2012 Wrap Up: A Funny Thing Happened While I Was Feeling Bad for Myself

Sometime early in the year, I accepted the fact at 2012 just wasn't going to be my year. I spent the first quarter (can we refer to quarters outside of the office? I'm not going back to work until Wednesday) enduring a protracted break up that came to its natural conclusion during the Boston Marathon (fine, not during the actual race, but close enough). While that timing was so awesome and ideal and left me in an excellent mental state going into the race, my plans for a sub 3:20 that day were foiled by the record high temps. On the plus side, by mid April I had a banging bod, on account of stress-induced lack of appetite and a record-high month of miles in March (245). On the minus side, I felt like I'd failed the two things I most want to be good at: interpersonal relationships and the marathon. Suffice it to say, I felt pretty bad about myself.

But here's the funny thing: while I was busy feeling badly for my shitty 2012, my year turned out to be awesome. I immediately remedied the running mishaps by taking 2nd female overall in my first 50k. I spent the summer dating (thank you, rocking bod), drinking (buh-bye rocking bod...), traveling (hello, bearded men of Oregon. And Colorado. And Maine), and celebrating the nuptials of some seven of my best friends. Come fall, I got a new job, got a new apartment, saw my sister get married, and ran my second-fastest marathon. As of today, the last day of 2012 - the year that was not meant to be mine - I've run 1702 miles this year.*

And those are just the first awesome things that come to mind; there were also countless if less remarkable great runs, great nights out, great times with my family. While I was busy feeling bad for myself, I was actually having the best year ever! Of course, it took a little perspective to realize it, but that's sort of the point. Sometimes shitty things happen. But if you spend all your time wallowing over those shitty things, you won't even realize it when the good stuff starts happening again. And it will, trust me.

Now I'm not much of a resolution-maker, but I guess all I can hope for is that in 2013, I appreciate all the good stuff as it happens. And maybe that "Call Me Maybe" is still popular by next wedding season.

And now, for the final wrap up of 2012...

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 33

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: Oh my God, too many. Thank God the Christmas season comes but once a year...

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Left Hand 400 Pound Monkey, Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA, Dogfish Head Burton Baton, Keo, Guinness, Bud Light, 21st Amendment Brew Free or Die, Saranac Adirondack Lager

* Is it wrong that I ran today only to break 1700 miles, and now I'm borderline furious that Dailymile hasn't updated my yearly mile count?

Brew Review: Burton Baton Imperial IPA

We're in the throes of a winter Nor'easter here in Connecticut, and the snow has been swirling for the last couple of hours. But just as time waits for no man, so too does ultra training wait for no fair weather runner (it does, however, wait for very hungover runners on occasion, but let's not make a habit of that). 6-10 miles with 4x1 at ten mile race pace were on the agenda for today. Luckily, Santa provided some running-related treats to motivate me, so after minimal hemming and hawing, I got dressed and headed for the 'mill.




1 mile warm up, 4x1 mile @ 7:30 with 4 x half mile @ 8:34, 1 mile cool down, and 1 episode of Toddlers and Tiaras I can never unsee.

Unfortunately, you can never unsee this:




You'll note in the photo above that, in addition to the Nike shirt, Santa brought me some treats from Dogfish Head (he brought my dad that baseball book. The post-run shiny face was not on my Christmas list, but I'm the reluctant owner of it nonetheless). That's a Burton Baton oak-aged Imperial IPA. I've done a lot of Dogfish Head sampling of late (full review of the brewery and 120 Min IPA to come soon, I swear) and unfortunately have been disappointed. This beer, however, toes the line between experimental big beer (it is 10% ABV, after all) and interesting yet drinkable double IPA. The grassy hops are countered by the smooth, almost maple-y wood that's been imbued (assuming imbued means what I think it means). While I'm normally not into oak-aged beers because I think they trend sweeter and are seldom hoppy, this one strikes me as a bit more complex. The oak adds some warmth, ideal for a snowy night, but the hops make themselves known, both on the nose and in the mouth (that's what she said). The 10% ABV aids in the fifth consecutive day with my parents too. In fact, I think I'll have another...

Happy Boxing Day. Only 364 days to get off the naughty list. Better get cracking!

Tuesday Wrap Up: Merry Christmas!

Santa was very good to me this year, despite the fact that my name is etched in permanent marker on the Naughty List. I hope he was similarly good to you and yours. Or if he doesn't come by your place, I hope you're at least reaping the benefits of a day off from work and Home Alone being broadcast on virtually every channel.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 31. Not bad! But conspicuously absent is the 3-hour run I was meant to do on Sunday. Instead, I endured the worst hangover of my whole life. I'm not even exaggerating. Not only was I so out of sorts on Sunday morning that I got scared I'd accidentally eaten those cocktail toothpicks that hold sandwiches together at the diner, but then I came home and napped for three hours. I even made my mom hold cold compresses on my face. And my mom is not amused by hangovers. "There is NOTHING attractive about drunk girls," she told me. "Stop judging me! I'm not still drunk." Anyway, otherwise week one of ultra training went swimmingly, but missing a long run is a rather large caveat. Nonetheless, I booked my flights to Ireland this morning (Merry Christmas to me), so either I better stop getting hungover or start running through it. I'm leaning towards the latter. When in Rome. Ireland. Whatever.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: Oh, 15 ish. It's worth outing that the aforementioned hangover was absolutely as a result of red wine. My body doesn't know what to do with it. So I try to help it out by covering up the red wine with Bud Light.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Definitely Bud Light. Also Magic Hat Heart of Darkness, Dogfish Head 60 Min, some horrible Dogfish Head Barley Wine (Old School, I believe it was called), and Captain Lawrence Imperial IPA, which I bought in a growler as my Christmas grab bag gift for Saturday's holiday party. I didn't win it, but luckily Meghan was in the Christmas spirit and shared.

Santa brought me lots of running and beer-related goodies I'll brag about later in the week. Until then, warmest wishes for the holidays. Gift yourself with a run today.

Rehoboth Race Pics

For your viewing pleasure (and because what else am I going to do with them?), here is what I looked like during marathon 14.  Bet you're extra thankful I achieved that D goal now, huh?

