the marathon mama

Running Bullet Points

2009-07-16T14:56:00.002-04:00

I've decided to use this blog for some miscellaneous running info that doesn't work well into posts at my new Marathon Mama blog (come by for a visit!). I often get emails about products, races, and contests that warrant mentioning, so here ya go!

*Strands.com launched a contest in which the winner will receive an all-expense paid trip to Oregon to compete on one of two Strands sponsored teams for the Hood To Coast Relay (197 miles, 12k runners, from Mt. Hood Oregon to the Pacific Ocean at Seaside, OR).

*The Fresh Air Fund is looking for runners and sponsors to join the Fresh Air Fund-Racers team for the NYC Half-Marathon on August 16th. The Fresh Air Fund also needs Friendly Town hosts for next month. Host families open their hearts and home to a NYC child who would not otherwise have the opportunity to escape the hot, crowded city streets.

*I recently tried Ultima Replenisher, an all-natural, sugar-free alternative to Gatorade. It's a mild electrolyte drink that doesn't seem to upset my stomach like Gatorade. While I do prefer the ability of Nuun to keep me from wilting, Ultima is great for hydration without cramping.

*I also was given a Hydrapouch to test a while ago and only just got a chance to use it. The idea of the Hydrapouch is cup-free, spill-free hydration in races. You wear the pouch on your waistband and pour the water into it, then use the spout on the pouch to drink without splashing your face. It worked great in speed work the other night and I bet it would help you get more water at a water stop, as long as you can pour and run with some efficiency. My only problem came when I clipped it back on my shorts; it fell off into the road within about 10 paces because the clip isn't particularly tight, so that might be something the designers want to address. But it's a cool idea that has a lot of potential to help racers and the environment.

That's all for now. Have a great one, and come visit my new blog, friends!

The New Better Me

2009-06-25T20:21:00.005-04:00

Hey you, guess what. My new blog is up! Finally!

I'm defecting from this nauseating green page and the headache that is posting photos on Blogger. So this blog, while not totally dead, is defacto defunct. Come read the same me, only better, over at Marathon Mama. Yes, I realize it's the same title. I'm so innovative I decided to capitalize the thing. My new home is in the swank Competitor subdivision of Cyberrunningville. Please update your readers and your link love, if you're so inclined and don't want to see a nice lady cry. Really, though, go look at it. It's ~~pretty~~ ~~fierce~~ pretty fierce.

And for my last trick on blogger, watch me execute the linkiest stunt I've ever pulled before I report for duty over at Competitor:

First, because it just seems required by the Internet. Michael Jackson. Farah Fawcett.

Now that that's out of the way.... Big, totally sincere thanks to Sage for her endorsement and to fellow bloggers who drove traffic to me that I've managed to keep with frequent references to sex, child neglect, and vodka (thankfully not as a triad). Vanilla, Nitmos, Rachel, and Marcy (who I can't link to because she's in blog rehab), in particular, have been super duper with their sidebars and linking. Which means they better update those sidebars, friends, because I said something nice and genuine and not at all sarcastic about them. I'm sincere, but solipsistic.

And because I like to pay it forward, if you haven't already, you should start reading the wit and wisdom to be found from Mary and Patti. They are some seriously kick-ass women and runners who can write like no one's business.

And because she deserves credit, a shout out to blog reader Amy who designed the logo that appears on the new blog design, which again, is found here. Shameless, I am.

And because I like to endorse any athletic apparel company started by people who have both the ovaries and design sense to take on big boys like Nike, I'll let you know that Skirt Sports has some exciting stuff going on. These fine, post-modern runner women are the originators of the Skirt Chaser race series and the mothers of the running skirt.

Visit them by June 30 to sign up for the opportunity to Win a Fitness Makeover. They're giving away a $150 gift certificate and a fitness/yoga bag from Sherpani. They also just launched a program called SkirtPerks, which is a customer membership program with various benefits & savings, like deals on shipping and free goodies. They're giving away a free schwag bag to the first 250 people who sign up for this program.

So that's it from me. Except not really. Because you're going to go here, right? Right.

My Other Best Sport

2009-06-24T20:20:00.005-04:00

Running is not my favorite sport. Running is my passion and my salvation and my bliss. But it's no tennis.

This morning I took to the treadmill for a progression run. The mill at this gym turned out to be in desperate need of recalibration, though for a while I wondered if maybe someone spiked my Special K* with amphetamines. While I happily deluded myself into believing I was actually running a cakewalkish 9.4 mph, I watched some Wimbledon.

I grew up "playing" tennis, which I put in quotes because I spent more time huffing and moping on the court of my beloved sport than actually playing it. I had some occasional down-the-line winners and a pretty reliable two-handed backhand, but the pressure of the duel, the one-on-one fight to the death, took me down. Tennis matches were like teen girl rivalries with a net: callous assassins in short skirts.

It really is too bad that I didn't have the chops for competitive tennis because I do love watching the professionals and what amounts to supermodels expending themselves. There's something very satisfying about watching pretty people work themselves to exhaustion.

I love everything about tennis. The crisp sound of the ball when hit. The superstitious tics before a serve. The opportunity to sit down frequently during competition. The relative unimportance of the time. The elitism. Nadal's biceps.

You boys can post all the pics of Kournikova that you want. Behold the exquisite Adonis from Majorca:

Do you really need another argument for tennis than this?

