Maybe it's the holidays or maybe it's the egg nog, but I'm getting seriously sappy thinking about the awesome collection of people I am lucky enough to call my family. I mean, I spent the morning making pasta with my dad and joking with my sisters. Now, I am having a "writing sesh" with my brother. ("Writing sesh" for me means blogging, sometimes about running. For my brother, it means assembling a scrapbook displaying his global rock climbing adventures. He will later give this scrapbook to my parents. It's his annual yuletide trump card.) Either way, it's not even noon and I feel drunk on happiness and family love. I could go on and on describing my wonderful and unique and downright rad family members, but today is all about Grandpa.
To put it simply: Grandpa is the fucking man. I don't really know how else to sum him up. (Sorry, Grandpa, for using a curse word. Fucking, when used as an adjective, is a superlative: it indicates something really, really awesome or something really, really terrible [awesome, in this instance]. It's a word you use when no other word will do; when no other word is good enough. So calling you the fucking man really means Grandpa, you are a man whose wonderful qualities are superior to those of other men. Now that you're hip to the modern vernacular, let's continue.)
In my mind, my grandfather is tall; taller than most other grandpas I've met. (I'm also 5'1", so my view is skewed.) Because he's also generally quiet, Grandpa sometimes seems stoic. He's not. While Grandpa isn't a chatterbox like my grandmother, he is relatively conversational. But he is also a fantastic listener. Grandpa loves to hear about all of our adventures. Whether we are living at the top of a mountain waiting for enough snow to open Mt. Crested Butte (my Uncle Tom), driving across the country and being a migrant laborer to pay the way to the next stop (my mother) or climbing up the baddest rock walls in the Argentinian Patagonia (my brother), Grandpa is eager to hear all about it. The best part is he's so genuinely excited for us. Proud of us, too. For the past two generations, my various family members and I have ventured down some of the more random, bizarre and sometimes physically demanding roads life has to offer. Each and every time, Grandpa has stood on the sidelines, unfazed, cheering us on in his own quiet way.
Grandpa is amazing because he is our biggest supporter. He's also the most kindhearted person, too. If Grandpa notices the treads on your tires are looking a little, well, bare, it's not uncommon for him to show up with a new set of Michelins for you. Really. I'm pretty sure 75% of what occupies Grandpa's brain is how he can help others. 10% of his thoughts are probably related to his extensive group of friends and the remaining 15% is spent thinking about tennis. And that brings me to the Boston Marathon.
Two or three years ago, I donated a small amount to Tenacity as a Christmas gift for Grandpa. I heard Tenacity was this Boston-based after school program that taught city kids how to play tennis. I knew Grandpa would love that. You see, my grandfather is super into tennis. I don't know how the son of Polish immigrants ever got into the sport, but Grandpa didn't stop playing once he started. Tennis was always a part of Grandpa: if he wasn't doing something for one of us, chances are Grandpa could be found at the local racquet club, probably playing his second match of the day. Although Grandpa is too humble to ever say it, my grandfather was regularly firing aces past guys significantly younger than him. He was pretty bad ass. (Side note: is firing aces even a tennis term?) This September, I was pleasantly surprised to find Tenacity was setting up shop at the school where I teach. I remembered the donation I had made a few years prior and knew Tenacity was a program with which I would want to be involved in some way, shape or form. Yes, Tenacity is amazing for my students and I would love the program regardless, but supporting Tenacity was kind of my way of doing something for Grandpa, too.
I was pretty psyched when I found out I was running the Boston Marathon for Tenacity. I don't think I could motivate myself to train for and run 26 miles for a charity that didn't tug at my heart strings a little bit and matter to me and to my students. I learned from Grandpa that success comes when you are all in. My grandfather does everything with a full heart. He doesn't know how to half-ass things, and I hope to God/ Allah/ The Illuminati I've inherited that quality, too.
I think a lot about my students when I run. Ultimately, they are the reason I got into distance running and they will be the direct benefactors of my Marathon fundraising efforts. But, recently, I've been thinking more about Grandpa. Grandpa is almost 90 now, and until about six months ago, he played tennis three days a week. (In reality, he played twice on one of those days, so we should probably just call it four days of tennis a week.) A hernia operation sidelined Grandpa, but let's not forget that, at age 89, my grandfather could have probably kicked your ass in straight sets. He could have absolutely smoked me off the court anyhow. If, at age 32, I'm even half the athlete my grandfather was in his mid-80's, I should be able to do ok running this marathon. I know Grandpa will be proud of me regardless.
Late December Data:
Distance Thursday (12/19): 2.31 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 28 minutes (12' splits)
Distance Saturday (12/21): 13.1 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 55 minutes (8'46" splits)
Distance Tuesday (12/24): 11.3 miles
Time Tuesday: 1 hour, 41 minutes (8'52" splits)
Distance Friday (12/27): 4.42 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Friday: 35 minutes (8'33" splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 165.1 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 26 hours, 32 minutes (1 day, 2 hours, 32 minutes)
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
I feel like a runner
This is not what you want your iPhone to display minutes before you head outside for a run:
Unless I am skiing or snowshoeing, I want to stay indoors if the temperature is below the legal drinking age. Makes sense, really. But this?! This morning's temperature was just barely the age required to drive. Who in their right mind says, "It's only sixteen degrees. Sounds like a great time to spend an hour and a half outdoors without wearing a jacket"?
Oh wait. I say that.
Not only did I run in the bitter freaking cold on Saturday, but I did it at ten in the morning. (I just checked Hell. It has not yet frozen over. I was surprised, too.) This is all James' fault. James is one of my Tenacity marathon teammates who happens to live relatively close to me. Just over a week ago, we pegged Saturday as the day we would meet up for a training run. I know this is winter in New England and the cold is something to be expected. I get that. But it's always a shock to the system when you are mentally prepared to do something outdoors, but, in the short time required to take your dog out in the morning, your wet hair freezes into curly icicles. Not cool. So yeah, that's kind of how it was on Saturday.
In hindsight, I'm super glad James and I had planned to run together. There would have been at least a 50% chance of me bailing on the run if James wasn't keeping me accountable. Running partners help-- especially in crappy weather. Good to know. Also, running in the morning is not the worst thing ever. It's still not the greatest, but maybe it's a habit I should get into. I probably won't do it, but it's a thought.
I enjoyed my run with James a lot, despite the weather. First of all, James is a great dude (despite the fact that he graduated from Boston College) with a ton of marathon experience. He's a chronic over-planner when it comes to marathon training. I, on the other hand, am taking the hippie non-planning approach to this whole thing. It was good for me to talk to James and basically learn that I am at a fine place with my running mileage and splits. Also, James is way faster a runner than I am. Like, way faster. This is a good thing because it pushed me more than I would have otherwise. We started off running kind of slowly (9'24" split for the first mile) and then stepped it up each mile after that. We totally crushed the last mile, doing it in a 7'39" split. Do you see how that first digit is a seven? A freaking SEVEN. Whaaaaaaatttt? (Side note: I also learned this is called negative splits when you go faster each mile. I now know a running term. Thanks, James!)
While we were running around Castle Island, James noted, "Wow. It's only the hard core runners out here today." He was right. There were a lot of people in techie-looking gear and flashy, neon sneakers. Also, most of these people seemed to be running really quickly and totally knew what they were doing. They had clearly run in the freezing cold before and probably liked it, too. Jerks. Nevertheless, the hard core runners gave us the friendly head nod as they jogged by. I appreciated that. Their gesture prompted me to ask James, "Are we hard core, too?"
You know what? Maybe we are just a little hard core. I don't know if I will ever love running in temperatures under legal drinking age, but I certainly don't hate it. At least now I know a less-than-desirable weather report won't demote me to the treadmill. (Unless it's icy. I'm way too clumsy to navigate around ice without totally busting my ass.) Saturday's run was the first time I ever felt like a legitimate runner. Maybe it was the weather, or the negative splits, or the hard core simply acknowledging my presence (could be that I'm training for the Boston Marathon) but yeah-- I'm a runner. Crazy.
Data from my lazy week:
Distance Monday (12/09): 6.0 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Monday: 54 minutes (9' splits)
Distance Tuesday (12/10): 1.4 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Sunday: 30 minutes (too slow to even calculate splits)
Distance Saturday (12/14): 9.92 miles (with James)
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 25 minutes (8'32" splits... with a PR mile pace!)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 133.97 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 21 hours, 53 minutes
Unless I am skiing or snowshoeing, I want to stay indoors if the temperature is below the legal drinking age. Makes sense, really. But this?! This morning's temperature was just barely the age required to drive. Who in their right mind says, "It's only sixteen degrees. Sounds like a great time to spend an hour and a half outdoors without wearing a jacket"?
Oh wait. I say that.
Not only did I run in the bitter freaking cold on Saturday, but I did it at ten in the morning. (I just checked Hell. It has not yet frozen over. I was surprised, too.) This is all James' fault. James is one of my Tenacity marathon teammates who happens to live relatively close to me. Just over a week ago, we pegged Saturday as the day we would meet up for a training run. I know this is winter in New England and the cold is something to be expected. I get that. But it's always a shock to the system when you are mentally prepared to do something outdoors, but, in the short time required to take your dog out in the morning, your wet hair freezes into curly icicles. Not cool. So yeah, that's kind of how it was on Saturday.
In hindsight, I'm super glad James and I had planned to run together. There would have been at least a 50% chance of me bailing on the run if James wasn't keeping me accountable. Running partners help-- especially in crappy weather. Good to know. Also, running in the morning is not the worst thing ever. It's still not the greatest, but maybe it's a habit I should get into. I probably won't do it, but it's a thought.