In which I appear to be about to break my left ankle...

Oof, sweet Mile 20 heel strike.

I would give anything to not throw up the devil horns in my next race. I can't stop.

All photos credited to US Candids.  All karma points credited to me, because I actually paid to download these, rather than ripping them off the website with the "PROOF DO NOT POST OR DUPLICATE UNDER PENALTY OF GOD, SANTA, AND BART YASSO" watermark in full view.

The Puke Threshold

The Puke Threshold is a place every runner knows but seldom goes.  If you've ever raced a 5k full out, you've probably been there.  (I myself get there racing the 10k, but that's because I have a profound inability to adequately pace myself for distances less than 13.1 miles).  Sure, sometimes as runners, we need to push ourselves beyond the confines of our comfort zones; that's why we do things like hill repeats and speed work.  But there's a big difference between going outside of our comfort zone and going to the Puke Threshold.

Comfortably hard is sustainable.  Uncomfortably hard is less so, but if you know, for example, you have four 800s left, that there is a definitive end point to the misery, you can keep at it.  But when you reach the Puke Threshold, you must either a) ease up immediately, or b) vomit.  Fielder's choice, but as someone who recently endured food poisoning and therefor threw up while sober, I strongly suggest you choose A. If you have four 800s left and are already at the Puke Threshold, you have zero 800s left.  You aren't getting them done without a period of recovery first.  Or without vomit on your Kinvaras. 

This brings us to this morning's workout.  Today was actually the first workout in my ultra training plan.  Just looking at it in my living room (slash kitchen slash foyer... NYC apartments are special like that) this morning made me want to vomit, as it's quite intimidating.  

That's only the first 7 weeks. There are 9 more, and they are scarier.

This is actually a 50-mile training plan, despite the fact that Connemara is a 39.3 mile race.  I picked this for a few reasons: 1) 39.3 mile training plans don't exist, 2) I don't trust the metric system, which is how the course will be measured given that it's in Ireland, so better safe than sorry, and 3) The intro paragraph printed before the above chart cited a 3:30 marathoner as its example, which I have proven to be even on bad training, so I feel confident that I can actually follow this.  Famous last words.

Oh sorry, one more caveat: there are a couple acronyms in the above chart.  TMP = Ten Mile Pace, HMP = Half Marathon Pace, MP = Marathon Pace.  It would have done me some good to put actual thought into what these standards should be for me before I was a half mile in my first workout, but I didn't.  So I somewhat arbitrarily decided on the following:

TMP = 7:30/mi
HMP = 7:45/mi
MP = 8:00/mi

Based on the 3:30 marathoner example, an MP at 8:00/mi is spot on.  I can also pretty reliably run a 1:41 half marathon, which is 7:45/mi.  I haven't raced a 10 miler in years, but 7:30 seems like a reasonable pace. 

Anyway, back to today's workout, which was 6-10 miles with 4x1 @ TMP.  Now first of all, when given the choice of "6-10 miles," who picks 10?  Enthusiastic newbie runners, that's who.  I am not that.  I am old and jaded and watched a girl poop her pants in a marathon last weekend.  I settled on 8.5ish, because it would be a loop of Central Park, plus the distance to and from my apartment.

With no instruction as to where these 4x1 @ TMP miles should be, I decided to go by feel.  And by that I mean, I looked at my watch during the first mile, up Park Avenue to Central Park, and realized I was running around a 7:40 and decided that would be the first of the four miles.

Mile 1: 7:59.  Wrong.  Though in my defense, I got stopped by a truck unloading Christmas trees.

I entered the Park at 72nd Street feeling comfortable and glanced down to see 7:35.  I tried to pick up the pace a bit, and almost immediately was upon Cat Hill.  

Mile 2: 7:54.  Wrong.  

The next stretch of the Park (running counterclockwise from the top of Cat Hill, for those playing along at home) is flat.  Here's my chance to get it right, I thought.

Mile 3: 7:23.  Too much.  But I'm me, so even though this was still wrong, I was secretly psyched.  And I felt good.  

For my last mile (I was committed to attempting 4, regardless of whether or not all were successful - it's day 1, I'm not going crazy), I was facing a flat stretch, then a pretty steep downhill, and unfortunately, at least a portion up Harlem Hill.  A "portion" turned into "half a mile."  I hit Harlem Hill and figured I'd banked some time on the downhill, but really wanted to keep pushing, considering it was my last of the 4 miles.  

I was about a quarter of the way up when it started: the mouth watering.

I opened wide and took big breaths.

Oh my God, do I smell dog poop?  

I was gulping air.

How many people around me are going to see this?  How many are going to get splashed?

I looked at my watch. 3.75 miles.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I eased up a hair.  Instead of immediate relief, I felt imminent vomit.  I eased up more, still pressing up Harlem Hill as I turned the corner around that big boulder outcropping that tricks you into think you're at the top, only you turn and you're still going up.  

I was gulping so loudly, I prayed the man I was approaching was wearing headphones. And possibly waterproof pants.  I can't vomit, I thought; I'm 4.5 miles from home.  I eased up again.

Finally, my Garmin beeped.  7:20.

I survived the Puke Threshold.  

Monday No Wrap Up

I don't have anything profound to offer in the wake of the unspeakable tragedy that unfolded in my home state on Friday; like everyone else, I'm left wondering what kind of monster could do such a thing.  One thing I can say with certainty, however, is that your time and mine would be better spent today telling our families we love them than it would be reviewing the miles I ran and beers I drank last week.  

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother's words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world." - Fred Rogers

Race Report: Rehoboth Beach Seashore Marathon

Attention: what follows is a whiny tirade in which there will be significant complaining about what was, based on my race day goals, ultimately a successful marathon.  I'm insufferable.  Deal.

Getting There: My race weekend began later than anticipated, and by 5:30pm on Friday, this was my view:

That would be Ninth Avenue, which is not quite where I was hoping to eat my pasta feast. Pro tip: never, ever, ever go through the Lincoln Tunnel at 5:30pm on a rainy Friday. Unless you have a spare hour to waste.