..........drool..........
.........................

Where was I?
Oh yes, tennis. Liking the tennis.

I haven't played tennis in quite a while. I don't even know that I feel the urge to play now. I'm happy to watch the pretty people battle it out on TV while I eat strawberries and cream and drink a Pimm's on the couch. I just wish that running could take a cue from tennis and maybe I could stop the clock to sit down every once in a while during a race. That, and acceptable grunting. I want to be able to grunt more often without people staring. Then running might be as perfect as tennis.

*My breakfast almost every day of the week because it makes me feel, well, special.

One Hundred Miles

2009-06-23T08:22:00.008-04:00

Things are routine for me with running, so instead I'm going to write about someone else, the person who first planted the 50k seed in my mind. (The seed has sprouted, but like most of my horticulture efforts, seems to have stopped at the sprout phase for now. But, he planted it with such certainty that it now seems a foregone conclusion that I'll run one in the next year.) Last fall, I got to run a couple 20 milers with blog reader Jeannie's husband, Kevin, who is an extraordinary pacer, runner, and consoler (is that a word?) after marathon disasters, as it turns out. I called him in tears after Phoenix and he brought me back to earth with kindness and encouragement.

When Kevin showed up at my door at the crack of dawn for our first run, I had no idea that a) he is the only human who can live without sleep, b) he is funny, and c) he is a highly accomplished ultra runner, who came in second at the Vermont 100 last summer. He is also so humble that neither he nor Jeannie let on that my 20 miler was a rehab run for him while he nursed an ITB injury.

Last year, Kevin got screwed out of the Western States 100 by a wildfire that canceled the race. This weekend, Kevin gets his second chance at Western States, the most prestigious of ultras.

100 miles is so easy to type. Nine keystrokes. It takes me two seconds to type it. Let's do it the justice it deserves. One hundred miles. ONE HUNDRED MILES. ONE HUNDRED MILES. ONE HUNDRED MILES. If I knew html, I'd put it in 48-pt font.

Kevin is running 100 miles, climbing 18,000 feet and descending 22,000 feet along the way, with starting and finish temps forecasted at around 100 degrees. Only 65% of entrants typically finish this race, with only 21% completing it in under 24 hours. There are checkpoints called Devil's Thumb and Last Chance.

I could go on about how impressive this race is, but that's not really Kevin's style, so I just ask that you send him strength, wit, and optimism this weekend. Leave your well wishes in the comments for Kevin--you all know how much those mean in the latter miles of a race. You know, like miles 95, 96, 97, ......

I simply love to run. It allows me to be human - in a very pure and undistracted way - and to really push myself to the outer edges of my self. That said, this race - for me - is not really about me but about the human potential - the power and the challenge to "do". I so strongly believe that we under-live and underperform our potential, not as individuals (although that's true to some extent too) but as human beings. Ultra races really test the human body as well as the human mind and spirit (just as much). We see and learn to love more of ourselves in moments where we must rely on ourselves, face fears and pain, and struggle through to a better place etc. It truly is a wonderful experience of exploring those boundaries - or, in some cases, finding that those boundaries don't exist and that the human potential is greater than we all think.
-Kevin Sullivan

Run well, Kevin.

Miscellania from Pennsylvania

2009-06-21T18:13:00.015-04:00

My biggest anxiety has been made manifest: I will soon move the blog to its new home... and I have absolutely nothing to say. Me, the woman who thinks in status updates. The woman who writes in her head while running and driving and eating and mothering on autopilot and falling asleep at night. This is the woman with nothing to say.

I could tell you that I was hugely pissed at today's run--incredulous that I could run 14 miles at an 8:00-pace a month ago but barely eeked out 12 at an 8:50 this morning. What gives?

I could tell you that I got my trail shoes and my 2-liter hydration pack and that they are both the same shade of teal, which will make me look like the dorkiest neophyte in the outback, a Miami Vice trail runner trying to make teal the new khaki. All of Australia's Northern Territory will call me The--gasp, dare I say it--American.

I could tell you that I am even more convinced that Kara Goucher is my destined BFF after hearing her Endurance Boost on iTunes. We could rock out to Beck and Black Eyed Peas while talking about how really, it's brunettes who have more fun.

I swear I'm not stalking her.

I could tell you that I outdid myself when it comes to crappy Father's Day efforts. Last year I gave Brian candy. This year, I left with his kid for the summer, and he spent the day alone working at Starbucks. Man, when I write it, it does sound kind of awful. Looking up 'stripper' on yellowpages.com tonight...

I could tell you that there is no hot yoga offered anywhere in Central Pennsylvania. This bums me out in a spoiled-Masshole-suburbanite sort of way.

I could tell you that Central Pennsylvania has Starbucks INSIDE the Target, which is so sublime I can forgive the yoga thing.

I could tell you that my new daily running route passes a llama farm, but there's probably only one of you who would be interested in that. The farm also has a peacock, but that's not very interesting, either.

As you can see, I, for once, have very little to say. It's almost like asking for a running injury, so for the love of God and blogland, somebody send me some free crap to review.

What's In My Bag

2009-06-17T09:26:00.015-04:00

You can get a round-trip ticket to Mexico for about a hundred bucks right now, but Henry and I are still headed to PA for our 6-week retreat for writers and hellions. Over the course of 45 days, I'm going to write a book (ha!), prep for Australia on the Appalachian trail, and launch back into marathon training. Henry's agenda is to roar a lot and drive his grandparents up the wall. His goals seem more feasible than mine. I give my dad 3 days before he joins me for my 7 pm cocktail.

