Das Boot and a few rules, too

I understand this blog is titled "Alissa Runs Boston 2014".  I know this-- I named it, after all.  When I started writing about running, my intention was to use blogging as a way to record the ups and downs of training for my first marathon, the 2014 Boston Marathon.  I'm not really sure why I felt the need to collect my thoughts about training, but I'm glad I did.  Not only was this blog a lot of fun to write, it allowed my readers (i.e. my mom) to get as close as possible to the Boston Marathon without actually having to run the race.  You're welcome, readers (Mom).

The other nice thing about my blog is it allowed me to figure out approximately when I broke my foot.

So, yeah.  That happened.

Back in this post, I noted how my heel began to hurt in early February.  I compared running with an injury to a boyfriend who was breaking my heart.  I stand by that comparison.  You know how, in a perfect world, your boyfriend (or girlfriend or spouse) helps make you into the best possible version of yourself?  Your other half challenges you, supports you and makes you feel so happy, it's as if you're dancing on a rainbow (or some crap like that)?  That's how running made me feel.  Running, but specifically training for the Boston Marathon, helped me become this stronger, more empowered, more badass version of myself.  Alissa 2.0 was also a lot happier than Original Alissa, too.  Running allowed me to set goals and then challenge myself to achieve them.  For the first time in a while, I was really freaking proud of myself.  Sure, I was stoked that I could log 50 miles in a week or 22 in an afternoon, but I mostly took pride knowing I was actively trying to be a better, stronger me.  (I realize how New Age and crunchy that sounds.  If it weren't so true, I'd delete it.)

When you run with an injury, running becomes a chore.  Simply, it fucking sucks.  From February on, my heel hurt so damn much and in ways I don't know how to put into words.  It hurt to walk.  It hurt to sleep.  It especially hurt to stand up after sitting.  My heel pain made me struggle through simple movements that I never even thought about until I had an injury.  I tried everything from shoe inserts to yoga to unhealthy amounts of ibuprofen to help mask the pain.  Nothing worked.  I kept training for the Boston Marathon for two reasons.  One, because I understood (and still understand) how special it is to have the opportunity to run that race.  People train their whole lives and don't run Boston.  I knew how lucky I was.  Two, I was running for a really great charity, Tenacity.  I really admire the work Tenacity does for my students and for kids all over this city, and I felt like bowing out of the Boston Marathon wouldn't reflect that.  All my training (and all my consequent suffering) was for my students.  Giving up on the race, injury or not, felt too much like giving up on them.  No fucking way I was going to do that.

I ran the Boston Marathon.  The whole.  Damn.  Thing.  And only 5 minutes off my 4 hour goal time!  Not too shabby.  Although incredible, the run hurt like a bitch and I wasn't able to walk for two days afterwards.  That's when I decided to finally go to a doctor.  An X-Ray showed a big ass crack running right through the middle of my heel.  And, just for good measure, Dr. McAwesome (not his real name, but it should be) confirmed I also tore most of the connective tissue in my right foot.  I guess that explains why it hurt to simply live.  Dr. McAwesome told me I needed to wear a knee-high walking boot for six weeks to assist in my recovery.  He also said in a very stern voice, "Now would be a good time to work on your upper body because you are not, under any circumstances, running or doing anything on that foot."  It's amazing how quickly he picked up on my stubbornness.

I did my best to adhere to Dr. McAwesome's orders.  This means I only took off my boot to attend multiple spin classes a week.  (I literally cannot sit still.  It's impossible.)  I wore my boot for six straight, long and awful weeks.  Not only was it really hot, but I quickly became aware of just how many stairs there were in my school and how hard it was to escort my classes from one floor of the building to another.  My kids got really good at doing the Ms. Ferro hobble.  I would have found their gimping around pretty funny if they weren't actually emulating me.  Sigh.

Life with Das Boot was interesting to say the least.  I quickly learned the heel of my cowboy boots gave me the same lift as did Das Boot, so the half cowboy/ half Robo Cop was my footwear game for most of my six weeks of confinement.  That's totally fashion forward, right?  Speaking of fashion, I tried to view Das Boot as an accessory when getting dressed up for my friend Becca's wedding.  I would try on a dress and then send a selfie to my girlfriends asking them which dress complimented Das Boot best.  The answer, of course, was no dress.  There is not a dress in the world that could make Das Boot look like an acceptable accessory for a wedding.  Can't say I didn't try.

I went with the sequined one.  My hope was that the sparkles would distract from Das Boot.  They didn't.

I'm always quick to crack a joke, and I certainly made many about wearing Das Boot.  I tried to laugh off the whole thing, but in real life?  I was miserable.  Not only did I have to hobble around, I couldn't run, hike or even easily go for a walk.  Pretty sure my bulldog gained a few pounds from our abbreviated walks during those six weeks.  Also pretty sure he appreciated the shorter walks.  I was supposed to do a Tough Mudder with my friends at the end of May, but obviously couldn't because of the whole broken foot thing.  I was pretty upset about it, really.  I went with my friends to Vermont anyhow to be part of their cheer squad (AKA Team Boozebag) and immediately faced an obstacle that would have never been such before: mud.  (I know, I know.  Mud at a Tough Mudder: shocking.  I didn't think the whole mountain would be muddy, though!)  If it weren't for my friend Matt carrying me over particularly large patches of mud, I would've had to spend my whole day at the starting line by myself.  So thanks, Matt.  Also, thanks for bringing Gatorade bottles half filled with vodka.  Those helped, too.

Waiting at the Tough Mudder for my friends to show up at some obstacle where they electrocute themselves.  Das Boot is wrapped in at least three plastic bags and I have a big ass walking stick.  In hindsight, I'm kind of winning here compared to the Mudders.

The strange thing hurting your foot and having to wear Das Boot for six weeks is, once that time is up, you're not totally healed.  It's not like I could immediately run 22 miles again.  I mean, my foot still ached, mostly because it had been trapped inside Das Boot for six fucking weeks.  I had limited mobility and a lot less stability on my right foot than I'd had before.  While I wanted to go out and run immediately, I couldn't.  It was so incredibly frustrating.  All I had wanted for six long weeks was to lose Das Boot and, now that it was gone, I still couldn't really do what I wanted to.  Running?  Ha!  I tried it after Day 5 of freedom and it was as embarrassing as it was painful.  I kept going to spin classes to keep up my cardio and started going to yoga to improve my flexibility.  I was itching to run in the worst way, but didn't.  I knew I wasn't ready.

