are total dicks, amirite?

Anyway Passer, here is how I suggest you deal with them, based on what I did this very morning. Let me paint a picture...

I entered the Park almost in stride with a fellow who was already running the loop. As he was already mid-run, whereas I was just beginning, I ceded the right of way to him and tucked in behind (that's what he said) to get in the inside lane, out of his way. After a few minutes, it became clear that I was running at a slightly quicker clip, so I inched up beside him to make my move. He looked over his shoulder at me and then sped up.

Well fine. If you'll maintain your pace and stay out of my way up there, good sir, then we'll be just fine. Except he couldn't, and for another 2 miles, the patterned continued: I caught up to him, he sped ahead for 15 yards, then couldn't maintain his pace and so I caught up to him again.

Perhaps at this point you're thinking, well maybe he was running fartleks, and you just so happened to catch him right at the moment he was starting his speed play. To that I say: I love me a good fartlek, but if it were me, I would adjust my bursts so as not to interfere with those around me.

In any case, Passer, so far this has been all about me, which doesn't make for a very good write-in advice column, so let me get down to the point: after no fewer than four instances of this, plus one time where I saw him ahead of me do it to a woman running in conservative religious garb, I caught up to him and said "that's really rude." Of course I would never have done it if he hadn't been wearing headphones, because I hate confrontation. But it made me feel better.

Anyway, I continued biding my time, knowing I'd smoke him once and for all because I was clearly way more awesome. As we approached the big hill, I caught him again, and he tried to burst ahead on the incline. Except he a) couldn't last on the straightaways, so this obviously wasn't going to work out for him, and b) I have been KILLING it on that hill lately. So I too burst up the hill, only I kept going, listening to his breathing get harder and harder and watching his form get sloppier and sloppier until he fell off the back. But I didn't relish this quiet victory immediately; I kept on powering up that hill, to further underscore how he had no business trying to stave of the pass, as I was obviously so superior, and couldn't he tell that by looking at my awesome ass? After I took the lead, never saw him again.

So, Passer, to address your question, those people are indeed annoying douche bags. I recommend you chip away at their already low self-esteem by blowing by them, and then publicly shaming them on the Internet.

With love,
3:59:59. Bitches.

Act As If, Part IV: Relapse

I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes I love mini crab cakes

Hmm, we appear to be backsliding...

Still, it's 5:50am, and I am awake and drinking coffee. And years of morning workouts have taught me thats the biggest hurdle to overcome. Sangria and hors d'oeuvres be damned.

I'm really going to need the Good Morning Guys out there this morning...

Act As If, Part 3: The Results Show

Well, I did it. The first 35 minutes were pretty good, actually; I ran the perimeter of Prospect Park instead of the park drives, and I think the change of scene was a good thing for me.

The next 5 minutes were decent. I was more than halfway done with my planned run as I entered the park.

The following 10 minutes were not particularly enjoyable. The humidity was ramping up, and I didn’t see any turtles.

The next 10 minutes were brightened by the “Good Morning Guys,” two older men who can be found jogging in Prospect Park most mornings, and who say “Good morning!” with a big two handed wave to every single person they see. It’s sort of awesome. They happened to catch me right on my way up Nellie’s Hill as they were coming down, which was good timing. Also, I sort of smoked the hill this morning, for reasons that escape me.

Then the last 5 minutes were fine because a) I saw a dog, b) they were downhill, and c) they were the last 5 minutes.

I didn’t bring Carl the Garmin this morning, and instead wore a plain old digital watch with a timer. I left myself more than half an hour to get up, get ready (though not to get dressed, since I really did sleep in my running clothes), get coffee, and get motivated. All things that helped me get out the door this morning. I hope to repeat the process again tomorrow. Though perhaps the dinner of mini crab cakes and sangria will be a handicap. Yet another reason my retirement would contribute to better running mojo. Stupid work cocktail functions...

Act As If, Part II

I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running I love running

Am I convincing?

It's 5:45am and I'm choking down some coffee before hitting the roads. I have a good feeling about this. Even if I did have to sleep in my running clothes last night...