Once I made it through the Lincoln Tunnel, it was mostly an easy trip down to Rehoboth, and I was kept company by 92.5 XTU, Philadelphia's country station, for much of it.  I checked into the Holiday Inn Express, arranged for late check out in the morning, and headed to my room.

Because I didn't get to Rehoboth until almost 9:30pm, I wasn't able to pick up my bib ahead of time.  Nonetheless, I did at least try to get myself organized for the morning in the form of a bib(less) person, and set up the coffee maker. 

Then I drank my beer, set my alarm for 4:30am, and went to bed.

Race Morning: I woke up, hit start on the coffee maker, unpacked my peanut butter and bread, and started jamming out to "Club Can't Handle Me" on repeat while I got dressed.  I was aiming to leave for the race at 5:30am for a 7:00am start, so I'd be sure to have plenty of time to pick up my bib.  After 3 cups of coffee and one facial scalding (cup 3 was extremely hot, having been on the burner for almost an hour), I got in the car.  

4 minutes later I arrived at the start and found a parking spot approximately 30 feet from bib pick up.  Which was inhabited by 4 people, all of whom were volunteers happy to help me.  The entire process took 11 seconds, and I had 80 minutes to sit in my car, staying warm and dry, until the start.  I did make a pit stop in the bathroom (best part of beach races is that they always have real bathrooms), but otherwise sat in car listening to country music (94.7 WDSD, and yes I did find country stations everywhere between New York and Delaware).  About 6:40am, I got out of the car and met up with my friend Seth who was also running (and had a race morning mishap when he discovered he'd only packed one sneaker...).  The race was so small, all he had to do was start shouting "Claire?" and we easily found each other. 

The weather was perfect in my view: overcast, a little misty, and in the mid-40s.  I was boggled by people walking by in tights and long sleeves, and for a split second considered bringing a throwaway hoodie to the start, but ultimately was happy with a tank and shorts, along with arm warmers and gloves. And my trash bag overcoat, obviously.

The small field (fewer than 1,000 finishers in the full) meant that there were no corrals, but I also didn't have a problem getting close to the front.  And it seemed like participants were good about self-policing and not toeing the line if they were planning on running 10:00/mi.  Having looked at last year's results, I figured my 3:30 goal time should have me in the first quarter of the field or so.

In the minutes leading up to the gun (actually, there was no gun... people just started moving forward), I heard a woman near me saying she was planning on running 7:26s.  

This is what's called foreshadowing...

The Running: I crossed the starting mat and was immediately able to run at what I deemed to be my target race pace (my Garmin would differ, but I didn't look for the first mile so I wouldn't stress myself out); there were no crowds to weave through, and I was easily able to carve out some space for myself.  The first mile clicked in 7:26.  And what do you know?  I was right with the woman from the start.  

Now here's the part where you say "was this your first rodeo?  You know that even your A goal only required an 8:00/mi pace right?  Why in God's name were you going so fast, especially when you admittedly didn't do any speed work at all?"  

I don't know.  

Part of me felt good, part of me was secretly hoping I was magically fast even without speed work, and part of me was cognizant of the fact that I relied on the taboo "banking time" strategy when I PRed last fall.  In any case, in my 14th marathon, I made the same mistake every first time marathoner makes and went out too fast.  

Mile 2: 7:14
Mile 3: 7:17
Mile 4: 7:28
Mile 5: 7:27

Okay at this point, I realized I was being stupid and even as banking time goes, this was excessive.  Also, (un)surprisingly unsustainable.  5 miles in and I was sort of tired.  So I made a bargain with myself: run hard for an hour (7:30s), then ease up for the next hour (7:45s), then see where you are and hopefully run harder for another hour.  Apparently I wasn't considering anything after 3 hours, likely because I knew it was going to suck no matter what.  Anyway, I pressed on apace, self-loathing increasing all the while.

I should also mention that, unbeknownst to me ahead of time, probably 10 miles of this marathon were on a dirt/gravel trail, beginning at mile 6.  Already struggling to hold on to 7:30s, this was not the most welcome sight.

Mile 6: 7:30
Mile 7: 7:28
Mile 8: 7:28

I hit 8 miles in exactly an hour and was quite relieved to be able to ease up a bit.  And it was amazing how much better I felt as soon as I stopped fighting and just relaxed.  Unfortunately, it was precisely at this point that I came upon someone who was also relaxed... in the bowels.  Yep, while I managed to not shit myself, another girl was not so lucky.  Poor thing was still chugging along, hopefully because of her dogged determination and not because she didn't realize what had happened (which was very apparent).  I avoided eye contact and passed her.

Mile 9: 7:39
Mile 10: 7:44
Mile 11: 7:45
Mile 12: 7:40
Mile 13: 7:37

According to the official results, my half marathon split was 1:37:44, which is a PR.  Which is ridiculous and indicative of terrible race pacing, because no one should run their half marathon PR during the first half of a full marathon, and also means the second half took me 12 minutes longer than the first.  That's nearly a minute per mile slower.  Yes, I'm suitably embarrassed by all of this.  Moving on...

At mile 13, we entered Cape Henlopen State Park.  While this course was by no means anything but very flat, there were a few changes in elevation in the park (total gain: 40 feet. Literally), and considering how much energy the first 8 miles took out of me, I was quite unhappy, and fearful I might actually be hitting "the wall" 13 miles in.  Thankfully, the "hills" only lasted a mile.  A lot of the route through the park consisted of loops and hairpins and out-and-backs, and at one point as I made a 180 degree turn around a fence post I said to the girl next to me "who designed this course?"  But mostly it was scenic, and I was still alive, so I did my best to hang on and enjoy it.  And pretend I hadn't previously suggested to myself I run the third hour hard, because I had absolutely no capacity for that.

Despite the twists and turns, the dirt path, and the fact that we were in a park, I was really surprised at the level of spectator support at this race.  Sure, there were some sparse parts, but for a small field, and a damp day, there were a lot of people out.  Thank you, citizens of Rehoboth.