I enjoyed my run with James a lot, despite the weather. First of all, James is a great dude (despite the fact that he graduated from Boston College) with a ton of marathon experience. He's a chronic over-planner when it comes to marathon training. I, on the other hand, am taking the hippie non-planning approach to this whole thing. It was good for me to talk to James and basically learn that I am at a fine place with my running mileage and splits. Also, James is way faster a runner than I am. Like, way faster. This is a good thing because it pushed me more than I would have otherwise. We started off running kind of slowly (9'24" split for the first mile) and then stepped it up each mile after that. We totally crushed the last mile, doing it in a 7'39" split. Do you see how that first digit is a seven? A freaking SEVEN. Whaaaaaaatttt? (Side note: I also learned this is called negative splits when you go faster each mile. I now know a running term. Thanks, James!)
While we were running around Castle Island, James noted, "Wow. It's only the hard core runners out here today." He was right. There were a lot of people in techie-looking gear and flashy, neon sneakers. Also, most of these people seemed to be running really quickly and totally knew what they were doing. They had clearly run in the freezing cold before and probably liked it, too. Jerks. Nevertheless, the hard core runners gave us the friendly head nod as they jogged by. I appreciated that. Their gesture prompted me to ask James, "Are we hard core, too?"
You know what? Maybe we are just a little hard core. I don't know if I will ever love running in temperatures under legal drinking age, but I certainly don't hate it. At least now I know a less-than-desirable weather report won't demote me to the treadmill. (Unless it's icy. I'm way too clumsy to navigate around ice without totally busting my ass.) Saturday's run was the first time I ever felt like a legitimate runner. Maybe it was the weather, or the negative splits, or the hard core simply acknowledging my presence (could be that I'm training for the Boston Marathon) but yeah-- I'm a runner. Crazy.
Data from my lazy week:
Distance Monday (12/09): 6.0 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Monday: 54 minutes (9' splits)
Distance Tuesday (12/10): 1.4 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Sunday: 30 minutes (too slow to even calculate splits)
Distance Saturday (12/14): 9.92 miles (with James)
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 25 minutes (8'32" splits... with a PR mile pace!)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 133.97 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 21 hours, 53 minutes
Saturday, December 7, 2013
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 22
A few very random things happened last night. First, a friend and I ran into a group of my students on Commonwealth Avenue. Well, that's not exactly true. We ran into them in the middle of Commonwealth Avenue. I was literally hug-attacked by a group of teenagers in the center lane of a three lane road. My apologies to the vehicles around at that time. I can't help that my students love me. Also, said friend and I were headed to the Paradise to see a show at the time. We were expecting to see the funky, bluesy Ryan Montbleau Band, but stumbled upon a reggae show when we walked into the venue. Wasn't expecting that. There were a lot of bad dance moves and tye-dye shirts and white people with dreadlocks but the music was good. Actually, the music was great. A reggae cover of an Al Green song? Yes, please! (Side note: we did finally see the Ryan Montbleau Band- the reggae band was the opener- and they were excellent, too.)
But the most random part of the evening happened after the show at T's Pub. T's Pub was an old college watering hole for my friends and I... and for everyone else who went to Boston University. The bar was basically on campus. T's is the kind of place that doesn't need a lot of TVs or good food or even a friendly staff, for that matter: you're going to go there because it's so close. So we did. Often. I've been to that bar countless times in sweatpants or in a BU hockey jersey. It didn't matter. T's is the definition of casual. That's why my friend and I were super confused when we walked into T's and found most of the bar decked out in cocktail dresses and suits. It was off-putting. After a lot of speculation (Is T's the new off-Boylston hot spot?), we finally asked a couple what the hell was going on.
Come to find out, the fancy folk were coming from Boston University's Delta Gamma sorority formal. We ended up chatting with this guy and girl for a little bit and they were lovely. (In hindsight, I wish I asked her where she got her dress. It was super cute.) They skeptically asked me if I had a job and, when I told them I actually had my dream job, they breathed a sigh of relief. (Don't worry, guys: the job market sucks, but you go to a good university and seem reasonably smart and more than a little bit personable. Also, you were both really pretty. For better or worse, that goes a long way in the real world.)
Talking with these college kids got me thinking: what was I doing when I was at Boston University? I certainly wasn't worrying about getting a job while I was drinking at T's Pub, so they are at least ahead of me in that respect. I focused a lot on my studies and less on my social life while in college, but that's pretty much it. I gave up on skiing. I don't think I went hiking at all during my time at BU. I went running about five times. Maybe. I spent pretty much no time in college outdoors or doing anything that would qualify as physical fitness. Good thing I inherited a speedy metabolism, I guess.
While at T's last night, my friend said, "I wish I could do college again." Although mine may not be the popular opinion, I totally would not take an undergraduate do-over. Not at all. College was insanely fun, but there is so much I can do now that I couldn't do back then. I now have a job that provides me money to travel where I want and to buy really cool things like a house and a dog. I spend my free time doing activities that improve my mental and physical well-being instead of routinely drinking myself stupid because that's just what you do when you're in college. (Holy shit. That last sentence makes me sound so old. I'm considering deleting it.) I'm training for a marathon now. That's certainly something I wouldn't have been able to do when I was at BU. Actually, it's something I wouldn't have wanted to do when I was an undergrad-- I was too busy writing papers and funneling Red Dog in a fraternity basement. This is maturity, right? (I was totally doing more writing than funneling, Mom. Really!)
I went for an amazing run today and thought a little about these two BU students from last night. In a way, they helped me realize something pretty important: age isn't all that big a deal. I can have ridiculous amounts of fun no matter how old I am. Maybe Aaliyah was on to something when she proclaimed age ain't nothing but a number. (However, Aaliyah did date R. Kelly when she was like 16, so maybe we should take her words with a grain of salt.) But seriously. This whole getting older business is complex. On one hand, I've got things more together now than I ever did back in college. I have direction, motivation and I finally figured out how to straighten my hair and apply eyeliner. (The latter two are huge victories. You have no idea.) Growing older has made me more comfortable in my own skin, too. I used to be this kind of awkward maybe tomboy/ sort of nerd/ total wannabe girl. It was kind of like my awkward teenage years extended into my early adulthood. It was bad. Come to think of it, I am still a maybe tomboy/ sort of nerd/ total wannabe girl, but it's different now. I own that about me, I suppose. I am sportier and geekier now than I was circa Y2K, but I am also way girlier. I'm calling this progress. Now Me is also training for a marathon and that's kind of awesome. While I don't readily admit my real age to people, I think age has certainly given me wisdom and a lot of confidence, too. Age is a number, but it's not one that dictates what I do or how I act.
Speaking of numbers, let's do this ESPN-style. Here is my week by the numbers:
1: The number of liver transplants I would need if I did, in fact, do college over again.
3: The number of times I listened to the album "Days Are Gone" by Haim on today's run. Give it a listen. Three sisters who kick ass and play guitars. They rock.
9.22: My average split time for my 15.7 mile run today. While that's slower than I've been running recently, it's a pretty decent pace for that distance. I'll take it. In fact, this may be a good target split for the marathon.
12: The number of pieces of sushi I just inhaled. Apparently achieving running milestones makes me want to go on a sushi bender.
15.7: The distance in miles I ran today. IN REAL LIFE. I wanted to see if I could run 15 miles and turns out I can. I feel like a complete bad ass right now.
20: The real age of the male BU student to whom we talked last night. He showed us his fake Illinois ID. It was terrible. I have no idea how he got into the bar.
26: I told the two BU students last night I graduated in 2010. This would mean that I am 26. They believed me. I really should've bought them a drink or something.
100: I've run more than 100 miles since I've been blogging! Sweet!
300+: Number of squats I've done this week. Tuesdays and Thursdays are now official leg strengthening days.
More numbers:
Distance Monday (12/02): 4.3 miles (with my amazing co-worker, Maria)
Time Monday: 44 minutes (11' splits)
Distance Tuesday (12/03): 3.03 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Sunday: 33 minutes, 30 seconds (11'23" splits)
Distance Thursday (12/05): 1.48 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 20 minutes (splits are too slow to even mention)
Distance Saturday (12/07): 15.7 miles (PR distance!!!)
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 25 minutes (9'22" splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 116.65 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 19 hours, 3 minutes
But the most random part of the evening happened after the show at T's Pub. T's Pub was an old college watering hole for my friends and I... and for everyone else who went to Boston University. The bar was basically on campus. T's is the kind of place that doesn't need a lot of TVs or good food or even a friendly staff, for that matter: you're going to go there because it's so close. So we did. Often. I've been to that bar countless times in sweatpants or in a BU hockey jersey. It didn't matter. T's is the definition of casual. That's why my friend and I were super confused when we walked into T's and found most of the bar decked out in cocktail dresses and suits. It was off-putting. After a lot of speculation (Is T's the new off-Boylston hot spot?), we finally asked a couple what the hell was going on.
Come to find out, the fancy folk were coming from Boston University's Delta Gamma sorority formal. We ended up chatting with this guy and girl for a little bit and they were lovely. (In hindsight, I wish I asked her where she got her dress. It was super cute.) They skeptically asked me if I had a job and, when I told them I actually had my dream job, they breathed a sigh of relief. (Don't worry, guys: the job market sucks, but you go to a good university and seem reasonably smart and more than a little bit personable. Also, you were both really pretty. For better or worse, that goes a long way in the real world.)
Talking with these college kids got me thinking: what was I doing when I was at Boston University? I certainly wasn't worrying about getting a job while I was drinking at T's Pub, so they are at least ahead of me in that respect. I focused a lot on my studies and less on my social life while in college, but that's pretty much it. I gave up on skiing. I don't think I went hiking at all during my time at BU. I went running about five times. Maybe. I spent pretty much no time in college outdoors or doing anything that would qualify as physical fitness. Good thing I inherited a speedy metabolism, I guess.