We leave Saturday, but I have not yet packed a thing because I don't want to know how impossible it will be to bring what we need. I deal with it through avoidance and going to Target for more crap to put in the car. Running is much less compact than I'd assumed. Two bikes and a scooter do not help. And then there are the toys, plus the stuff that Henry likes to play with.

Not even counting the bike for cross-training, my list of running junk alone is a sight to behold. Conveniently, the Take It and Run Thursday topic on Runners' Lounge is "Summer Gear and Tips." My tip is that you shouldn't itemize your summer running gear because in my case, it is shameful:

5 pr running shorts
1 running skirt
4 tanks
4 short sleeve shirts
3 long sleeve shirts
1 wind/rain jacket
1 wind vest
1 fleece (just in case)
1 pr capri tights
3 (!) pr running shoes
7 pr running socks
5 sports bras
1 visor
1 cap
1 bandanna
sunglasses
sunscreen
condoms (just wanted to see if you were reading the list)
box of Roctane
nuun tablets
fuel belt & bottles (marathon training)
hydration vest (Outback training)
hydrapouch (impromptu racing--review coming soon)
Garmin & charger
Tech4o (backup for when Garmin isn't charged)
iPod & charger
1 tennis ball
foam roller
Biofreeze
Motrin
2 Therabands
Brain Training for Runners
and the kitchen sink

So much for "all you need is a pair of shoes."

Henry will have to ride on the roof, but then I won't be able to bring the treadmill.

Concave No More

2009-06-16T11:40:00.006-04:00

If you have a Y chromosome, this post probably isn't for you. It's going to be about as relevant as a post on my uterine sloughing (which I have yet to blog about and intend to to keep it that way). Consider yourself warned. Scroll to the end to see the winner of the messenger bag.

I don't like to belabor my inadequacies because it's far more gratifying to exaggerate my fabulousness (it's a word). But it seems my torso, namely the front of it, and specifically the flesh over my upper rib cage, has been a frequent topic on this blog. Not quite sure how that happened, but the people at Moving Comfort picked up on my, um, lack and generously offered me a bra.

Did I feel insulted? Hell, no. I usually pay $14.99 at Target for my higher-end sports bras, so hook me up with a $34 sports bra with fake boobs, and you can say anything you want about my chest.

The idea of running in a padded bra kind of amuses me, so the Alexis bra was an eye popping riot when I opened the box. My husband groped it on the counter, and I more or less gave it the same WTF? look I give my mother when she tells me to "run pretty" before my races. But like my mother, the bra means well, and you just never know when Matt Damon might show up for a race 15 miles away.

Let me tell you, this thing is the Miracle Bra of Sport. It is a magic wonder of foam sculpture goodness. There is technology in its structure that makes me think it was created by randy NASA engineers on their lunch break. For the very mortifying before and after (guys, look away if you've been reading--there's nothing for you here), look at my profile pic and then here ya go:

(yes, I'm wearing pants)

Putting aside the expanse of pale, crunch-averse flesh that is my abdomen (incidentally, check out the Garmin tan), this bra is the best thing to happen to my chest since puberty (which turned out to be the rawest deal ever). I think my situation has been improved by 100%.

Are artificial breasts necessary for running? No.
Will artificial breasts make me faster? No.
Is it nice to look like a grown woman? Yes.

Functionally, the Alexis bra gets an A+, too, in the racer back sports bra category. Fake breasts do not bounce or strain your back, nor do they have nipples to chafe or "command attention." Personally, the falsies also left me some storage space for stashing sport beans (or cocaine, if that's your thing). It's not a bra I'd wear for a marathon, but definitely for a hot summer training run. In fact, it is by far the best of all my training bras, most of which are marketed to 10 year old girls.

In terms of sizing, this bra is definitely for the, um, flatter among us. I wear a Medium, ladies, so you know this thing is not for those with serious assets. The price is steep for me ($34-36), but it's such a great piece of techno-boobage that I might actually buy a second one.

So kudos to the Moving Comfort people, who realize that just because you don't need a bra doesn't mean you don't want a bra. This runner is very happy with her sporty new falsies.

The winner of the Timbuk2 bag? That would be Chubby Runner, drawn from 58 names out of the sacred 2008 BAA marathon bag. Congrats! Email me at marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net so I can send it to you.

Rude Awakenings In Boston and Environs

2009-06-14T15:11:00.012-04:00

You can't be hot in clogs, and I might very well die this summer. These were my two lessons of the weekend.

I'm still technically on my post-race staycation, so Saturday I thought I might go try some tough trail running, of course. I drove to the Fells Reservation, just outside Boston, where I planned to do a leisurely trail loop. I wore my road running shoes because my trail shoes haven't come yet and parked just off the Reservoir Trail, now known as the Path of Boulders Which Might As Well Be Giant Arch-Hating Monsters. I folded my trail map in eighths, stuffed it next to my cell phone in my pocket, and hit the trail. I enjoy a good trail run, but I panic easily about being stranded, so I followed those little orange markers for 6ish miles like they pointed to Mecca itself.

