Brew Review: Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA

Today is a sad day indeed at the Will Run For Beer HQ (aka my apartment).  Today, we're talking about a beer whose reputation precedes it, but for reasons I can't for the life of me understand.  I drank the Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA and hated it.

A little back story: I purchased one 12-oz bottle of this elixir, known far and wide for being a) hard to find, b) highly alcoholic, and c) rated "world class" by the brothers behind Beer Advocate, many months ago at a bodega in Park Slope when I was still living there.  One single bottle cost $9.99, a fee so exorbitant that the bodega purveyor did a double take when he rung it up.  When I brought this bottle home, I decided immediately I would save it for a finish line treat upon the conclusion of the Rehoboth Beach Marathon, which was run in the very state where this beer was born.  Given the high alcohol content and the fact that I'm a bad driver to begin with, "finish line" became "back in New York," as soon as it became clear that I'd be driving to and from Delaware for race weekend.  But since I was in the area, I did make a pit stop at the Dogfish Head Brewery, clad in my post-marathon finest.

I look like Golfer Barbie

The brewery itself was in what appeared to be a random residential neighborhood, and I almost drove right by, had I not seen the logo at the end of the road.

It was a sort of cold and dreary day, but the area outside the brewery seemed pretty cool, with shuffleboard courts and this weird human-sized birdhouse thing...

I called ahead and unfortunately all the tours for the day were completely booked (I tried to pull a "don't you know who I am?" but shockingly, they did not...).  Still, I went into the brewery store and selected a couple of beers and a pint glass to bring home for the highly anticipated tasting ahead of me.

Fast forward many cramped hours behind the wheel and one stop on the Jersey Turnpike for Nathan's Hot Dog Nuggets (judge all you want, those things are amazing), and I was back in my apartment and ready to get down to business.

I poured a pint glass and prepared myself to be amazed.  And I was, but not for the reasons I was hoping.  

The above image cuts off my notes, but they read, in their entirety:

"I was eagerly anticipating a big, bitter hop.  This tastes like a Christmas tree went into a cotton candy maker.  And then was steeped in a bottle of rum."

Truly, I thought this was awful.  Cloyingly sweet, way too piney, totally overrated.  True story: I didn't even finish it.  The awkward combination of super-sweet malt and piney hops notwithstanding, this was undrinkable for how alcoholic it tasted.  If I wanted to drink liquor, I'd drink liquor.  The taste and potency of this was on par with something you'd mix in an empty Poland Spring bottle from every bottle in your parents' liquor cabinet and drink in a bathroom stall at a high school basketball game.  You know what I'm talking about, don't pretend you don't.  It tastes much more like a barley wine (which I hate) than a double IPA.  

At first I thought perhaps the fact that I was drinking a months-old bottle may have had something to do with it, but Dogfish Head even recommends aging it before drinking, and it was kept refrigerated from the day it was purchased to the day I drank it.  Incidently, I also came down with food poisoning the night I drank it.  Coincidence?!  Probably, but I'm still never drinking this beer again.

In conclusion, Dogfish Head makes several delicious beers, and the 120 Minute IPA is not one of them.  My perennial favorite is the 60 Minute IPA.  But even if you're looking for an American Double IPA, go for their Burton Baton, which packs a wallop at 10% ABV and is actually worth drinking.

Presented Without Comment: A Pep Talk

Source

Connemara Training, Revisited

Workouts 1 (rest, and yes that counts as a workout) and 2 (7 miles with 5x1 at half marathon pace, and yes it sucked): done.

I know you didn't believe I'd actually come out of my rut (or was that just me?), but I'm checking in to report that so far, so good. In fact, I'm particularly proud of myself, considering I ate filet mignon and drank wine at lunch today (it was for work, promise), and still managed to drag my (ever expanding) keister to the gym, in the rain, tonight. Unfortunately, on account of the wine during the day, I should probably not reward myself for this accomplishment with alcohol, but I'll have many more opportunities for that. 68 workouts to go...

UPDATED Let's Do This: The Connemara Training Plan

After a full month of dicking around, I can't say I'm OMG100%SUPERPSYCHED to dive into ultra training.  But with 39.3 miles looming less than 9 weeks from now, there's no time like the present.  And those plane tickets to Ireland aren't refundable.  