While at T's last night, my friend said, "I wish I could do college again." Although mine may not be the popular opinion, I totally would not take an undergraduate do-over. Not at all. College was insanely fun, but there is so much I can do now that I couldn't do back then. I now have a job that provides me money to travel where I want and to buy really cool things like a house and a dog. I spend my free time doing activities that improve my mental and physical well-being instead of routinely drinking myself stupid because that's just what you do when you're in college. (Holy shit. That last sentence makes me sound so old. I'm considering deleting it.) I'm training for a marathon now. That's certainly something I wouldn't have been able to do when I was at BU. Actually, it's something I wouldn't have wanted to do when I was an undergrad-- I was too busy writing papers and funneling Red Dog in a fraternity basement. This is maturity, right? (I was totally doing more writing than funneling, Mom. Really!)
I went for an amazing run today and thought a little about these two BU students from last night. In a way, they helped me realize something pretty important: age isn't all that big a deal. I can have ridiculous amounts of fun no matter how old I am. Maybe Aaliyah was on to something when she proclaimed age ain't nothing but a number. (However, Aaliyah did date R. Kelly when she was like 16, so maybe we should take her words with a grain of salt.) But seriously. This whole getting older business is complex. On one hand, I've got things more together now than I ever did back in college. I have direction, motivation and I finally figured out how to straighten my hair and apply eyeliner. (The latter two are huge victories. You have no idea.) Growing older has made me more comfortable in my own skin, too. I used to be this kind of awkward maybe tomboy/ sort of nerd/ total wannabe girl. It was kind of like my awkward teenage years extended into my early adulthood. It was bad. Come to think of it, I am still a maybe tomboy/ sort of nerd/ total wannabe girl, but it's different now. I own that about me, I suppose. I am sportier and geekier now than I was circa Y2K, but I am also way girlier. I'm calling this progress. Now Me is also training for a marathon and that's kind of awesome. While I don't readily admit my real age to people, I think age has certainly given me wisdom and a lot of confidence, too. Age is a number, but it's not one that dictates what I do or how I act.
Speaking of numbers, let's do this ESPN-style. Here is my week by the numbers:
1: The number of liver transplants I would need if I did, in fact, do college over again.
3: The number of times I listened to the album "Days Are Gone" by Haim on today's run. Give it a listen. Three sisters who kick ass and play guitars. They rock.
9.22: My average split time for my 15.7 mile run today. While that's slower than I've been running recently, it's a pretty decent pace for that distance. I'll take it. In fact, this may be a good target split for the marathon.
12: The number of pieces of sushi I just inhaled. Apparently achieving running milestones makes me want to go on a sushi bender.
15.7: The distance in miles I ran today. IN REAL LIFE. I wanted to see if I could run 15 miles and turns out I can. I feel like a complete bad ass right now.
20: The real age of the male BU student to whom we talked last night. He showed us his fake Illinois ID. It was terrible. I have no idea how he got into the bar.
26: I told the two BU students last night I graduated in 2010. This would mean that I am 26. They believed me. I really should've bought them a drink or something.
100: I've run more than 100 miles since I've been blogging! Sweet!
300+: Number of squats I've done this week. Tuesdays and Thursdays are now official leg strengthening days.
More numbers:
Distance Monday (12/02): 4.3 miles (with my amazing co-worker, Maria)
Time Monday: 44 minutes (11' splits)
Distance Tuesday (12/03): 3.03 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Sunday: 33 minutes, 30 seconds (11'23" splits)
Distance Thursday (12/05): 1.48 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 20 minutes (splits are too slow to even mention)
Distance Saturday (12/07): 15.7 miles (PR distance!!!)
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 25 minutes (9'22" splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 116.65 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 19 hours, 3 minutes
Sunday, December 1, 2013
I'm thankful for running
Thanksgiving is a time to eat, drink and be merry. In between stuffing your face full of carbs and booze, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to take a minute to reflect on all the things for which you're thankful. It's the right thing to do. Also, stopping to be thankful gives you a moment to breathe between mouthfuls of pumpkin pie and champagne. So that's helpful.
I'm thankful for a ridiculous number of things. I know Thanksgiving was a few days ago, but I don't think it's too late to give thanks. (Also, punctuality? Totally not my thing.) The following is not, by any means, an exhaustive list, but it's something. I'm thankful for...:
1. My family: They knew me when I was sporting the braces/ glasses/ frizzy hair trifecta and they still love me unconditionally.
2. My friends: We have more fun than other people. That's a fact. Also, my friends never tell me how crazy I am when I say things like, "I'm going to run the Boston Marathon!" Even if they do think I'm insane, they at least have the decency to say so behind my back. I appreciate that, guys.
3. My city: I know I complain about Boston sometimes, but I'm thankful this city has been part of my life for so long.
4. My bulldog: I am not currently thankful that my dog has somehow figured out how to snore louder than the football game I'm watching, but overall, he's a pretty great little dude. He's freaking adorable, too.
5. Beyonce: Do I really need to elaborate on this one? Come on.
Although I don't think it would ever make the top of the list, I'm also thankful for running... this year especially. It's interesting to be thankful for something you earn. No one is born a runner. Sure, there are people who have genetic advantages like long legs and lean limbs (boo to those people), but it's not like someone can wake up after years on the couch and go, "I'm going to run a marathon today." That's just not possible. I've earned every mile I've ever run. Two years ago, I started running on a treadmill. I distinctly remember the sense of accomplishment I felt after running my first 5k. I used my cell phone to take a photo of the treadmill's screen after that run and immediately sent it to my friend, Ben. "Bam! 3 miles!" was probably the text that accompanied that picture. Ben and I were both starting to run at this time, so we would text each other our mileage and stats after each run. This was the best motivation for me. I'm one of the most competitive people I know. Knowing Ben's running accomplishments pushed me to go faster and farther and to absolutely kick his ass. (Sorry, Ben.)
A few months ago, I deleted all the photos in my phone of treadmill screens displaying my running milestones. There were photos showing my first five mile run, six mile run and beyond. Don't get me wrong: I'm still really proud of those runs. Without them, I wouldn't be where I am today. Obviously, you have to run six miles before you can even think about tackling twenty-six of them. But let's pause for a second. Running, in isolation, sucks. Think about it: who would want to push themselves to the point where your muscles ache and it's hard to breathe? Why on Earth would anyone want to brave the cold, wind and rain to leave your house, run and then return to exactly where you started? All for the sake of what, really? Pride and accomplishment, that's what.
I am thankful for running because it provides me with an endless challenge. I can always run faster. I can always run more miles. And that's what I'm doing right now with my marathon training. I love running because I get to try and achieve a new goal each and every time I run. Trust me: I don't break new ground with each outing, but the thing is that I could. Running makes me feel accomplished. It makes me feel strong. It motivates me to do things I've never been able to do before. Running makes me aware of my body and thankful for the limits beyond which I can push it. (Not to mention it gives me a reason to wear running tights and flashy sneakers, like, all the time.) Some days, running kicks my ass and humbles me in ways that are too embarrassing- and frustrating- to write about. But, sometimes? Sometimes I push aside whatever is hurting and ignore that sense of doubt that creeps in when I start to get tired. Sometimes I am Superwoman. Sometimes I am confident enough to put my hand on my hip, look a challenge in the eye and say Bitch, please.
Who wouldn't be thankful for that?
Distance Tuesday (11/19): .90 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 12 minutes, 3 seconds (13'15" splits)
Distance Thursday (11/21): 2.39 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 42 minutes (17'35" splits)
Distance Saturday (11/23): 10 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 33 minutes (9'14" splits)
Distance Tuesday (11/26): 2.36 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 31 minutes, 33 seconds (13'21" splits)
Distance Thursday (Thanksgiving Day): 12.1 miles
Time Thursday: 1 hour, 42 minutes (8'25" splits... PR splits!!)
Distance Saturday (11/30): 5 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Saturday: 45 minutes (9' splits)
Distance Sunday (12/01): 3.2 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Sunday: 30 minutes (9' ish splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 92.14 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 15 hours, 4 minutes
I'm thankful for a ridiculous number of things. I know Thanksgiving was a few days ago, but I don't think it's too late to give thanks. (Also, punctuality? Totally not my thing.) The following is not, by any means, an exhaustive list, but it's something. I'm thankful for...:
1. My family: They knew me when I was sporting the braces/ glasses/ frizzy hair trifecta and they still love me unconditionally.
2. My friends: We have more fun than other people. That's a fact. Also, my friends never tell me how crazy I am when I say things like, "I'm going to run the Boston Marathon!" Even if they do think I'm insane, they at least have the decency to say so behind my back. I appreciate that, guys.
3. My city: I know I complain about Boston sometimes, but I'm thankful this city has been part of my life for so long.
4. My bulldog: I am not currently thankful that my dog has somehow figured out how to snore louder than the football game I'm watching, but overall, he's a pretty great little dude. He's freaking adorable, too.
5. Beyonce: Do I really need to elaborate on this one? Come on.
Although I don't think it would ever make the top of the list, I'm also thankful for running... this year especially. It's interesting to be thankful for something you earn. No one is born a runner. Sure, there are people who have genetic advantages like long legs and lean limbs (boo to those people), but it's not like someone can wake up after years on the couch and go, "I'm going to run a marathon today." That's just not possible. I've earned every mile I've ever run. Two years ago, I started running on a treadmill. I distinctly remember the sense of accomplishment I felt after running my first 5k. I used my cell phone to take a photo of the treadmill's screen after that run and immediately sent it to my friend, Ben. "Bam! 3 miles!" was probably the text that accompanied that picture. Ben and I were both starting to run at this time, so we would text each other our mileage and stats after each run. This was the best motivation for me. I'm one of the most competitive people I know. Knowing Ben's running accomplishments pushed me to go faster and farther and to absolutely kick his ass. (Sorry, Ben.)