I don't know what it was, but about three weeks post-boot, I just decided it was time to run again.  So I did.  On July 24, I ran 4 miles in 8'40" splits and felt like a damn boss afterwards.  I remember being physically exhausted by that run, but so mentally amped it was silly.  You'd think I'd just run the Boston Marathon or something.  I texted my friends screen shots of my stats from that run and was all, "Boom!  Check me out!  I'm back, bitches!"  Because they are good friends, they congratulated me and then warned me not to push it.  I had just gotten rid of Das Boot and the last thing I wanted was to be put back in it.

In the past few weeks, I've gotten back to running.  I ran a 5 mile race with my friend Mike in a decent time and, last night, even did two back-to-back runs of which I was super proud: 8 miles at a 7'55" average pace (!!!!!!) immediately followed by 1.54 miles at an 8'57" average pace.  (The second run was supposed to be a cool down, but I'm actually stoked on that time.)  Am I anywhere near running a marathon or even a half marathon?  Not in the slightest.  But I will be.  Soon.

I have two ultimate running goals.  First, I want to run a half marathon in under 1 hour, 45 minutes.  Second, I'd like to run a full marathon in under 4 hours.  Both things are absolutely going to happen.  I'm willing to train my ass off, but I learned from my marathon training, and subsequent injury, that I need to work differently.  While it's pretty badass to say I ran the Boston Marathon with a broken foot, I don't need to do that again.  That being said, here are a list of rules I intend to follow to help achieve my goals and to keep my body healthy:

1. Run Less; Go Faster:  Actually, this is kind of a goal, too.  Whatever.  Let's not split hairs, here.  Running excessively actually hurt me; it didn't make me a better, faster funner as I'd hoped.  I'll probably always be worried about re-injuring my heel, so I figure the best way to avoid that is by running less often.  This leads me to Goal 2...

2.  Cross Train:  I need to be stronger and faster if I want to achieve my two running goals.  Especially since I plan on running fewer days (and probably fewer miles overall), this means I will need to cross train the shit of things.  Spinning is great interval training and I'll try to do that once a week at the Handle Bar in South Boston.  (TBT rides with 90's jams?!  Sign me up!)  I'll continue with yoga at South Boston Yoga for flexibility, stretching and strength.  It's kind of unrealistic to think I'll be able to go to a regular spin class and a regular yoga class all while running with Sole Train two days a week after school.  I'll make a weekly commitment to practicing yoga, even if it's sometimes at home.  I also absolutely need to incorporate more hill running and stair sprints, too.  There is a lot of research regarding how stairs and hills are so good for runners, and it's probably about time I listen to some of it.  Hopefully, it will work out so I can go to November Project on Fridays and run (er, shuffle up) Summit Ave with that crazy crew.  If not, Moakley Park in Southie is a great spot for stadiums.

3.  No Back-to-Back Running Days:  Like, ever.  I need to let my foot recover from runs.

4.  Listen to My Body:  I totally expect things to ache and tweak after a workout-- that's all part of the process of becoming stronger and more fit.  It's ok for my body to say, "Ooooh... that feels funny."  Fine.  But when my body starts chronically hurting in the same way?  Yeah, I need to actually stop and give that some attention.  Ignoring my heel pain ultimately led to my injury.  Therefore, I, Alissa Ferro, solemnly swear that I will tough-it-out less and pay attention more.  If I forget about this (and I will), please show me Das Boot as a reminder.

5.  Run for Fun:  I never, ever want to run out of obligation.  I don't need to run, I'm choosing to do so.  I'm so glad I pushed through pain and completed the Boston Marathon.  That was important to me.  But I don't need to do that again.  I think if I follow the four rules above, I will be in a good position to never have to worry about this.  That's the plan, at least.

Reflections from a foul-mouthed marathoner

I ran the 2014 Boston Marathon.

Please put that directly atop the List of Things I Never Thought I'd Type.  (Probably also somewhere on the List of Things I Have No Business Typing.)

But I did it.  All of it.

I actually have no idea how to process this accomplishment.  I mean, I trained outside for months in weather I would otherwise choose to avoid.  I became stronger and more confident than I knew I could be.  I tackled injuries for the first time and learned what it meant to suffer.  (It sucks.)  I logged hundreds of miles and saw my city from an entirely new perspective: from my running shoes.  I loved training.  I hated training.  I called my friends and cried to them about how my foot hurt and how I didn't want to run but felt obligated to run and felt like this whole dream of running a marathon was stupid and I would never be able to do it but I really, really want to do it but I just couldn't.  And, because they are good friends, they listened to my run-on babbling and then kindly told me to shut the fuck up and go running.  And then I loved training again.  The whole process was exhausting.

I must have reminded myself to enjoy the run at least one million times since I started training in November.  Those three words became my marathon mantra.  Enjoy the run.  It occurred to me sometime in one of my first long runs that, while running a lot of miles is challenging and can often lead to some discomfort, it's something I was choosing to do.  I am fortunate enough to have the ability to choose to run.  My legs work.  I have legs.  Although I don't know this for sure, I'd be willing to bet someone confined to a wheelchair would give a lot to have the ability to choose to run.  And I had that choice.  I still do.  Regardless of whether my foot was in pain or whether the temperature was in the teens, I could choose to run.  I vowed not to forget that.  Enjoy the run.  Sometimes I needed to say it once.  Come March, I would spend miles repeating that phrase in my head, trying to essentially trick my body into doing something it was not actually enjoying at the moment.

When it came time to finally run the Boston Marathon, I wasn't convinced my mantra would be enough to carry me from Hopkinton to Boylston Street.  Because of my aching heel, I hadn't run a lot in about three weeks.  People kept saying I was just tapering, but I wasn't buying it.  I wasn't actually tapering, I was hurt.  I was also scared shit-less.  Even while waiting at the Athletes' Village in Hopkinton, I felt helpless.  There were over 26 miles separating me from a goal for which I had been preparing for months and I wasn't even sure I could make it.  I wondered if my students would think less of me if I bailed somewhere in the middle of the marathon.  I thought they might.