The good news is that, once I find the motivation to get out the door, I still freaking love running.  And as I mentioned, I think I'm inching closer to loving not hating the get out the door part.  Close enough that I've officially given myself a deadline: Next Monday, I'm re-starting training in earnest. 8 weeks 10 weeks* to 39.3.  Bring it.

*Really?  No one was going to tell me I can't even count to ten?  What kind of snarky internet people are you?

I've devised the following plan based on the 50 Mile Training Plan I cited a few weeks ago.  There is one additional column I didn't include here with some notes about things that might impact training or require a little shifting of the schedule (for example, 4 days in Colorado the week of 2/25).  

Click to enlarge, unless you have x-ray vision

I've actually never made my own plan before and have always followed something someone else has prescribed.  I've also never run 39.3 miles.  Due to both of those facts, definitely don't trust me on this.  But essentially all I did to revise the 50 mile plan was:

1) Cut back the total miles on the Tuesday speed work: 9 with 6 at half marathon pace became 7 with 5.  Because I said so.

2) Cut back on the total time for the long runs: 4 hour Saturdays and 5 hour Sundays became 3 hour Saturdays and 4 hour Sundays.  Because 5 hours seems like a really long time, and I'm not running the full 50 mile distance.  But mostly because 5 hours seems like a really long time.

3) Changed Friday rest days to cross-training.  Because I like Soul Cycle at 6am on Fridays.

So there it is.  I'll be back to Weekly Wrap Ups, and running mileage that makes Weekly Wrap Ups worth it, next week.  Wish me luck...

Edging Towards Motivated

If I can find it in my heart to wake up and get dressed to brave this:

for 7 miles, perhaps full fledged, race season motivation is not far behind...

F*%k That Friday: Sports Scandals

Well damn, what a week for the sporting life, eh? This isn't really a true F*%k That, Friday, because unlike other things I feature in this column, I don't hate sports scandals. In fact, I full on LOVE them. I love when people do dumb things and get busted for it, because it happens to me daily. But I wanted to talk about sports scandals in a post today, and it's Friday, and I have no doubt I can find some aspect of each of these scandals to which I can say F*%k That, despite my extreme happiness that the scandals themselves exist. Ready?

Lance Armstrong: I don't much care for cycling to begin with, and furthermore didn't watch the Armstrong interview last night because I was busy taking substances (beers) to decrease my performance during my own ride at SoulCycle this morning. But I also don't much care for fraud, nor for sociopaths. What the actual fuck? Did he destroy the hopes and dreams of kids everywhere by shitting upon the whole premise that you, too, can overcome obstacles and be anything you want to be? Yes, but who cares?! He defrauded the American government by lying to the US Postal Service sponsors! Did he help raise millions of dollars for cancer research? Absolutely, but as someone whose job is non-profit fundraising, I'm telling you in no uncertain terms that as a non-profit, you don't recover from the very public pronouncement that your founder and member of your Board stole money from the American government and hundreds of other places that paid him for appearance fees, sponsorships, and honoraria under false pretenses. Donors don't take kindly to criminal misuse of funds, and any worthwhile research that had been funded by the Livestrong Foundation is taking the hit. Sheryl Crow, girl, you dodged a bullet. Lance Armstrong existing as a human being? F*%k That!

Manti Te'o: Now, what I do care for is football, and I am straight-up obsessed with the Manti Te'o scandal. Cannot get enough. I literally spent all day (I mean, all day outside of business hours...) on Wednesday scouring every source for more information. If that makes me vapid and a casualty of American celebrity-obsessed culture, so be it. A fake, dead, online girlfriend?! The Internet giveth, but so too it taketh away I guess. But holy shit, it is giveth-ing me endless entertainment right now with all the Manti jokes.

Not only does this provide internet amusement (again, outside of business hours...), but I've found more practical applications as well.  For example, last night I sat down at the bar to wait for a friend and put my bag on the stool next to me to save it for her.  The bartender asked if I was going to be eating as well as drinking, and I explained that I'd wait for my friend to decide.  "Your invisible friend there?"  I replied "Manti Te'o's girlfriend."  We had a good chuckle and went on to talk about how crazy it all is.  Then I freaked him out because I went on to overanalyze whether or not this was going to impact when he goes in the draft and so he had to pretend to get drinks for other people because it was uncomfortable.  