Mile 14: 7:51
Mile 15: 7:47
Mile 16:7:43
Mile 17: 7:55
Mile 18: 7:51

My Garmin had been pretty much accurate from the start, but between miles 17 and 18, I somehow gained about 3 tenths of a mile.  I ran into a guy (in the Dogfish Head Brewery, natch) after the race who asked if I'd experienced it as well, so I wasn't the only one.  I also know that last year, the course was short, so maybe the race directors were sticking it to us to make up for that. Anyway, my recorded splits going forward are based on my Garmin.

From here, we headed out of the park and back towards the start, the same way we came.  Which meant more dirt trails.  Except this go around, I was grateful for the soft ground under my increasingly tired feet.  Mile 19 was also the first (of the next 7...) I dropped over 8:00/mi.  As usual, I started doing math in my head, calculating just how slow I could get and still run a 3:30.  This is where I can't overstate the greatness of the pace bracelet.  I hit mile 20 around 2:35, and by looking at my bracelet I knew this meant I could run as slow as 9:00/mi and still hit my A goal.  Theoretically this was more than feasible, but I'd also never spent the first 8 miles of a marathon nearly sprinting, so it was hard to say how much energy I'd have.  Rather than easing up and enjoying that banked time, I tried holding on as long as I could (are you sensing a theme?!)

Mile 19: 8:09
Mile 20: 8:26
Mile 21: 8:17
Mile 22: 8:12
Mile 23: 8:06
Mile 24: 8:14
Mile 25: 8:22
Mile 26: 8:25

I'm making that face not just because I was unhappy with my race, but also because the ribbon on my medal really smelled bad because I insisted on wearing it before I took my shower.

The End: I crossed the finish line in 3:27:37 - two and a half-ish minutes ahead of my A goal, and largely disappointed in the race I ran.  I wasn't smart.  And I was pissed that, having worked my tail off at the track and having given up beer for a full month before Smuttynose last year, I only ran 3 minutes faster there than I did in Rehoboth.  So either training is totally overrated, or if I had done even a little bit more of it, or ran a little bit of a smarter race, I could have PRed.

I get it; I'm being ungrateful.  3:27:37 is my second fastest marathon, and everything I'm unhappy with about it is my own damn fault.  And while some of my ability to not completely fall apart and end up running 9- or 10-minute miles, or walking, late in the race I owe to luck, some also comes from experience; I've run enough marathons to know how hard I can push myself and for how long late in the game.  That said, success in the marathon for me is more than just the time on the clock.  As I've said before, part of what makes the marathon my favorite distance is the planning and execution of a strategy  that goes into it.  And "hang on and don't die" isn't the most complex or effective strategy I've ever come up with.  So I'm still left with a lot of "shoulda/woulda/coulda," which isn't how you want to feel after a marathon.  What you want to feel is drunken and euphoric, for the record.

(I did take steps towards "drunken an euphoric" in the finish tent, where I drank a 16 Mile IPA and ate pancakes, and again I applaud the fine folks of Rehoboth for their finish line spread.)

So You Want To Run Rehoboth Beach: I'd recommend this race.  It's a flat and scenic course, even if it potentially was a little long.  There's surprisingly good race support, both from spectators and volunteers, and I was impressed with the race day organization.  Getting to and parking at the start made for the most stress free race morning I've ever had.  Hotels in the area are plenty and cheap considering it's the off season.  While I didn't stay long, the finish line party was impressive, with a variety of food options, unlimited beer that wasn't shitty Mich Ultra, and a band.  There is potential for wind, it being December and by the shore, but if you get a day like I did, you're in for pretty ideal marathon conditions.  At $107, it's on the expensive side, but what can you do?)

In any case, number 14 is under my belt.  I learned a few things about my self as a marathoner, and I'm excited (and also scared) to see what I can do the next time I fully commit myself to the marathon.  But before then, I've got big (/long) plans for the spring...

Here's to the next great adventure!

Monday Wrap Up: Karma

As I suspect you saw from Saturday's post, I (pretty surprisingly...) achieved my A goal in Rehoboth Beach on Saturday. As such, I also achieved B and C. And while not necessarily implicit, I too achieved my D goal and once again did not shit myself mid-marathon. Congrats are indeed in order.

While my D goal is always "don't shit self," for some reason this goal got a lot of traction among my friends this go around.

And I, of course, jumped on this opportunity to talk openly about poop with people outside my running friends. Such as, the whole Internet community, including ex- and future-boyfriends and colleagues.

24 people liked that, because I'm friends with creeps.

Anyway, I mention all that because when I got home to New York on Saturday night, karma bit me in the ass (um, literally...). I spent the day crowing about not pooping and then had food poisoning all night long.

I don't know that I've ever grappled with food poisoning before, and while I won't go into specifics, I will say that any condition which requires 1) walking very quickly to the bathroom, and 2) lowering various parts of one's body over the toilet is not an ideal way to "recover" from a marathon.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 34.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 15.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Blue Moon, Brooklyn Lager, Brooklyn IPA, Goose Island Honker's Ale, Dogfish Head 60 Min IPA, Dogfish Head 120 Min IPA (full review on this coming), Guinness, and Bud Light. In my defense, the Bud Light was used to rehydrate myself post- food poisoning.

I seem to be on the mend, which means I'm going to eat 3 days worth of advent calendar chocolate now. NOT A BAD PERK!

Spoiler Alert

F*%k That Friday, Race Week Edition

Today we return to the semi-occasional column in which I bitch about things that have really pissed me off this week, because the internet should be more than baby pictures and videos of kittens snuggling puppies. It's everybody's favorite: F*%k That Friday!

Today's F*%k That Friday! is extra special, because it's race week! Actually at this point, it's almost race day, which brings up to the first item in F*%k That Friday!


Timely and consistent blogging. It's Friday, and I still haven't written a weekly wrap up for last week (spoiler alert: I'm not going to). I know exactly two people have been on the edge of their seats since Sunday waiting for one (my mom and Abbe, the latter of whom called me out on it yesterday), and I also know that there's literally nothing worse than reading a blog on which there are no posts for a week, and then a post detailing how OMGBUSY!!!!!1! the author has been and how sorry they are for neglecting you. So I'm not doing that. Sorry I'm not sorry; sometimes blogging isn't how I choose to spend my free time. F*%k That!