A few months ago, I deleted all the photos in my phone of treadmill screens displaying my running milestones. There were photos showing my first five mile run, six mile run and beyond. Don't get me wrong: I'm still really proud of those runs. Without them, I wouldn't be where I am today. Obviously, you have to run six miles before you can even think about tackling twenty-six of them. But let's pause for a second. Running, in isolation, sucks. Think about it: who would want to push themselves to the point where your muscles ache and it's hard to breathe? Why on Earth would anyone want to brave the cold, wind and rain to leave your house, run and then return to exactly where you started? All for the sake of what, really? Pride and accomplishment, that's what.
I am thankful for running because it provides me with an endless challenge. I can always run faster. I can always run more miles. And that's what I'm doing right now with my marathon training. I love running because I get to try and achieve a new goal each and every time I run. Trust me: I don't break new ground with each outing, but the thing is that I could. Running makes me feel accomplished. It makes me feel strong. It motivates me to do things I've never been able to do before. Running makes me aware of my body and thankful for the limits beyond which I can push it. (Not to mention it gives me a reason to wear running tights and flashy sneakers, like, all the time.) Some days, running kicks my ass and humbles me in ways that are too embarrassing- and frustrating- to write about. But, sometimes? Sometimes I push aside whatever is hurting and ignore that sense of doubt that creeps in when I start to get tired. Sometimes I am Superwoman. Sometimes I am confident enough to put my hand on my hip, look a challenge in the eye and say Bitch, please.
Who wouldn't be thankful for that?
Distance Tuesday (11/19): .90 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 12 minutes, 3 seconds (13'15" splits)
Distance Thursday (11/21): 2.39 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 42 minutes (17'35" splits)
Distance Saturday (11/23): 10 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 33 minutes (9'14" splits)
Distance Tuesday (11/26): 2.36 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 31 minutes, 33 seconds (13'21" splits)
Distance Thursday (Thanksgiving Day): 12.1 miles
Time Thursday: 1 hour, 42 minutes (8'25" splits... PR splits!!)
Distance Saturday (11/30): 5 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Saturday: 45 minutes (9' splits)
Distance Sunday (12/01): 3.2 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Sunday: 30 minutes (9' ish splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 92.14 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 15 hours, 4 minutes
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Head Games
I just had my first thirty mile week.
Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.
Since I've never been concerned with mile accumulation, I can't be certain this past week was the first time I've ever logged thirty miles over seven days. I'm pretty sure it is, though. I mean, thirty miles?! That's pretty far. Also, I don't know why I would choose to run that many miles without a particular goal in mind. Let's just say, for simplicity's sake, this was my first thirty mile week. Deal?
Trust me, I am painfully aware a marathon is only four miles shorter than this thirty mile accomplishment. I get that, come April, I will run twenty-six miles in one day instead of in one week. But that's still over five months away. For now, I have thirty miles in one week and you know what? I couldn't be more psyched about it.
This past week has taught me a few things:
1. A foam roller is an ailing knee's best friend. I've developed a serious love/ hate relationship with my foam roller. Even though my friend told me a few weeks ago I needed to buy one, I refused. I can be cheap sometimes, and I thought the $20 price tag for a foam roller was too steep. So while I kept my $20, I suffered through an entire month of knee pain. (Looking back, I think I spent the twenty bucks on Advil anyhow. I'm an idiot.) I finally caved and bought the foam roller at Target. I read about half an article about how to use it to rehabilitate an inflamed IT band and then got rolling- literally. The first time I tried using it, I rolled the length of my good leg; the one with the non-injured knee. I wanted to know how a healthy leg should feel when you are massaging your IT band with a foam roller. While I wouldn't say it was an entirely enjoyable feeling, it fell somewhere in the hurt-so-good range. The other leg, though? Yeah, that was an entirely different story. I started with the foam roller at my ankles and then moved it up the outside of my leg. Everything was fine until I got to about three inches above my right knee. That's when I screamed a bunch of R-rated phrases I'm not going to type here because I know my mom reads this. (Hi, Mom!) Thank goodness my roommate wasn't home, because, if he was? He would probably think I have a serious case of Tourette's or something. That was one of the single most painful experiences of my life. I'm not exaggerating, either. That sucked. It did, however, help my knee. I woke up the next day feeling a little less sore. I (painfully) kept foam rolling and, not surprisingly, felt stronger and stronger each day. I ran 14.3 miles on Sunday, foam rolled after it, and had no knee pain afterwards. Boo yah! (Side note: Thanks, Parth, for the tip. Next time, I will listen to your suggestions. Well, that's probably not true. But I promise to not blow them off entirely. Either way, I owe you a beer.)
2. I CAN RUN 14 MILES! Maybe you didn't notice that in the big paragraph above. I know-- it's kind of hidden among all those other words. It's not your fault. Either way, let me repeat: I ran 14.3 miles on Sunday. I finally feel like I am training for a marathon! I knew going into this training that running half marathons was something I could achieve, mostly because I'd done it before. While I'd still like to knock some time off my half marathon PR, running a half is essentially checked off my athletic bucket list. I assumed one of the biggest hurdles in prepping for a marathon would be comfortably running more than thirteen miles. I was totally right about that. I was at a very annoying thirteen-mile plateau before my run on Saturday. I was cognizant that I needed to run farther than that, but I just hadn't-- and thought I couldn't, really. Fortunately, I can be kind of a dumbass on occasion. Believe it or not, that actually helped me this past weekend. I went on a Castle Island loop run Saturday afternoon. I knew that I wanted to run somewhere between seven and thirteen miles, depending on how my knee was feeling. At the ten mile mark, I had no pain and a lot of energy, so I decided to add a lap around UMass Boston to my run. I checked my phone running app quickly and then kept running. My plan was to run around UMass until the app told me I had run twelve miles. Then, at that point, I would head home. But, here's the problem: the app never told me I hit twelve miles. (Ok, what I really mean is that I never restarted the app. Again, I can be a total dumbass.) When I finally realized my error, I angrily restarted my app and ran back home. By the time I reached my front door, the app chirped through my headphones that I had finally reached twelve miles. Thanks. I consulted Google maps to see how far I had gone between stopping my app and starting it up again, and that distance was 2.3 miles. You can do the math. I ran 14.3 miles. Like a boss. An accidental boss, but whatever.
3. Running is all head games. I feel pretty damn good right about now. I reached two major milestones this past week... and had a few quality, pain-free runs, too. With all apologies to LL Cool J, don't call it a comeback. (I mean, you can call my accomplishments a comeback if you'd like. I won't complain.) I think, more than anything, this week has taught me that training for a marathon is about fifty percent physical and fifty percent mental. I recently questioned my ability to complete the training and the Marathon, partially because of what was happening with my knee. Now, after only one good week, I am totally confident I can do this and do it well. Does this make me a head case? Probably. Either way, I need to make sure I am following a training plan that will make me feel strong, accomplished and kind of like I do right now: ready to go... and a little bit like a rap song.
Distance Tuesday (11/12): 3.82 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 47 minutes (12'18" splits)
Distance Thursday (11/14): 3.05 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 40 minutes (13'07" splits)
Distance Saturday (11/16): 14.3 miles PR distance!!
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 8 minutes PR time!! (9' splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 56.19 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 9 hours, 8 minutes
Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.
Since I've never been concerned with mile accumulation, I can't be certain this past week was the first time I've ever logged thirty miles over seven days. I'm pretty sure it is, though. I mean, thirty miles?! That's pretty far. Also, I don't know why I would choose to run that many miles without a particular goal in mind. Let's just say, for simplicity's sake, this was my first thirty mile week. Deal?
Trust me, I am painfully aware a marathon is only four miles shorter than this thirty mile accomplishment. I get that, come April, I will run twenty-six miles in one day instead of in one week. But that's still over five months away. For now, I have thirty miles in one week and you know what? I couldn't be more psyched about it.
This past week has taught me a few things:
1. A foam roller is an ailing knee's best friend. I've developed a serious love/ hate relationship with my foam roller. Even though my friend told me a few weeks ago I needed to buy one, I refused. I can be cheap sometimes, and I thought the $20 price tag for a foam roller was too steep. So while I kept my $20, I suffered through an entire month of knee pain. (Looking back, I think I spent the twenty bucks on Advil anyhow. I'm an idiot.) I finally caved and bought the foam roller at Target. I read about half an article about how to use it to rehabilitate an inflamed IT band and then got rolling- literally. The first time I tried using it, I rolled the length of my good leg; the one with the non-injured knee. I wanted to know how a healthy leg should feel when you are massaging your IT band with a foam roller. While I wouldn't say it was an entirely enjoyable feeling, it fell somewhere in the hurt-so-good range. The other leg, though? Yeah, that was an entirely different story. I started with the foam roller at my ankles and then moved it up the outside of my leg. Everything was fine until I got to about three inches above my right knee. That's when I screamed a bunch of R-rated phrases I'm not going to type here because I know my mom reads this. (Hi, Mom!) Thank goodness my roommate wasn't home, because, if he was? He would probably think I have a serious case of Tourette's or something. That was one of the single most painful experiences of my life. I'm not exaggerating, either. That sucked. It did, however, help my knee. I woke up the next day feeling a little less sore. I (painfully) kept foam rolling and, not surprisingly, felt stronger and stronger each day. I ran 14.3 miles on Sunday, foam rolled after it, and had no knee pain afterwards. Boo yah! (Side note: Thanks, Parth, for the tip. Next time, I will listen to your suggestions. Well, that's probably not true. But I promise to not blow them off entirely. Either way, I owe you a beer.)