"So far this sounds awesome, Claire? Why are you saying 'F*%k That!'?"  Because, friends, eventually the truth will come to light and it's not going to be nearly as interesting as all the conspiracy theories we've cooked up in the meantime.  Fake dead internet girlfriend disappointment? F*%k That!

On Running With Intention

Last night, I blogged about potentially needing to do something inspiring to inspire myself to train.  Like begets like, and what have you.  None of you commented on that post, despite my obvious cry for emotional support because my readership is comprised entirely of ex-boyfriends, evidently, but I'll just turn up the Kelly Clarkson while I go on here.

Anyway, after I hit publish on that post, I suited up for the mild weather and headed to Central Park.  Then I turned around after 2 miles because my foot hurt.  Not quite the inspiration I was looking for.

I was back at it again this morning though - I headed to the Park determined to run a loop, which I realize is not "inspiring" so much as it is "what thousands of normal, non-whiny runners do every day," but I needed to start small and build up momentum.  

I circled the Park counterclockwise, listening to my breathing and the beeping of each mile and also the approaching footsteps of would-be rapists.  I got home, hit the stop button, and was surprised to see my average pace was 8:02 for 8.5 miles - a solid clip for an easy run.

My suspicions were confirmed when I got to the office and synced (sunk?) Carl - of the 8+ miles I ran, two were sub-marathon pace, two were sub-half marathon pace, and one was sub-10 mile pace, based on the arbitrary assignments I gave to my speed work (8:00/mi, 7:45/mi, and 7:30/mi respectively).

A joyous cause for celebration?! A fire lit under my ass?!  Not exactly.  While I am delighted to have discovered that I haven't gotten obese and out of shape from thus far running 30 miles total in the month of January, accidentally succeeding at something without trying isn't exactly inspiring.  It's dumb luck.  Which has "dumb" right in the name, which is never a good thing.

In summation, I'm still searching for that inspiration, but am encouraged I might find it tooling around Central Park in the coming weeks.  No word on when I'll find someone validate my feelings.  Sing it, Kelly...

The Treasure Trove

Right off the bat, Imma stop you.  No, the title of this post is not a euphemism for genitals.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way...

I've been using my Garmin, Carl, for two and a half years.  Since he came into my life when I first set out to qualify for Boston, my post-run process has been as follows:

1. Sit down in front of my computer and open it
2. Immediately regret putting my post-run swamp ass on whatever it is I decided to sit upon
3. Take off Carl
4. Immediately regretting putting sweat-soaked Carl on whatever it is I decided to rest him upon
5. Let him remotely sync himself to computer
6. Review data

I did this for every run for 2 and a half years: races, long runs, speed work, and yes, even easy days and recovery runs.  Outside of speed work, I wasn't even looking for anything in particular when I reviewed the data; I seldom compared runs side-by-side.  I don't even look at Carl that much when I'm actually running.  But there's just something I like about looking at the numbers and the maps and the elevation charts.  

Here is a map of a run I did in Phoenix Park, Dublin, Ireland. 

Sometime in November, my laptop crashed.  While at first I panicked, I realized that in the age of cloud computing, all my pictures and songs were somewhere on the internet (not those kind of pictures!), my resume was in my email inbox, and, being 6 years out of college, I didn't really need to play Snood.  Plus, I could do all non-work computing (like blogging) on my iPad.  

It took me precisely one morning run to realize that one thing I couldn't do on my iPad, however, was upload information from my Garmin.  So I brought Carl to work.

Being nearly 3 years old, chances that Carl's instructions were still around were slim to begin with.  Coupled with the fact that I've moved twice since then, and the fact that my work computer is a PC, meant that I had no idea how to sync Carl to a new computer.  It took me a solid 25 minutes to find the USB port to begin with.

After downloading all kinds of drivers and plug ins and apparently grappling with Garmin Connect's own technological shortcomings, finally, finally, Carl spit out some data.  Weeks of it.  

For the record, I actually did run more than 14 times in 5 weeks. 