Furthermore, according to the NY Post, bastion of journalistic integrity and fortune telling:

You will start something new today and it will be a huge success. However, as the Sun moves into the wellbeing area of your chart you must pace yourself carefully. Nothing is more important than your health.

I must pace myself carefully! This is OBVIOUSLY addressing my running funk. There is no other possible interpretation, and I am sure that every other Aquarius out there must also be grappling with a running funk, as it is so clear that my horoscope speaks to this issue.*

Stay tuned.

*Related (sorta): IMan's dad is into astronomy. Before I met him, I suggested to IMan that perhaps a good icebreaker would be for me to ask him about my horoscope. IMan was not amused.

Monday Wrap Up: Race Week. Again.

For those of you keeping score at home, this is the 7th "race week" of the year. That's about six too many to begin with, and I have two races this week. For anyone who suggested "add a fun race to your calendar so you have something to look forward to!" as a solution to my running rut, you can choke on a bag of dicks package of Gu. But, like, a really gross flavored one.

In all seriousness, I'm actually perking up a bit on the running front, having had a great group run Saturday and a pleasant solo run yesterday afternoon. I'm trying to ease up a little on the infatuation with/reliance on gadgetry and just run for time, not pace or distance. Or so I say, until I get on the course at Fairfield on Sunday with Cate "I've been training diligently even with a broken eyeball" French, who has no intention of phoning it in and is actually going to make me work for 13.1 miles which just so happen to be straight uphill. Cate, I'm in a precarious mental health state right now with respect to running; go easy on me.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 32. I simply refused to run on Friday. The problem is, that made me feel worse, not better. And when you neither take pleasure in running nor take pleasure in not running, you're sort of screwed. As I said, though, things picked up for me, mentally, over the weekend, and I managed not only a long run, but a really nice exploratory Sunday afternoon run in the 'burbs. I cruised around the 'hood near my parents house and only looked at my Garmin to see how much time I had before I had to shower for Father's Day dinner (my gift to my Dad. The shower, I mean). I think maybe running at an "off-hour" (for me) helped. Now if only I could retire and be available to run at 4:00pm every day...

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: Oh I don't know. A few. I drank sangria, wine, and vodka this week, for God's sake. Told you I've been in a funk.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: After some goading, Rich convinced me to try Blue Point Summer Ale on Saturday night. I told him I dislike Blue Point Toasted Lager, but he swore to me the Summer Ale was good. He also said "it doesn't taste anything a summer seasonal," which was true. It tasted like a watery version of Bud Light. I got sad typing that.

Enough with this pity party, I say! It's (miraculously) not 40 billion degrees with 97,000% humidity this week, and I'll be damned if I don't take advantage. These should be the kinds of running days I live for! And as Mr. Tolve taught us in middle school gym, Act As If (I expect to get no fewer than a dozen emails shamelessly mocking me for conjuring that line, but desperate times call for desperate measures); if I don't actually feel like I can't wait to bound out of bed, lace up ye olde Sauconys, and pound the pavement for an hour, I'll just have to act like I do. So I'm returning to my early rising roots. Come hell or high water, I'll be in Prospect Park tomorrow morning. Keep an eye out for the tall girl in short shorts, possibly crying. It'll be a blast!

Super Saturday

Well the good news is, for at least today, my running mojo returned! Could be thanks to the 3 beers I had mid-run today. But whatever the remedy, I was happy to knock out 14 miles total today, including a sweet spin through Central Park with Maria, Steph, Sam, Erin, and Abbe; an awesome (if hot) cruise down the Hudson with a great crew in honor of Baker's dad; and a 4 mile run home, which was accomplished thanks to the aforementioned 3 beers. And a cheeseburger. And I may have blacked out for the second of the four miles.

Lots of the tips you offered to combat my running rut revolved around changing up my routine; I almost always run solo, so I think making plans to meet up with the crew today really helped break me out of the mundane, plodding, solo runs I've been racking up of late. FYI to those who very kindly offered to help me break out of my funk: I'm much more likely to make these plans when there is beer at the finish.

