Road Rants

Training for the Boston Marathon means that I have spent a lot of time on the roads.  I would say about 75% of the people I encounter on the roads are very respectful.  The other 25% suck the big one.  Today was one of those days where that 25% was the majority.  Once last fall I remember going out for a run right after the Patriots lost a game, and drivers were visibly crankier.  I'm not sure what was happening today, but the fact that it's late March, temps in the 30's, and there's still snow all over the place might have something to do with it.

Here's my list of things that are absolutely going to happen when you spend enough time running on the roads:

• If you are on a deserted road where there is absolutely no traffic, and you come up to a narrow bridge, there will suddenly be a car coming from each direction.  The two cars will squeeze together and you will be left trotting on the edge of the bridge like you're teetering on a balance beam.
• If you are on a quiet road where not a single car has passed you for miles, and you come up to a sharp blind corner, a car will come bombing around the corner and will have to do a very dramatic swerve to get around you.  Frequently in conjunction with a hand gesture.
• If you are running along on that nice quiet, dry road where you haven't seen any traffic for miles, and there's only one puddle and it's right in front of you, a car will come towards you and will drive as close to you as possible so that you can't run around the puddle.
• You are not obligated to run on a sidewalk; you are technically allowed to run on the street even if there is a sidewalk.  And keep in mind that when you do, certain drivers are going to "teach you a lesson" about it.
• A dog will chase you (or at least "aggressively follow" you)
• Someone will look at you with disgust when you spit on the street
• Someone will wave at you and you won't know if 1. they're just being nice, if 2. you know them, or if 3. they're using the "I can smell you from here" gesture
• Someone will speed up and swerve towards you, and you will hope a cop will be there to see it, but there won't be.

On today's run I was passed by Joe Stud driving an old fixed up sports car, revving the engine louder as he sped up passing me.  He did this while unbeknownst to him, his directional was blinking away for no reason.  Driving around with your directional on is the vehicular equivalent of walking around with your fly down.  It makes me giggle.  

So is it just in New England that we have rude drivers?  Or is it like this everywhere?

Girl Seeks Euphoria

As if whining about my hip wasn’t annoying enough, I’ve also spent the summer complaining about the heat.  This is after I spent the whole winter complaining about the twelve foot high snow banks.  Honestly, am I just impossible to please?  Todd would say yes.  He would attribute my complaints to that giant bag of excuses I carry around with me.  But no really, I hate running in the heat.  I am a self-proclaimed heat wuss.  I melt.  Running in the heat is a chore, and a matter of survival.  It’s a constant battle of trying to stay hydrated, trying not to pass out, trying not to let my heart rate skyrocket, trying not to develop heat stroke.  There’s more sweat in the eyes, more chafing, more sunburn, more deodorant.  I’m quite confident that if I lived anywhere south of Massachusetts, I wouldn’t be a runner.  My body was just not designed to be a sun soaker. 

                This past Labor Day weekend, I had every intention of doing a long run.  I need to get in a couple more long runs before I sign up for a half marathon in October, so I was hoping for 9 miles on either Saturday or Sunday.  Instead of waking up early to run before it heated up, I ended up taking my horse for long rides.  By the time I finished riding, it was just too hot to get in that long run.  Yup, I am no doubt a total heat wuss.  This morning, my 5am wake up call was startling.  It was pitch dark, chilly, and pouring.  It was the kind of morning where the blankets practically forbid me from sliding out of bed, and the snooze button was hit repeatedly.   When I finally managed to get out of bed, I breathed in the chilly air coming in through the window.  The crisp air was a welcome change to the thick humidity we’ve been enduring for most of the summer.  The thought of running in the cooler conditions was exciting, and I immediately packed my running bag and headed off to work.

                It rained heavily for much of the morning, so I wasn’t sure if I’d have any company on today’s run.  Todd and Jaimee are no fair weather runners though, and the three of us headed out together in the light rain.  Kerri wimped out (her words) and the Ken Doll…well…apparently his muscles melt when it rains. 

                The run was fantastic.  That’s all I can say.  The end.  Okay, I should probably elaborate.  The weather was perfect for running.  It was high 50’s and light-to-steady rain.  It is my favorite running weather.  Apparently all three of us felt the same because we all managed a brisk pace for the entire 4 mile run.  My body was thrilled and responsive.  When I wanted to speed up a bit it was like, okay, let’s go!  I charged up hills, maintained good breathing, good heart rate, and dare I say had a bit of a spring in my step!  When we got back to the building, Todd and Jaimee did another lap around the whole building and I did my own extra lap around one of the parking lots.  It was the first time in months that I felt like I could run forever.  I had no desire to stop running, unlike so many other runs this summer where I literally counted the minutes until I would be done.  Today reminded me why I love autumn running so much: Being able to take all of the fitness gained from the summer and capitalizing on the cooler weather.  It also reminded me of another perk of running.  The runner’s high!  I generally feel pretty good after running, but today was euphoric.  The run was great, my body felt great, and that feeling carried over to the rest of the day.  I nailed the rest of my day at work, and didn’t even mind the rainy, slow commute home.  I stopped for a bottle of wine at the liquor store and chatted up the clerk for a few minutes.  At home, I was unusually energetic after a long day and whipped through some chores.   I was downright cheery!

                When people ask why runners run, there are a lot of reasons and some of them are deeply personal.  But most runners will acknowledge the endorphin-induced runner’s high.  This summer I’ve focused so much on my injury and I’ve shuffled through so many painful, hot miles that I haven’t been able to really enjoy the sport.  Today reminded me how much I love running, and reminded me that there are still a lot of cool days ahead before I go in for my surgery.  Until then I will be just another girl, running her feet off, happily seeking euphoria.

Flatlined!