Here's how it went:

6,734,916,101...rocks under my feet
5...men walking chick-magnet dogs on a trail conspicuously and creepily void of women
4...strange people in hardhats incongruously digging in the mud with pick axes
3...times I lost my orange beacons and found my way without asking dog walkers for help
2...times I rolled my ankle and said the F-word on a peaceful Saturday trail jog
1...time I screeched and shooed a snake with an ineffective "Go on then!"

After I got back to my car, I kissed the gravel and decided orange is either my most or least favorite color. This morning I got up feeling some severe lingering effects of the run in my arches, shins, and adventurer's spirit. I ran 5.75 miles in an hour in woods that both freaked me out and wore me out. Even though I could hear planes landing at Logan and could see a reservoir of drinking water the whole time. I will be running rocks in the Australian bush, without shade, for upwards of 15 miles with my only water source strapped to my back. Forget the inconvenience of shoveling a bathroom and sleeping on the ground because death seems likely. It's okay, though.

I've made peace with dying in desolate Nowheresville.

What I haven't made peace with is my startling discovery on Saturday night that I am so not the sassy city girl trapped in the suburbs. A fate worse than death in the outback: death in the suburbs when, in truth, you have no inner sass.

Saturday night I learned that, much to my surprise, urban women's fashion bypassed me shortly after the advent of low-rise jeans. I was operating under the impression that I'm fairly fashion forward for where I live, which is not altogether untrue since I live outside Lowell, which hasn't had a fashion moment in the spotlight since the Mill Girls of 1840. But just because you're sassy in the exurbs does not mean you wield sass in the city.

I now know that running has ruined me for urban style and that a woman who takes her fashion cues from Women's Adventure and not Cosmo is at a serious disadvantage in the hotness department. My Saturday morning mud treatment came from a trail, not a spa, and my understanding of exquisite fabric has to do with whether or not it retains the stench of my sweat. I probably buy four pairs of shoe per year, all of which have laces and none of which have heels. Swear to God, I haven't even worn heels since 2006. This should set the stage well for my Saturday night surrounded by city women whose highlights cost more than my bike. And I have a pretty good bike.

The boys were camping so I fled to Boston with a friend for an evening that would trump my usual Stirrings martini and a Near East box of dinner. I eagerly hoped to pay $14 for a cocktail to complement my attempt at high-end fashion. When I left the house, I honestly thought I looked good, even--dare I say it--sexy. Maybe not Newbury Street good, but good in an urbane-yet-cool kind of way. Straightened my hair. Dug out the mascara and the lipstick from behind the Biofreeze and Bandaids. Wore an Anthropologie top and my jeans that didn't come from Old Navy. I concede the Dansko clogs were less than sexy, but who wants to see my missing toenails? It was a defensive move, but a style gamble, I admit.

We got to the first bar and I realized that my look only trumped the tourists in their running shoes. Clogs would not cut it in a scene of peep-toe wedges. Jeans would not cut it--even the good jeans--in a landscape of flirty summer dresses. Apparently tops should promote, um, buoyancy, too; loose and gauzy is out. Speaking of 'out,' it would seem that I was the only straight lesbian in the entire place.

It occurs to me now that I dressed perfectly for a hot date from the pages of the Sundance catalog. I should have been in a 1964 red pickup with Robert Redford (yes, please), as opposed to any Boston bar with duck pizza on the menu (it was really good, by the way).

When we got to the second bar, I was just happy I got carded at the door instead of deported to the Commuter Rail. I usually only get to show my ID when I pick up my bib number at a race, so after that, I was giddy. I disregarded my fashion faux pas, and just played bar sociologist with my friend. It was like high school: once you get over not measuring up, you have a blast making fun of people. We logged the features of Bostonians on the town, like the requisite Blackberry on the bar and the untucked-Oxford-and-jeans uniform of every man under 35. Good times. A little sangria, a little duck pizza, and I no longer cared that I can't fill out a tube top like Boston's most eligible ladies.

Back in my car, my hair finally back up in the clip, I drove home to my warm bed in the exurbs. Yes, I enjoyed a night that didn't have me cutting up anyone's food. And yes, I would sell some organs (mine and Brian's) for a down payment on a 3BR condo in the city. But, how many of those cookie cutter hotties are going to die in the Australian bush this summer? None. I am SO way better off.

Don't forget to enter the Timbuk2 giveaway on Thursday's post. Only comments on that post will be entered. Drawing at noon ET Tuesday 6/16.

From Here to Timbuk2

2009-06-10T14:14:00.013-04:00

Nate told me to take a week off after the race, and I made it to Wednesday before I was back in the Asics. Caffeinated wanderlust is my M.O. lately. I'm antsy. John Bingham wrote: "Running lets us discover what we knew as children: that being safe all the time isn't very interesting." I think he is onto something, and I hope that we all feel this every now and then. Otherwise, I'm just a self-centered, avoidant brat who gravitates toward introspection at the edge of her physical limits, instead of getting a real job like everyone else. No comments from the peanut gallery on that one, thanks.

Wanderlust. My blog is moving (soon, soon) to a new locale that I fantasize is like cyber-Boulder, where I have never been, but which I assume is the best possible city for a liberal runner to live*. For much of the summer, Henry and I will also be visiting family, which will allow me hours and hours of writing time while he swims, paints, and eats strawberry ice cream. Then in August, I go to Australia for three weeks on my run-about in the bush.

Life is good. In fact, someone should put that on a t-shirt.