I'm any case, all of this was wonderful and made me remember why I love running. But it also made me remember why SPF was invented:

To be clear, I'm not wearing a white sports bra in the photo above. Ow. I'm scared I'm going to go home for Fathers' Day tomorrow and get scolded... Sorry, Mom.

What the Funk?

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm in a rut. It's not that I'm not getting the miles in - I am. It's not that I don't have anything to train for - I do. It's not that my performance has plateaued - it hasn't (though apparently I told IMan my 46:26 10k PR last weekend was a 42:26 10k. I'm not seeing improvements quite that large...). It's not that I don't enjoy running - I do. But it's the getting myself to start running every day that has become the sticking point. I'm just not feeling super motivated.

In all fairness, this hasn't even been going on that long - maybe two weeks, max. But to me, as someone who loves running and (used to?) bound out of bed in the morning to log miles, two weeks of hitting the the snooze alarm and dreading my run all day until I finally drag myself out after work feels like an eternity.

Maybe I didn't give myself enough time after Boston to just be; San Francisco training technically started two weeks before Boston training ended. With no time goal for San Fran, I've tried to be more laid back about training and not adhere so stringently to The Plan. But I now find myself 16 weeks from October, aka Prime Fall Marathon season. If I'm chasing another PR, then its time to get back on The Plan. But I'd rather just get back on The Cheese Fries or The Mid-Week Bender.

All that is to say, I need to get back to running because I love running, not because I'm obligated to run. I miss being excited and grateful to run. Any tips you might have (insert "just the tip" reference here) to that effect are much appreciated. In the meantime, I'll stick to reading "Once a Runner" on the subway and underlining meaningful passages and those which really speak to me, as a runner. This process actually has been motivating. Until I remember that the protagonist is a 4 minute miler, and "relating" to him is the most self-indulgent thing I've done in awhile. Well, besides washing down a plate of cheese fries with a cold pint, I mean.

Monday Wrap Up: Mini 10k, Maxi Beer Consumption

For starters, and in the interest of transparency, "maxi beer consumption" is a somewhat misleading representation of last week, since I didn't have any beers at all until Saturday. But once I got started, I more than made up for it, believe me. But first, the Mini 10k:

I didn't go dry all week because of the race on Saturday; but by the time Thursday night rolled around and I realized I hadn't had any beers yet, I figured "what the hell; I might as well keep it up." I literally had no other advantages going into this race, was still doing the Mummy walk from Wednesday's strength session, and couldn't actually recall a time I had ever raced a 10k, let alone developed a race strategy for one. And there was the little manner of crotchal paralysis after Friday's bikini wax.

So I woke up sober on Saturday morning to the sound of rain and sort of hoped the race would be cancelled. No such luck. I put on my race day gear, packed a few Gus for my planned run home, and hopped on the subway up to Central Park.

I arrived before the corrals were even open (poor planning on my part, since I wasn't checking any gear and had no reason to be there so early) but the lines for the bathrooms were already dozens of women long. This surprised me, since I figured most ladies in the women-only field would prefer to take care of business in the privacy of their own homes and not in public bathrooms in Central Park surrounded by hobos washing up in the toilets. I decided I didn't have to pee that badly, and what was 6.2 miles to hold it, so I headed over to the corrals as they opened.

I was in the Blue corral for the first time ever. Of course, this is because this was a women-only race and not because I'm suddenly super fast and bad ass and deserving to be in the first corral. But while I wasn't planning on really racing, I also didn't want to waste the (only) opportunity to start in the front of the pack. Well, maybe I'll just start fast and then ease off...

After some remarks, including a nice few words from Jack Weitz, who thanked New York for our support of his late wife Grete, to whom the race was dedicated, we were off and making our way up Central Park West. Because the race started outside of the Park, on a road I'd never run (except drunk during the first beer run, sprinting in the other direction), the first mile seemed sort of interminable. 6.2 miles seemed like 62 miles at that point. Mile 1: 7:17. How the hell were the elite women gaining so much ground when I was essentially sprinting? Bitches.

