We Interrupt This Track Workout For A Long Run

I have something of a checkered past when it comes to speed workouts. Or does checked mean "mixed?" Whereas my past is more uniformly "foundering." In any case, every season it seems to take me a couple of tries to get a handle on what it is I'm supposed to be doing on the track.


Until last week, when I ran my mile repeats entirely by feel at a generally reasonable pace. They weren't perfect, of course, but I wasn't hanging my head in shame either. From the get-go, I was running at the proper pace, and didn't crash and burn. Was I turning a corner on speed work?


My spirits were further buoyed during Sunday's race, where I held on to a sub 7 pace for nearly 8 miles in Central Park. Oh, and I we won. As IMan and I took our cool down (7!) miles, he said to me "you could be running your mile repeats even faster!" I said "you could participate in public hand-holding with me even more, but that doesn't mean you want to!" I didn't say that, because I only just thought of it, but I wish I had, because the logic is sound. Just because I could (possibly, but probably not) run faster didn't mean I was going to; my workout paces were based on a very scientific process that included Googling "McMillan Pace Calculator" and copying by hand the numbers it spit out onto the back of an envelope at my desk. And yet, in spite of my long history of failing to adhere to the correct pace at the track, the seed was planted.


Tonight I had another track workout on the calendar: Yasso 800s. According to McMillan (and Bart Yasso), I should be running each 800 right around 3:20. After a long warm up run from the gym near the office, I toed the line for the first repeat and took off running just a hair under "uncomfortable." Again this week, the spotlights were off (those must just be for the spring and summer soccer games, eh?), so I ran without looking at my Garmin until I was done with the first set. 3:04.


Woah. Take it down a notch, Walsh. You have five more to run. But secretly, I was psyched that I didn't feel bad. I took off for number two, and as I was crossing the line for the second lap, a big club set off in the inside three lanes to warm up. (If that club was yours, on the East 6th Street track around 7:00pm, you're a bunch of dicks.  Thanks for being totally not accommodating or share-y). I spent that second lap dodging people and weaving through the lanes, and lost all sense of pace. The second 800 clicked off in 3:02.


Okay that's just ridiculous, Claire. This time, at least try to run it normally.


I waited for a break in what has to be New York's most populous running club and hit the line for number 3. This time 3:09. Better! But as I took my recovery lap, I noticed my left hamstring (the same one I suggested may have been dangling out of my leg during the race on Sunday) was getting progressively tighter. Half way done, though!


Number 4. 3:08. Hey! Look at what I'm doing! I mean, still going too fast, but at least consistently so!  I am not entirely sucking at this!


Alas, my fourth recovery lap saw me stopping to stretch out my tight hamstring, which was exacerbated with each hard effort. I set out for the fifth of six 800s, but backed off after the first 300 and told myself I'd rather have 4 good ones done and run a long, relaxed cool down than have 6 done and have my hamstring flapping around outside my skin 6.5 weeks away from Boston. Okay and also, quitting early meant I wouldn't have to own it if I did indeed crash and burn on the last two 800s!


So I wrapped up that lap, grabbed my water bottle, and ran another 7 miles.


Okay.  So maybe that wasn't the best idea, given that I'd just bailed on a track workout due to the potential for part of my insides to be on the outside.  But I had to get back to the gym anyway, and I could have run up and across 23rd Street to get there, or down, and up, and across 23rd Street to get there.  

See those teeny circles on the East Side? That's the track. Were you part of a team that worked out there around 7pm tonight?  You're a jerk. 

I was hoping that some easy miles would help loosen me up, but I'm quite certain they had the opposite effect, and by the end of my run, all my extremities were curled in and I was all hunched over like Gargamel.  Which reminded me of the first time I ever needed physical therapy, following knee surgery, and the therapist (who actually sort of looked like Gargamel) demonstrated (via extremely painful manipulation of my limbs) how having a tight hip, for example, can have repercussions all the way down to your feet, because even the muscles that don't work directly with the one(s) impacted by injury or inflammation are forced to respond to the changes made by the muscles that do.  And that reminded me of another time I needed physical therapy, when the therapist told me that I had such weak pelvic muscles that I'd probably experience "urinary incontinence" during a race.  And that reminded me that I NEVER WANT TO EXPERIENCE THAT.  And that is the story of how I ran 800s and also a long run at the same time on a Tuesday, and was reminded that one's body is a system working in harmony, so don't screw up any parts of it, even if you don't think they're that important.  And don't do anything that will result in incontinence of any kind, at any time.

And for those of you concerned about the hamstring possibly protruding from my leg, when I got to the gym, I foam rolled the shiiiiiiit out of it.  So at the very least, I, like, smushed it all back inside.  