Clearly I'm incredibly fortunate to be in my life and have this opportunity. In celebration of my blog move and my travels, I am spreading the wealth. No, I'm not giving away a Qantas ticket next to me--sorry. Thanks to the awesome folks at All Modern Baby, I have a messenger bag from Timbuk2 to give away to a lucky blog reader. Based in Boston, All Modern Baby is a dependable source of children’s furniture that carries top brands such as Bugaboo, Stokke, and Maclaren. They also offer modern housewares and gear for grown-ups. And as most awesome people know, Timbuk2 makes those hip bags that let you feel like an urban bike messenger without the risk of death under the wheels of a city bus.

Pheidippides was a messenger. Maybe if he'd had a messenger bag to carry water and gels, he wouldn't have bit the dust in Athens.

To win the bag, leave a comment on this post, responding to the question:

If you could run off and wander anywhere in the world, where would you go?

I'll choose a name at random on Tuesday June 16 (noon, EDT) and post the winner with a review of the bag.

*Don't worry, Vanilla. I won't show up on your doorstep, unless it's to drop off another blonde kid for your ~~family to raise~~ soccer team.

17 Minutes to Lose

2009-06-09T14:01:00.006-04:00

Entitlement. I suffer from it. Especially with running. After Phoenix, I was advised by someone who knows to secure a 1:40 half-marathon before I try again for the BQ. So that's what I did last weekend.

And now, I say, I will have the BQ, please.

Based on my half-marathon finish last weekend, the Runner's World online Training Calculator tells me I am capable of a 21:55 5k, which is 2 seconds off my recent 5k PR (I attribute the difference to weaving around horses on the course). But more importantly, the marathon prediction from a 1:40 is a 3:30:05. My 26.2 PR is 3:57. Growl.

Hel-lo, 27 minutes of heart break.

What's in those 27 minutes? That's what I want to know. But since my BQ time is a 3:40 and I won't be greedy (today), we'll say my goal and my reality are separated by 17 minutes.

I'm putting training aside because I do what I'm told, and what I was told to do was brutal and more than sufficient. So what's in those 17 minutes?

I'm going to break it down.

You get the day you get, and for me, it's heat. Unfortunately, global warming seems to follow me to races. If it's a Sunday morning and I have a chip on my shoe, Al Gore makes his point in all caps.

Then there's the nutrition issue--the need to figure out my salt and water ratio and the magic electrolyte formula that will keep my pace up and eliminate my hallucinations of french fries falling from the sky into my open mouth after mile 20.

And tied to that, there's my brain, which kind of has a majority stake in the show, much to my chagrin. I'd prefer an iPod full of Bruce and my flirty charm could get me a 3:40, but no dice. It's all in my head. But we're not talking mind over matter. We're just talking matter. Lots of gray matter doing funky stuff with chemicals.

One of the people I'm working with on the new blog knows a lot about brains. He wrote the book on running and brains, literally. He's, like, smart and shit, which I'm not just saying so I can get the key to my new home.

When I mentioned my brain to him, he kindly didn't say, "You're not nearly the dumbest" runner he's worked with. No, that was my coach who said that (he was being jokey--I hope). But Matt did clarify for me that the notion of "mind over matter" is somewhat of a fallacy because, in running, our minds are matter. The lowest common denominator in our performance is the brain, an organ that directs the processional from Start to Finish. When the winner points to the sky after a race, he's committing a fundamental attribution error. It ain't God, dude. Point to your skull.

Matt tells me the reason I couldn't overcome the brakes on my feet at mile 20 in Phoenix is the same reason I can't fly: my body won't let me do what it cannot manage--whether due to training, glycogen, or whatever physiological inadequacy I'm dealing with.

Damn brain.

However, we can train our brains to suck it up when it comes to fatigue and pain, to delay the ultimate triumph of fatigue over performance at the same time that we're getting droopy. I would try to get scientific, but I typically limit my discussions of brain chemistry to telling Henry he will rot his in front of the TV. So, in his blog post today, Matt explains it like this:

For example, during exercise, predictable changes occur in the rate at which the brain takes up oxygen and fuel substrates. These changes are also predictably correlated with the onset of fatigue. Initially, the level of oxygen uptake by the brain increases to meet the energy demands of the brain’s intensely active motor centers. But when very intense efforts are sustained, oxygen uptake by the brain deceases, and when this happens, fatigue occurs, likely because the brain’s motor centers reduce their output to avoid becoming too oxygen-depleted.

The brain’s primary fuel substrate is glucose. However, the brain can also metabolize lactate, and it does so increasingly during prolonged, intense exercise. The balance of fuel substrates used by the brain is expressed as the metabolic ratio. At rest, the metabolic ratio is approximately 6. During prolonged, intense exercise this ratio decreases. Fatigue occurs when the metabolic ratio drops to 3, again probably because inadequate energy supply forces the brain’s motor centers to reduce their output.

But here’s what’s interesting: The precise metabolic ratio at which fatigue occurs varies by circumstances. And there is some evidence that a conscious will to continue exercising causes fatigue to occur at a lower metabolic ratio–in other words, that willing acts to raise the fatigue threshold associated with this particular mechanism. But here’s what’s even more interesting: When an athlete is suffering enough that he must will himself to continue exercising, this willing itself causes the metabolic ratio to drop. So clearly we are not looking at mind over matter here. The will to resist fatigue actually pushes the organism toward fatigue while at the same time pushing back the point at which fatigue occurs. To me, this phenomenon really sums up how the brain and body work together during exercise.