Pre-race rituals. This season has already been... Unconventional. I haven't done a lick of speed work, I haven't hit 50 miles a week in months, and I didn't bother to taper until Monday. Why not keep it up through race day? I'm not leaving for Delaware until this afternoon, which means pre-race rituals like laying out my bib person and eating a feast won't be feasible. I'm not even picking up my bib until I get to the start on Saturday. As for the feast, I made it last night:

That tupperware of pasta is my dinner tonight. The peanut butter, instant coffee, and Gu are for tomorrow.
The bottle of wine and photos of my parents aren't coming to Delaware.

Needless to say, plain pasta behind the wheel isn't exactly how I've prepared myself ahead of marathons before. But why stop there?  I obviously haven't gone dry for this marathon as I've done for many previous races, and it being Delaware and all, I decided to pack myself a little treat for my arrival.

Another pre-race ritual I skipped? Manicure.

"It's only weird if it doesn't work"?  F*%k That!


Fun runs. I've run races for fun plenty of times. I've even done it for marathons: I ran NYCM for fun as a celebration of my first BQ. But tomorrow's race isn't a fun run. Declaring it as such would be a tremendous cop out. I'm not gunning for a sub 3:20 tomorrow because I didn't get my shit together and train hard enough to make that feasible.  I'm not entitled to celebrate or reward myself by taking it easy and running for fun tomorrow.  Tomorrow, I intend to run a hard effort and use it as a solid long training run.  I already have one ultra on the calendar for the spring, and there's nothing fun about 39.3 miles. F*%k That! (Both the suggestion that I cop out and "fun run" it tomorrow, but also the fact that I have a beast of an ultra coming up, the training for which begins... in two weeks).

And that brings us to the inevitable: The Race Day Goals.

A goal: 3:30.  On the one hand, this feels lofty.  It's only 6 minutes off my PR.  But on the other, it feels feasible, at an even 8:00/mi.  It's an arbitrary goal either way, but it's a nice even number, and a feel like hitting it would be a good benchmark for fitness going into ultra training.

B goal: 3:40.  Even without any speedwork, 26.2 miles at 8:24 a pop should be doable, given that it's right around what my long run paces have been.  More important here, though, is the idea of consistently hard effort, which is hard to quantify, so I've ascribed yet another arbitrary numeric goal to it.

C goal: Sub 3:50.  I ran a 3:50 on the surface of the sun at Boston this year.  Granted, I trained harder for that race than for any other (which made that finish time feel all the more awesome...), but it was held inside an oven.  I should really be able to outperform this.

D goal: Don't shit self.  13 marathons and counting!

Rehoboth Beach, number 14.  Let's do this thing.

The Anti-Taper: Updates and Insights

I’m running a marathon in 10 days.  I ran 9 miles this morning because I’m sticking with this anti-taper thing.  It’s like “What Not To Wear,” but for marathon training.  Only it has nothing to do with what I’m wearing.  Though this morning I was both sort of overdressed, and also wearing all black in pre-dawn hours.  But no one has given me a $5000 Visa gift card to be used on future marathon registration fees, nor ambushed me at work with hidden camera footage of me sucking wind during mile repeats.  This is actually nothing like “What Not To Wear” for marathon training, then.

Moving right along, I've gathered some thoughts on the anti-taper, which I will list for you below:

1.       I can’t decide if the highly uncomfortable piriformis pain I've had for two days is a result of taper pains despite the fact that I’m not tapering, like my right ass check somehow knows I have a marathon in 10 days, or the result of not tapering itself, and instead continuing my practice of running and then not stretching and then sitting at a desk for 10 hours.  Either way, it’s awesome.

2.       I bumped into Abbe and Baker in Central Park this morning and decided to run with them.  I told them proudly that I’d been sober for 2 whole days.  First, Abbe challenged me: “ Weren't you drunk texting me 2 days ago?” Yes, I was.  And that was 2 days ago.  I've been sober since then.  Then Baker asked if by “sober” I meant “I've only had one drink per day,” which I didn't even realize was an acceptable definition of sober.  The answer was no, I actually have had zero drinks per day for 2 days.  Then they congratulated me.  We’re celebrating by going out for beers tonight.  That’s a true story. 

3.       Race day is now in the long range forecast, and in the grand tradition of marathoning, I’ll now check it every 2 hours for the next ten days.  Right now it looks awesome: high of 51 and mostly cloudy.  Can’t wait for next Thursday, when surely I’ll be looking at wind and snow.

4.       When you make a big production over your anti-taper strategy and then take an “unplanned rest day,” you don’t get to use “but I have a marathon next week” as an excuse.  The jig is up – you’re just lazy.

5.       I have not had the typical ravenous pre-marathon hunger (Taper Worm).  This is likely due to the fact that last week was Thanksgiving and I’m still sweating out flaky pastry crusts and not to the fact that I’m not tapering.

I’ll continue to update you regarding this highly scientific study into the effects of the anti-taper on the marathoner.  You must be on the edges of your seats…

Monday Wrap Up: On Sacrifice

Being a marathoner inevitably involves sacrifice.  Missed dinners and parties, nights in, and early mornings are all par for the course.  But last night I encountered yet another sacrifice.

I returned to the city in the afternoon, laden with clean clothes, cranberry sauce, and a brand new pair of Kinvaras, thanks to Black Friday sales (and by "Black Friday sales" I mean "my dad").  I unpacked my apartment and, hungover and tired, felt I needed to do something productive.  I hammered things.  I screwed things (heh).  I vacuumed things.  And then I went to put away all these tools and discovered to my horror a cockroach in my closet.

First, I panicked.  I seriously, SERIOUSLY hate cockroaches, which is a shame when you live in New York.  Then, I called Abbe and Baker for advice.  Baker has put so much thought into cockroach-slaughtering that he penned an entire blog post about it here, but I'll summarize my plan of action and reveal that I decided to go with the so-called "Crime Scene" method, with a twist.  Fearful of getting into a crouch and extending my arm towards this prehistorical monstrosity where it might have the opportunity to GOD FORBID touch an exposed part of my flesh, I grabbed the nearest pair of sneakers, which THANK GOD were not the aforementioned brand new pair of Kinvaras, and stomped the life out of this vile animal while screaming "GET OFF MY LAWN!" Clint Eastwood-style.