I remember pensively walking up to the starting line of the marathon with my friend, James.  We strolled and chatted and nibbled on various energy chews.  I don't normally require additional caffeine, but I figured anything would help that day.  James reminded me to start my GPS watch so it would be ready by the time I reached the starting line.  After a few minutes, both of our GPS watches beeped at the same time, indicating they had a signal and were ready to go.  "Looks like we're on the same cycle," I joked.

James chuckled.  "Yeah, that happens when you spend a lot of time together."

That was the moment I knew I was going to finish the Boston Marathon.

I was en route to the starting line of one of the most prestigious races in the entire world and I was cracking (co-cracking, really) borderline inappropriate menstruation jokes.  This is my comfort zone, folks.  That one joke put me in check in a sense; it righted my ship that, for two months, had been derailed by extraneous annoyances and negativity.  I had become so wrapped up in the idea of achieving personal goals and pushing through pain that I'd forgotten why I decided to run the Boston Marathon in the first place: to have fun.  Nothing about running in both March and April was fun.  I hurt, it was cold and I felt overwhelmed by the emotional gravity of this particular race.  That one lame joke magically alleviated any stress or worry I had about the day or about the marathon.  I remember looking around at all the other runners and thinking to myself I am at the starting line of the Boston fucking Marathon and am about to embark on a 26 mile block party.  This is going to be awesome.

I remember saying good bye and good luck to James and then starting to run.  I could feel my heel with every step I took, but I wasn't worried, really.  Enjoy the run.  I rationalized that I could literally run myself into the ground that day; I could dislocate every joint and rupture every tendon in my body because tomorrow?  Tomorrow I didn't have anything for which I was training.  Today was what mattered.  So I kept running, just sort of trotting along by myself, taking in the sights along the race course and secretly looking for the hottest male runner who was running the same pace as I was.  (What?  Is that wrong?)  I never found him.  Sigh.  I did, however, find a tween-aged girl screaming my name at the top of her lungs somewhere around the Mile 2 marker.  (Side note: my name was on my race shirt.)  I awkwardly smiled at her to silently express gratitude for her somewhat off-putting enthusiasm.  Right before I passed her, she bounced uncontrollably and yelled at me, "Alissa!  That's my name, too.  We have the same name!!!!"  I ran over to her and gave her a huge hug.  Let the games begin, I thought.

The great part about having your name on your shirt is that literally hundreds of random strangers will shout personalized words of encouragement your way.  (Some will go as far as to tell you how fab you look even though you're in the middle of running a marathon.  Pretty sure that's the best-timed flattery, like, ever.)  After hugging the other half of Team Alissa at Mile 2, I made the conscious decision to somehow thank everyone who screamed my name in an effort to will me toward the finish line.  Maybe it's ridiculous, but I could not believe someone, let alone hundreds of someones, would take time and energy out of their day to send me love, all because I decided to run 26 miles.  It's overwhelming.  I felt obligated to thank them all.  I figured high-fiving everyone who said, "Go Alissa!" would be too germy and would potentially slow me down.  After no thought whatsoever, I decided I would flash the hang ten hand symbol to my cheerleaders.  To each and every one of them.  I knew the hang ten hand represented staying loose and enjoying the moment, which seemed more than apropos given my hedonistic approach to the race.  So I ran and, each time I heard someone cheer my name, I curled in my middle three fingers on each hand and rotated my wrists, hoping to reciprocate the positive energy sent my way.  Because of the name on my shirt and the nearly one million screaming fans along the course that day, my arms were pretty tired by Mile 20.  These are good problems I reminded myself and continued with the hang ten hands for the remaining six miles.

I passed Doug Flutie somewhere in Wellesley.  He was unnaturally tan and was wearing American flag board shorts better suited for a frat boy than for a middle aged former quarterback.  Much like the Dropkick Murphys or any Wahlberg brother (excluding Mark), Flutie is one of those Boston-only celebrities.  Pretty sure no one beyond the 495 loop gives a rat's ass about Doug Flutie, but you wouldn't know that if you were running near him during the Boston Marathon.  Flutie was God on Marathon Monday.  People shouted uncontrollably for him and nearly knocked over barriers hoping to get a high five from the former BC golden boy.  It was a little crazy, but I'm glad Flutie extended his 15 minutes of fame for at least another 26.2 miles.  He seemed to be really enjoying himself.

Because of the relatively warm weather, I kept dumping water from the seemingly countless hydration stations on me.  Doing this every other mile or so kept me at the perfect running temperature and, consequently, never made me feel like I was over-exerting myself.  Sure, it was kind of annoying that my wet shirt and shorts were sticking to me, but whatever.  It's not like I was trying to win a beauty pageant or anything, right?  (I probably would have been more concerned about this had I found the hottie with a similar pace.)  I remember entering the 17 mile marker and looking down to make sure my damp shorts hadn't rode up my legs enough to make me look both foolish and skanky.  They hadn't.  What I did notice, however, was that I could see the fleshy color of my legs through my mostly white and then-wet running shorts.  Fuck.  If you could see my legs through the front of my wet shorts, I assumed it was the same in the gluteal region, too.  Fuuuuuuck.  Had I really been giving the Metro West suburbs a free booty show for the past 17 miles?  You bet'cha.  So much for not looking foolish and skanky.  I was understandably embarrassed about this for a bit.  Then, the man running next to me scooted to the side of the road and puked his brains out.  At least I wasn't that guy.  (And, Boston?  You're welcome for 26 miles of dat ass.)

I remember running up a big hill and thinking I was ready to be done running up big hills.  Like immediately.  Despite James' thorough instruction, I forgot how many hills there were in Newton.  I had no idea if I was on Heartbreak Hill at that moment, but I did remember Heartbreak was the last major incline of the race.  (See, James!  I do listen when you tell me things about marathons!  Well, some of the things.)  I decided to ask a police officer my whereabouts:

Me:  Officer, is this Heartbreak Hill?
Officer:  (Looks down, shakes his head and laughs.)  Yes.  This is Heartbreak Hill and you're almost to the top of it.
Me:  (Gazes into the distance and sees many signs proclaiming "You're at the top of Heartbreak Hill!".)  Oh.  I guess I am.  Um... thanks.

I gave that officer a high five.  In fact, I high fived most of the law enforcement officials for the rest of the marathon.  I thought about the array of emotions they must have felt that morning when they got dressed to go to work.  You know, when they were preparing to work an event that, last year, ended when two bombs exploded on Boylston Street.  Were the officers scared?  Worried?  Did they give their kids extra big hugs before they left the house?  I hated how I even had to consider those questions.  I still hate it.