Sunday Wrap Up: All I Do Is Win

Oh hello.  What's that?  You want to know if IMan and I, operating under the team name of Will Run For Beards, won the co-ed two man New York City Ekiden relay today?  I'm so glad you asked.  BECAUSE WE DID.

I didn't take any pictures during the race because I was too busy winning it, but this is what we look like as a team.  We looked the same today, minus the sunglasses, beers, and summer attire.  Related: doesn't that dress look like something Mrs. Roper would wear?

But before I get to that, I should fill in the gaps between where I left off and today, because what is a blog for if not detailing the minutiae of one's life to a captive audience?

So, I did my mile repeats on Wednesday as prescribed, but sort of wasn't feeling awesome when I started.  My legs just haven't been recovering as well as they usually do, which I'm sure has nothing to do with the fact that I've been living on jellybeans this week.  I took a recovery day on Thursday as I typically do, but still wasn't feeling much spring in my step by Friday.  In fact, on Friday morning the alarm went off, I put on my running gear, hobbled outside, was pelted with rain and wind, and went back into my apartment.  I got back into bed and slept for another hour. In my running clothes.

This slumber was interrupted by the other half of Team Will Run For Beards (the half with the beard), who was calling to discuss our weekend plans and race strategy for the Ekiden.  I lamented my missed morning run, and IMan cracked the whip: do those Goal Marathon Pace miles today and take it easy tomorrow; we have a race to win on Sunday!

Since sometimes I let IMan think he is the boss, I did as I was told and went to the gym after work, begrudgingly, to knock out my GMP run.  A-ha!  But what is GMP?  I haven't yet decided what I'm looking to run at Boston this year, but figured 3:22 would be a nice PR, and precisely an hour faster than my first (and slowest) marathon.  7:42/mile it is.  As with the mile repeats, it didn't feel awesome, but didn't suck either.  Being fine is good enough.

Saturday morning, I agreed to run a few miles with Abbe, so long as she promised not to tell IMan.  We looped the Prospect Park perimeter and headed over the Brooklyn Bridge to her apartment, chatting and relaxed the whole way.  Well, Abbe was chatting and relaxed, even after 18+ miles.  I was mumbling about orange juice and shuffling like Frankenstein, fairly certain that paralysis would set in just as IMan and I toed the starting line on Sunday.

But by some miracle, those miles with Abbe seemed to have cured me!  Not only did they represent a run I wasn't dreading (consider that a compliment, Abbe), but they left me feeling downright spry!  Or maybe that was the post-run best bagel I've ever eaten.  Either way, I woke up this morning READY TO RACE!

The Ekiden is, according to Wikipedia, a traditional Japanese relay in which participants wear, and pass between them, a sash.  There are probably more cultural nuances than that, but for our purposes (which judging by this rushed account are unabashedly xenophobic... I swear I'm a culturally sensitive person), that's the gist of it.  The New York City Ekiden was broken into 6 categories: 4-person male, 4-person female, and 4-person co-ed, and 2-person male, female, and co-ed, and IMan was we were gunning to win the 2 person co-ed division.  The legs were:

1. 2 lower loops of Central Park - 3.4 miles

2. 1 full loop of Central Park - 6.1 miles

3. 1 102nd Street loop of Central Park - 5 miles

4. 1 lower look of Central Park - 1.7 miles

IMan and I decided that he, being fleet of foot (also, the one with the beard) should lead off Team Will Run For Beards, and cover the greater distance of 8.4 miles total.  I, meanwhile, was responsible for the fate of our relationship team with the anchor leg, as well as the full Central Park loop.  

Well technically we got the legs screwed up when we reviewed them and were only corrected as IMan stood on the starting line, thinking he was running 3.4 miles and then 6 miles, but whatever.

So!  Time to run!  IMan dons our sash and sets off for his 3.4 mile leg.  I stayed bundled up against the cold in a hoodie and jacket.  Leg 1 was the only leg that passed through the transition area during the leg, so I had some idea of how IMan was doing at the halfway point.  There was one guy in our division from the Central Park Track Club about a minute ahead of him, but IMan had more than a minute on the next contenders in the co-ed 2-person group.  Oh man, I thought, don't let me blow this.

I stripped off my cold weather gear and hopped into the transition area about 2 minutes before I expected to see IMan.  He came up the hill about a minute behind the lead co-ed 2-person team, handed off the sash, smacked me on the butt, and told me to get moving.

Gah, running fast is painful and hard!  Almost immediately, I was passed by a woman not in our division.  While it didn't matter for competitive purposes, it was a little discouraging, since IMan had really hauled ass for his leg.  I hit mile 1 in 6:59 - a solid 20 seconds faster than I'd planned.  Almost immediately after that, I had to stop to tie my shoe.  Ugh, I'm ruining everything!

