Look what I did!

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

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

Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 277.04 miles

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

I'm a bro?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time Monday:  1 hour

Distance Wednesday (01/08): 8.47 miles 

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

Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 270.63 miles

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

Welcome to the Year of the Badass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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