I would like to start off by confirming that I am not, in fact, dead.  This might come as a surprise if you are checking out any of my Garmin stats, especially my recent uploads that include heart rates.  (Still cursing Scott for convincing me that this was a good idea).  As expected, this has become my new obsession and I’ve been doing research and analysis on optimum heart rates for runners.  I also reformatted the display on my Garmin to make the heart rate more visible so I could monitor it more carefully during my run.  My first run with the heart rate monitor was on Monday, where I maxed out in the 170’s in what I thought was a casual, easy run.  After speaking with some friends and looking it up online, 170+ is a pretty fast rate and is normally only reached during harder efforts.  I got a little defensive about this and started looking up other Garmin users in my area to see what they maxed out at.  Apparently I live near some real machines that can bang out 6-7 min miles and never break 150bpm. This led me to the obvious conclusion: I’m going to die of heart failure at any moment.  In an effort to avoid being overdramatic, I feel it important to explain a couple possible factors.  1. This was a trail run, which is a harder effort than roads.  2. I was the only female during this trail run.  Not only was I working a little harder to keep up with some of the guys but, um… hello… I was surrounded by men!  That alone should cause a spike of 20-30bpm.  3.  It was a short run.  I wondered if after a few miles my heart would calm down, or if it would sustain that hard effort regardless of the distance.

Factoring in those three points into my analysis, I have revised my heart rate from Monday’s run:

175 average BPM – 5 (trail run) – 25 (surrounded by men) – 5 (short distance) = 140BPM.  Voila.  Genius!

I have this reoccurring dream.  Every morning I wake up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, jump into my running clothes, lace up my running shoes, and just as I’m strapping on my Garmin…the alarm goes off.  Then I hit snooze.  Then I wake up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth…blah blah blah…and the alarm goes off again.  By the time I stop pressing snooze, it’s time to get ready for work.  This morning was different though!  I woke up, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, jumped into my running clothes, laced up my running shoes, attached my heart rate monitor, (awesome, I am definitely not dreaming if I’m attaching my heart rate monitor! I’m awake!), and just as I’m strapping on my Garmin…the alarm went off.  UGH.  Apparently my reoccurring dream is evolving.  Finally, I managed to actually, really, truly wake up and do all of the above steps.  Ugh, I feel like I’ve done this 5 times already this morning.  However, when I fired up the Garmin I got the dreaded message: Low Battery Power.  What? Noooooooooooo!  How did this happen?  Oh please tell me I’m dreaming.  I won’t press snooze this time, I promise! 

Unfortunately I wasn’t dreaming, and I was kicking myself for hitting snooze so much this morning.  If I had given myself more time, I could have charged up the Garmin for a few minutes.  Since I cut it so short however, my only choice was to soldier on and get whatever life I could out of the battery.  I was only going for a four mile run so I hoped the Garmin would make it for the next 35 minutes or so.  I started my run very slowly, carefully monitoring my heart rate.  My goal was to keep it under 170.  I wanted to see how hard I could run before it reached 170.  So I just plodded along at a nice casual pace on a beautiful, sunny Friday morning.  My new obsession with this heart rate monitor is putting crazy thoughts into my head.  I was wondering what it would look like if I just dropped dead while running.  I have a vision of someone finding me, hours later, wondering what happened.  Then, a savvy detective who doubles as an avid runner would spot the Garmin, upload it, and see my stats.  This savvy detective would not only trace my starting location, but he would see my exact performance leading up to my collapse.  I thought of what the heart rate scale would look like: 167..168…169….170.…..171………Flatline.  This morbid thought for some reason struck me as hysterical, and I giggled and snorted my way down the street.  (I wonder how much laughing while running impacts heart rates?) 

At the one mile mark my Garmin chirped, and for the first time I didn’t even glance down to see my split time.  My new obsession has shifted my focus so far off my pace that it’s not even important anymore.  Getting to work on time is, however, a consideration so I made sure I wasn’t shuffling along too slowly.  After another minute or so I glanced down to make sure I was still in a comfortable zone, and I was struck with sheer panic.  The Garmin display was blank.  Empty.  Gonzo.  That’s it.  I croaked.  Bit the dust.  Kicked the bucket.  Flatlined.  My heart has stopped beating and any second now I will collapse.  Luckily it only took a millisecond for me to remember that it was only my Garmin battery that was dying, not my actual body, and I settled down.  I can only imagine what my pulse jumped up to at that brief moment.  I’m lucky I didn’t put myself into cardiac arrest!  Maybe I need to calm down a bit with this heart rate obsession.  I’m making myself crazy.

The rest of the run was fun and uneventful, and I managed to get by just fine without tracking my time, pace, or heart rate.  My only real disappointment was I didn’t get to see how my heart held up over the longer distance, but hey… there’s plenty more opportunities for that!

And for the record, my reoccurring dream isn’t so bad.  I also had a dream shortly before waking up that I snuck into my neighbor’s outhouse while they weren’t home.  (No idea why my neighbors had an outhouse in my dream, or why I would have a desire to use it while they weren’t home).  Then the outhouse started to flood and I was up to my knees, so I quickly jumped out of the outhouse, only to find that the neighbors had pulled into the driveway along with a bunch of other cars, and they caught me sneaking out of their outhouse.  So, in the grand scheme of reoccurring dreams, strapping on a heart rate monitor isn’t too awful.  As long as it doesn’t evolve into flatlining. 

(bleep)’ing snow!!

Sounding like a broken record, I once again had to run on the treadmill at the gym tonight.  After yet another snow storm, followed by a crystallizing ice storm, the roads are barely driveable let alone run-able.  I’m really trying to stay positive about this, but I’ll admit: the snow-pocalypse is wearing on my very last nerves.  And now to add insult to injury, I have to add Yaktrax to my list of necessary equipment required to walk out the front door.  Not to mention that yet another storm is due to arrive Saturday night, which will more than likely cause a banquet I’m attending to be postponed.  Just as well, as I’m sure the conversation will revolve around the weather, the snow, the cold, etc.  I’d rather suffer through awkward silences at this point than resort to the old weather standby.  My life and my schedule are now completely revolving around snow, and I’m resenting it deeply.