Among the data unearthed?  My most recent marathon.

I swear those hills at mile 14.5 felt HUGE

I can't even begin to describe how excited I was to pour over these runs!  So many numbers!  A veritable treasure trove of information!  I clicked the first untitled workout, which turned out to be an easy run along the East River.  Well look at that!  Some miles start with 7s and some start with 8s.  Fascinating!  

I clicked around a bit more.  Mile repeats at half marathon pace in Central Park.  A run in Connecticut I'd previously considered to be very hilly is apparently net downhill, which was kind of a bummer.  But mostly after the 3rd or 4th workout, looking at the data was kind of... boring.  With the exception of the marathon, seeing each run on paper didn't recall fond memories.  Mostly, it made all this seem tedious.

I bring this up now because, after I mentioned I'm in a training rut and needed some time off running, some suggested perhaps I just needed some time off data.  With every available metric at our fingertips and wrists, sometimes we as runners get so caught up in the quantitative that we forget the reason we're out there to begin with.  These people are, of course, wrong (idiots!), since I've demonstrated that I can go 5 weeks without data and still be burnt out .  But I do think it was interesting to discover that, when you're not pouring over post-run information when it's still so relevant that you haven't even stopped sweating yet, it sort of all blends together.  Ordinary, unremarkable.  I ran. 

People are quick to blame the Garmin for their burnout woes, but I wonder if it's a bit more complicated than that, at least for me.  Maybe the trick is to generate some data I'm proud of and excited for, that I want to review as soon as I finish my run.  Maybe I need to log an inspiring workout to get inspired.

Or maybe I'm just super emo because the second season of Girls premiered last night.

Tuesday Wrap Up: Confessional

I've been hesitating to put into writing something I've known to be true for awhile now.  If you've been playing along at home, you won't be surprised to hear it: Kids, I'm in a training rut.

I was in a rut leading up to Rehoboth, of course.  But that I could write off as being an issue of prioritization. Hitting the ground running (unfortunate analogy aside) at my new job, moving into a new apartment, and being a bridesmaid extraordinaire for my sister were more important to me than nailing my work outs.  But ultimately, I didn't have a bad day in Rehoboth despite the lackluster training, and figured the adrenaline coming off another marathon finish could motivate me to recommit to training for Connemara.  Training that began two weeks after Rehoboth.

Spoiler alert: this has not been the case.  Instead of looking forward to logging back-to-back long runs, I've been dreading them.  And not doing them.  And then feeling guilty as shit about not doing them.  Because unlike during Rehoboth, I don't have anything of particular importance I'm prioritizing instead.  I can't even use the Giants as an excuse anymore.  I'm not doing my long runs because I resent having to do my long runs.  

If you're still reading because you're anticipating that this is the paragraph in which I'll tell you the secret to solving this problem, lo siento hombres.  I don't have the solution.  After unintentionally-but-by-necessity taking last week largely off from running (more on that below, and it ain't pretty), I returned to Central Park last night for a run without even looking at my training plan.  I ran 7.6 lovely miles (well, lovely except for the stretch across the 102nd Street Transverse, during which I was nearly positive a rapist was chasing me, but don't worry, Mom, that wasn't the case, and instead I just got some speedwork out of it).  I have no idea what I was supposed to do (for training; not in the instance of a rapist chasing me).  And while that should make me feel bad, because I'd be willing to bet it wasn't "run a random number of miles at a harder-than-easy-but-not-quite-tempo pace," it actually makes me feel good.  It's not that I don't want to be running;  I don't want to be accountable for awhile.  Not awhile as in "until I'm toeing the starting line at a 39.3 mile uphill race in April," but I think I can probably get through January running whenever I want and not holding myself to a plan before I need to buckle down.  So that's what I'm doing.  