I am the ultimate silver lining-seeker.  I have the special, if not unfortunate, ability to smile and laugh my way through anything.  What that really means is I have no ability to process and handle significant emotions.  I just giggle my way through moments when I should be serious; moments from which I should be learning.  And for most of the Boston Marathon, that's exactly what I did: I ignored the significance of the day, ran my race and enjoyed every step of it.  I saw my friend, Annette, and her wonderful son, Draylin, at the Mile 22 point.  Out of all the signs and all the people crowded in Cleveland Circle, I saw Draylin from about half a block away.  I sprinted toward my little buddy and hugged him as tightly as I could.   Although I had avoided dealing with the feelings from the marathon until that point, they were unavoidable once I embraced Draylin.  I tried really hard not to cry.  It wasn't easy, but I was pretty dehydrated by that point, so that helped. Seeing my tiny friend reminded me the Boston Marathon is not about me.  It never was about me.  That day, that race was all about the people lining the course.  It was about the locals in the Boston Strong t-shirts who, for reasons I don't totally understand, felt like this race was some sort of Phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes moment.  It was about kids like Draylin who dutifully made signs with their parents and then baked in the April sunshine waiting patiently for the five seconds where they would see their favorite runner trot past.  Maybe most significantly, the race was both about and for the people who needed closure from the chaos of last year.  The more I ran, the more I realized the Boston Marathon was merely an event around which over a million very confused people could rally.  In a sense, I was like an extra on the world's largest movie set.  I was ok with this.

I saw my cousin, my students and even my lawyer as I ambled toward Boylston Street.  I shouted "Let's go, Boston!" to the crowd and flailed my arms in their direction as I turned from Hereford onto Boylston.  I was obnoxious.  I didn't care.  I was about to finish the Boston Marathon, which until about four hours prior, was something I didn't think I was going to be able to do.  But then I did it.  Holy shitballs I did it.  Almost immediately after crossing the finish line, I saw Caroline, the organizer of our Tenacity marathon team.  She asked me about the race and I and peppered my immediate reflections with a bunch of f-bombs.  I forgot her husband was getting that all on video.  My bad.  I walked pretty gingerly away from the finish line and toward Arlington Street where I knew my dad was waiting.  I remember looking up at the tall buildings and thinking how comforting and familiar they were in that moment.  I grabbed one of the protein recovery drinks a volunteer offered to me.  I remembered how much I hated protein drinks.  I wanted to find my dad.

I'm lucky.  Not only did I run the entire 2014 Boston Marathon, but I spent the remainder of Marathon Monday laughing and celebrating with my dad and with a collection of people I am so thankful to have as friends.  There was a moment after the race where the whole group of us were relaxing and enjoying some beers on perhaps the most baller rooftop deck in all of Boston.  (Just in case the day wasn't badass enough, there was a penthouse overlooking the Commons thrown in the mix.  I can't.)  My dad and I were standing off to the side, looking out at the city's skyline.  "It's hard to believe all this," my dad began.  "In the past two months, my son got a first ascent in the Argentinian Patagonia, my daughter just ran the Boston Marathon and Union College won a national friggin championship."  (The Ferro family loves us some Union College hockey.)  He shook his head in disbelief.

"And don't forget you retired, too," I reminded him.

"Whoa."

For me, running the 2014 Boston Marathon sort of comes down to what my dad observed: life is good.  In a few weeks, I'll start to forget exactly what happened on race day.  The details will blur and the excitement from the event will have faded.  The world will keep spinning, just as it always has.  And life will still be good.  I'll still have my family, my friends, my city and the ability to choose to run.  I'm sure I'll find some new goal to tackle and I'll dive right into that.  Because I can.  Because life is more than good.  It's pretty fucking awesome, actually.

Baller roof deck.  The greatest friends and father on the planet.  Finisher medal.  Post-run Sam Adams.  Oh... and a crown.  (Obvs.)  I may not have won the Boston Marathon, but I totally won Marathon Monday.

Back to the Blog

I've been a totally delinquent blogger recently.  I'm sorry.  It won't happen again.  (It will absolutely happen again.)  It's not that I haven't had a lot to say over the past two months; I have.  I've been running longer distances and, therefore, allowing my brain more time to aimlessly wander.  I've thought about the people who inspire me.  I've reflected on how absolutely honored I am to have the opportunity to run the Boston Marathon, especially this year.  And, if I'm bring honest?  I've thought way too much about the post-marathon celebration I will have with my friends.  I guess I'm motivated by booze and revelry.  It could be worse.

It's just that I haven't enjoyed running these past two months and I don't really want to talk about it (er, write about it).  In fact, I've actually hated running at times.  I've always taken a hedonist's approach to running: I run because I enjoy it.  I love challenging myself, and running has always been a great way for me to do that.  I will never forget the first time I ran from my house to the point of UMass Boston and back-- a whopping four miles.  It didn't matter that I walked almost as much as I ran, I felt like a million bucks.  So I kept running.  I just kept adding miles and going farther because I wanted to; because it was some sort of fucked up version of fun for me.  I loved my first half marathon because I felt stronger than I ever had before.  Crossing that finish line (with my student, Naim, nonetheless) was one of the most incredible experiences of my life.  Not only did I accomplish something I didn't think I was capable of doing, but I helped a pretty incredible tween do it, too.  Like whoa.  

I was able to continue being a hedonist in running shoes for the first few months of training for the Boston Marathon.  It was great: I'd pick a distance I wanted to run, lace up my flashy pink sneakers and then go out and do it.  Simple.  Sometimes, I'd create these little tests for myself.  Think I can run from my house to Harvard and back?  So I would.  It was a blast.  I had awesome music, I was outside and I could see the skyline of my beautiful city.  Polar Vortex be damned, those runs were awesome.

I don't really know what happened, but sometime around early February, my right heel started to ache a little bit.  Like every other slight pain I've had, I ignored it.  I kept doing my weekend long runs and I kept kicking ass.  Then, around my second or third eighteen-mile run, my heel morphed from an annoyance into a thing.  Not only did it hurt every step of every run, but it left me virtually unable to walk when I woke up in the morning.  Fabulous.  Despite hours of stretching, bottles (yes, plural) of ibuprofen and even sleeping in a boot at night, my heel still hurt like a angry, angry bitch.