My friend Chris had talked me into signing up for a 10k this weekend in South Boston.  Not thrilled about driving to Boston for a 6 mile race, I was finally swayed by two compelling attractions:  1. Each runner receives hot Whole Foods soup, and two free Harpoon beers.  (It’s well documented, I will do nearly anything, up to and including driving long distances and running my ass off, to obtain free alcohol.  Even if it requires paying a $30 entry fee).  2. It would be a chance for me to finally get to run outside, on a measured course, in a very scenic area, with cops holding off traffic and allowing me to run in the road without fear of being bowled over by Masshole drivers.  Once I weighed the options I knew signing up was the right choice. 

I’ve been eyeing the weather carefully and although another storm is scheduled for Saturday, Sunday is shaping up to be a beautiful 40 degrees and sunny.  As the week has progressed, I’ve started really looking forward to this race and recruited a couple more runners from work.  It was shaping up to be a great winter race.  After another lousy day of work (which comes after a lousy day of work, which came after another lousy day of work, etc., etc.,) I was trying to psych myself up into going to the gym and running a few miles.  On my way to the gym I received an email.  The email was from this weekend’s race organizer, announcing that the race for this weekend has been postponed until the following weekend.  Furthermore, the police will not allow the roads to be closed for the run, so we are not allowed to run in the roads.  And since sidewalks have been replaced with 10 foot snow banks, this means the official “race” has been cancelled, and only the post-race party will take place.  I guess that’s all well and good if you live in Boston and just want to go party for an afternoon.  For me, I signed up for the miles.  This was a crushing blow, and I took it as a personal insult by Mother Nature, screwing me once again with the weather. 

I lost whatever enthusiasm I had left for the gym and came close to bagging it altogether.  But, knowing that I had even less miles to look forward to this weekend, the treadmill wasn’t a nice-to-have; it was a requirement.  However, if I was going to survive the gym, it meant adhering to a strict set of rules:

·         Absolutely no watching the news while running.  The news has turned into all-snow-all-the-time, and I can’t bear to hear one more cliché snow story; one more breaking news story involving pot holes, roof collapses, power outages, stranded animals, drainage problems, or any other snow-related calamity.

·         No thinking about snow.  The word snow cannot enter my brain.  At.  All. 

·         No peeking at other TV’s on other treadmills.

·         This run must be mentally uplifting.  Therefore, I created my mentally uplifting plan:

o   Mile 1: Observation.  I will use the first mile as a warm up, and an opportunity to observe (read: make fun of) other gym patrons

o   Mile 2: Visualize the most positive warm-weather activity I can think of

o   Mile 3: Observation, part two

o   Mile 4: Hard core run, followed by cool down

The gym was filled to capacity today.  When I selected a treadmill I was forced to squeeze in between two walkers.  Out of respect to them, I tightly knotted up my ponytail to prevent splattering my neighbors with sweat.  I trotted along on the treadmill and once settled into a groove, I started my mile 1 observations.  I noticed that the treadmills were occupied by a large variety of people, and that there would be a lot more open treadmills if the following rules were enacted and enforced:

·         No excessive stretching on the treadmill.  Stretch on a mat for Pete’s sake, and save the treadmill for those who wish to engage in a forward motion movement

·         No idle chatter on the treadmill.  And by that I mean, standing perfectly still kibitzing with neighbors on adjacent treadmill.

·         Forward motion must be at least 2 MPH (*exception: Elderly blind men).  If you are going to walk less than 2 MPH with your arms straight at your sides, then just go walk in circles in the locker room.  Or in the snowy parking lot.  Or from your couch to your refrigerator. 

Unfortunately, I have little faith that I could ever get the gym to adopt such strict policies (heck, I can’t even get them to enforce wiping down the treadmills), so we’ll all be forced to fight for treadmills until the New Year’s honeymoon wears off and I’m back to being alone in the row.  I’m betting it won’t take long. 

Mile two, for my positive warm weather activity, I chose to start planning my vegetable garden.  Last summer was my first time in complete control of the garden, and it was a big success.  I thought about what went well and what I could change.  By mile three, I had worked out the following plan:

·         Must remember to fertilize.  Dad always insisted on chicken manure.  I will replace that with something bagged, tidier, with less offensive odor.

·         Lettuce, winter squash, and beans were a big success.  Will plant lots this year.

·         Planted too much basil and radishes last year.  No one actually eats radishes, and one can only have so much pesto.

·         The cucumbers got overshadowed by giant squash leaves.  Must plant more spaciously.

·         Dad never wanted to plant peas, because he thought they never grew well.  (In reality, they grew just fine.  They just never made it to the house because I ate them all straight out of the garden.  And I blamed it on rabbits).  As the inherited keeper of the garden, I’m making the executive decision to plant snow peas this year.  OMG did I just think “snow”?  Scratch that.  Sugar snap peas.  Not snow peas.  Never snow peas.

Mile three prompted more fun observations.  I spotted a trainer working with two people on treadmills.  I know he was a trainer because he was wearing an official gym shirt, which said “TRAINER” on the back.  I also noticed he was sporting a rather large cast all the way up his right arm.  No doubt from a horrific kettlebell accident, I concluded.  Here is an observation I’ve never made before.  Apparently it was couples night at the gym.  Nearly everyone I saw heading to the treadmills came in pairs.  What’s worse, they all insisted on working out side-by-side.  They scoured up and down the rows of treadmills in search of adjacent equipment.  I started to feel out of place as the single one, which is pretty much how I feel all the time, and these cutsie little couples started to irritate me.  I was further irritated when one of these couples wasn’t able to get adjoining treadmills and they ended up sandwiching around me, and proceeded talking over me.  Screw you two, and screw my plan.  I’m starting my hard core running now before I “accidentally” spit on you.  I cranked up my run and did the last two miles at an 8:00 pace, while sweating and breathing heavily and being generally disruptive and obnoxious.  On several occasions I noticed him looking over at me.  I’m pretty sure he was in awe of my sustained high treadmill speed.  Or, maybe he was just checking out my Asics.  (Guys, I said ASICS.  He was checking out my ASICS). 

I ended my run with a quarter mile cool down while checking out the weightlifters.  It’s always fun to watch these guys, who spend an awful lot of time flexing in front of the mirrors while managing to only very rarely lift an actual dumbbell.  Overall it was a decent workout, and with no end in sight of that four letter word, I need to learn to love that dreaded belt and conjure up more new and exciting mind games.  Or, move to a snow-free environment.  Right now, it’s a toss-up.  Stay tuned!