2. I CAN RUN 14 MILES! Maybe you didn't notice that in the big paragraph above. I know-- it's kind of hidden among all those other words. It's not your fault. Either way, let me repeat: I ran 14.3 miles on Sunday. I finally feel like I am training for a marathon! I knew going into this training that running half marathons was something I could achieve, mostly because I'd done it before. While I'd still like to knock some time off my half marathon PR, running a half is essentially checked off my athletic bucket list. I assumed one of the biggest hurdles in prepping for a marathon would be comfortably running more than thirteen miles. I was totally right about that. I was at a very annoying thirteen-mile plateau before my run on Saturday. I was cognizant that I needed to run farther than that, but I just hadn't-- and thought I couldn't, really. Fortunately, I can be kind of a dumbass on occasion. Believe it or not, that actually helped me this past weekend. I went on a Castle Island loop run Saturday afternoon. I knew that I wanted to run somewhere between seven and thirteen miles, depending on how my knee was feeling. At the ten mile mark, I had no pain and a lot of energy, so I decided to add a lap around UMass Boston to my run. I checked my phone running app quickly and then kept running. My plan was to run around UMass until the app told me I had run twelve miles. Then, at that point, I would head home. But, here's the problem: the app never told me I hit twelve miles. (Ok, what I really mean is that I never restarted the app. Again, I can be a total dumbass.) When I finally realized my error, I angrily restarted my app and ran back home. By the time I reached my front door, the app chirped through my headphones that I had finally reached twelve miles. Thanks. I consulted Google maps to see how far I had gone between stopping my app and starting it up again, and that distance was 2.3 miles. You can do the math. I ran 14.3 miles. Like a boss. An accidental boss, but whatever.
3. Running is all head games. I feel pretty damn good right about now. I reached two major milestones this past week... and had a few quality, pain-free runs, too. With all apologies to LL Cool J, don't call it a comeback. (I mean, you can call my accomplishments a comeback if you'd like. I won't complain.) I think, more than anything, this week has taught me that training for a marathon is about fifty percent physical and fifty percent mental. I recently questioned my ability to complete the training and the Marathon, partially because of what was happening with my knee. Now, after only one good week, I am totally confident I can do this and do it well. Does this make me a head case? Probably. Either way, I need to make sure I am following a training plan that will make me feel strong, accomplished and kind of like I do right now: ready to go... and a little bit like a rap song.
Distance Tuesday (11/12): 3.82 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 47 minutes (12'18" splits)
Distance Thursday (11/14): 3.05 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 40 minutes (13'07" splits)
Distance Saturday (11/16): 14.3 miles PR distance!!
Time Saturday: 2 hours, 8 minutes PR time!! (9' splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 56.19 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 9 hours, 8 minutes
Monday, November 11, 2013
Thanks, Dad
I ran my first ever road race with my grandfather when I was probably in fourth grade. I don't remember much about it other than it was in Alplaus, New York and it was only one mile long. At the time, my paternal grandfather was a runner. In fact, my grandfather hit the pavement almost daily until his doctor told him his body couldn't take it anymore-- that's when he switched to long walks instead. I used to think that was really cool: my grandpa was a runner. I didn't know oother grandpas who did anything besides play bridge and visit the cardiologist. (Actually, that's a lie: my mom's dad was- and still is- an avid tennis player. My grandpas rock.) Grandpa was an OG before I even knew what that was.
My dad was a runner, too. I don't think we ever watched him do a road race, but I remember him going out for long runs on the weekend. He used to have a collection of t-shirts from races he completed. I have a vivid memory of a white, long-sleeved shirt with black lettering and a big, red heart on it. Pretty sure that was from the Ellis Hospital Cardiac Classic 5k. Also pretty sure my brother still wears it.
Since I wasn't a runner, I never talked about it with my dad or with my grandpa. That one mile fun run I did with Grandpa was the only race I did until I completed my first 5k about two and a half years ago. Looking back, I wish I stuck with running-- it would have been a really fun thing to do with Dad and Grandpa.
Even though my dad stopped running many years ago, I finally got the chance this weekend to share running with him. The annual Stockade-a-thon was held on Sunday and, through a series of good luck and kind race organizers, I was able to score a last minute bib number for the event. The Stockade-a-thon is a 15k run that tours my hometown of Schenectady, New York. The race starts in Central Park, winds through the GE Plot, the historical Stockade and the formerly gang-occupied (but now really pretty!) Vale Cemetery before ending back at the park. It also meanders through the streets where some of The Place Beyond the Pines was filmed. (That's my only connection to the hotness that is Ryan Gosling. I had to mention it.)
My dad is the real reason why I was able to get into this year's race. Not only did he look up who I needed to call, but he also paid for my bib number... and took me out to brunch after I finished. (Thanks, Dad!) My dad ran the Stockade-a-thon twice before and his experience in the race was invaluable. When it comes to most of my life, I am very Type A: I like a plan and an order. With running? Not so much. I tend to just wing it. I figure I will just run until I get to the finish line: no need to over think anything. Fortunately, my dad convinced me that was a stupid approach. The Stockade-a-thon is a total pain in the ass kind of race. It's essentially all downhill for the first half. Since it's a loop course, that means it's all uphill the second half. Dad drove me around the course the night before the race and pointed out to me all the flats that would be deceiving and all the hills that would suck. He also printed out the course map for me and put an X on the spots where he would would be to cheer me on.
The Stockade-a-thon was awesome. Except for the total hot mess that was the start (and the first mile, really), the race was great. The course was just as dad told me it would be: easy at first and then up, up, up. I didn't want to expend too much energy on the flats, so I ran about nine minute splits for the first 5k. My dad was at approximately the three mile mark, ready to give me a high five and a hug. Seeing my dad at that point in the race totally energized me and reminded me why I run: to have fun! At that point, I was running next to some guy who was literally hacking up his lung and shooting off snot rockets like he was a booger-filled NASA or something. This dude was not enjoying himself. In fact, it didn't look like many of the runners around me were having any fun at all. I don't know how you should look one third of the way through a nine-mile run, but like death is not it. Once I left my dad, I cranked the music on my headphones and rocked out. Hard. I tend to do a lot of air drumming if I am having a good run. I can confidently say I air drummed most of the final six miles of the Stockade-a-thon. I was having a full on dance party... with myself. I was lip synching and throwing up diva hands while Beyonce, Britney and Katy Perry motivated me through the hills. Go ahead and make fun of me, but my splits were lower than they were the first 5k. I ran about 8:30 to 8:40 splits the final two thirds of the race. My fastest mile was even the one with the biggest hill! D-d-d-diva is a female version of a hustla.
I saw my dad again at the top of the Bradley Street hill and again at the finish line. At the hill, he joked that I had too much energy to have just run up an incline like that. Maybe I didn't push myself hard enough, but I think I was so amped because my dad was there. Seeing my dad along the way and sharing this race with him was the best part of the Stockade-a-thon. I know my dad is really proud of me, but I don't always get to see that because I live so far from him. Running the Stockade-a-thon was one of the first times my dad was there to see me achieve something big-ish. Not to be sappy or anything, but it was pretty special... and a whole lot of fun, too.
The next big thing I hope to accomplish is running the Boston Marathon. When I called my dad to tell him I got into the race, his response was something like this: "That's great! I will be there." I know I will give a lot of high fives when I run the Marathon (I am kind of a high five junkie), but none will be as awesome as the one I will give my dad.
Distance Sunday (11/10): 9.3 miles (Stockade-a-thon)
Time Sunday: 1 hour, 25 minutes
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 35.02 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 5 hours, 33 minutes
My dad was a runner, too. I don't think we ever watched him do a road race, but I remember him going out for long runs on the weekend. He used to have a collection of t-shirts from races he completed. I have a vivid memory of a white, long-sleeved shirt with black lettering and a big, red heart on it. Pretty sure that was from the Ellis Hospital Cardiac Classic 5k. Also pretty sure my brother still wears it.
Since I wasn't a runner, I never talked about it with my dad or with my grandpa. That one mile fun run I did with Grandpa was the only race I did until I completed my first 5k about two and a half years ago. Looking back, I wish I stuck with running-- it would have been a really fun thing to do with Dad and Grandpa.
Even though my dad stopped running many years ago, I finally got the chance this weekend to share running with him. The annual Stockade-a-thon was held on Sunday and, through a series of good luck and kind race organizers, I was able to score a last minute bib number for the event. The Stockade-a-thon is a 15k run that tours my hometown of Schenectady, New York. The race starts in Central Park, winds through the GE Plot, the historical Stockade and the formerly gang-occupied (but now really pretty!) Vale Cemetery before ending back at the park. It also meanders through the streets where some of The Place Beyond the Pines was filmed. (That's my only connection to the hotness that is Ryan Gosling. I had to mention it.)
My dad is the real reason why I was able to get into this year's race. Not only did he look up who I needed to call, but he also paid for my bib number... and took me out to brunch after I finished. (Thanks, Dad!) My dad ran the Stockade-a-thon twice before and his experience in the race was invaluable. When it comes to most of my life, I am very Type A: I like a plan and an order. With running? Not so much. I tend to just wing it. I figure I will just run until I get to the finish line: no need to over think anything. Fortunately, my dad convinced me that was a stupid approach. The Stockade-a-thon is a total pain in the ass kind of race. It's essentially all downhill for the first half. Since it's a loop course, that means it's all uphill the second half. Dad drove me around the course the night before the race and pointed out to me all the flats that would be deceiving and all the hills that would suck. He also printed out the course map for me and put an X on the spots where he would would be to cheer me on.
The Stockade-a-thon was awesome. Except for the total hot mess that was the start (and the first mile, really), the race was great. The course was just as dad told me it would be: easy at first and then up, up, up. I didn't want to expend too much energy on the flats, so I ran about nine minute splits for the first 5k. My dad was at approximately the three mile mark, ready to give me a high five and a hug. Seeing my dad at that point in the race totally energized me and reminded me why I run: to have fun! At that point, I was running next to some guy who was literally hacking up his lung and shooting off snot rockets like he was a booger-filled NASA or something. This dude was not enjoying himself. In fact, it didn't look like many of the runners around me were having any fun at all. I don't know how you should look one third of the way through a nine-mile run, but like death is not it. Once I left my dad, I cranked the music on my headphones and rocked out. Hard. I tend to do a lot of air drumming if I am having a good run. I can confidently say I air drummed most of the final six miles of the Stockade-a-thon. I was having a full on dance party... with myself. I was lip synching and throwing up diva hands while Beyonce, Britney and Katy Perry motivated me through the hills. Go ahead and make fun of me, but my splits were lower than they were the first 5k. I ran about 8:30 to 8:40 splits the final two thirds of the race. My fastest mile was even the one with the biggest hill! D-d-d-diva is a female version of a hustla.