My brother once explained to me there are three types of fun.  Type 1 fun is an activity you do because you thoroughly enjoy it.  You look forward to the task, love it in the moment and are stoked on it afterwards.  Type 2 fun is something you don't particularly love when you are knee deep in it, but is one you can learn from and be thankful for when all is said and done.  Type 3 fun, on the other hand, isn't really fun at all.  Something that is Type 3 fun is an activity you feel like you should enjoy, but you really kind of loathe.  Nothing good comes from Type 3 fun except for maybe the ability to check something off a bucket list.  For me, running quickly became Type 3 fun once things started to hurt.  Suddenly, I wasn't running because I wanted to-- I was doing it out of obligation.  And really?  All I was learning from those runs was that my foot really fucking hurt and, because I was favoring it, the knee in my other leg was starting to really fucking hurt, too.  Terrific.  But I kept running.  I had to do more than eighteen miles because I was training for the Boston Marathon.  It sucked.

I didn't really know how to handle hating running.  I know this sounds insane, but in a way, I felt like the one activity that made me feel strong and invincible was betraying me.  For the first time, running had let me down; it had hurt me.  (Also?  Running was breaking my heart two months away from the Boston Marathon.  That's kind of like leaving me at the altar a few short weeks before our wedding.  Running can be such a dick.)  I felt helpless and weak and was probably more than a little bit whiney.  Sorry.  There was about a week where I secretly hoped I would tear my ACL or develop some other hard core injury so I wouldn't have to run Boston and could maybe stop hobbling around all the time.  God, that sounds pathetic.  I guess most of the reason I stopped blogging about my training was because I just wanted to stop running all together.  Writing about running meant spending extra time thinking about something I had grown to hate.  I just couldn't do it.

It wasn't until I read this blog post in early April that I began to regain some of that optimism I had back in my early months of training.  I had a pretty substantial swollen spot on the top of my right foot (the same foot with the heel pain).  Thanks to this miraculous blog post, I learned the swelling in my foot was an inflamed tendon... and it was the result of tying my shoes incorrectly.  (I know.  I thought I had mastered that in kindergarten, too.)  Apparently, some people aggravate this tendon when they run long distances.  The solution?  Loop your shoelace through the far hole at the top of your shoe and tie your laces on the outside edge of your sneaker instead of in the middle.  (My friend, Annette, calls this "the fat people way to tie shoes".)  Yes, it's actually that simple.  My foot felt better almost instantly once I made these minor changes.  No lie: instant gratification.  Suddenly walking hurt less which meant running hurt less, too.  It also meant one of the nagging pains I had recently acquired was no longer an issue.  Maybe I would be able to run this marathon after all.

Currently, my right heel aches and my left knee is super sore.  But you know what?  My heel feels better than it has in a while and I have a series of stretches I do that seem to help ease the pain a tiny bit.  My knee is still pretty uncomfortable and I have a noticeable gimp when I start running, but I think it's something that can be improved with a few days of serious foam rolling.  (Also, the knee feels a lot better with an unhealthy dose of ibuprofen.  So I'll totally be doing that on Marathon Monday.)  Am I in the condition I want to be to run the Boston Marathon?  Not even close.  However, I'm fairly confident my body will be able to carry me all the way from Hopkinton to Boston on Monday.  It may not happen as fast as I'd like it to, but at this point?  I'll take it.

(Side note:  I stopped keeping track of my mileage and times once I started hating running.  So no more data.)

From Ancient Greece to Sherlock Holmes (sort of)

Have you every heard of Pheidippides?  No, well let me drop some history on you.  Back in 490 BC, Pheidippides ran 24.85 miles (40 km) from Marathon, Greece to Athens to announce the Greek's victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon.  (This, folks, is why the race is called a marathon.  Teaching: it's what I do even when I'm not working.)  Legend has it that Pheidippides collapsed and died immediately after delivering the good news to the Athenians.  Yup, homeboy ran a marathon and promptly kicked the bucket.  Maybe this was a sign.  Regardless, people continued running marathons centuries after Pheidippides did it and bit it, but at the 24.85-mile distance (or something close to that).

Cue the 1908 Olympic Games in London.  The marathon course for that event began at Windsor Castle, which as you may have guessed, is 26 miles away from the finish line at Olympic Stadium in London.  Initially, the runners were supposed to enter Olympic Stadium through the royal gate and then dash to the finish line from there.  But noooooo.  Her Royal Highness Queen Alexandra decided ending the marathon in this manner would give her an inadequate view of the finish.  Apparently, the Queen decreed the runners should enter the stadium through the other gate, run counterclockwise around the Olympic track and finish right in front of the royal viewing box.  This would add another two-tenths of a mile to the already long run, but c'est la vie.  It's not like HRH was running anyhow, so what did she care?  The race went off according to the royal requests and, fortunately for Queen Alexandra, she had a VIP view of a dramatic finish between American John Hayes and Italian cannoli-filling pastry chef Dorando Pietri.

My favorite author of all time, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (of Sherlock Holmes fame), was a journalist for the Daily Mail of London during the 1908 Olympics and was assigned to cover the marquee event for those Games: the marathon.  Doyle described the palpable anticipation in the stadium that day when he wrote, "Every eye in the great curved bank of humanity is fixed upon the gap.  What blazoning will show up on that dust-stained jersey-- the red maple leaf, the blue and yellow, the Stars and Stripes, or the simple numbers of the Britons?"  However, it wasn't a Canadian or a Swede who entered the stadium first: it was Pietri, an Italian.  Doyle recalled, "Out of the dark archway there staggered a little man, with red running-drawers, a tiny boy-like creature.  He reeled as he entered and faced the roar of the applause.  Then he feebly turned to the left and trotted around the track."  This is some of the best- and most hilarious- sports reporting I've ever read.  Ever.  Suck it, Rick Reilly.

Pietri was apparently so exhausted and disoriented toward the end of the race that he collapsed five times after he entered Olympic Stadium.  Rather than have an athlete fail in front of the Queen, race officials rushed to Pietri's aid and helped him cross the finish line in first place.

Sweet hat, Dorando.