The Shoe Fetish

I have a bit of a shoe fetish.  I’m just in love with shoes.  And I don’t mean Sex and the City’s-Carrie Bradshaw-kind-of-shoes.  I’m talking about running shoes.  I just love running shoes.  Specifically, New Balance running shoes.  Sure there are other brands worn more frequently  by the serious runners, but I’ve always had luck with New Balance and never dared to stray. 

Today I went to a local running specialty store in search of socks.  I know it sounds silly to drive 15 miles to a specialty store for socks, but any avid runner will tell you that socks are one of the most important pieces of equipment, second only to running shoes and sports bras.  Entering the running store is like coming home.  The staffers aren’t teenagers enduring painful weekend work.  These are the owners, the highly evolved running machines that eat 18 miles for breakfast, that are genuinely thrilled to talk to people about running.  Five minutes in that store and I felt like I had new friends.  We swapped stories about the perils of running outside in this extreme winter weather, and compared training plans.  (At which point I noticed a distinct wince when I confided that my long run is only 7 miles right now, with Hyannis looming 4 weeks away).  Not only did I pick out an uber-fancy pair of running socks, I also picked up a pair of Saucony running pants, and yes, perused the shoe section.  The owner offered to conduct a gait analysis on me, and 20 seconds later I was out in the parking lot running up and down the sidewalk in my old retired pair of New Balance 1063’s.  He commented that I had done well with selecting my 1063’s (which is great, since I have four pairs of them).  Back inside, he asked if I’d like to try any specific brands.  Having no experience with anything other than New Balance (except for once when I tried to squeeze my feet into Nike’s and let’s just say Mr. Nike didn’t get my number), I didn’t even know where to begin.  He brought out a pair of Asics, New Balance, and Saucony.  I felt like Goldie Locks as I slipped into each pair of shoes and hopped and marched around the parking lot.  The Saucony was too stiff, the New Balance was too narrow, but the Asics were just right (pronounced with Goldie Locks inflection).  I was in awe of these shoes.  Oh Asics, where have you been all my life?  I was positively smitten with these shoes.  I loved them so much that I was sad seeing them placed back in the box.  Silently I whispered to them, we will reunite soon my loves, I promise. 

On the way home I couldn’t stop talking about how much I loved the shoes.  I just couldn’t contain my excitement.  An hour earlier I was contemplating taking a nap and skipping the gym.  With my new shoes and socks, I was reenergized and absolutely jumping out of my skin to go hop on that treadmill.  After a quick change at home, I was back on the road and heading to the gym.  The gym was pretty dull and empty tonight.  It was, after all, a Sunday night.  In the locker room I slipped on my new socks and shoes with meticulous care.  I marched to the treadmills with a new level of confidence, furtively glancing to see if anyone noticed my amazing new super-shoes.  Sadly, no one else seemed to notice.  Give it time, wait ‘til they see them in action.  I hopped on the treadmill and faced the moment of truth.  Would the shoes live up to the hype and make it to a second date, or would I abruptly lose interest in this love affair?  One mile into the run, I knew these shoes had passed the test.  If this were a real first date, I’d say it passed the appetizer test.  I continuously increased the pace to test it out at different speeds and was impressed for the next 4.5 miles, most of which was run at an 8:00 pace.  I was so focused on my super-shoes that I almost couldn’t spy on anyone.  Almost.  Except for the pirate, a grizzly man with a long beard, an eye patch, and a Bruin’s hat.  And the Marine.  I know he was a Marine because he had short hair, and a shirt that said, “MARINES”.  I marveled at how tall the Marine was.  His head was bobbing above the TV that was attached to his treadmill, while I had to actually look up to mine.  And then there was the group of girls walking on adjacent treadmills occasionally glancing over to me.  I’m pretty certain they were admiring my shoes.  My incredibly comfortable super-shoes.  My magical shoes.  My shoes that made me sprout little wings and fly over the treadmill with ease. 

Tonight, I’m home and giddy after my first date with the Asics.  If I had the choice, I would slip them back on and go running again.  Like any girl after a great first date, my heart’s aflutter and my head’s abuzz visualizing my next encounter with my new loves.  Carrie Bradshaw may have Prada’s, but good luck clocking a PR in those.  Real girls wear running shoes. J

Ironies

I was anxious to return to the gym today after my successful treadmill run last night.  Although I dislike the treadmill, it felt great to be back in the running groove and I wanted to ride the momentum and accumulate some miles before the next snowstorm.  I didn’t have much of a plan, but hoped for at least 4 miles. 

When I arrived at the gym, I headed to the locker room to remove a few layers and change from my snow boots into my running sneakers.  With my back to the entrance, I overheard a woman speaking to someone.  Judging by the conversation, I had to assume it was a small child.  “Just sit here for a minute while I get ready”.  “Do you need to pee before we go out there?”  Eventually I turned around to head out of the locker room and did a double take.  That was no small child.  The woman was talking to an elderly man!  There was a man in the ladies locker room!  Now, it’s no secret that I have very little tolerance for children in the locker room (remember when the little boy scolded me for wasting water?).  This was a whole new level of awkward.  I glanced around wondering if anyone else was completely creeped out, but I was alone with this odd couple.  I silently thanked God I didn’t have to change my bra while I was in there and quickly stuffed my bag into a locker.  When I got closer to the couple, I realized that this man wasn’t just elderly, he was blind.  I softened, realizing that not only was he no threat, but the woman who brought him to the gym was remarkable.  As I was coming to this conclusion, I heard a gym employee walking into the locker room giving some ladies a tour, proudly showing off the “ladies only” workout room and ladies locker room.  I wonder what the potential clients were thinking.  My guess is they left abruptly and headed to Planet Fitness.