Mentally regrouping, I continued charging up the East side of the park, hitting mile 2 at 7:04.  At this point, I could tell I was gaining on the lead co-ed 2-person CPTC lady.  Reel her in, I told myself.  Little by little, I got closer, until I finally surged by her at mile 3.  I looked down at my Garmin and discovered that little surge was a 6:46 third mile, and I still had 3 more to go.

At this point, the prospect of embarrassment is really what kept me going.  I didn't want to have made my move too early and then have that be proven to me by getting passed by this chick close to the transition area, so I pushed down the hockey rink hill and wheezed my way up the Harlem Hill.  Mile 4, 7:07.

Okay, two more miles, I can probably keep running without dying for two more miles.  Get over these West side hills.  Oh my God, it feels like my hamstring is dangling out of the back on my leg right now!  But she could be right behind me!  Mile 5, 7:05.

Somewhere into my sixth mile, my other shoe came untied.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  I wasn't about to stop and give up our hard-earned lead, so I ran the rest of the leg looking directly at my feet while adopting a weird, wide-legged gait.  I look forward to photos from this mile.  Anyway, I spied IMan waiting for me in the transition area and booked it up to him.  "That was quick!" He said.  I tried not to vomit on him, handed off the sash, wheezed "102nd," hoping he'd understand that he was supposed to turn at 102nd Street, and doubled over.  Last 6.1 miles, 6:52.

After I caught my breath, I waited to see how much time I'd put between us and the CPTC team.  She came through the transition area about two minutes 30 seconds (I have, apparently, both a terrible sense of how time works, and also a grossly inflated ego) after I did, and with IMan undoubtedly flying around the Park, her teammate was going to have a tough time catching up.

Leg 3 seemed to fly by (that happens when you're fast enough to WIN - heyo!), and before I knew it, I was shivering in the transition area waiting for IMan and my last 1.7 mile leg.  He passed off the sash and I tore out of the area.  

Surprisingly, my legs felt okay, and knowing that I only had to run 1.7 miles made the whole thing more bearable.  I ticked off the first mile in 6:42.  Less than a mile to go!  But I was still terrified that our CPTC rivals were right on our tails; IMan had maintained the lead over leg 3, but I had no idea by how much.  I told myself I couldn't ease off until I was across the finish line.  I averaged a 6:49 for that last 0.7 miles, and with it, we won!  Will Run For Beards was victorious!  Our rivals came in shortly after, and I had a nice handshake with the woman I'd been racing all morning.  I mean, I probably wouldn't have thought it was nice if I'd been on the losing end, so kudos to her for being magnanimous.

It was pretty awesome to have our arms raised over our heads like heavyweight champions, and everyone clapped and they proclaimed us the victors.  Also, our prize is a pair of sneakers by race sponsor Sketchers for each of us!  As IMan as I took our victory lap (and by that I mean, took an additional lap of Central Park after the race, because IMan is a sadist and makes me run too much), he said "we actually made money on this race.  2 pairs of sneakers for a $70 entry fee!"  I said "Well you didn't pay anything, so you made even more!"  But anyway, $70 for a fun race with sneaker prizes (in 6 different categories!), technical t-shirts, and donuts, apples, water, and hot chocolate at the finish is not a bad gig.  I know this race got some flack because why pay $70 (or $100 for a 4-person team) to run loops of the park you probably run in all the time anyway?  But I have to say, I think NYCRuns puts on a great race, this was a fun day, and I'm happy to support them. 

Plus, the only 2 times I've ever won have been in NYCRuns races.  So, there's that.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 46.  That's too many.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 6.  That's not enough!

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Sam Adams Alpine Spring, Stella Artois, Bud Light, and a Tuatara IPA from New Zealand by way of Neal.  I would have loved to savor it thoughtfully, but I was so tired the night that I opened it that I poured it into my mouth hole and passed out immediately.  Missed opportunity.  Thankfully there's a Tuatara Lager still in the mix, so I'll get to try that out.

And speaking of passing out, now it is time for me to do that, even though it is 5:00pm on a Sunday.  Winning is tiring.

Just Fine is Good Enough

Most of the time when we talk about our runs, we frame them in one of two ways:
1) "That was awesome!" Your banner days, your PRs, your nailed key workouts, your "endorphins are PEDs!" runs.

Or

2) "That was awful!" Your DNFs, your personal worsts, your injury-inducing and/or pants-shitting runs.
But in spite of the polar nature of our running tales, sometimes runs are just fine. And that's okay too.