As we turned into Central Park, I spied Neal volunteering on the course, which gave me a good boost. I cruised through the early stretch in the Park, knowing I had a bit of time before the ugly hills hit. The one annoyance during this mile was the chick who decided to wear a charm bracelet on the same arm as her Garmin during a race. Not only did I have to listen to the bracelet slap against the plastic of her Garmin, but every single time they bumped, the touch-sensitive face of the Garmin beeped. I don't mean to be all anti women in sports, especially not in a race dedicated to someone who paved the way for the rest of us girls to get into distance running, but did you really need to assert your femininity by wearing jewelry during a race? I hate you. And for the record, I passed you eventually. Anyway, mile 2: 7:11.

As we got further north, we started climbing. Because I usually run Central Park in the other direction, I was not looking forward to tackling an unfamiliar beast. But the first climb, up to the top of the Harlem Hill, actually didn't seem too long or arduous. Mile 3: 7:15.

Mother effing balls. The climb up along the hockey rink/swimming pool was the worst. I don't want to talk about it. All I could think of was "Get me to the Engineer's Gate and I'll probably live through this. Possibly." Mile 4: 7:46 (shiiiiiit. Also, it took until 90th Street for me to pass Mrs. David Yurman and her jangly jewels. Miserable miles).

It was starting to hurt now, and I really did have to pee. I took some comfort in the fact that we got to take Cat Hill going down, and tried to pretend this was the end of the New York City Marathon. Then I remembered that I wanted to poop as soon as we entered the Park at the end of the New York City Marathon, so that wasn't the most helpful mindset to channel. Mostly I just tried to hold on, figuring I could pretty reliably finish with a sub-8:00 overall pace. Unless I pooped myself. Mile 5: 7:20.

Now I was somewhat concerned I was going to throw up, which I wasn't that interested in doing since I didn't even care all that much about how I did in this race to begin with. The humidity was kicking my ass, and at one point I choked on some water and nearly did puke on a girl nearby, while simultaneously nearly losing control of my bladder. I swear, between the pre-race bikini wax and the urgent need to pee, my junk has never been more of a racing focal point. I did my best to maintain my speed, but knew if I wanted to maintain my toast, and my ability to live without Depends as well, I wouldn't have much of a finishing kick. Mile 6: 7:28.

As I came into the last half mile, I tossed my handheld water bottle and launched myself up the last little hill to the finish, all the while trying to hold back barf. I was called out of my anti-puking trance by Neal, who shouted my name from his spot a quarter mile from the mile. I risked vomit to give him a little greeting:




And just like that, I was done. Last .29 (because I can't run tangents) at a 7:15 pace, for an overall finish time of 46:26, average pace of 7:23. Good for a PR. Obviously my speed was the result of my post-bikini wax aerodynamics.

Unfortunately, I didn't think about my finishers medal when I planned to run home. I also didn't plan for shredding the soles of my feet open. I first ruptured a massive blister on my left foot at Boston, and it's been sort of aggravated ever since. I split it open again on Saturday, and really hobbled around after the race. The combination of a bad foot, a heavy metal, impending rain, and a personal desire to get drunk meant I bagged my planned run home and settled for a subway trip instead.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 36. I never did make up those miles from Saturday. IMan and I headed out for a run on Sunday morning (it began with him mooning me, which I take as a sign that perhaps we are meant for each other after all), but after approximately 2 miles, I said "maybe let's not do all 10." We made it for almost 6, the last mile of which was fueled entirely by thinking about what we were going to have on our bagels when we were done. I've been trying to stick to 5 days a week, with one long(ish...), as we head into the San Fran marathon next month. I had thought maybe I'd just stick with my Training Peaks plan that I used for Wineglass and Boston, but burnout seemed eminent. I'm hopefully that I'll have a fun race in Cali and come out of it feeling ready to work hard for a Fall race. And PR attempt? More on that later this week...

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: After the race, things got interesting. I headed home to shower and get some things together, then made my way to Biergarten at the Standard Hotel to celebrate Leslie's birthday. I'd never been before, mostly because I can't bring myself to go places with long lines, but apparently pouring rain dissuaded some people (though not too many - the place was packed by the time I left) from going out day drinking, so we went right in. And drank. Aggressively. 4 or 5 beers there, 1 on the train to Stamford (so unnecessary... I think I drunk dialed my dad), another 4 or 5 when I got to IMan's, and then part of a margarita, which I declined to finish on Saturday night, but accidentally mistook for water on Sunday morning. Fatal error. Anyway, 10-ish. In 1 day. Winning!