(I'm pretty sure that's not acting and Clint Eastwood really is a kooky old racist.)

After I was sure the intruder was dead, I cleaned up in the most logical way possible: by throwing out the sneakers I used to stomp him.

Moral of the story: you really should have several pairs of sneakers in your active rotation, but not for the reason you think.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 37.  I considered running short and easy Sunday to push me over 40 mpw, but I really did have about 90 beers at my reunion, and stayed out until 4am, and I think I got my heart rate up sufficiently during the home invasion.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: Remember how I was in the habit of going dry for a month before a marathon?  Me either, because I've been blacked out basically since I started training for this one.  Okay, just kidding.  A lot of my Thanksgiving break was spend playing Trivial Pursuit with my parents and running and being a designated driver, but plenty of it was also spent drinking a lot of beers.  Like, 20 of them.  At least.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA, Peak Nut Brown Ale, Saranac Pale Ale, Saranac IPA, Narragansett Lager (Christ, this is bad, but I needed some hair of the dog, and any port in the storm, right?), and about a million Bud Lights and Stellas.  Untappd also indicates that 6 days ago I drank some Founders Dirty Bastard, but I cannot for the life of me remember where that was. Maybe I have been blacked out...  Anyway, my sister and brother-in-law also sent a Thanksgiving care package to my parents' house, which contained several 22 oz bottles of a variety of Oregon beers.  I haven't tried any yet, and Dad if you're reading this and drinking them without me, I'm feeding Jingles to a fox next time I'm home.

Define "Week"

I woke up this morning close to paralyzed as a result of yesterday's yoga class. My body is like "please go back to the city where you're lazy; I can't take this multisport shit you're throwing my way." But as I mentioned last week, I'm anti-taper for Rehoboth, which meant I had another long run ahead of me today.

Well technically I could have had it ahead of me tomorrow, except that tonight is my ten year high school reunion and I earned at least 65 additional beers through yoga yesterday, on top of the expected 30 required at these types of events, so I couldn't imagine I was going to be in a position to run 20 miles on Sunday morning. So, paralysis and all, I ran 20.3 miles this morning.

When the week is said and done tomorrow, I anticipate having run a bit more than 40 miles. Respectable, but by no means the mileage required to race the marathon. But in the seven day period spanning from last Sunday through today, I've run 58 miles - a peak week.

Basically what I'm saying is, those 95 beers tonight are going to taste awesome.

Trots and Detoxes

True story: I'm sitting on the deck at my parents' house right now, drinking a beer in the warm(ish) sunshine, surrounded by the bounty of nature.

I'm also accompanied by a can full of semi-solid fat that dripped off last night's dinner. Is today awesome or what?

I trust you had a nice holiday, offered thanks to our servicemen and women, watched 10 solid hours of football, didn't bring shame upon your family, and unbuttoned your pants at the dinner table. I know I did. My Thanksgiving began with a local Turkey Trot with my dad. We've not run this race before, but I found it online and it did not disappoint.





The race was "2.5 ish" miles long. There was no timing system. There were no bibs. Registration cost one can of food. Costumes (Thanksgiving-related or not) were encouraged. There wasn't even a starting or finish line - we hung out in someone's driveway until the people in front of us started moving and we figured the race was underway. If you are looking for a competitive Turkey Trot in Fairfield County, CT next year, this ain't it. But we had a great time.

Following the feasting, at which turkey is the least enjoyable part of the meal, no offense Mom, and can you please make Parmesan Brussels sprouts at every meal, thanks, and the football watching and the alcohol consuming, I woke up this morning for an hour long "Detox Flow" yoga class with my high school friend, Denelle. She moved to Boulder a few years ago, became a yoga instructor, and posts pictures on Facebook doing yogi toe locks on top of mountains that make you want to find any sharp or heavy objects in your windowless cube and end your life. Billed as a way to get over our gluttonous Thanksgivings, I was looking forward to her class. And possibly taking over her life.

I warmed up with a run, then got in the car and headed down to Healthy Fit, a women-only gym near my hometown. I've never worked out at a single-sex fitness facility before, but to be honest, I don't know that I'd be welcome on a regular basis, if we're gender stereotyping, because I'm the one who gets asked at New York Sports Club to stop screaming at the television while I'm watching football on the treadmill. Anyway, I guess if single-sex facilities will make people more comfortable and therefore more inclined to work out, I'm all for it, but I know a few dudes who were disappointed to miss Denelle's class. Because they've also seen those Facebook pictures, and she's really bendy.

Moving on, I arrived at the gym, at which I am not a member, and was allowed to participate in Denelle's class free-of-charge, so thank you Healthy Fit. I didn't have a chance to look around too much, but the studio we went into was bright and spacious, and there was new and plentiful equipment for us to use (someone forgot her yoga mat...) A few other friends and classmates were in the class, so we chatted for a bit, mostly about Saturday's 10 year high school reunion and how detox yoga was just an excuse to get awkwardly intoxicated at that event. Soon enough, we got down to business.

Denelle introduced herself and talked a bit about her training, and then started us off with some breathing and chanting. Score, I can definitely do this.

Fast forward 45 minutes and I'm engaged in my fourth round of warriors, sweat dripping onto my mat, feeling entitled to drink at least 65 beers at the reunion, because Denelle means business. The poses individually were all doable (just pass me like 3 more blocks and my runner's hamstrings over here will just make a little modification, thanks), but linked together, it was a great workout. Denelle was patient and informative, offered corrections or modifications if you needed them, and didn't judge me for the fact that yes, seriously, this is as far as I can bend over. Added bonus: during corpse pose at the end of class, she came around and pressed on our shoulders and stretched our necks and it was delightful.

In summation, I should probably stick to the office life in New York, because my two brushes with the Boulder fitness scene indicate I'm woefully under-prepared for it. That said, if you're in Boulder, I can't say enough good things about yoga with Denelle. Go to a class.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some congealed fat to deal with. What an awkward segue...