John Hayes, from the United States, crossed the finish line soon after Pietri.  Unlike the Italian, though, Hayes completed the race without being having to be held up like a drunk college girl leaving a bar.  Hayes protested the results and was eventually awarded the gold medal.

The parallels between Pheidippides' original marathon and Pietri's run in the 1908 London Games are uncanny.  Both were unexpected victors of sorts.  The Persian army far outnumbered the Greek forces at the Battle of Marathon, yet the Greeks prevailed.  Similarly, Pietri was the lone Italian to finish the race in London.  In contrast, there were five Americans who completed the 1908 Olympic marathon and seven others that dropped out of the event somewhere before reaching Olympic Stadium.  Pheidippides made it all the way from Marathon to Athens only to collapse and perish.  Pietri ran two miles more than his Greek predecessor, but still met the same fate: the ground.  (Well, Pheidippides wound up six feet under.  Pietri just fell on the turf a few times.  That's probably a distinction I should clarify.)

Maybe there's a lesson to be learned from both Pheidippides' and Pietri's marathon runs.  The obvious takeaway is that running a marathon is fucking nuts and you will either die, or come damn close to doing so, if you attempt the race.  I mean, that's certainly a logical conclusion based on our evidence here.  But I don't think that's it.  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about Pietri, "...little red legs going incoherently, but drumming hard, driven by a supreme will within....  It is horrible, and yet fascinating, this struggle between a set purpose and an utterly exhausted frame."  Running a marathon is indeed fucking nuts.  However, accomplishing such a feat is also a prime example of the power of the human spirit.  People are not built to run for 26 miles.  (Maybe some Kenyans are natural marathoners, but everyday, normal people?  Not so much.)  Perhaps the draw to training for and running a marathon is what Doyle saw in an exhausted Pietri: the determination to achieve something seemingly impossible.

The tension between physical limitations and mental bravado is something an athlete of any caliber needs to tackle.  For me, when I first started running, I would get tired and that was it.  My body would win and my run would be over.  But the more I ran, the more I found myself negotiating between what my body was telling me (stop running) and what my mind was pushing me to do (keep going).  Now that I am running upwards of 18 miles at a time, I find I am more like Pietri now than I was back when I was running only a mile or two.  The length and speed of my runs are now determined partially by my physical fitness, but mostly by my mental disposition.  Of course it's difficult to run 18 miles and I'm not prepared, at this point, to go much farther-- but I will be, soon.  The last few miles of any long run are always challenging.  Things start to ache, joints start to tweak and you get really, really, really hungry.  (I can't be the only one who has end-of-run burrito fantasies, right?)  But you keep your body in a steady rhythm and push the aches and tweaks and burrito dreams out of your head in order to make room for the motivational thoughts you'll need to finish the task at hand.  I got this fills my brain at about Mile 10 and I know I can achieve whatever goal I set out to conquer on that particular run.  Call it cocky, but I'd like to think it's that "supreme will within" Doyle saw in Pietri as the Italian was collapsing at Olympic Stadium.

After watching Pietri cross the finish line in London, Doyle remarked, "The great breed is not yet extinct."  The most remarkable, most awe-inspiring people I know of are not marathoners.  They are teachers.  They are rock climbers.  They are single mothers raising strong and independent daughters.  They are people who fall down and get back up with a vengeance, because what is a handicap anyhow?  These great people, Pietri and Pheidippides included, seem to have one thing in common: determination.  Regardless of their set purposes, the humans I admire most push themselves beyond their own limitations and far beyond mediocrity.  They are all so incredibly dedicated.  These amazing, everyday people have taught me success is a habit.  It's not about who gets to the finish line first, but rather success is the character traits you develop with each and every step you take towards achieving your goal.  Success is determination.  It's persistence.  It's the commitment to creating a better version of yourself each and every day.

Have no fear, Sir Doyle: the great breed is still very much alive.

By the Numbers:

Distance Tuesday (01/28): 4.52 miles (with Tayvian from Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 50 minutes (11'01" splits)
Distance Wednesday (01/29): 10.16 miles
Time Wednesday: 1 hour, 25 minutes (8'21" splits)
Distance Thursday (01/30): 2.51 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 31 minutes (12'18" splits)
Distance Saturday (02/01): 18.01 miles (PR distance!)
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 37 minutes (8'43" splits)
Distance Monday (02/06): 7.18 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Monday: 1 hour
Distance Tuesday (02/07): 2.17 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 25 minutes (11'20" splits)
Distance Wednesday (02/08): 3.5 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Wednesday: 30 minutes
Distance Saturday (02/08): 16 miles (with James from Tenacity Marathon Team)
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 17 minutes (8'32" splits)

Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 341.09 miles

Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 54 hours, 18 minutes (2 days, 6 hours, 18 minutes)

(Post Script:  At about Mile 13 of my run today, I accidentally stepped on a ball of ice and twisted my ankle.  It hurt.  It hurt a lot, actually.  But I kept thinking about Pietri and what Doyle wrote about him in the London Daily Mail.  I could have quit my run at that point, but I kept going, determined to reach the 16 mile goal I set out to achieve.  I kept thinking If Sir Doyle were reporting about me, what would he write?  I wanted to make sure he would see me persevere instead of succumb to injury.  Yes, I am motivated by a guy who's been dead since 1930.  That's probably pretty weird.  I'm icing my ankle now.)

Look what I did!

I know I just posted earlier today, but I just realized something: I ran almost 50 miles this week!  (49.5 miles to be exact.)  I didn't even know I could do that!  I didn't set out to achieve that goal... it kind of happened, really.  I just ran a lot.  Only recently I boasted that a thirty mile week made me feel like a gangsta.  So how does an almost FIFTY mile week make me feel?  Like a total fucking badass.  (And also really, really tired.  But mostly like a badass.)

Distance Sunday (01/26): 6.41 miles
Time Saturday: 54 minutes (8'28" splits)

Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 277.04 miles

Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 44 hours, 43 minutes (1 day, 20 hours, 43 minutes)

I'm a bro?