Tonight I headed to the track for my first session of mile repeats this season. I build this workout up in my head a lot, and in the past, it's either been an incredible confidence boost or an incredible ego deflator. I was very worn out from work by the time I left my office, and my warm up miles felt stiff and awkward. I mentally prepared myself for a sufferfest - and the sob story that would come with it.

McMillan told me to aim for 6:34-6:50 per repeat, but the spotlights were off tonight, which made checking my pace mid-repeat impossible without lots of button-pushing. I ran the first repeat by feel and finished in 6:45.

I ran the second repeat in 6:28.

I ran the third repeat in 6:39.

I ran the last repeat in 6:37.

Did I OMG KILL IT?! No. I should have been more consistent. Did I totally blow it because I suck at everything? No. I ran all four miles right in range*. Do I sometimes have workouts where I feel either awesome or awful? Yep, I've cried actual tears over good running stuff and bad running stuff. Is it okay that sometimes my workouts fall somewhere in the middle, and are just fine? You bet.

After the track, I came home, ate two pieces of pizza, and drank a beer. Just fine is pretty good sometimes.


*Edited: Err, except for the one that wasn't... 

Sunday Wrap Up: More Militaristic Strategery

In keeping with the "hills are the building blocks of my fort" metaphor I established this week, I continued building my defense against Newton with today's 16 miler.

Sure, moats were probably outdated by the time of the American Revolution, and syphilis blankets were used against the American Indians, and ninjas probably have never played a role in any American military action, ever, but I never claimed to be a historian. Only a bad ass marathoner.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 41.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 10 and counting. Conveniently, happy hour at my house begins precisely when I get out of my post long run shower.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Sam Adams Alpine Spring, Guinness, Bud Light, Blue Moon, and Old Man Winter Ale, thanks to Neal. One thing I forgot to bring with me to CT was a bottle of 16 Mile Dark Court Ale, which was in the mix from Neal, and which I intended to drink following a 16 miler.  Alas, I left it in the fridge at my apartment.  Perhaps one day next week I'll run 1.6 miles and then drink it; I'm not running long just for beer's sake.

Rumor has it I have track work coming up this week. Best get in the drinking tonight while I still can. It's what whichever Presidents we're celebrating tomorrow would gave wanted. Again, I'm not a historian...

The Battle of Newton

As we all know, Patriots Day is more than just a day people in Boston get the day off to get drunk while some of us drag ourselves over 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boylston Street. Patriots Day honors Paul Revere, an American Revolutionary hero who saved us from a future of flavorless food and poor dental care at the hands of the British by riding a galloping horse and screaming, which doesn't seem very covert, but it worked, so who am I to judge?

In keeping with the theme of the Revolutionary War and how it relates to the Boston Marathon - which is to say, only in the most indirect and tangential ways - today I want to talk about the Battle of Newton. So far as I know, Newton was not a particularly important battle site in the American Revolution. I mean I assume something happened there, because basically every school district that served as a feeder for Colby College (go Mules!) was somehow related to our nation's independence. Who could forget the crucial turning point in the war, the Shootout at Buckingham, Browne, and Nichols? No?

Anyway, this Patriots Day Newton will represent a strategic skirmish in my own revolution. The Revolution Against Ill-Will Toward The World's Most Famous and Esteemed Marathon. I may rethink that name for branding purposes, as it's rather unwieldy. Let's go with the Boston Electrolyte Beverage Party, for short.

As I was saying, this Patriots Day, Newton will become my own personal battleground. Last year (it's an annual revolution, apparently. Not very effective at creating change...), Newton served as Claire's Last Stand. Except I was on the losing side.

I've mixed too many historically inaccurate military metaphors already, so let me just get on with it.

Last year, Newton kicked my ass. While I ran a PR at Boston, I didn't run a good race. I positive splitted the shit out of it, in fact. Newton hobbled me, and by the time I got over Heartbreak Hill and could hear the roar of BC frat dudes - normally, a dream come true for me - it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. I finished Boston hating it, and vowed to never go back. Until I registered for 2012.

This year, I am determined to survive Newton with a smile on my face. And not just the way a baby smiles when it farts, but a genuine, I-don't-hate-my-life smile. If Newton is my battlefield, then hill work is the fort that will protect me.

You can go ahead and never read this blog again after that totally lame analogy.

I truly did focus on hill work last year in the months leading up to Boston. My training plan had a day of hill workouts per week for the first 8 weeks built in, and when I was instructed to run "on the hilliest route you can find," I did just that. But this year, I've been focused not just on my weekly, dedicated hill workouts, but on incorporating hills into every run. I've been going out of my way to take the hillier way home even on my easy runs, and rather than getting the bulk of my long run miles done along the Hudson, I've been spending QT in Central Park. Even when I'm stuck on the treadmill, I've increased my steady incline from 1% last year to 2.5% this year. Whenever I think about getting lazy with my hills work and taking a flatter route, I think about how crappy it felt last year to see my Garmin tick down from having 2 minutes banked to having my A goal out of reach.