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Biergarten serves light (pils), medium/wheat (weisse), and dark/black (schwarzbier). Naturally, I sampled them all. The weisse was not my thing - a little too much of that fruity/yeasty character. The pils had very little character, but was also very drinkable. But the schwarzbier was great - a great, rich, coffee and chocolate flavor, really balanced but not too full-bodied. A great accompaniment to sort of dreary weather.

After I was suitably drunk on good beer (thank you, Colin), I switched to Bud Light. Think of it as the American version of the Standard's pils.

My exploits this weekend have left me dog tired, and also my pint glass is empty (I can't go two weeks in a row without drinking until Saturday), so I'm off to drink beers in my pajamas. I have a hard life.

Happy Monday. Only 4 more wake ups!

Making Bad Decisions, So You Don't Have To!

Subtitle: Another Blog Post About My Vagina

Here at Will Run For Beer, we do everything with you, the reader, in mind. We (I'm using the royal we, since it's actually just me, with a 6 pack and my sneakers, in my apartment) taste questionable beers so you don't have to assault your taste buds (see: Abita Strawberry Harvest). We drink heavily the night before a race so you don't have to worry about the possibility of self-defecation (see: Country Music Half Marathon). We go to physical therapy so you don't have to enter into an S&M relationship (but if you'd like to anyway, rock on with your bad self. We at Will Run For Beer are sex-positive). So tonight, we took on yet another risky experiment so you don't have to. We (and this time I'm using "we" to refer to my genitals and I) scheduled a Brazilian bikini wax. The night before a 10k race. And an additional 13 planned miles.

For those who've not had a Brazilian bikini wax before, suffice it to say it's not necessarily something you'd want to do immediately before any planned activities besides holding an icepack on your hooha and drinking heavily to ease the pain. I can't imagine any physical activity alone, not to mention the chafing and swamp ass that comes with running 19 miles, is going to make for a very pleasant Saturday morning for me. But it is, after all, the Pants Free Summer, and I'm committed to doing right by the short shorts. And yes, I mean short enough to necessitate a bikini wax. Even if it means my squish mitten is non functioning by tomorrow night. (Sorry, IMan) (Just kidding, Mom and Dad) (This isn't really me, Boss) (Here is a tissue, Baby Jesus)

I think this waxing establishment also sells some kind of anti-lumpy ass cream or something. So even if this turns out to be the worst race and long run of my life, I'll be well on my way to looking my best.

Update: Also, I just ate a bowl of cereal with spoiled milk. So this is going to be the best race ever!

Pants-Free Summer

Heat Advisory, day 2: I decided I'd wait until it cooled down after work to take a really easy leg-loosener of a run today. Unfortunately, by late afternoon I was confronted with this death knell for the evening run:

FREQUENT CLOUD TO GROUND LIGHTNING... HAIL UP TO NICKEL SIZE... AND GUSTY WINDS UP TO 50 MPH ARE EXPECTED. IN ADDITION... VERY HEAVY RAIN... WITH RAINFALL RATES OF UP TO ONE INCH AN HOUR... IS OCCURRING WITH THESE STORMS.

As is Weather.com's bailiwick, this was followed by a warning that "lightening is nature's number one killer," which can't possibly be true. Everyone knows zombies are number one.

Eager to log some easy miles anyway, I decided I'd once more return to the gym, where haven't been since the last snow. I was amazed at how empty the place was tonight, especially compared with how jam packed it was in the winter months. Either New Year's Resolutions fell by the wayside, or the denizens of Park Slope discovered crystal meth keeps you skinny and energized. Like exercise, but with open flesh wounds and half as many teeth as you should have! In any case, I hopped on a 'mill and got down to it, setting my sights on a relaxed hourlong run.