Maybe because it's because I spend a lot of time in South Boston (AKA Southie; AKA Allston v.2.0), but I feel like there are way more bros now than I can ever remember there being.  I went to grade school and high school with a bunch of nerds for whom crew and homework were the most competitive sports.  After high school, I traded the New York born-and-bred dorks for the international rich kids that made up most of Boston University's student body.  Instead of your typical beer-chugging, Greek letter-wearing, unfortunate beer gut-growing college dudes, BU had a bunch of prissy foreigners with well-stamped passports and Gucci handbags.  I think it's because BU didn't have a football team that it didn't attract typical collegiate meatheads.  Well, that's not entirely true.  There were are few of your classic college jock/bros at BU, but they were all on the hockey team.  Since they only wore their scarlet and white team gear, they were easy to identify and subsequently avoid.  Even after college, I was fortunate enough to magically skirt around the Brighton neighborhoods that housed all the Boston College polo wearing dudes with their popped collars.

My good luck all changed, though, when I moved to the southeast side of the city.

Southie is notoriously Whitey Bulger's old stomping grounds.  It has a rich history of townies, corruption and some sort of bastardized Irish culture.  (From what I can gather, Irish culture in Southie is all about shamrock tattoos and binge drinking.  I'm pretty sure you don't need legitimate Irish heritage to be considered Irish in Southie.  I don't get it, either.)  Once Whitey fled town, the yuppies took to Southie like a BU kid to a Burberry scarf.  In the early 2000's, they relocated from downtown to Southie en mass and gentrified the living shit out of what was once a gritty, industrialized hotbed of organized crime.  The yuppies polished away the dirt and flipped crumbling triple deckers into overpriced condos.  Slowly, the townie bars were replaced by trendy gastropubs.  Beers such as PBR that, only months prior, were choice townie brews were now poured ironically for the yuppies.  Southie was suddenly safe, fresh and very, very hip.  However, over the past few years, the yuppies have stared to breed like rabbits.  Babies are everywhere.  Although I can't say this with any certainty, Southie has to have the highest number of strollers per capita in all of Boston.

The South Boston Baby Boom of 2010-2013 meant the yuppies suddenly started drinking wine and cheese at home instead of dining out at the local spots.  Cue the Great Bro Migration.  A bro, by definition, is a quintessential all-American douchebag, ages 22-28.  (Note to bros: you need to stop being a bro on your 29th birthday.  REALLY.  Girls start to make fun of your bro-ness after that point.)  Bros love babes, beers, sports and themselves.  They are this bizarre subculture that measures success by how little they remember from last evening's drinking sesh.  They talk a lot about going to the gym, and, for some of them, you can see why.  About half of the bros have chiseled muscles they just love to showcase in a too-small t-shirt.  (I mean, they have to contribute something positive, I suppose.)  The other half of the bros are these doughy white boys who try to cover up their beer bellies with plaid button downs or hoodies.  I love to make fun of bros, mostly because they wreak of Axe and they take up all the space at the bars I like to frequent.  But here's the thing: bros are smart as Hell.  The Great Bro Migration happened because suddenly, there were seats available at all these really great Southie bars and restaurants.  The yuppies had to be home tending to their babies, not out on the town.  The bros ditched Allston for Southie, filled these vacated seats, brought other bros, and viola!  Hot spot Southie is now Bro Town.

Ok, I'm ranting.  A lot.  (But you did learn a little Boston history, so you're welcome.)  I think I like to complain about the bros partially because I am afraid I am subconsciously adopting some of their awful mannerisms, specifically their cockiness.  An essential part of a bro's douchebaggery is his over-inflated ego.  Yo, I can totally bang that chick.  I just pounded 17 Jack and diets-- like a boss!  We own this bar, bruh.  It's just obnoxious.

I'm worried I am becoming obnoxious, too.  Here is an excerpt from a conversation I had yesterday with a co-worker:

Co-Worker: You going running later?
Me:  Yeah.
Co-Worker:  How many miles today?
Me:  Just eight.
Co-Worker:  Just eight?
Me:  Wow.  I didn't realize how douchey that sounded.  Sorry.

It's amazing how the addition of the word just to my response changed an otherwise benign reply into such a cocky, condescending comment.  I'm not going to run eight miles, I going to run just eight miles.  The implication, therefore, is I typically run way more than eight miles and such a distance is pithy and laughable.  Psssh, you can't run eight miles?  I eat eight miles for breakfast.  Again, I'm so sorry.  I love running and I often run with non-marathoners.  I genuinely admire anyone who puts effort into anything that will make them a healthier, happier person.  I don't really care if someone runs one mile or twenty six of them: it's the effort that is admirable.  But there I was, talking with a co-worker who just had back surgery, claiming I was going to run just eight miles.  I'm an ass.  Or maybe a bro.

As I was logging my just eight miles, I thought about the bros.  So much of what I don't like about them is what I've come to value in myself.  I mentioned before about how I loathe the bros' cockiness-- and I do.  But trust me: it takes a very healthy dose of ego if you are a regular person who thinks they can successfully complete a marathon.  I spend a lot of my run playing head games with myself.  If I am feeling sluggish, slow or generally tired during a training run, I will start to inflate my own ego a bit.  I envision myself running along the Boston Marathon course- which is of course lined with spectators watching me- and I'll suddenly find some extra energy.  I can be such a show off.  I'll look at my running watch, see what pace I am at, and then run the next mile like I'm racing someone else: I have to beat them.  And, more often than not, my splits drop and I win the fictitious challenge.  When running gets really though, I'll blast Drake or Lil' Wayne through my headphones and adopt their Kanye-like egos.  You may be 25 sitting on 25 mill, Drake, but watch me blow right by you.  How's that for YOLO, bitch?  (Side note:  I am unfortunately not kidding about any of this.  You spend a lot of time by yourself when training for a marathon.  It gets pretty weird.)

Now that I'm thinking about it, I really need to apologize to my friends.  I know you are all super supportive of me running the Boston Marathon and I genuinely appreciate you asking about my runs.  I also know I ramble about the idiosyncrasies of my training runs and I'm sure you could care less about them.  (Also, I've started to discuss my aching toes a lot.  That's totally not ok.  I'm sorry.)  I am officially giving you freedom to call me out when I go on and on and on about running.  Let's have a code word: bro.  When I get too marathon-y in our discussions, just stop me, look at me and say bro.  That should shut me up.  If it doesn't, then just steer me towards the bar and I'll pound Jack and diets with the dudes in the tiny tees.

I've been doing a ton of running lately, so here is a lot of data.  (I'm sure I'm missing a run or two in here, but oh well.):

Distance Saturday (01/04): 5.37 miles (on snowshoes!)