The gym was full of activity today and there was a thick sweat hanging in the air.  The row of treadmills was unusually busy and even more amazingly, most of them were occupied by runners.  On most days I’m one of very few runners while the rest of the people are casually walking, watching TV or reading a paper.  Today everyone seemed to have the same idea: log the miles by whatever means necessary.  Seeing so many other runners on the treadmills was energizing.  This would be almost like a group run.  I hopped on a treadmill, turned on the TV, and started my run.  I was immediately thrilled that my foot was having a good day and there was no pain.  I channel surfed until I landed on TNT, which was playing the movie Kill Bill, Vol. 1.  I have decided that this is the single most motivating piece of television to run to on a treadmill.  Watching Uma Thurman slaughtering people mercilessly was so dark, raw, scary, and positively energizing in a really creepy way.  I marveled at the irony of watching her character struggle to move her paralyzed legs while I was continuously increasing my pace.

I buzzed along the treadmill, watching the one woman killing machine on TV, and spotted the elderly man and his companion moving, at the most painstakingly slow pace, towards the treadmills.  I was so intrigued by this that I just couldn’t look away.  The thought of an elderly blind man using a treadmill was both intriguing and terrifying, and I felt compelled to be at-the-ready in case the woman fumbled and the blind man faltered.  After an eternity, the man was securely atop the treadmill and began moving.  At first I wondered why anyone would go through all of these lengths to bring a blind man to a gym, in the snow, to walk at .5 miles per hour.  Then I wondered what his story was.  Maybe he was a war veteran.  Maybe he was a runner in his heyday and this was his way of reconnecting with his youth.  In any event, for this blind man, a walk on the treadmill may be the most freedom he ever feels.  I considered the irony of this, since for me the treadmill represents confinement and claustrophobia. 

I continued along my run, legs easily moving as I cranked up the speed consecutively every quarter mile.  Nothing hurt today.  It was a great feeling to be back.  I happily ran, alternating between watching Uma Thurman slicing people in half with the woman carefully doting on the blind man.  Ironically, both of these very opposing philosophies gave me energy.  My 5 mile run was a breeze and the time passed quickly with all this entertainment.  By the time I completed my run, the line of treadmills was again bare.  The blind man was helped off the treadmill by a group of people and excruciating caution.  All of the runners had long since retired.  Uma had killed more deserving victims.  Victories all around today. J

The Puppy

As I finally settle down with my laptop tonight to write this, it occurs to me that I am very, very tired.  Mentally, sure.  Physically, definitely.  I was riding the high of the race winner’s honeymoon, which I used up last night in a 4 mile speed run on the treadmill (bad idea the day after a race).  Then, today’s lunch time 4.5 miles just zapped out any remaining drops of energy I had left.  And finally, did I mention I have a ***puppy***?  A puppy!  He’s 36 years old, and his name is Todd.  And like any puppy, Todd is exhausting.

                A couple nights ago, my running buddy Ron and I got together for a few beers.  We swapped stories of running, plotted strategies for our upcoming race calendar, and when the conversation got really serious, we confided in each other some of our craziest runner’s thoughts.  Ron confessed, for instance, that when he’s running on a treadmill at the gym, he analyzes every other runner and tries to think of what animal they most closely resemble.  He exclaimed, in an oddly believable way, “You wouldn’t believe the size of the giraffe I was running next to last night!”  That’s when it occurred to me that my lunchtime running buddy Todd is, by all accounts, a puppy.  He’s playful, easy excitable, and with any luck hopefully he won’t pee on the floor.  He runs with such enthusiasm, I can practically see his tail wagging.  When we run at lunch, he sprints ahead - like a puppy chasing a ball - and then backtracks.  It’s like we play a game of virtual fetch. 

                I’ve become used to Todd’s unusual excitement, and now when he sprints ahead I don’t try to keep up.  I maintain my pace, knowing that eventually we’ll reconnect.  I have noticed lately though, that in spite of my best intentions to run a consistent pace, I’ve unintentionally nudged my speed up a bit.  I guess it really does help having something to chase.  Today however, Todd switched up his routine which, by association, switched up my routine.  This time he preferred to lag behind, then sprinted to catch up to me, then lagged behind again.  He repeated this throughout the entire course, which left me constantly wondering where he was, and having the unusual front position.  Now I was the one with no one to chase, and it was a strange feeling.  At one point I said to Kerri, “Where’s the puppy?”  She responded, “Your puppy needs a shorter leash!”  Then, like puppies do, he came sprinting up behind us and sped off chasing a car or ball or maybe even a bunny.

                Later this afternoon, fighting to stay awake, I told Todd how tired I was after today’s run.  He was tired as well, at which point I reminded him that he’s just a puppy, and puppies might bounce around a lot, but they also need lots of rest.  As for me, lying in bed with my laptop, a dull throb in my thighs and lower back, it has become very clear to me:  Puppies might be cute and fun, but they are, indeed, a lot of work.

Oh Lonely Night

Not having run since Christmas Eve, I was really looking forward to getting back into my routine today.  My little affair with snowshoeing was a nice substitute, but I longed to get back to my true love.  I packed my gym bag this morning, unsure whether I would run at lunch with the gang, or run at the gym.  After driving to work and seeing the snow banks on the sides of the roads, and no shoulder (or as I like to think of as my “emergency exit”), I decided it would be safer to run at the gym.  Naturally this meant I had to catch some grief from Todd, who thought I was maybe being just a wee bit overly cautious.  I couldn’t argue his point, but he knew he couldn’t change my mind.  The problem with going to the gym after work is that I have an hour and a half commute, which adds up to an hour and a half of time I can spend talking myself out of going to the gym.  Fortunately I kind of spaced out going past my exit, so at that point I was committed to working out.

                At 5:30 at night, right after work, the gym is usually packed.  Music is pumping, kids are wildly hopping around the playroom, treadmills are grinding furiously, and there is a thick fog of sweat hanging in the air.  Over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed a lot less activity in this once-bustling timeslot.  Today, I assume people are on Christmas vacation.  Did they come earlier?  Did they run outside instead?  My best guess is that they are simply in “holiday mode”, their “free week”, and they’ll get right back on track next week.  Amateurs. 