After 25 minutes, and with the Yankees on a rain delay, I was bored to tears. I decided to mix up my workout a bit, and threw in some quarter-mile pick ups. Look at me, so casually throwing in some light speed work! The first one felt great; quarter miles are a cake walk compared to 800s, I thought. After a quarter mile recovery, I picked it up again. And suffered.

Quarter miles are not easy, I thought, remembering I haven't seen a track since March, and had never even done quarter-mile repeats before. But since I'd already decided this was how I was going to break up my next four miles, and anything is better than 800s, I figured I might as well dig in. Maybe I could use this time productively and check out my form.

I glanced to the mirror next to me to check out my stride length and whether or not my upper back was tensed and nearly fell off the treadmill.

Was. That. CELLULITE?

No, it can't be. I looked away. Must be a weird angle. Bad lighting. Something.

I looked back. Oh God. Sure enough, I spied it. Impossible. The fronts of my legs were so toned and so... marathony. And yet, I could have sworn I was looking at Mischa Barton from behind. My legs were like a mullet: all business in the front, all beer-swilling, cheese-fry loving party in the back. How did this happen? And more importantly, what did this mean for my newfound love of short shorts? Have I had body dysmorphic disorder this whole time and been thinking I look way better than I do?!

Well yes, frankly, but short shorts give me great joy, so I'm willing to tolerate the fact that I don't quite look like Shalane Flanagan in them. But that's not to say there isn't room for improvement. If this is indeed to be a pants-free summer, when only the shortest shorts will do, I must honor and respect that, and fight tooth and nail and ass cheek to look my best in them (not just to me, since clearly I already think I look my best, which is the crux of this problem). Which brings me to why I was so eager to get some easy miles in tonight to loosen up: last night, for the first time since... February of 1984, I suppose, I did an hour of strength work. An hour.

Josh assured me this would enhance my capacity to wear short shorts. Though in hindsight, since I mooned Josh (and many, many others) a few weeks ago during Reach the Beach and he therefore saw in the flesh (literally) what I'm dealing with, perhaps this was his subtle way of addressing my body dysmorphia. Whatever the justification, I attended this little torture fest Josh arranged (clad in modest shorts, actually, because there were a few in the crowd I hadn't met before and didn't want to make jealous of my well-sculpted derriere.) The workout involved climbing up and down on a bench in Central Park, propping myself up on things, and flopping around in the grass, using my body weight as resistance. Shockingly, Miss Body Dysmorphia over here was all "oh, this won't be too hard, it's just my body weight." Surprise, surprise: after doing 40,000 front and side step ups, heaving my body up 24 inches with each rep using only my hamstrings/quads/ass, I sort of can barely move today. If I spent more than 90 minutes at my desk without getting up, my whole lower half seized up. I ran tonight because I was worried I'd be even stiffer tomorrow (thats what he said). I ran purely to force my body to move. And it hurt.

But surely, that pain is the sensation of cellulite dying, screaming out "Claire, stop climbing on shit unless it's a bar and you're climbing over it to help yourself to what's on tap!" But I know it's back there, calling to me, and I fully intend to make it suffer. The short shorts will live on!

Well, hopefully anyway. I'm legitimately marathon-level sore today, so I may be too scared to return to future strength sessions. Unless there's free beer at the next one.

For the Record

1. Let the record show that June 8th is the first heat advisory of the year. June. Eighth.

2. Let the record further show that a heat advisory does not make climbing the Prospect Park Hill any easier.

3. Let the record further, further show that a dinner of rice and water also does not make climbing the Prospect Park Hill, nor any other stretch of land, elevated or otherwise, any easier, unless you are the type who finds the syncopated rhythm of water sloshing against a ball of rice in your abdomen soothing and not, say, likely to result in diarrhea.

4. Lastly, let the record show that, despite having a dinner of rice and water, I am not blogging from Riker's Island, and I further suspect they don't provide in-cell wifi.

I wanted to get all that on record today, because I've just sweat so much directly into my keyboard that I suspect I won't be able to blog at all come tomorrow. Happy summer, bitches...