I saw my dad again at the top of the Bradley Street hill and again at the finish line. At the hill, he joked that I had too much energy to have just run up an incline like that. Maybe I didn't push myself hard enough, but I think I was so amped because my dad was there. Seeing my dad along the way and sharing this race with him was the best part of the Stockade-a-thon. I know my dad is really proud of me, but I don't always get to see that because I live so far from him. Running the Stockade-a-thon was one of the first times my dad was there to see me achieve something big-ish. Not to be sappy or anything, but it was pretty special... and a whole lot of fun, too.
The next big thing I hope to accomplish is running the Boston Marathon. When I called my dad to tell him I got into the race, his response was something like this: "That's great! I will be there." I know I will give a lot of high fives when I run the Marathon (I am kind of a high five junkie), but none will be as awesome as the one I will give my dad.
Dad and I after the Stockade-a-thon
Distance Sunday (11/10): 9.3 miles (Stockade-a-thon)
Time Sunday: 1 hour, 25 minutes
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 35.02 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 5 hours, 33 minutes
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Back on track... I hope.
While I've been writing about running recently, I haven't actually been doing a whole lot of it these past few weeks. I feel like a total fraud. Allow me to explain.
My right knee has gone from not feeling fabulous to being the bane of my existence. I was hoping a little knee pain was something I could ignore, but, as it turns out, it's not. My typical remedy for sports-induced ailments is to ignore them. Injuries are annoying setbacks and I just don't want to deal with them. So I don't. Believe it or not, this approach works sometimes. (Ok, it rarely works. Whatever.) My plan was to take it easy on the running for about a week with the hopes my knee would feel fine after a few days of rest. Well, that didn't exactly happen. My knee actually felt worse after this break than it did before it. It got to the point where I woke up in the middle of the night crying because my knee hurt so badly. I was icing my knee each night before I went to bed. I was even downing an embarrassing amount of Advil to run just two miles. This is when I realized I had a problem. (A problem with my knee. It's not like I'm going to OD on Advil or anything.)
I had a similar issue with the same knee two years ago when I first started running. I went to the doctor and she casually labeled my pain tendonitis. I hate that word. Tendonitis seems to be a catch-all diagnosis for joint pain that can only be cured with rest. I also hate rest. Anyone who knows me understands that I have more energy than a sugar-doped teenager. I am terrible at resting. But I am good at pushing myself physically, which is what I did to fix my aching knee the first time around. Instead of sitting around waiting to feel better, I did squats and leg presses to try and strengthen the muscles around the joint. That plan seemed to work. My knee ended up feeling great and I was able to start training for a half marathon. I've been taking the same approach for the past few days while trying to rehab my sore joint. I've done hundreds of squats: regular squats, wide-leg squats and single-leg squats. I've also tried to incorporate more balancing activities into my workouts because I read those really help strengthen your IT band. I've even gone as far as teaching on one leg. Yes, I stand in front of my class of middle school students, discussing topics such as conflict in literature, perched like a freaking flamingo.
But you know what? I think it's working. My knee is still sore, stiff and pretty annoying, but it's not bringing me to tears anymore. I generally feel stronger and more stable. I was able to run eight miles on Monday and I was even able to walk afterwards. Trust me: that's progress. I'm still icing at night and taking Advil before I run, but I really feel like I am on the road to recovery.
I have a lot of training to do over the next few months to be ready to run the Boston Marathon. I was really excited about it at first, but this whole knee issue had me questioning things. Am I strong enough to do this? Will my body make it? What if it's not tendonitis or an IT band issue? Then what? The past two weeks have really rattled my confidence with regards to running. I've never been one to take it slowly or to follow rules when it comes to training: if there's a goal I want to achieve, I'll go out and do it. Simple as that. If anything, this injury has taught me I need to be smart about my training. Maybe it's not the best idea to just run a ton of miles and hope for the best on race day. I should probably have a plan. I have yet to read a book or an article about training for a marathon, and I'm not sure I ever will. But what I do know is that I am going to front-load my training with a lot of strength exercises (meaning: squats). I may end up looking like this, but at least I'll make it to the finish line.
Data from this week:
Distance Monday (11/04): 8.05 miles (solo run)
Time Monday: 1 hour, 10 minutes (8.46 splits)
Distance Tuesday (11/05): 2.23 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 30 minutes
(Wednesday's workout was 45 minutes of interval training on the elliptical)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 25.72 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 4 hours, 8 minutes
My right knee has gone from not feeling fabulous to being the bane of my existence. I was hoping a little knee pain was something I could ignore, but, as it turns out, it's not. My typical remedy for sports-induced ailments is to ignore them. Injuries are annoying setbacks and I just don't want to deal with them. So I don't. Believe it or not, this approach works sometimes. (Ok, it rarely works. Whatever.) My plan was to take it easy on the running for about a week with the hopes my knee would feel fine after a few days of rest. Well, that didn't exactly happen. My knee actually felt worse after this break than it did before it. It got to the point where I woke up in the middle of the night crying because my knee hurt so badly. I was icing my knee each night before I went to bed. I was even downing an embarrassing amount of Advil to run just two miles. This is when I realized I had a problem. (A problem with my knee. It's not like I'm going to OD on Advil or anything.)
I had a similar issue with the same knee two years ago when I first started running. I went to the doctor and she casually labeled my pain tendonitis. I hate that word. Tendonitis seems to be a catch-all diagnosis for joint pain that can only be cured with rest. I also hate rest. Anyone who knows me understands that I have more energy than a sugar-doped teenager. I am terrible at resting. But I am good at pushing myself physically, which is what I did to fix my aching knee the first time around. Instead of sitting around waiting to feel better, I did squats and leg presses to try and strengthen the muscles around the joint. That plan seemed to work. My knee ended up feeling great and I was able to start training for a half marathon. I've been taking the same approach for the past few days while trying to rehab my sore joint. I've done hundreds of squats: regular squats, wide-leg squats and single-leg squats. I've also tried to incorporate more balancing activities into my workouts because I read those really help strengthen your IT band. I've even gone as far as teaching on one leg. Yes, I stand in front of my class of middle school students, discussing topics such as conflict in literature, perched like a freaking flamingo.
But you know what? I think it's working. My knee is still sore, stiff and pretty annoying, but it's not bringing me to tears anymore. I generally feel stronger and more stable. I was able to run eight miles on Monday and I was even able to walk afterwards. Trust me: that's progress. I'm still icing at night and taking Advil before I run, but I really feel like I am on the road to recovery.
I have a lot of training to do over the next few months to be ready to run the Boston Marathon. I was really excited about it at first, but this whole knee issue had me questioning things. Am I strong enough to do this? Will my body make it? What if it's not tendonitis or an IT band issue? Then what? The past two weeks have really rattled my confidence with regards to running. I've never been one to take it slowly or to follow rules when it comes to training: if there's a goal I want to achieve, I'll go out and do it. Simple as that. If anything, this injury has taught me I need to be smart about my training. Maybe it's not the best idea to just run a ton of miles and hope for the best on race day. I should probably have a plan. I have yet to read a book or an article about training for a marathon, and I'm not sure I ever will. But what I do know is that I am going to front-load my training with a lot of strength exercises (meaning: squats). I may end up looking like this, but at least I'll make it to the finish line.
Data from this week:
Distance Monday (11/04): 8.05 miles (solo run)
Time Monday: 1 hour, 10 minutes (8.46 splits)
Distance Tuesday (11/05): 2.23 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Tuesday: 30 minutes
(Wednesday's workout was 45 minutes of interval training on the elliptical)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 25.72 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 4 hours, 8 minutes
Saturday, November 2, 2013
The only time I will talk about the Marathon bombings
(Warning: I am going to swear a lot in this post. Sorry, Mom.)
David Ortiz did today what some people weren't able to do on April 15: he crossed the Boston Marathon finish line. The Boston Red Sox won the World Series on Wednesday and, with that, earned a victory parade around our city. When the rolling rally got near the finish line- mere feet from the site of the Marathon bombings- Papi got off his flatbed truck. He then jogged across the finish line, got back on his ride and finished the parade. Hood up. Shades on. Casual. This is Papi we're talking about: this guy carries our city on his back like it's no big deal. Like it's his job. And at this point? It kind of is.
Two assholes with names I can neither spell nor pronounce thought it was a good idea to ignite some bombs near the Marathon finish line. So that's what they did. On April 15, the Tsarnajfksdhkusdf brothers stashed two pipe bombs in their backpacks and headed to Boylston Street. (Side note: I refuse to spend the time Googling how to spell their last name. Fuck them.) One bomb went off. Then another. There's a lot to say about what occurred on that day and on the days until the younger Tsarhdagfjkdsgfjkad brother was captured, but I don't need to write about it here. We all know what happened.
What did Papi do? Five long and confusing days after the Marathon, David Ortiz got up in front of the crowd at Fenway Park and gave one of the best speeches ever. English may be his second language, but Papi is clearly fluent in badassery. In some ways, the post-Marathon healing process began when the ever-casual Papi dropped the The Fuck Heard 'Round the Hub. His words gave Boston a rally cry: this is our fucking city. We needed that.
Sometimes, like today, life is serendipitous. Boston was the victim of an act of terror and, six months later, the Red Sox won the World Series. The team- for whom mediocrity would have been a success this season- won the World fucking Series. Then (because it gets even better), the Sox placed the World Series championship trophy on the Marathon finish line. I can't even type that last line without crying my eyes out.