An Update

Holy shit, my legs are tired.  

Sunday Wrap Up: In Defense of the Non-Taper

My next marathon is three weeks from yesterday.  As such, this morning I ran almost 21 miles.  By all accounts, I should have returned home and cracked a beer to celebrate the start of my taper.

But I didn't.

Okay, I did crack a beer.  And a Diet Coke.  And a glass of water.  I'm really particular about what drinks I have on hand when I'm recovering from a run, and when I'm recovering from being drunk.  Both involve alcohol.

Drinks and football.

Anyway, while I did celebrate the conclusion of my long run as proof that I've still got it (sort of...), I'm not toasting the taper because I don't intend to engage in one.

Let me interrupt myself again to reiterate: do as I say, not as I do.  By all accounts, the taper is a crucial part of training for a successful marathon.  But those are the same accounts that also tout the importance of speed work and 50 mile weeks, and I haven't exactly been accomplishing either of those this season.

I've already written off Rehoboth as a training run for my spring ultra (thereby making this THE LONGEST RACING SEASON EVER, which I'm sure is going to turn out to be great for my issue around getting my shit together and actually training...).  So why not use next weekend, and the weekend after that, for that matter, as training runs as well?  Even if this turns out to be the worst idea ever (likely), so long as I eat the awesome gnocchi bolognese I had today again after all my future 20+ milers, I'll do this shit forever.

Number of Miles Run This Week:  31.  Another terrible marathon prep idea I've employed is making these long runs as miserable as possible.  I ran 20.6 miles today and didn't eat anything.  I had 2 Gus with me, mind you, and I was tired and hungry, and I picked a brutally hilly route, but I told myself  that if I was not going to be racing a Fall marathon, I might as well take the time I should be spending getting ready to ace that marathon teaching my body to survive for longer without fuel.  I'm not entirely sure why, because the last ultra I ran was sort of a moveable feast and at no point was I not chewing food, let alone forced to survive without fuel, but I'm not an exercise scientist. Anyway, starving myself through almost 3 extremely hilly hours could have influenced my feelings around the aforementioned gnocchi bolognese, but holy shit, that was good.

Places I wanted to kill myself included: miles 1-5, mile 13, and miles 16-20.6. 

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 8. Part of my low mileage and lack of blogging this week, in addition to my lack of drinking, was that I was afflicted with a migraine on Wednesday afternoon.  I only get them about twice a year, and I don't wish them on my worst enemy. Thank goodness I was on the mend by Friday night, because I went out to 124 Rabbit Club, which was full of weird hipsters but also a great beer selection.  

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Bud Light, Avery Ellie's Brown Ale, Sixpoint Bengali IPA, Saranac Pale Ale, Saranac IPA.

Now, who has some ground beef and tomato sauce they can bring over here?

Tuesday Wrap Up: On Runger

Something amazing happened on Sunday.  No, it wasn't that the Giants forgot to go to Cincinnati and instead sent a 53-(wo)man roster from the Sisters of the Sick Poor to play the Bengals (though that did happen and it was amazing, in the "I am amazed that things are this bad" kind of way).  Nor was it the fact that, having stayed out drinking beers until 4am on Friday night (er, Saturday morning) and attending a particularly hard SoulCycle class, I had very little motivation to leave my apartment at all for the rest of the weekend (though that did also happen, and I had to place a phone call to my parents in Connecticut to get someone to tell me to put on my damn shorts and just get my running over with so I could be home in time for football).  No, the amazing thing that happened on Sunday was that I ran long enough to be hit with runger.  This is huge.

Runger itself actually sort of sucks.  It sneaks up on you in a moment of weakness: the post-run shower, perhaps, or just as you've settled yourself down in compression gear on the couch.  And then, with a vengeance, runger hits and I MUST HAVE ALL THE FOOD RIGHT NOW.  True story: I almost murdered the delivery man from Burger Heaven on Sunday afternoon because it took longer than 4 minutes for him to bring me lunch.  Then he arrived with a cheeseburger and curly fries and I murdered those instead.

Anyway, runger itself is not a new or special phenomenon, and I've written about it before.  But Sunday's bout of runger was noteworthy because it meant I ran enough to have it at all.  I'm rather embarrassed to admit this, but Sunday's 18.3 miler was the longest I've run since April.

To be clear the run itself was not amazing.  In fact, it was rather unpleasant.  By mile 7, I had hit the wall.  By mile 13, I was standing at a water fountain outside the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, looking up the East River at the Queensboro Bridge, which was like a mirage in the distance, thinking "I cannot believe I have to get all the way up there. Why in God's name didn't I bring a MetroCard with me?"  But in the end, it was run, and that's the important part.  

Mostly because it means that I probably still actually have the ability to run a marathon, which I can't even believe is something I had to confirm, but that's the predicament into which I've gotten myself.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 28.  Um.  Moving on...

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week:  Let's say 12.  I mean roughly 6 of those were huge German steins, which surely should count as more than one beer, but in terms of vessels holding alcohol, I'm saying 12.  I should start drinking directly from the keg and counting it as 1 beer...

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: So fun fact: I don't really like German beer.  Okay, that's not especially accurate.  I don't really know German beer.  So when I go to a place like Loreley, which serves only German beer, I'm sort of at a loss.  I drank a Bitburger, which I think is a Pilsner, and some Spaten, which is a Lager, and both are fine if totally boring.  Don't the Germans have any hops?  Should we give them some, as a gesture of diplomacy?  I didn't see that in any party platform last week... Anyway, other beers included 21 Amendment's Live Free or Die IPA (I bought that specifically for election night, because I am a loser), Goose Island Pepe Nero, and Hop Ottin IPA by Anderson Valley (not to be confused with Hidden Valley).

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go run off the aforementioned cheeseburger and curly fries, which I followed 2 hours later with dinner of chicken and sweet potato fries.  Which lead to yesterday's bacon, egg, and cheese, and then mac and cheese.  That's the problem with runger. I tend to overdo it.