                I used to hate it when the gym was packed, because I was always afraid I wouldn’t get a treadmill or would see someone I know.  Nowadays, the only thing I don’t like about a busy gym is the line to the toilet.  The reality is even when the gym is packed there’s always a treadmill open, and if I don’t make eye contact with anyone, I won’t bump into anyone I know.  And if I do…well, I can always outrun them!  In truth, a packed gym is energizing.  I feel that you can feed off the other runners, similar to running in a club or a race.  I can subtly pick up different running techniques, but more often, I can make fun of people endlessly and write about them in my blog.  Today unfortunately, the gym was bare.  At 5:30, only two people occupied treadmills in a row of approximately 30.  Each of them carried on a very sluggish jog.  I almost felt bad for them, having to run next to me now.  After just a couple minutes of me running, both of them had finished.  When the man closest to me stopped running, he completed a lengthy series of stretches, completely disproportionate to the amount of running he had just finished.  To watch him stretch you would have thought he just completed an ultra-marathon.

                Once the two joggers exited their treadmills, I was all alone in a sea of motionless equipment.  I looked around for more inspiration, and the only activity in the whole gym was coming from the weightlifting corner of the building.  In that corner, all the muscle-heads congregated.  Each of them wore the standard tank top, Adidas swishy pants, and a giant tattoo covering their shoulder.  It was like they each grew out of the same mold.  Some of them leaned against the equipment, some posed and chatted on their cell phones, but not one of them, from my vantage point, lifted a piece of equipment.  Well, I guess I’m the only one working here tonight.  I had decided earlier that tonight was all about speed, with my upcoming 5k race this weekend.  So, I continuously pushed the treadmill up higher and sailed at a 7:54 pace, my treadmill pounding and echoing throughout the gym.  A young couple was receiving a tour of the facility.  I’d like to think the tour guide was saying something like, “These treadmills hold up nicely at sustained high speeds, perfect for athletic hardcore distance runners like that lady over there, in the bright pink shirt, sweating across three treadmills”.  Ok, I hope he didn’t say that last part.  The reality is I should probably enjoy the solitude, because after next week all the New Year’s resolutions will kick in, and once again the place will be hopping with a new batch of the Guilt-Stricken and the Bloated.  Ah… new victims.  I’ll be waiting! J

Reindeer Games

Sometimes I create a theme for my runs, kind of like a scavenger hunt.  Maybe I count squirrels, red trucks, barking dogs, or other runners.  Today, in the spirit of Christmas, I chose to make it a holiday theme.  For this run, I decided to count the number of Christmas wreaths I saw on houses throughout my 6 mile run. 

                The problem with these games is that sometimes they can become a bit complicated.  Last year I lived on the Massachusetts/Rhode Island border.  One day on a four mile run – which crossed evenly between both states – I thought it would be fun to count the number of MA versus RI license plates.  It was fun at first, but then it became complicated when I crossed into the other state and thought maybe I should not only count if it was MA or RI, but also if it was in the other state.  So then I really needed four categories: MA plate in MA, RI plate in MA, RI plate in RI, MA plate in RI.  Then I further complicated it by counting the number of plates other than MA or RI, which I also sub-categorized depending on which state I spotted the out of state plate.  Then there was confusion when there were vehicles coming in both directions, and figuring out what to do when an oncoming car didn’t have a license plate on the front of the car.  I nearly killed myself spinning mid-stride to see the car’s plate after it passed me.  This simple game became quite complicated and after about mile 3 I gave up.

                Today’s game seemed simple enough, right?  I thought so, until the game started. Turns out, counting wreaths can become quite complicated.  A mile into my run, I realized this was going to be a problem, and like any good project manager and strong believer of structure, I created ground rules.  The following is a list of rules for my wreath counting game:

1.       A wreath can be any size.  Larger wreaths do not get extra points

2.       All wreaths on the house are counted separately.

3.       Only wreaths are counted.  Not swags, not globes. A wreath is defined (in my crazy little one-person world) as being:

a.       Circular in nature

b.      Holiday themed (pine branches are optimal, vines are ok if garnished with a holiday bow or other Christmas-type decorations)

4.       Wreaths must be reasonably attached to a building, such as:

a.       House

b.      Barn

c.       Garage

d.      Fence adjacent to the house

e.      Gazebo (I struggled with this one)

5.       Wreaths attached to free-standing hangers in the front yard are disqualified

6.       Only residential wreaths are covered; not business wreaths

Now that the ground rules were established, the games could begin.  (I was a real hoot as a child, can't you tell?)  One interesting observation I made was that wreath decorating occurs in clusters, kind of like chicken pox.  If one house on the street has a wreath, everyone has one.  In some neighborhoods, one wreath isn’t enough.  On one house I counted half a dozen wreaths.  The next house, not to be outdone, donned no fewer than sixteen wreaths.  Who knew the number of wreaths could be such a status symbol?  On the flip side, I ran through another neighborhood where not one single house was decorated with a wreath.  I guess none of them had caught the bug. 

Wreath-counting sounds like a pretty low-intensity sport, right?  Think again.  Today was a busy day, being the day before Christmas.  I had a morning full of errands, including shopping, wrapping, and cooking.  The weather was a beautiful, sunny 36 degrees and I longed for a run.  With the ham safely tucked in the oven at 2:30pm, I finally got my chance.  I jumped into my running gear and headed out for my usual 6 mile run. I’m not used to running this time of day, since I usually either run early in the morning or on my lunch break.  This time of year, with the days being so short, 2:30pm means sun is getting low in the sky.  As I ran down the streets of Mendon in search of Christmas wreaths, the sun was casting long, steep shadows.  The sun, in fact, became a serious challenge.  In order to see any of the houses to the west of me, I had to slow down and put my hand above my eyes like a makeshift visor and scour their property for wreaths.  It occurred to me after some time that I may look a little odd and possibly even villainous; a dangerous thief posing as a runner but secretly mapping out my next target.  After that realization, I tried my best to count wreaths discreetly while still maintaining the integrity of the game.  The reality is though; there are some I may have missed due to intense solar glare.  I hope the Census Bureau doesn’t check my figures.