With Boston 8 weeks from Monday, I'm just about halfway through training. This morning, I decided (and "I" means "my training plan") to put my first 8 weeks of hill work to the test with a session of hill repeats. 2 mile warm up, 3-4x short hill repeats, 3-4x long hill repeats, 3-4x short hill sprints, 2 mile cool down. In the rain. (That part wasn't in the training plan, but an added bonus).

The 3 short hills were tolerable, and I timed my chant of "New-ton, New-ton" with the swishing noise of my jacket-clad arms a-pumping.

The first two long hills were also tolerable, if long. Nearly 2 minutes is a long time to be climbing. The third long hill required a pep talk from me to my hamstrings. ("Go faster, assholes!" causes some confusion when speaking to your body because you don't actually want your asshole to go faster). The 4th long climb was one of those where you grunt and scream and act like you're having a seizure at the top, but no one comes to your aid because they've been watching you do repeats and understand that, like them, you're just an early morning running freak. Or they're cold-hearted New Yorkers.

I was most worried about the sprints. While I am at a place in my running where I finally feel like no hill is insurmountable, that's because I also feel that no pace is too slow. I was actually shocked when I looked up during the first sprint and realized I was already at the end of it. I chased a bike on the second sprint, and lost, but it was a close race. After I finished the third, I was toeing the line between "breathing heavily" and "wheezing pathetically," but my third was indeed my fastest sprint. Best, I left the park feeling like I could have done one more.

So what does it mean? Well, it turns out I did this very same workout exactly a year ago, on February 17, 2011, which I didn't even know until I searched Garmin Connect for "hill repeats" when I sat down to write this report. I won't bore you with my splits because that's totally narcissistic (unlike just the regular blogging I do about how awesome I am), but I've seen improvement across the board!

For each hill segment, I was between 5 and 10 seconds faster today than I was a year ago.

I have gotten 5 or 10 seconds faster in a year?

Eff that.

In honor of Paul Revere, this Patriots Day I'm riding a horse to Boston.

Brew Review: Southern Tier Old Man Winter Ale

As I mentioned in the weekly wrap up, Neal made good on Saturday afternoon on a bet we made when the Giants played Green Bay to get into the NFC Championship. As I drank a great many beers that day back in January, I don't even remember the precise terms of the bet; something about 12 beers to the winner, with an additional beer for every point over the spread... Or something. Whatever it was, Neal ended up owing me 17 beers. He paid out 19, because I guess he wasn't really sure what the terms were either. In any case, he delivered these beers to me on Saturday, and now is 50% paid up; I'll find a time and place for him to wear my newly acquired Giants hard hat soon (and that place will be somewhere public).

While I was in no shape to do anything but wallow in bed in discomfort Saturday evening, digesting hot dogs, by Sunday night, after a cold run and ample digestion time, I was ready to take a peak at my winnings. Let me say, if you're the betting type, make a bet with Neal. The stakes are high, but he does not take the payout lightly. A lesser man would have forked over a case of Bud Lights (the lowest man of all would have made a bet with Brad over a football game 2 years ago and still not have paid up...), but Neal curated an impressive selection of international beers for my tasting pleasure. The first one I pulled out was possibly not labeled in English, but what I could read indicated it was 11.9% ABV. That's quite a Sunday evening beer. I decided maybe I should take a more modest approach, and pulled a few more bottles until I selected my beer of choice for the night: Southern Tier's Old Man Winter Ale from Lakewood, NY.

Again, Sunday was pretty frigid ("bitterly cold," according to the weather folk, who lost the ability to appreciate cold weather sometime over the course of several 50 degree days in January and February), and after I came home from a few hours, I spent much of the afternoon reading under the covers. A winter ale was just what I had in mind to warm me up.




I watched a lot of real estate television last night, and this is what you call "staging." Stuff I took off my night stand to make me appear minimalist included my alarm clock, a box of tissues, 2 remotes, a dirty plate, about a dozen Hersey Kiss wrappers, those pesky little plastic t-shaped tags that come on clothing, and miscellaneous analgesics, vitamins, and other pills. The Garmin and obscured photo of IMan running Boston are legit.