*

To me, this phenomenon really sums up how annoying my brain is. You have to get tired to not get tired? That is some freaky, cruel brain joke. What it makes me think of is Henry's first 8 weeks of life. In the first week, I wanted to shoot myself when I was forced awake every 90 minutes to feed him. Zoloft helped ease that, sure, but so did the training of living life that way. By week 4, I was somewhat more accustomed to the sleep deprivation and more functional as a result. I think I even got dressed by week 5.

The take-away point is that long distance running is a brain activity, and if you think that core work and hamstring curls are the only supplemental training you need, you're gonna be staring at some hard truths (and falling french fries) around mile 20. My brain needs to get its shit together by October 18 because I have 17 minutes to lose on a double loop around Lowell. That's right, I registered for Bay State. And I'm entitled to Boston 2010.

*If this is all too cerebral for you, I apologize. I'm trying to cut back on references to sex and weed. But if you want something more sophomoric, there's a feud in the blogosphere to keep it light. And strange.

One Four Oh

2009-06-07T20:16:00.007-04:00

We're just going to get the obvious out of the way right now. Did I say break 1:40 or make 1:40? I'm not going back to look and will scowl at you if you choose to. Because I got a 1:40:46, which in itself felt like an act of God, so we're not going to get all technical about it now. Please just be happy and stop nit picking. Thank you.

So yes, divine intervention was at work in pastoral Quechee, VT this weekend (go ahead, say it: Queeeeecheeeee. It really cleanses the palate.) Since Friday I'd been thinking the odds of running 13.1 way-sub-8 miles would be low unless the climate was completely ideal (50 degrees, cloudy), and I knew it was going to be upper-60s and sunny. Which meant I spent the early part of this morning making peace with my soon-to-be unmet race goal.

My cynicism also meant I might have been more drunk Saturday night than ever before in my life.

This is actually not saying a whole lot, because while I like to talk up my love of vodka martinis, I actually never drink more than one without heading for a 7 pm nap. But for some reason, at the restaurant last night I thought, "Why the hell not? Let's have another!" And the second drink was a hum dinger (yes, I said "hum dinger"). Why do they do that? Give you a weak one and then spin your brain with the second one?

I had every intention of blaming the cosmos for my failure today, by which I don't mean "the universe" but rather 4 parts vodka, 2 parts Triple Sec, 2 parts cranberry, and 1 part lime juice. Especially because the second drink was more like 12 parts vodka, 2 parts Triple Sec, etc.--what I think they should call a Quechee Cosmo Combo. Having touted myself as the new and improved Loosey Goosey Mommy, I was passed out in bed before Henry could ask for "one last hug." But then I was awake again at 10, 12, 3, 4:30, 5 and 6, when Henry did ask me to turn the light on so he could play. This is not how I have seen drunkenness advertised, and I would like to complain to the management of drunkenness that if I wanted a night like that, I'd be on board for giving Henry a baby brother or sister.

Why am I belaboring the drinks? I dunno. Probably because the race could best be described as green and pretty, and that's sorta boring compared to my recollection of last night's warm and cozy feeling of swanky mirth.

Green and pretty. Beautiful, lush Vermonty countryside and the most environmentally conscious event I've ever run. Other than the cups, the only paper was pinned to my singlet. No joke. I imagine that the bazillion hybrid drivers in attendance were pleased as punch in their Priuses (woot for alliteration). The trash cans were so complicated in their designations that my post-race brain had trouble not throwing my watermelon rind in the bin marked "trash"-- because there was one for "compost." I did pick the right one for cans, however, after enjoying my most favorite treat after a long run:

It's totally clear to me why this race sells out in an hour, and it's not just the cold cans of Coke (woot x2 for alliteration). Perfectly executed by the organizers, it is a gorgeous downhill course that only has you fighting your footing on one bridge and fighting the incline of one steep hill. The local bands along the route are always fun, and if I didn't have to fight for every single second on my watch, I know I could have paused to score some weed from either the Jimi Hendrix band or the bongo players (or both).

My only complaint about the day concerns the weather. Does Vermont really have to have clear blue skies and 68 degrees on an early-June Sunday morning? Because that is just awful, torturous weather. It makes me all sweaty and crabby when I run. If you want to be a perfect state of towering pines and unpolluted creeks, that's fine by me. But for crying out loud, stop being so perfect with your weather. Runners are grouchy when it's sunny and 70 degrees. And to be honest, a stomach ache (see treatise on martinis above) and the sun kind of made me hate most of the 100 minutes and 46 seconds I was running.

I realize this is the most rambling race report (woot x3 for alliteration) ever posted to the interwebs, but I swear I've had nothing to drink since my 1 pm margarita. And I came up empty on the pot, because apparently Vermonters don't just sell it next to the Cabot cheese and Stonyfield Farm yogurt.

I could go on forever with miscellaneous trivia about the day, such as my micro-celebrity moment with blog reader Brenda and my thrill upon hearing cheers for my Lowell singlet. No one ever cheers for Lowell unless you go to high school in Lowell, and maybe not even then.

But I think it's best if I just stop here with the stats and hope you come back to read my blog again, given today's report. Did I even mention what the race was? Good God. Covered Bridges Half-Marathon: You should run it. That sentence would have been a far more efficient race report.