Tuesday Wrap Up: Long Runs, Long Hangovers, Long Drives, Short Shorts

Last week started off with so much promise; by Tuesday, I'd already run 22 miles, thanks to the Memorial Day Holiday and a hankering to try running home from work one evening. I kept the effort going all the way through Thursday, when I had the day off and decided to run to Penn Station to meet Maddy upon her arrival. We had an awesome afternoon walking through Park Slope and picnicking in Prospect Park, and even went to a Cardiac Crusher Brewery tasting (more on that below) to sample some high-class home brew. By Friday morning, as I waited patiently on line to pick up my second rental car, having noted the first car had the check engine light on and erring on the side of caution, I was feeling downright sanctimonious about my mature, responsible, adult, non-fratty behavior.

And then I went back to college for the weekend.

There is a reason 27 year olds don't go to college. And that is because we are too old for it, and are completely out of touch with how to party. And I'm a beer blogger, for God's sake! Friday night I passed out while singing to - nay, serenading - a muffin in a twin extra long bed. By Saturday, all bets were off, and I discovered that drinking 367 cans of Labatt (I went to college near Canada) leaves me with Rainman-like abilities of recollection. I channeled this energy into reciting, from memory, the phone number of the local pizza establishment I had not called in 5 years and demanded they bring pizza. And breadsticks. To my dorm room.





Imagine how I felt when I woke up to this. Then imagine spending 10 hours and 20 minutes driving home, and then you'll have a good idea of why it's taken me 2 days to write the wrap up for this week.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 38 for the actual week, which is pretty good, but since I actually counted 11 of them towards last week, we're down to 27, which is not so good. I did manage to drag myself out of my (twin extra long) bed on Saturday morning for a run with a professor friend of mine, who knows me well enough to have expected me to arrive hungover. At one point, I took too big a swig from my water bottle and started coughing. Paul asked, with genuine concern, if I was throwing up. The other problem with my running on campus is that the effort took so much out of me that I couldn't muster the energy to shower, so I ruined several otherwise lovely pictures by being a sweat monger. Exhibit A:


I'm also clutching that lion like I have the bed spins. Which I probably did.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: Infinity. The on-campus pub was giving them out free! If that were the case when I was a student, I doubt I'd have made it past freshman fall.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: In addition to Canada's finest, we also snagged some local beers at the liquor store near campus, and were sorely disappointed in not having been carded. We picked up Shipyard Summer, but in hindsight, should have gone for Geary's or Gritty's, since Shipyard was what was free on campus. Also, I drank a Bud Light in the shower on Friday afternoon.

But the most important beer of them all last week was the Coriander Witbier that Joe whipped up at the Cardiac Crusher Brewery. And by "brewery" I mean "in his bathtub."

Joe has made several batches of brew before, including a chocolate coffee stout he kindly let me sample out of the back of his car, which was not at all sketchy, so I was holding him to high standards going into this tasting. Joe did not disappoint. The coriander witbier (which is possibly Flemish for "wheat beer" or possibly a branding strategy Joe employed to get people to drink something he concocted in his bathroom) was a really great summer beer. Unlike lots of Belgian-style seasonals, the Cardiac Crusher brew wasn't overpowered by yeast, and instead had a nice, malty character. Plus, Joe brought slices of orange wedges, so we kept it classy while illicitly drinking out of a cooler in Central Park. If you don't know Joe and his Cardiac Crusher brews, I recommend you make friends with him.



And as proof that this is a legitimate, safe-for-human-consumption type operation, here is the Cardiac Crusher Brewery label, thanks to our own Christopher Baker:



Now that it's Tuesday and I'm mostly recovered from the weekend (my voice still sounds all throaty, so naturally I rerecorded my office voicemail greeting. I'm a sexxxxy development officer now), I'm getting back on the training wagon. Or I'm trying to, considering it'll be in the 90s for the rest of the week. I'm racing the Mini 10k on Saturday, which should be interesting because a) I have no technique when it comes to racing anything other than a marathon, and b) it's a woman's only race, and I still sound like a man. In addition, tomorrow I'm allegedly participating in Josh's painfest, which he says will be helpful given my proclivity towards short shorts, but I fear will involve crying. On Josh's part, of course, because I fully intend to expose my bare ass yet again to evaluate with the group whether or not Josh's strength exercises are working. Get excited!