Old Man poured a rich copper and has a malty, grassy aroma. The hops here are very piney, with I think almost a smoky, earthy finish. Some people use "peat" as an adjective to describe beer. I have no idea what peat tastes like. That's a component of gardening, right? Do people eat that to be able to use it comparatively? If so, they're more dedicated beer nerds than I. But if peat tastes vaguely like a distant campfire in the woods, this is peaty.

Speaking of campfires in the woods, I don't go to those in the winter, and I don't know that this speaks to me as a winter ale. I actually don't go to campfires in the woods most seasons. That's really a once-per-year in the summer thing for me. Except for the time I busted my knee, which was indeed at a winter campfire in the woods. We were also drinking Utica Club that night, so maybe things would have been different with some Old Man Winter. Anyway, I think winter ales are typically maltier, and while this label indicates they've used 2 types of malts (in addition to 3 varieties of hops) in brewing, I don't get much malt to this, and least not at first pour. Though as the beer sits and warms up a bit, the hops are some what turned out and the malt comes out. Still, if its not the kind of beer that's going to get you through hibernation, maybe it's something to prep you for it, like a fall ale? That's not a thing, though, so I guess it's just a pinier brown ale. Whatever, I dig it. And the 7.7% ABV makes an ideal Sunday night bedtime elixir.

Good thing I cracked it at 6:45pm. Being old is cool...

Sunday Wrap Up: Hot Dog Challenge Race Report

In my attempt to maintain once-a-week cross training, I recently procured Jillian Michael's Yoga Meltdown DVD (chanturanga pushups aren't physically possible, FYI). In it, Jillian urges us to "get comfortable with being uncomfortable." She probably wasn't referring to eating hot dogs in mass quantities (that would be a weird yoga DVD), but I tried to keep her words in mind yesterday as I attempted to take down 10 hot dogs in 2.5 miles during the New York Rogue Runners' Hot Dog Challenge. Alas, it wasn't enough. Yesterday, I took my first DNF. Did not finish.



I woke up on Saturday morning primed for the competition. While normally I aim to avoid waking up with a vague hangover on race morning, yesterday's headache and unsettled stomach were intentional (if that isn't a quote from someone with a problem, I don't know what is...). The hungover need and ability to eat mass quantities of bad-for-me foods was exactly what I was hoping for.

But in case that weren't enough, I tried to really maximize my running hunger (runger) by knocking out my weekly long run immediately before the challenge began. I layered up and headed to Central Park, shit-talking my competition via Twitter on the way. My personal favorites were " Know how I grew my legs so long? BY EATING HOT DOGS!" and "Know why my hair is this color? I MIX KETCHUP AND MUSTARD!"

A wet snow was falling as I made my way through my first loop of the park, but my fuzzy wool mittens kept me warm and dry, my windbreaker allowed me to work up a good sweat, and my tights kept my legs feeling good. I felt like Rocky preparing for his prize fight as the miles ticked off and eventually the snow,let up. I didn't take any Gu, so as to really prime my system for solid food intake. 14 miles in 1:49.

My long run was timed just right; with a slated noon kick off for the challenge, I had about half an hour to get change for a couple twenties (singles are key for hot dog purchases) and let the runger really germinate. Unfortunately, the first glitch was that, perhaps because of the snow, there was nary a hot dog truck to be found to get change! I tried all the usual spots: outside the Boathouse, atop Cat Hill, even out on Fifth Avenue. But no matter where I roamed (all the while getting colder and colder, thanks to sweating up a storm during my long run), I could find no place to make change. In fact, the first cart on the course map wasn't there! Fast on his feet and in his brain, Baker made a few quick course revisions to maintain the robust number of hot dogs to be eaten and reviewed the rules for the competitors: eat a dog at every cart on the course; dogs and buns must be fully finished before competitors can move on to the next cart; no puking; diarrhea is acceptable (I asked). The course map indicated 11 carts; I felt confident i could take down 8, and I was committed to strong-arming the last 3 down. The purse was up to $225; that's a lot of hot dogs!

With the newly establish first cart at the 72nd Street transverse, all competitors bought their dogs, and on the count of 3, we ate.





Thanks for capturing this moment, Neal. I look terrified.

I got ketchup and mustard on dog one, which was also a mistake. A liberal mustard application made my first dog delicious, but the vinegar tang from the condiments made it tougher to pound. And those fuzzy mittens that kept me warm on my long run weren't ideal for fast-paced eating. I was among the last competitors to finish and head to cart two. Still, I felt confident; I had anticipated that I wouldn't eat fast, but that my skill would be maintaining a good pace on a full stomach. And I had no trouble hustling to my second dog, located just outside the park. In a cruel twist of fate, Cart 2 had calorie counts displayed. One hot dog, 240 calories.