Time Saturday: 2 hours, 35 minutes (It's snowshoes, people.  It's slow-going.)

Distance Monday (01/06): 6.98 miles (on a treadmill)

Time Monday:  1 hour

Distance Wednesday (01/08): 8.47 miles 

Time Wednesday: 1 hours, 11 minutes (8'24" splits)
Distance Monday (01/13): 15.01 miles
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 12 minutes (8'47" splits)
Distance Tuesday (01/14): 2.81 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 33 minutes (11'48" splits)
Distance Thursday (01/16): 2.55 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 32 minutes (12'23" splits)
Distance Friday (01/17): 8.04 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 10 minutes (8'41" splits)
Distance Saturday (01/18): 6.5 miles (in the snow with Team Tenacity)
Time Saturday: 55 minutes (9'06" splits)
Distance Monday (01/20): 17 miles (PR distance!)
Time Monday: 2 hours, 29 minutes (8'47" splits)
Distance Wednesday (01/22): 7.06 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Wednesday: 1 hour
Distance Friday (01/24): 8.43 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 10 minutes (8'19" splits)
Distance Saturday (01/25): 10.6 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 32 minutes (8'42" splits)

Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 270.63 miles

Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 43 hours, 49 minutes (1 day, 19 hours, 49 minutes)

Welcome to the Year of the Badass

For better or worse, I am totally one of those people who makes resolutions each and every new year.  I've been ritualistic about it in the past: I used to write my goals for the new year on pieces of fancy paper, hide them in my jewelry box and revisit them a few times throughout the year.  The only problem with that process is I'd spend a ton of money on awesome paper and then forget my resolutions.  Also, since I always resolve to save more money, buying expensive paper pretty much ensured I was starting off the new year doing the opposite of what I hoped to achieve financially.  Whoops.  Writing these New Years resolutions felt cleansing and promising in the moment, but it wasn't.  The whole process was a facade.  My goals looked really pretty written on pulpy, hand made paper crafted by starving children in Indonesia (or something like that) but they were merely different versions of the same cliched resolutions: save money, get in shape, find a boyfriend.  New year, same shit.

Then, as 2011 was turning into 2012, my amazing friend Jesse decided to shake up this whole New Years resolution business.  "2012 will be the Year of the Baller," Jesse declared sometime in late 2011.  What is a baller, you ask?  Urban Dictionary defines the term as any thug who is living large.  Jesse's idea behind the Year of the Baller was to get us to live large, too.  (Maybe Jesse wanted us to be thugs as well, but he wasn't clear about that at the onset.  Also, I keep picturing Allen Iverson when I think about thugs.  No offense to The Answer, but I don't think he and I have similar ideas regarding thug life.  Although, come to think of it, Mr. Iverson should resolve to save some money in the new year, too.  Just sayin'.)  Essentially, Jesse wanted to motivate us to live in the moment; to have fun and to not dwell so much on consequences when making choices about what we wanted to do.  For example, I dined at not one, but TWO three Michelin star restaurants in 2012, one of which was the French Laundry.  Then, a week later, I hiked my first 14,000 foot mountain peak.  Baller.  (I also started running, which was kind of cool, too.)  When she wasn't globetrotting, Melissa put most NFL defenders to shame while simultaneously putting a bunch of blondes in their place.  Angela got her dream job and we all got to see Sarah kill it on stage in a Project Y play.  Jesse bought a house and a hot tub and we've all been straight tubbing ever since.  Baller, baller, baller, baller.  So much of the Year of the Baller was about choosing to ball out together.  My friends and I spent more time with each other in 2012 than we ever had before.  Naturally, we had more fun than we'd had in years prior.  We also saw Boyz II Men live... for the first time.  The Year of the Baller was all about making spontaneous choices to live our lives to the fullest, consequences be damned.  I spent too much money, drank too much champagne, never slept enough and had more fun than I could have ever imagined.  Sure, I made a ton of poor choices, but I don't regret them because those decisions were made keeping in mind the mantra What would a baller do?  2012 taught me to think less and act more.  It was wonderful.

This is how we kicked off the Year of the Baller.  

Since the Year of the Baller was such a success, my friends and I deemed 2013 the Year of the List.  The plan was that we would all achieve a different goal each month of the year.  Our list items ranged from practical (save more money) to random (re-learn Zorba the Greek on the trumpet) to downright silly (make a viral YouTube video).  While we all conquered a handful of our twelve goals, none of us were able to check them all off the list.  I ran a half marathon, went to at least one new baseball stadium and drove across the country to live in Colorado with my brother for five weeks.  While those things are pretty rad, that's only three out of twelve items.  Maybe the Year of the List failed because it was overwhelming or maybe because we weren't reminded of the things we set out to achieve in 2013.  Despite the fact that we had a color coded Google doc itemizing each of our list items for the year, we never held each other accountable for what we wrote in that spreadsheet.  This was basically the electronic equivalent of my hiding my new years resolutions in my jewelry box as I had done before.  

We needed 2014 to hit with a vengeance.  Thankfully, Jesse coined 2014 the Year of the Badass.  (For clarification, a badass is similar to a baller, but just without the necessity of spending a lot of money.  Allen Iverson, take note.)  Being a baller in 2012 was such a success because it wasn't about achieving specific things, but more about changing the way we thought and behaved.  The Year of the Baller worked because we acted like ballers as often as possible: we were thugs who lived large.  Well, we were still us, which is quite un-thugish, but we lived larger than we ever had before.  So that's progress.  The Year of the Badass has potential for the very same reasons.  Referring back to our pal Urban Dictionary, badass is defined as someone who radiates confidence in everything he does.  A badass carves his own path and does what he wants, when he wants, where he wants.  Maybe 2014 is about charging after what we want instead of just going for it.  Maybe I don't really care this year about doubt, about failing or even about succeeding, necessarily.  If this year is all about being a badass, then maybe everything needs to be done with a tinge of reckless abandon and maybe I don't care if that is a good decision or not.  

Urban Dictionary also says a badass is an ultra-cool motherfucker.  Happy 2014.  Here's to becoming the most badass, ultra-cool motherfucking versions of the ballers we already are.

Holiday Data:
Distance Saturday (12/28): 6.71 miles
Time Thursday: 58 minutes (8'39 splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 171.81 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 27 hours, 30 minutes (1 day, 3 hours, 30 minutes)