The Moral Fiber of Running

I'm something of a political junkie (or procrastinator at work, and somehow Politico and Nate Silver found their way into my daily rotation of websites... either way). This election was certainly a long, contentious, and nerve-wracking one, both in terms of the presidential and congressional candidates, as well as several ballot initiatives.  Where ever you fall on the political spectrum, I think we can all agree that there is going to be a dearth of political pandering, fear mongering, fact twisting, and mountain-out-of-molehill making in the coming weeks.  I, for one, will not stand for that. I need to have something to analyze, fret about, and weigh in on.

Ta-dah!  Here's an issue that we as runners may be forced to confront if our collective morals continue to crumble:

Before you know it, perfect strangers will be forcing their mid-run hand holding on us.  ON OUR CHILDREN!  THEY MUST BE STOPPED!

Monday Wrap Up: Back On Our Feet

Slowly but surely, those of us who are able are getting back to normal here in NYC.  For example, I spent yesterday running long, and then drinking beers and watching football and falling in love with my local bartender.  Standard.

Just a girl, a beer, a lip gloss ring, and a juke box.

It seems I also lost a bet and had to take a shot...

But then tonight, as I left my office, where I'd been able to work for the first time in a week, I stepped out into a very dark, very cold evening.  And while I could return to my warm and dry apartment uptown, thousands still cannot.  So I burst into tears, right there walking up Lexington Avenue.  This is not, to be clear, standard for me.  This is important.

If you live in the NYC-area, go stand outside right now.  It's fucking FREEZING out there, right?  Please consider doing something to help out those who don't have the option to warm up back in their apartments with their delivery pizza (which is what I lived on last week during the storm).  You surely have the internet and can find out where to donate or volunteer on your own, but here are some links I've used:

• Occupy Wall Street ties aside, I've found Occupy Sandy has the most comprehensive listing of volunteer and donation needs.  
• Some specific organizations I personally have supported in the wake of the storm are The Ali Fourney Center, which provides services to homeless LGBT youth and whose building was destroyed last week, and Gay Men's Health Crisis*, which serves nearly 100,000 hot meals annually to low-income HIV-positive New Yorkers.  In the wake of the storm, some of those walked from the Bronx and Brooklyn to GMHC's headquarters in Midtown for a meal. 

Look, I don't mean to get all emo and whatever, and I promise I'll return to the usual drunk antics and crude sexual innuendo soon, but the notion of moving on with my life when my neighbors can't has really impacted me today.  Well that, and also the idea that, for the first time in ten consecutive days, today I won't be getting drunk.  

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 32. Yesterday I ran 15 miles (hey!  Look at me!  I did a legitimate long run!), down the East River from my apartment, through Battery Park, up the Hudson, and into Central Park.  Thousands of would-be marathoners were out, many of them running supplies down to the Staten Island ferry, or dedicating their miles (and their dollars) to the Mayor's Fund.  Hundreds more stood in Central Park, cheering runners on and handing out water.  I personally was anti-NYC Marathon this year and felt the cancellation was appropriate, but the spirit of community I saw among those would-be marathoners and their supporters yesterday was truly inspiring.  Sorry, I got emo again there...

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week:  I wasn't exaggerating; I have had at least one drink every single day since Thursday, October 25th.  I have no idea how many beers that amounts to, but suffice it to say that when one can't go into the office and decides to work from a bar with two-for-one beers at happy hour for 3 days, I know it's not a small number of beers.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Brooklyn Lager, Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA, Goose Island Pepe Nero, Maine Beer Company Mean Old Tom Stout, Guinness, Uinta Wyld, Bud Light, Stella... the list goes on.

Anyway, thanks for reading.  We now return to your regularly scheduled dick jokes...

*Full disclosure: I used to work to GMHC.

Dispatches from Above the Dead Zone

Greetings from a post-hurricane New York City. Just a quick update from me.
Up here on East 57th Street, things are not so bad. Sure there's extremely limited public transportation, grocery stores that are rapidly running out of food, no sanitation collection, and debris in the streets. But there's also electricity and running water. I went to Bloomingdales today, for God's sake!

The same cannot be said for West 57th Street, where they're still trying to figure out what to do with this dangling crane:






Things downtown are obviously much worse. I took a walk down there today. It didn't take very long, since the Dead Zone is just 18 blocks away, but it's like another world.





No power, no cell phone service, no heat. And those of you who grew up trick-or-treating here know its not exactly balmy out this time of year.

My office is in the Dead Zone, which means I've spent the last 3 days in my apartment, answering emails when I can and watching every episode of Breaking Bad when I can't. For what it's worth, I don't recommend a show that elicits as much anxiety as Breaking Bad during an end of days scenario when you're alone in your apartment. No amount of electricity can assuage those feelings. Anyway, you might think that not going to work is awesome, especially if your friends aren't at work either. You're wrong. There's something to be said for being a productive, contributing member of society, and that something isn't "sit in your underwear watching Breaking Bad on Netflix all day!" And you know those days when you are at work, but you're bored, and by 3:00pm you think "I have read the entire Internet today"? This is like that, except the feeling hits about 9:00am.

The parks are still closed, but I did a quick run this afternoon up the East River, mostly because I was so stir crazy (and partly because I've been eating my anxiety, and as such, pizza and alcohol have been in heavy rotation in my hurricane diet). The streets are absolutely mobbed with people and cars, both from this neighborhood and who've evacuated from their own, and I saw so many pedestrians trying to cross the Queensboro Bridge, I wondered if maybe the marathon was starting early.

I did hear from my perpetually marooned parents in Connecticut today. They were miraculously spared damage, though naturally lost power before the storm even began, and are headed to a hotel tonight so their cat has someplace warm to sleep. That's legitimately what my dad's reasoning was.

I don't have any profound thoughts about this hurricane and post-storm situation. It was sort of fun to be out of the office Monday afternoon, then it was terrifying Monday night, then it was surreal Tuesday, and now it's boring, though the threat of looting and chaos is keeping things interesting. My advice for those looking for it would be that drinking mass quantities of beer is a great way to combat stuck-in-your-apartmemt boredom, if for no other reason than it makes you go to sleep.

If you've been impacted by the hurricane, I'm thinking of you. Come over. Mad Libs is more fun with refugees.

Be safe out there, everyone!