There were also several times throughout my run that I was so busy counting wreaths that by the time I looked ahead, I found myself near the middle of the road.  Drivers seemed to be accommodating though; I’d like to think they were in the “spirit of giving”.  Maybe it was just me, but everyone seemed a little happier today.  Drivers didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t using the snowy sidewalks.  Brown Dog was bouncing happily around his front yard, munching on snow balls.  Pedlar and Skip were sunbathing in a warm corner of their paddock.  And for the record, there were 171 wreaths counted on my 6 mile route, with a 95% accuracy rate.  Merry Christmas! J

Running - a team sport??

One of my favorite things about running is the solitude.  I know some people are social creatures that enjoy a good kibitzing while logging a couple miles.  I’m not one of those people.  I cherish the alone time.  It’s the only time of my life that no one is talking to me, questioning me, telling me to do something, or telling me what I did wrong.  It’s my time to clear my head, daydream, tune out, sight-see, and mentally recharge.  Last month when I started running with friends at work, I was like a fish out of water.  I’m used to being alone.  Suddenly, I had to learn the etiquette of running with others.  I never expected to have to deal with this since one of the best parts of running, in my opinion, is that it is not a team sport.  Somewhere along the line, I started to enjoy the company.  As it turns out, it didn’t turn me into one of those kibitzers and didn’t slow me down.  It prompted a little friendly competition and I actually started looking forward to our club runs.  Slowly, I’m converting into a social creature (against my wishes, naturally).

                Today I had a goal of running my 8 mile loop.  It’s been a while since I did this loop and I figured I better get it in before we get snow.  Most of the day went by and the sneakers remained locked in the closet and I stayed tucked into my bed watching CSI on TiVo.  Maybe what I needed…say it ain’t so…was a little social motivation.  I threw a text over to my friend Ron, a running buddy of mine.  He’s a pretty busy guy and I knew with 98% certainty he wouldn’t be able to meet me for a run.  But by throwing the offer out there, I felt like I had at least attempted to run.  My excuse tomorrow would have been, well I had asked Ronnie to run with me and by the time I heard back it was too late so I just stayed home and ate leftovers, in bed.  To my astonishment he not only agreed to meet me for a run, but named the time and the place.  I was locked in.  There’s no getting around it now.

                The place Ronnie picked was Lincoln Woods in Lincoln RI.  This location is a distance runner’s dream.  There is a winding, hilly 2.5 mile loop that circles a lake.  It’s scenic and the hills are challenging enough to get the legs working hard but they are also short and forgiving.  The best part about it is you can choose your own distance.  Only have time for a short run?  Go around once.  Feel like pushing yourself?  Just keep going around in circles until you collapse at your car.  Take one guess which option we took…

                Ronnie and I suffer from the same condition:  A bizarre euphoria that occurs when running to the point of exhaustion.  Still, we agreed at the beginning of the run that we were going to keep it really slow, chit-chat, and just enjoy a casual winter run.  The 2.5 loop was a perfect option as Ronnie was suffering from a nagging leg injury and I was suffering from the effects of 1+ bottles of wine from the night before.  The run was just as planned.  We started with a slow pace and spent the whole loop catching up and telling stories.  We passed a handful of walkers, rock climbers, and bikers.  The loop went by so quickly, and I couldn’t help but notice that our pace nudged up a little faster the further we ran.  As we approached the parking lot, we didn’t even acknowledge the cars, and headed towards loop number two.  5 miles, that’s a good distance for today considering I’ve eaten nothing but a half cup of cottage cheese all day.  Considering I was going to lie in bed all afternoon.  Yeah, 5 miles is perfect for today. 

                Loop number two passed even more quickly than the first.  Our speed increased, we were in a good rhythm, and the stories just kept flowing.  We passed more runners and walkers.  Some were the same we had seen in the last loop, some were new.  We passed a lady with the same little tiny dog and commented on how she hadn’t gone more than 200 yards since we passed her 2.5 miles ago.  We speculated that maybe she needs a dog with longer legs.  The hills that were a little challenging last time were a little more painful this time, but we distracted ourselves with more stories and chatter.  At one point Ronnie said, “Running with you is like running with a little pony”.  He’s a real charmer.  As we were nearing completion, I casually mentioned that I would need to tighten my shoelace before continuing on.  We paused, I adjusted my sneaker, and just like that… we headed towards loop number three.

                By loop number three, we were in strong running form and very much in synch.  We make a nice running pair because we both seem to naturally adjust our speed, and he commented on how I’m the perfect running partner.  Take that, Todd.  Our stories became less frequent and we both ran in silence a little more than the last two laps.  But always, when we came near a hill, we picked up the conversation again.  It became our survival guide, and it worked.  Before we knew it, we had climbed another hill.  At this point, some of the same people now smile and chuckle when they see us passing them for the third time.  We didn’t say as much, but I’m pretty sure Ronnie was thinking the same thing I was.  Yeah that’s right, we are hardcore distance runners.  Hardcore, baby. 

                Finally, as we headed back to the parking lot after completing 7.5 miles, I thought to myself: We should keep going an extra quarter mile out and back to make it an even 8.  Just as I was about to suggest this Ronnie beat me to it by saying, “What do you think, one more?”  I didn’t hesitate.  Loop number four commenced.  We agreed though that if we were going to do one last loop, we were going to have to at least take it slow.  We slowed down considerably, and I couldn’t help but notice how many cars and come and gone from the parking lot in the time we had gone around and around and around.  This made me happy.  We have outrun everyone in the park at this point.  We continued onto loop number four in more silence, our legs a little heavier this time around.  We passed a couple of the same people again, who at this point must be convinced we are lost or delusional.  The hills were most certainly bigger this time around, and I commented that my legs were hurting making the climbs, although I also noticed that our pace had nudged back up again.  He agreed, and said this was definitely his last loop.  He would never have been able to finish a fifth.  We finished the fourth loop and my Garmin watch clocked us at 9.75.  We figured we should round out to an even 10, so we’d just trot a little past the cars and turn around and trot back.  Then I said, well…why don’t we just run the last quarter mile out, then we’ll walk back a quarter mile.  So it will be 10 miles of running and a quarter mile cool down.  It was settled.  We passed the cars for a fifth time and marched on the final quarter mile.  My body sprang to life with renewed energy and our pace increased once again.  At the 10 mile mark, we stopped.  It was over, and we high-fived to acknowledge a good run.  But I couldn’t help but wonder, what would have happened if he didn’t stop at the 10 mile mark?  What would my response have been if he said, “One more?”  I didn’t have to speculate.  And I’m pretty certain that despite our drained legs, if I had offered “one more” to Ronnie, I know what his response would have been.  This is the benefit of running with a friend.  But for the wellbeing of our legs, we better not start our runs in the morning.