Chip time: 1:40:46
Pace: 7:42
Overall: 183/1793
Age group: 12/363

Yes, I am quite loyal to the sport.

Where My Twitches At?

2009-06-04T09:03:00.006-04:00

Go For Broke Summer continues this weekend--three months of racing hard and testing the limits of my stamina (to be followed by spending all my money to run with the descendants of criminals). I am starting to really like this version of me, the one who goes all out for an event, then shrugs off the day and moves onto the next. Love 'em, and leave 'em on the course, ladies--that's my policy.

I think I might be a race slut. Cool.

Sunday I race the Covered Bridges Half Marathon in bucolic Vermont, which apparently has the highest rate of pot use in the country, so the weekend will be fantastic regardless of my race results.

I really feel as prepared as ever for this distance:

I trained the best I could, and the fast twitches are twitching for a fight.

I seduced my legs by telling lies about how strong and fabulous they are, and they're now ready to do my bidding. I made smarmy come-ons, such as "you are the most attractive quads ever to race for me," and as long as word doesn't get to my glutes that I'm a player, I should be good to go.

I've painted my black toenails black because it makes me feel fierce and I like to be ironic.

I've painted a mental landscape of my 1:40 finish with heavy globs of self-aggrandizement.

I've cultivated my best fuel for speedy running--lust and anger--by imagining David Beckham nagging me endlessly to reset the trip odometer after I fill up the tank.

And I've got my posse of running friends in my mental pocket, the ones who push me forward because they get why it matters to a suburban mother of average running skill to beat some semi-meaningless number on the clock.

We're going for even splits this weekend, 7:35 miles x 13.1. Ben & Jerry's and a bong if I can pull it off. And also if I can't.

Anniversary Run Amok

2009-06-03T06:48:00.000-04:00

Today marks the importance of two of my most significant relationships. No, not vodka and Bruce Springsteen. Okay, yes, it's true those are two of my greatest loves, but they're both unrequited and rank slightly lower than the ones I mean.

Today I've been married for 9 years, and it's also the first occasion of National Running Day. I've been running for 10 years, so no one can say I started running to avoid my marriage, though you could rightly say I started running to cope with planning a wedding. (It is not a coincidence at all that I started running exponentially more when Henry turned two.)

Some people might argue I'm actually married to running, and they would have a very good point, but I'm a modern gal and therefore have no problem with polyandry. In fact, many running mothers would probably say that they go hand in hand: a partner to watch the kid so you can take off for a romp with your other love, running.

So how far do you run on your 9th anniversary of marriage, which corresponds with a nationwide celebration of running?

Two bloody miles.

I'm in full-on taper hell, people, and on an auspicious day like this, I have to run two little HMP miles. And go berserk the rest of the day, lucky for my partner in life. Me without the catharsis of speed work is kind of like Elvis without... well, speed.

I don't get PMS, but I get TMS (Taper Madness Syndrome), which has already led me to give Brian explicit instructions not to buy me anything romantic this week. He knows I'm not generally into romance, but I think I might have actually used the word schlock and uttered the directive, "Don't buy me flowers." He is so screwed. No matter what he does, he will suffer today, poor guy. No gift, and he's an asshole. Roses and sentimentality, and he doesn't listen. Sorry, dear. You knew I was a bratty narcissist when you married me (surely my dad mentioned this beforehand). Happy anniversary.

The traditional 9th anniversary gift is pottery. Dear God, no.

The modern 9th anniversary gift is leather. Dear God, yes.

My guess, though, is that we'll spend the evening with a Hawaiian pizza and a very sexy discussion of the third party in our marriage--running--while he's on the foam roller and I lie on a tennis ball. This is a running marriage. We'll review my race strategy, talk about how pretty I am, and inevitably fight about how this blog is destroying our relationship. This is a running marriage when one person is a raging egomaniac with a blog.

So in honor of National Running Day, go run something; feel free to add a few miles for my tapery self. And to recognize my 9th anniversary, please pray for my husband, who has quite possibly the second worst wife ever. The man is, without a doubt, tougher than the rest.

Patience, Thresholds, and Finish Lines

2009-05-31T18:16:00.012-04:00

Hi. I'm still here. My new digs are not yet dug (the new site isn't ready for blogging), so I'll let you know when I move, but for now, I'm a bloggin' in the old 'hood. Hanging out patiently. Patience is a virtue, I've heard, so I will have to give it a try.

Training and racing, I've observed over the last year, are all about patience. You bust your ass, but there's a lot of patience involved, too. Waiting for the right race conditions. Waiting out an injury. Waiting for all the pieces to come together to meet your goal. When I bonked in Phoenix, my coach's primary response was: "It takes many marathons to meet your goal." It was not a koan: Nate is ever the pragmatist, but I appreciate his bluntness. I am a very impatient type, which is why I need a pragmatic coach and a structured training plan. It's also why I was an abominable Buddhist. (That, and the whole moderation and compassion thing.)

In my last few races--the 5ks and the marathon--I have pushed and pushed and pushed myself to my limit. Nausea. Delirium. Lactic acid ripping through my limbs.

The distinction these events hold is that I have treated them like they actually kind of matter. And they do. My trained muscles and tendons and joints hold all of my goals and mistakes and successes and failures. And so a race holds them, too, and I feel them viscerally when I rush forward at the sound of the pistol or the horn or the "Go."

Go.