Let's be honest: at this point, you cannot disassociate the Marathon bombings and the Red Sox's championship. You just can't. For better or worse, these two events are like the beginning and end of some big-budget, Michael Bay blockbuster movie. But instead of having Robert Downey, Jr. as the lead action hero, Boston has David "Cooperstown" Ortiz. Better casting, if you ask me.
In six short months, I'm going to (hopefully) do what Papi did today. I'm going to cross the Marathon finish line, too. I'm not running the Marathon to seek some sort of metaphorical redemption for my city in the wake of the Tsarvndklvchsdukf brothers' terror attacks. That's not what I'm saying. Quite frankly, I don't think my running 26 miles could do that, anyhow. Until now, I didn't really know why I was running the Marathon; it's just something I thought I could do.
Besides making me super emotional, this whole Marathon bombings/ Red Sox championship thing has given me a purpose for running-- something I desperately needed. This is our fucking city. I'm part of the "our" to which Papi was referring. I'm a Red Sox fan. A Celtics fan, too. (Totally NOT a Patriots fan.) I teach in the city's public schools. I went to college here and I've lived here for the past ten years. I'm a Bostonian. This is my fucking city, too. I've met some of the greatest people on the planet in this city. I've experienced most of the best moments of my life here, as well as most of the worst ones. In a lot of ways, this city has made me who I am and I'm proud of that person. I'm not running the Boston Marathon because I want to be part of the inevitable Phoenix rising hoopla that will accompany the race, but because it's another moment for my city and I to share. I love Boston. This is my fucking city and I can't wait to experience it in a totally new way: with my running shoes.
David Ortiz did today what some people weren't able to do on April 15: he crossed the Boston Marathon finish line. The Boston Red Sox won the World Series on Wednesday and, with that, earned a victory parade around our city. When the rolling rally got near the finish line- mere feet from the site of the Marathon bombings- Papi got off his flatbed truck. He then jogged across the finish line, got back on his ride and finished the parade. Hood up. Shades on. Casual. This is Papi we're talking about: this guy carries our city on his back like it's no big deal. Like it's his job. And at this point? It kind of is.
Two assholes with names I can neither spell nor pronounce thought it was a good idea to ignite some bombs near the Marathon finish line. So that's what they did. On April 15, the Tsarnajfksdhkusdf brothers stashed two pipe bombs in their backpacks and headed to Boylston Street. (Side note: I refuse to spend the time Googling how to spell their last name. Fuck them.) One bomb went off. Then another. There's a lot to say about what occurred on that day and on the days until the younger Tsarhdagfjkdsgfjkad brother was captured, but I don't need to write about it here. We all know what happened.
What did Papi do? Five long and confusing days after the Marathon, David Ortiz got up in front of the crowd at Fenway Park and gave one of the best speeches ever. English may be his second language, but Papi is clearly fluent in badassery. In some ways, the post-Marathon healing process began when the ever-casual Papi dropped the The Fuck Heard 'Round the Hub. His words gave Boston a rally cry: this is our fucking city. We needed that.
Sometimes, like today, life is serendipitous. Boston was the victim of an act of terror and, six months later, the Red Sox won the World Series. The team- for whom mediocrity would have been a success this season- won the World fucking Series. Then (because it gets even better), the Sox placed the World Series championship trophy on the Marathon finish line. I can't even type that last line without crying my eyes out.
Let's be honest: at this point, you cannot disassociate the Marathon bombings and the Red Sox's championship. You just can't. For better or worse, these two events are like the beginning and end of some big-budget, Michael Bay blockbuster movie. But instead of having Robert Downey, Jr. as the lead action hero, Boston has David "Cooperstown" Ortiz. Better casting, if you ask me.
In six short months, I'm going to (hopefully) do what Papi did today. I'm going to cross the Marathon finish line, too. I'm not running the Marathon to seek some sort of metaphorical redemption for my city in the wake of the Tsarvndklvchsdukf brothers' terror attacks. That's not what I'm saying. Quite frankly, I don't think my running 26 miles could do that, anyhow. Until now, I didn't really know why I was running the Marathon; it's just something I thought I could do.
Besides making me super emotional, this whole Marathon bombings/ Red Sox championship thing has given me a purpose for running-- something I desperately needed. This is our fucking city. I'm part of the "our" to which Papi was referring. I'm a Red Sox fan. A Celtics fan, too. (Totally NOT a Patriots fan.) I teach in the city's public schools. I went to college here and I've lived here for the past ten years. I'm a Bostonian. This is my fucking city, too. I've met some of the greatest people on the planet in this city. I've experienced most of the best moments of my life here, as well as most of the worst ones. In a lot of ways, this city has made me who I am and I'm proud of that person. I'm not running the Boston Marathon because I want to be part of the inevitable Phoenix rising hoopla that will accompany the race, but because it's another moment for my city and I to share. I love Boston. This is my fucking city and I can't wait to experience it in a totally new way: with my running shoes.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Kids Are Funny-ish, Part I
Me: Hey! Guess what? I am running the Boston Marathon!
Student: (puzzled) The whole thing?
Me: I mean, that's the plan.
Run data from Thursday, 10/31
Distance Today: 2.01 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Today: 23 minutes (11.38 splits... painfully slow!)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 15.44 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 2 hours, 28 minutes
Student: (puzzled) The whole thing?
Me: I mean, that's the plan.
Run data from Thursday, 10/31
Distance Today: 2.01 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Today: 23 minutes (11.38 splits... painfully slow!)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 15.44 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 2 hours, 28 minutes
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Meet Lisa
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived two lovely young ladies. One, tall and raven-haired, worked in the castle amidst the rulers of the kingdom. The other, a spritely little thing, fluttered around much like a jester, trying to make the citizens laugh despite the madness of the world. Although they did not know each other prior to living in the kingdom, they became fast friends.
And that's pretty much the story of Lisa and I.
I met Lisa the last few weeks of college. We were introduced by a mutual friend who knew we both needed to find an apartment after graduation. After realizing we were relatively compatible (i.e. we could both pay our rent and didn't appear to be psychopaths), Lisa and I, along with another girl, signed a lease for an apartment in Brookline, Massachusetts. (For those of you who know anything about Boston, Brookline can be a land far, far away if you live on the East side of the city, like I do. The T is no fairy tale, after all.) We stumbled our way through much our first year of actual adulthood together. We learned what it was like to pay bills and to have a job. We bought real furniture and, for the first time, set up a home that did not have Christmas tree lights as part of the decor. But mostly we drank a lot.
When I moved to New York for graduate school, Lisa and I all but fell out of touch. I don't think there was a reason for this, exactly. It just happened. Then, last June, Lisa was in Boston. We met up for dinner, drinks and some much overdue catching-up. I don't remember where we went or what we ate, but I do remember laughing. A lot. It was great to see Lisa again.
Amidst our laughter (and cocktails) a crazy idea emerged: we should run the Boston Marathon. Pretty sure that was the booze talking, because I'm confident neither of us would have suggested it otherwise. We continued to joke about running Boston that evening and, surprisingly, kept the conversation going over the next few months. There came a point about late-July when I realized running the Boston Marathon wasn't something Lisa and I were joking about anymore. It had become an actual goal for us.
I told Lisa I would call her "a total bitch" on my blog for being half of this crazy, crazy plan to run the Boston Marathon. But I can't do that. Despite the fact that we live in two totally different cities, Lisa and I are pushing each other to accomplish something really amazing. I certainly never thought I'd run a marathon and, without Lisa, I'm pretty sure I never would have even applied to run Boston. Also, Lisa's not a total bitch. :)
And that's pretty much the story of Lisa and I.
I met Lisa the last few weeks of college. We were introduced by a mutual friend who knew we both needed to find an apartment after graduation. After realizing we were relatively compatible (i.e. we could both pay our rent and didn't appear to be psychopaths), Lisa and I, along with another girl, signed a lease for an apartment in Brookline, Massachusetts. (For those of you who know anything about Boston, Brookline can be a land far, far away if you live on the East side of the city, like I do. The T is no fairy tale, after all.) We stumbled our way through much our first year of actual adulthood together. We learned what it was like to pay bills and to have a job. We bought real furniture and, for the first time, set up a home that did not have Christmas tree lights as part of the decor. But mostly we drank a lot.
When I moved to New York for graduate school, Lisa and I all but fell out of touch. I don't think there was a reason for this, exactly. It just happened. Then, last June, Lisa was in Boston. We met up for dinner, drinks and some much overdue catching-up. I don't remember where we went or what we ate, but I do remember laughing. A lot. It was great to see Lisa again.
Amidst our laughter (and cocktails) a crazy idea emerged: we should run the Boston Marathon. Pretty sure that was the booze talking, because I'm confident neither of us would have suggested it otherwise. We continued to joke about running Boston that evening and, surprisingly, kept the conversation going over the next few months. There came a point about late-July when I realized running the Boston Marathon wasn't something Lisa and I were joking about anymore. It had become an actual goal for us.
I told Lisa I would call her "a total bitch" on my blog for being half of this crazy, crazy plan to run the Boston Marathon. But I can't do that. Despite the fact that we live in two totally different cities, Lisa and I are pushing each other to accomplish something really amazing. I certainly never thought I'd run a marathon and, without Lisa, I'm pretty sure I never would have even applied to run Boston. Also, Lisa's not a total bitch. :)
I may or may not be kneeling on a really high barstool.
This is the only time I will be taller than Lisa.
Distance Today: 3.21 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Today: 33.14 minutes (10.20 splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 13.43 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 2 hours, 5 minutes
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Let's talk about my hair
From the inside of my apartment, today looks like the perfect day to run. It's sunny. There isn't a cloud in the sky. The leaves are falling off the trees so you know you will get to hear them crunch under your sneakers with each step you take. It's a classic New England fall day.
What that really means is that it's windy.