Friday night treadmill games

Two types of people go the gym on a Friday night.  There are the hardcore fitness enthusiasts that can’t skip a workout (let’s call them “category 1”).  Then there are those who have no Friday evening plans, and possibly only brave the public gym when they know it will be virtually empty to avoid excess embarrassment.  While I don’t like to necessarily categorize myself to any particular allegiance, I will tell you that I prey upon that second group, which I’ll refer to as “category 2”.

                Tonight I brought my son Andrew with me to the gym.  This sometimes throws off my routine because I have to keep an eye on him.  If I leave him alone too long, I’ll find him sitting perfectly still on the bike watching Man vs. Food.  Once he was settled onto the elliptical, I headed towards the treadmills.  As expected, there were plenty to choose from.  A handful of machines were being used, mostly by the category 2’s I just mentioned.  Serious runner coming through, guys.  You category 2’s in your oversized sweaty cotton T-shirts.  I, a marathon runner in my tech shirt, will leave you awed in my complete mastery of this treadmill.  I am a runner among walkers.  A god among mortals.

                I stepped onto the treadmill and before I could even press the start button, my iPod flew right out of my hand.   Somehow it landed – don’t ask me how – underneath the belt of the treadmill.  Andrew saw this from his perch behind me on the elliptical and howled with laughter, which then caught the attention of the cotton t-shirt clad walk/joggers.  As gracefully as I could, I bent down, fished under the belt of the treadmill until I could latch onto that slippery sleek iPod, and resumed my position.  To recover from this, I needed to reestablish myself as a god-like runner as quickly as possible.  I wasted no time cranking up the treadmill.  After a quarter mile warm up, I picked up the pace to a comfortable 8:30.

                Cruising along nicely, I quickly worked up a sweat.  This is where it’s in everyone’s best interest not to run on the adjacent treadmill.  My very long, very thick ponytail swings wildly from side to side and even occasionally picks up a spiraling pattern.  Once enough sweat has built up, that ponytail turns into an F5 tornado, spraying water in every direction.

                Today was a people watching day.  There wasn’t much to look at but it’s still a fun Friday game I like to play.  I watched the half a dozen personal trainers loitering at the front desk in a perpetual flex, high-fiving each other and subtly surveying the amateurs for their next training gig.  As I was analyzing their primal pack behavior, a category 1 runner pulled up a few treadmills down from me.  Ah…competition.   She instantly cranked up the speed and her pace was, at least as far as I could tell from my distance, considerably faster than mine.  And to top it off, she was wearing a teal tech shirt with a matching bandana.  Matching bandana? Who does that?  I hated her instantly.  I cranked up my speed to match hers, but during this time I felt the effects of my lunch coming back to haunt me.  My lunch consisted of leftover Mexican food, which probably would have been ok except for the red onions, which make me very ill.  I had picked out every onion but there must have been some onion residue, and it was wreaking havoc on my stomach.  Not now, damn it!  I’m in a horserace against bandana-lady!  This is no time for vomit!!  Unfortunately my stomach didn’t care about bandana-lady, and I was forced to walk and encourage my lunch from five hours earlier to make its way back down to my stomach.  

                My stomach had betrayed me, and I sulked walking on the treadmill feeling beaten by bandana-lady.  Then, the last straw.  Bandana-lady received a phone call on her cell.  She answered it, and continued running her 8:12 pace while talking on the phone.  Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is for that lady to trip and fall off the treadmill.  Please, Santa. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t really, really important to me.  Santa didn’t pull through and bandana-lady continued her phone conversation, her swift legs steadily rolling along.  Deciding that schooling this lady was more important than potential vomit, I sprang to life and turned the treadmill back up.  For the next couple miles I maintained the same pace.  I kept a watch on her out of the corner of my eye.  Andrew was long gone at this point, doing bicep curls or something.  I wouldn’t have noticed if he walked out the front door, because I was focused on my own performance, and that of my archrival.  My lunch bobbed just south of my esophagus.  Sweat sprayed freely.  I cranked the speed again.  I knew I couldn’t last because as much as it would hurt my pride to get beaten by this lady, I think my pride would ultimately suffer more if I indeed vomited all over the treadmill, and that was becoming a distinct possibility.  I would have to admit defeat.  Then suddenly, bandana-lady slowed to a walk.  She was done.  After just a couple miles, she quit.  I had outlasted her, that bandana-wearing, cell phone yapping runner.  Ha!  She has no endurance.  She was probably sprinting, that was probably her top speed.  I could have done that for 10 miles (if I didn’t have red onion poisoning).  If she were a horse she would be a Quarter Horse.  Good for short distances only.  I would be an Arabian.  It was settled, I had won the battle of the running gods.  I did a quarter mile victory lap and once again increased the speed to an even 8:00 pace.

                As I did my final quarter mile and reflected on my undisputed victory, I realized that the success of a run is measured in so many ways.  Outrunning a rival is one.  Achieving a certain distance or time goal is another.  I looked down at my treadmill, and then to the treadmills to the left, and to the right.  Sweat drops from my F5 ponytail were spattered recklessly all over all three treadmills.  Ah yes, this was a successful run.  The final success came when I glanced back up and watched bandana-lady hop off her treadmill and walk out the door.  There was no obligatory wipe-down of the machine.  She had committed the ultimate betrayal of the runner’s code (not to mention Board of Health requirements).  She was no category 1 runner.  She was just another member of amateur hour.  Victory was mine.