And also, I'm not going to tell you about it.  I've been forcing myself to engage in the chore of hate-training because I've felt obligated to tell you people about it.  You're like the gold star on the chore chart (we didn't have that growing up, actually.  Cleaning lady, holla!). Only I'm not motivated by a gold star reward.  Only filled with self-loathing when I don't get one.  I was a screwed up child, apparently.  So here for the last time until I shake this funk and feel ready to buckle down is the wrap up:

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 10.  Told ya.  The shame I feel for having typed that is why we're taking a break from wrapping up.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week:  Yesterday, January 7th, was the first day in 2013 I did not have a beer.  Do with that information what you will.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: I went to Philadelphia for New Year's Eve, which meant I drank Yuengling like it was going out of style.  Then I went to the Rodeo on Saturday night, and drank $9 Bud Lights at Madison Square Garden.  A lot of them.  Other members of  the weekly roster Left Hand's 400 Pound Monkey, 21st Amendment's Brew Free! or Die IPA, Smithwick's, Smuttynose Robust Porter, Dogfish Head 60 Minute, Ithaca Flower Power, Miller Light, Magic Hat Heart of Darkness, and Sapporo.  


Anyway, I'll still be running, and also blogging, just not about specific workouts for the next couple weeks.  If that's a problem, just focus on the drunk stuff.  We'll get through this.  

Thanks for your patience.

F*%k That Friday: On the Homefront

Once again, it's F*%k That Friday, in which I take to the internets to complain about things that have pissed me off of late. Based on that definition, by the way, my friends would tell you every day is F*%k That Friday for me. You know what? F*%k those guys! In any event, here's what I hate today:


The frequency with which I must clean my apartment: I don't mind cleaning; I actually find it sort of enjoyable, and the payoff is totally worth it. But holy shit do indeed to do it often. My apartment is three rooms: a bedroom, a living room slash kitchen slash place where I eat my dinner off of a coffee table, and a bathroom (that manse also costs $1600. Which reminds me: people who don't live in New York and complain about rent? F*%k That!). 

"World Headquarters of Will Run For Beer" didn't fit in that little space on the mailbox

How could so many dust bunnies and strands of hair possible accumulate in such a small space?  And more importantly, how do they get there so quickly?  I asked my mom once why I always seemed to have dust bunnies in my apartment, and we never had any in our house growing up.  She told me it was because growing up, we had a cleaning lady come weekly to get rid of them. (Which reminds me: Not being rich now that I'm responsible for my own bills? F*%k That!  It also reminds me of the clip below, which is my parents' favorite episode of the Cosby Show.  Fast forward to 1:50 for the takeaway lesson that was instilled upon my sister and I as a result of it)

 

Anyway, I don't have a cleaning lady who comes to my apartment, which means I have to do it myself.  It feels like I've only just put away the vacuum (in the closet where I found the cockroach.  F*%k That!) when I find more crumbs and pine needles and those little t-shaped plastic things that hold tags on clothes.  Worst of all, I have a rug in the living room slash kitchen slash place where I eat my dinner off a coffee table, that is made of sisal.  For those not in the know, sisal is defined as "natural fiber that is effing impossible to vacuum without first hunting down the brush attachment for the vacuum cleaner, and then getting on your hands and knees and vacuuming the same spot repeatedly for 10 minutes until both you and the vacuum overheat."  I think I read that in the fine print in the Pottery Barn catalog. As you might imagine, it's not something I care to do often, and yet, weekly, there I am, sweating on my hands and knees with that electric beast beside me (I'm not even sure if I'm still talking about cleaning my apartment anymore...)

In conclusion, to the frequency with which I have to clean my apartment, I say: F*%k That!

Happy Friday, kids!

Traitor?

I had my first workout on 2013 this morning. If you're asking yourself "What the hell have you been doing for the last four days?" a) I know, right?!; and b) I dragged my New Years Eve celebrations out until almost 9pm on New Years Day, then spent a day recovering. That whole process took so much out of me I needed another day to drink beers and watch the Fiesta Bowl on the couch.

So anyway, today I worked out for the first time in 2013. And what did I do for this first workout, the one the allegedly sets the precedent for the year ahead? Did I log some double digit miles? Pound out some speed work, perhaps?

Negative. Like Benedict Arnold of the fitness world, I turned my back on running and my first workout of 2013 was a spin.

Look on the bright side: If this is any indication, 2013 might actually be the year I commit myself to cross training!

(It might also be the year I go broke paying $35 a class at SoulCycle. Hypothetically, if Ben T. and I start dating, do you suppose I could get into his classes at a discount? And further hypothetically, is Ben T. single? Call me, maybe?)