I did a Castle Island loop run this afternoon: I ran from my door, followed the Dorchester Bay shore line, went around Castle Island in South Boston and headed back home. It's my favorite route. I love running by the ocean. There's something really soothing about looking out into the bay and seeing nothing but ocean-- no buildings, no concrete. Just sea. Also, most of the route is in Southie, so I'm pretty much guaranteed to see some hilarious townie or a ridiculous Jersey Shore-esque dude bro. So it's entertaining, too.
Back to the wind, though. I had a lovely tail wind until I got to the war veteran's statue by the fort at Castle Island. (Said tail wind totally helped lower my split time, which was nice.) Once I made the turn to start the second half of the loop, the wind was no longer behind me. Instead, it was blowing directly at me and totally getting sand in my eyes. No bueno. Despite the issues, the run was pretty good. I started off feeling weak and wondering if I would be able to run the ten miles I set out to complete. By the time I got to the third mile, the doubt was gone and I knew I would have a decent outing. My splits were about ten seconds off my PR, but my legs felt strong. It was good to know I could easily complete ten miles after not running that distance for about three weeks. (Moment of full disclosure: my right knee was sore throughout the run and is not feeling fabulous right now, either. I'm going to stretch, ice it and hope I will never have to write about it again.)
While the wind had at least a somewhat positive impact on my run, it did absolutely nothing for my hair. I'm pretty sure I looked like Sideshow Bob meets Sporty Spice by the time I got home. A significant portion of my hair was no longer in my ponytail. Instead, it looked like a bunch of crazy (albeit well-highlighted) snakes were trying to escape from my scalp. I even took a photo:
What that really means is that it's windy.
I did a Castle Island loop run this afternoon: I ran from my door, followed the Dorchester Bay shore line, went around Castle Island in South Boston and headed back home. It's my favorite route. I love running by the ocean. There's something really soothing about looking out into the bay and seeing nothing but ocean-- no buildings, no concrete. Just sea. Also, most of the route is in Southie, so I'm pretty much guaranteed to see some hilarious townie or a ridiculous Jersey Shore-esque dude bro. So it's entertaining, too.
Back to the wind, though. I had a lovely tail wind until I got to the war veteran's statue by the fort at Castle Island. (Said tail wind totally helped lower my split time, which was nice.) Once I made the turn to start the second half of the loop, the wind was no longer behind me. Instead, it was blowing directly at me and totally getting sand in my eyes. No bueno. Despite the issues, the run was pretty good. I started off feeling weak and wondering if I would be able to run the ten miles I set out to complete. By the time I got to the third mile, the doubt was gone and I knew I would have a decent outing. My splits were about ten seconds off my PR, but my legs felt strong. It was good to know I could easily complete ten miles after not running that distance for about three weeks. (Moment of full disclosure: my right knee was sore throughout the run and is not feeling fabulous right now, either. I'm going to stretch, ice it and hope I will never have to write about it again.)
While the wind had at least a somewhat positive impact on my run, it did absolutely nothing for my hair. I'm pretty sure I looked like Sideshow Bob meets Sporty Spice by the time I got home. A significant portion of my hair was no longer in my ponytail. Instead, it looked like a bunch of crazy (albeit well-highlighted) snakes were trying to escape from my scalp. I even took a photo:
So I'm exaggerating a bit. The wind didn't exactly make my hair go all Medusa. But it still looks kind of insane. I'm not one of those girls who can rock a cute, sporty headband and a ponytail. The headbands just fall off my little head. But clearly, I need something to assist the ponytail when it comes to keeping my hair out of my face when I run. Because this? Is not a look I'd like to keep rocking. Are hats the solution? Braids? Ugh. Do other curly-haired girls have this problem? Where's the sporty Fashion Police when you need them?
Distance today: 10.22 miles
Time today: 1 hour, 32 minutes (9:02 split)
I'm running the Boston Marathon... and other words I never thought I'd type.
I'm running the 2014 Boston Marathon.
In real life.
Whoa.
I'm pretty sure none of this has hit me yet. Maybe it has. I don't know. I guess I'm unsure how to feel and how to react when someone says, "Congratulations! You get to spend the next seven months training your ass off so you can run 26.2 miles!" I know excitement is part of the prescribed response, and I've certainly got that covered. I found out Wednesday that I had been accepted to join Tenacity, Inc's marathon team. I was so psyched that I drove home from school screaming and singing/ rapping along to a very embarrassing and disgustingly upbeat playlist. (My apologies to the residents of Jamaica Plain for having to suffer through my rendition French Montana's "Pop That". It [probably] won't happen again.) I've been bragging to everyone who will listen that I am running Boston. I've exchanged countless high fives, some with people I don't really know. I can't stop smiling when I think about it. I mean, it's kind of a big deal.
But there's that other part of me that is absolutely freaking terrified. I'm running the Boston Marathon. Have I lost my damn mind?! I just volunteered to run over twenty-six miles. For fun. What if I can't do this? What if I get injured? What if, like so much else in my life, I over-think this and psych myself out before I even get to the starting line? I've run half marathons before, but here's the thing: those are half as long as an actual marathon. (I know how obvious that is. Sorry.) Here are some other ways to think about a marathon:
-It's a six mile warm up and a twenty mile race
-It's about eight and a half 5k races
-It's the same distance as it is from the Empire State Building to Scarsdale, NY
-It's like running from Fenway Park to Beverly on the North Shore
-If David Ortiz's home runs are, on average, 400 feet long, then a marathon is running the same distance as 346 Big Papi homers. (Ok, this one is not so bad.)
The point is that a marathon is a long way to run. Like, really, really long.
I'm running the Boston Marathon.
I never really wanted to do this.
Believe it or not, that last part is true. I don't think I ever wanted to run the Boston Marathon, or any other marathon, for that matter. I remember being an undergraduate at Boston University and lining Beacon Street on Marathon Monday to watch the race (i.e. drink my face off). The Boston Marathon seemed like this event that, although it was right in front of me, was so disconnected from my actual reality; it was a backdrop for the general debauchery that was college. Even after I started running two years ago, I never aspired to run more than a few miles. Running was something I started doing because it was good for my health. It was something I kept doing because I sucked at it (I am way too competitive to suck at things). Running is something that I still do because I now really enjoy it. It's fun! But I've always scoffed at my friends and acquaintances who ran long distances. Why would you do that? Running 13 miles sounds pretty painful, if you ask me. Then I ran my first half marathon. And my second one. And while I can say I am totally hooked on running, I never actively thought about running a marathon. It just wasn't something I aspired to do, I guess.
But here I am.
I am running the 2014 Boston Marathon.
I'm scared and I'm nervous and I'm so, so amped. I'm running the Boston Marathon! Who does that?! I can't wait to finally see what Heartbreak Hill is all about. I can already envision high-fiving all the drunken undergrads on Beacon Street. I want so badly to call my grandmother after I finish and tell her what I just accomplished.
So, it's happening: I'm running the Boston Marathon. Sweet!
In real life.
Whoa.
I'm pretty sure none of this has hit me yet. Maybe it has. I don't know. I guess I'm unsure how to feel and how to react when someone says, "Congratulations! You get to spend the next seven months training your ass off so you can run 26.2 miles!" I know excitement is part of the prescribed response, and I've certainly got that covered. I found out Wednesday that I had been accepted to join Tenacity, Inc's marathon team. I was so psyched that I drove home from school screaming and singing/ rapping along to a very embarrassing and disgustingly upbeat playlist. (My apologies to the residents of Jamaica Plain for having to suffer through my rendition French Montana's "Pop That". It [probably] won't happen again.) I've been bragging to everyone who will listen that I am running Boston. I've exchanged countless high fives, some with people I don't really know. I can't stop smiling when I think about it. I mean, it's kind of a big deal.
But there's that other part of me that is absolutely freaking terrified. I'm running the Boston Marathon. Have I lost my damn mind?! I just volunteered to run over twenty-six miles. For fun. What if I can't do this? What if I get injured? What if, like so much else in my life, I over-think this and psych myself out before I even get to the starting line? I've run half marathons before, but here's the thing: those are half as long as an actual marathon. (I know how obvious that is. Sorry.) Here are some other ways to think about a marathon:
-It's a six mile warm up and a twenty mile race
-It's about eight and a half 5k races
-It's the same distance as it is from the Empire State Building to Scarsdale, NY
-It's like running from Fenway Park to Beverly on the North Shore
-If David Ortiz's home runs are, on average, 400 feet long, then a marathon is running the same distance as 346 Big Papi homers. (Ok, this one is not so bad.)
The point is that a marathon is a long way to run. Like, really, really long.
I'm running the Boston Marathon.
I never really wanted to do this.
Believe it or not, that last part is true. I don't think I ever wanted to run the Boston Marathon, or any other marathon, for that matter. I remember being an undergraduate at Boston University and lining Beacon Street on Marathon Monday to watch the race (i.e. drink my face off). The Boston Marathon seemed like this event that, although it was right in front of me, was so disconnected from my actual reality; it was a backdrop for the general debauchery that was college. Even after I started running two years ago, I never aspired to run more than a few miles. Running was something I started doing because it was good for my health. It was something I kept doing because I sucked at it (I am way too competitive to suck at things). Running is something that I still do because I now really enjoy it. It's fun! But I've always scoffed at my friends and acquaintances who ran long distances. Why would you do that? Running 13 miles sounds pretty painful, if you ask me. Then I ran my first half marathon. And my second one. And while I can say I am totally hooked on running, I never actively thought about running a marathon. It just wasn't something I aspired to do, I guess.
But here I am.
I am running the 2014 Boston Marathon.
I'm scared and I'm nervous and I'm so, so amped. I'm running the Boston Marathon! Who does that?! I can't wait to finally see what Heartbreak Hill is all about. I can already envision high-fiving all the drunken undergrads on Beacon Street. I want so badly to call my grandmother after I finish and tell her what I just accomplished.
So, it's happening: I'm running the Boston Marathon. Sweet!
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