Thanks to Elyssa for the action photography above. I skipped the mustard on dog 2 and went with straight ketchup. Unfortunately, bun 2 was pretty stale and tough to devour. Tougher still, Cart 3 was just across the street. Back to back dogs was not playing to my skill set; I had no chance to run, and instead could only swallow, shuffle across the street, and purchase dog 3. The prospect was too daunting for Gillian, and she tapped out.

I should point out that I love hot dogs. But by Cart 3, I was able to notice the subtleties in dog flavor at each cart. And Cart 3 was not good. And thinking about how this dog didn't taste like the other dogs reminded me that hot dogs are actually pretty disgusting in concept. And that didn't really help me force me down my gullet. I wasn't full or nauseous, but tasting dog 3 made me gag. Still, I downed it and moved on, following the course map with Bethany.

Like Cart 1, Cart 4 wasn't set up when we arrived, so Course Marshall AbbeLew waved us on. I said a silent prayer, still unable to get the taste of dog 3 out of my mouth or mind. We continued running south and west, running through what is known (to the hot dog competitors, based on the course map) as Baker's Pass, and arrived at the next cart at 53rd and Fifth.

This 4th dog cost $3, a whole dollar more than the other dogs. I gave the vendor a dirty look and then gave my expensive dog a dirty look. I can do this. Can I do this? I don't want to do this. The running was still going well for me, but I was really dragging on the eating by now. How is this only my fourth dog?! We got an update on the leaders: Matt6 was still going strong, and Neal was starting to slip. Who could blame him? Steph was undecided as to whether should she be proud or horrified that her boyfriend excelled at hot dog eating. Bethany and I took down dog 4 together.

The next two carts were again across the street from each other, in an area labeled on the map as Dead Man's Corner. The mental struggle of knowing we had to take down back to back dogs again was almost more difficult than the act of doing it. This was where boys would become men. I bellied up to the cart and purchased my fifth hot dog of the day. I was not happy about it.

Dog 5 was the kind of hot dog people cite when they talk about why they hate dirty water dogs. It wasn't quite the right color - more gray than pink - and about halfway through, I encountered a mysterious gristly bit. I extricated it with my hand and dropped it on the sidewalk. A pigeon walked by and ate it. I tried not to think about it. I kept chewing and chewing, but I couldn't get that mystery hot dog component out of my mind. I gagged. I swallowed. I kept eating. With one swallow standing between me and dog number 6 a block away, I turned my head and violently ejected hot dog into the planter beside me. I was done.

Course Marshall Steph told me she was proud of my efforts. I took a swig of water and immediately doubled over, spewing mushy bun bits onto the sidewalk and horrifying tourists. Meanwhile, Bethany was still going strong. Steph and I followed her to the next cart as she tackled her 6th dog.

The rest of the challenge was a battle of the mind; Bethany's mind battled with the thought of 4 more hot dogs, and my mind battled with the prospect of not vomiting while watching Bethany eat 4 more hot dogs. As we pressed on, we continued on the heels of Dennis, who opened the day with 2 hot dogs at the first cart. He was looking tired, but strong. Bethany was struggling to get the dogs down, but between carts, was doing her best to keep up a jog. 3 dogs to go. 2 dogs to go. Though I'd given up, I did come close to being revisited by my previously consumed hot dogs when Bethany gave her 8th dog a good squeeze to demonstrate how juicy it was. We made our way along 46th Street, inching closer to the finish line. Was it possible? Might the last cart on the map not be there? Might Bethany be done already?! Alas, no. Hidden behind a building's column, the tenth and final dog. Using deep breathing techniques, Bethany finished and Steph and I let out a cheer! Just a three block jog to the finish.

The competitors set up a power arch outside Rudy's, and Bethany brought it on home through the screaming crowd. I sheepishly side-stepped the finish line. DNFing sucks.

But not so much that I wish I had eaten five more hot dogs yesterday. In fact, after 5 dogs, I had to roll the waistband of my running tights down to accommodate my nitrate bloat. And my Pork Slap Ale, which I drank in honor of the pigs/cows/other random gristly animals who gave their lives so we could compete. Also, Rudy's serves free hot dogs with your beer. No thank you.

In the end, Gillian and I were the only two competitors who didn't finish. I cannot believe you disgusting savages all ate 10 hot dogs yesterday.




The eventual winner is not pictured, likely because he left to spend his $225 winnings. Apparently it came down to the wire, and Matt6 was a close second. Maybe next time, buddy. At least Steph doesn't have to pretend to be proud. And he did get that fancy cat crown.

In summation, never participate in a hot dog eating contest ever, as it was disgusting. Or if you do, at least do it with people you like, and who won't judge you for regurgitating hot dogs on Fifth Avenue.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 46. Took an extra running day this week. Those 1,200 of hot dogs aren't going to burn themselves.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 13. But, ever the honest football fan, Neal made good on a bet we made back when the Giants walloped the Packers, and hand-delivered 19 unique and delicious beers to me after the challenge yesterday. I suspect I'll check out a few from the mix later today.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Barrier Beech Street Wheat, Moretti, Bud Light, Blue Moon, Pork Slap, and Long Trail IPA.

Clairey Chestnut

This weekend, while all you suckers are busy doing regular old long runs as part of your Spring Marathon training, I'll be doing a long run as well.  16 miles... immediately before participating in an eating challenge.  I figure the post-long run hunger will leave me ideally prepared to feed... approximately dozen hot dogs...while running an additional 3 miles.

I was truly shocked to learn that this is the only photo on my computer specifically of a hot dog.  This is a pretzel-wrapped hot dog from a rest stop on the Mass Pike.  I took its picture for my friend Caroline. Then I ate it and it was awesome.

Full challenge rules can be found here: New York Rogue Runners' Hot Dog Challenge.   Rumor has it (and I may have started this rumor) that I am considered to be among the chief contenders for the title.  I have yet to determine if being known for my ability to binge eat hot dogs while running is a point of pride or shame.

If you have nothing better to do than watch me give myself heart burn and possibly Trichinosis, I invite you to join the fun tomorrow at Noon in Central Park.

Eureka!

Having made 27 previous attempts to perfect the formula, I think today I managed to create the ideal birthday scenario.

Step 1: Don't go to work.

Step 2: Go running outside in the sunshine. In a Giants jersey.

Step 3: Go to the Giants' ticker tape parade. Not mind that you can't even see the parade route because the Giants are the Super Bowl champions.



I could see a lot of Giants fans, and a lot of Nassau Street.

Step 4: Be back from the parade in time to watch the actual ceremony, emceed by your favorite Giant of all time, Michael Strahan #92, from the warmth of your bed.

Step 5: Go to Bierkraft for lunch.

Step 6: Order a pint (Barrier Beech Wheat Street) and a sandwich (turkey, cheddar, arugula, and spicy grainy mustard on a baguette).



Step 7: Enjoy said pint and sandwich while Bierkraft plays the "Born in the USA" album in its entirety

If today is any indication, 28 is going to be a very good year.

My Birthday Suit

Just your average Tuesday morning running-and-ticker-tape-parade-attending combination outfit...

Sunday Wrap Up: THE GIANTS ARE IN THE SUPER BOWL!!!!!

Oh, did you know that already? My bad.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 38. My pre- Super Bowl enthusiasm carried me through 10+ miles today at an average pace of 7:40/mile. Must have been the New York Giants cookie I ate for breakfast.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: I haven't even arrived at my Super Bowl party destination (currently on MetroNorth, toting $130 in deep fried foods), and I've already had 13 beers this week. I blame AbbeLew.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Sam Adams Alpine Spring, Lagunitas IPA, Dos Equis, and a great many Bud Lights. IMan and I went to a Bridgeport Sound Tigers minor league hockey game last night. Bud Lights taste better when the cost $9 a piece and are paired with hot dogs and cheese fries. And you're sitting in an Executive Box.

I've taken the day off from work on Tuesday, my 28th birthday. I WILL be going to a ticker tape parade on that morning. And it WILL be here in New York. Go Big Blue!

Return of the Month of Claire!

People really shit on February.  "Wahhh, it's cold in February!"

It was 61 degrees in New York today and I ran in shorts.

"But I hate Valentine's Day!  It's such a consumer-driven, fake holiday!"

What are you, a Communist?  Who hates snacks?

"It's only 28 days, what kind of month is that?!"

First of all, this year it's 29 days, which means that for the first time since 2008, IMan gets to have a birthday.  Why don't you stop being so selfish and think about other people's feeling for once.  God.

Personally, I love February.  It's my birthday month!  It's the month in which the Giants are going to become SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS! Groundhog Day is a hilarious movie!

And it's the month in which Spring Marathon training really starts ramping up.  February gets me fired up.  It's the Month of Claire!

This February 1st being a Wednesday, I was tasked with a hill workout.  8 miles on "the hilliest route you can find."  Normally, I think a loop of Central Park fits this description.  But today being the first day of the Month of Claire, I wanted to take it up a notch.  Instead of entering the Park at West 72nd Street and running a loop of Central Park, I entered at West 72nd Street, ran clockwise over the west side hills, tackled the Harlem hills, and got to the top of the hill by the hockey rink at East 102nd Street.  Then I turned around and did it all again. 9 hilly miles in 1:09.  Suck on that, Newton.