Someone fires up a signal, and you go.

You rush--at whatever pace you've picked--until your body alienates you and starts its own signaling. Nausea. Delirium. Lactic acid ripping. It's like it's not even yours anymore and you have lost control or power over your own will. I hate that. I hate being at the whim of anything other than my own needs and desires. Even if it's my own body. Especially if it's my own body.

Damn bodies. They really make running rather difficult sometimes.

My threshold for exertion hit--my energy so tapped there is not even a drip of will left--I get to the point in a race where it is all I can do to keep going at all. I want it--it is in me somewhere--but wanting to keep your pace does not make it so. Someone might have said "Go" a while ago, but some force that sure isn't my will has demonized my heart and lungs, and I sputter.

I sputter and chug, losing steam. And then a corner is rounded. Here's something: the finish line is always just around a bend. Why do you never get a finish line you can see from a half mile away? It always just smacks you in the face. But the sting does something.

The sting sends a surge. And so, having seen the finish line, when your body feels most weakened and useless, you go faster. Faster.

The thinking used to be that our bodies try to maintain homeostasis constantly and that the body's symptoms of fatigue indicated its strained effort to maintain a safe homeostasis. But the finish line phenomenon shows the fallacy in that thinking.

Because "the only time homeostasis fails is when we are no longer alive" (Noakes, 2007; emphasis added).

Overlooking the cynical fact that our only choices appear to be homeostasis or death, this is an interesting factoid. Our bodies take care of us--no worries--making it possible for them to go out and do our bidding, even when our brains get all cranky and shit.

Like going faster when we sense the end is near.

When we see the finish line, we speed up. In my last 5k, I went from a 7:15 pace to a 6:35 when I saw the finish. In the marathon in Phoenix, I went from an empty-tank- 11:51 to a 9:32 for the final two tenths of a mile.

Our bodies are wrong when they're tired, and we're wrong when we think "quit." Unless we're dead, the homeostasis is kept, and we have to show those legs who's boss. We have to keep going, preferably faster. Because the goal is still there, even if you think the threshold has been met. You're wrong. You can handle more.

A surge is possible. Because you're tougher than you give yourself credit for. And the goal remains.

Wide Open Spaces

2009-05-29T11:23:00.003-04:00

Regardless of how you feel about Coldplay (not a fan), you can appreciate this video.

UltraRunning from Matt Hart on Vimeo.

74 days until I go to Australia.

Have a great weekend, everyone, wherever your adventures take you.

Notes from the Minuteman Trail Head

2009-05-28T07:53:00.008-04:00

It might come as a surprise to you to learn that I am a shy, quiet person in real life. If you invite me to a party, I will sweat with anxiety all day and prepare my conversations in advance, hoping to God that what I script will coordinate with the small talk. I am not a natural small talker.

But anyone could invite me for a run, and I'll go without blinking--no anxiety whatsoever. I love when I get to run with faster, more experienced people, people who knock out sub-3 marathons and win ultras. I love the communion of running with someone, step for step. You can talk the whole time, and then you can stop talking entirely and no one gets offended or feels awkward because you're still making progress down the road. It's usually a worthwhile connection, regardless of the conversation.

Yesterday I went running on the Minuteman Trail with a friend I've only met fairly recently. It had been raining all day, but by 5:00 the rain had stopped and the Concord woods were lush with green. No one else seemed interested in mucking along the road to the Revolution, however, because when we got there, we parked our Subaru wagons (required vehicle for all Mass residents) in an empty lot. It was goosebump cold, so we opted out of the Minuteman Audio Tour and took off right quick, holding what seemed to be a 7:30 pace, though my Garmin reception was coming in and out so I don't know for sure. All I know is that it felt fast, but it wasn't bad and I could keep up.

She is a faster and more experienced runner than I am, so I was happy that she complimented me by assuming her regular pace. (I'm hoping she doesn't ever invite me to bike with her because I am completely inept on a bike.) We talked, and we didn't, which was great. Because we were running fast, we took a breather at the turnaround and stood there chatting for a while about who-knows-what. Amazing how running amounts to conversational foreplay; you run a few miles, and as a result, you have tons to talk about. Not sure what that's about, but we were all of a sudden like two gabbing teenagers. Remember how you could chat for hours with a friend in high school about absolutely nothing? It was like that--so fun.

Now that I think about it, the run amounted to speed work--two repeats with recovery time at the birthplace of American democracy. I hope our forefathers aren't rolling over in their graves to know we soiled their hallowed ground with interval training.

The British are coming!
Hold on Paul, I need to stop the Garmin.

We flew back along the trail and when we got to the cars, we hung out for a bit. I was pleased that I didn't maim her on the trail, which is what happened the last time I went trail running with a friend. A bit muddy and a bug bite here and there, but that was all.

We talked tattoos (you know, typical suburban mom talk) and observed a woman pacing near her car (not a Subaru), musing that she was probably waiting for her lover (you know, typical suburban mom talk). And sure enough, he came, she got in his car, and off they went. I guess everyone takes advantage of the Minuteman Trail for their own reasons, which the policeman who looped the lot twice while we stood there no doubt knew.

So, people. Here's your take-away lesson: go run with someone new, preferably someone faster. Even if you're a shy and reserved sort like me, only good can come of it.

And another reminder to my virtual running friends that this blog is moving on June 1.

Competitive Drive

2009-05-26T21:21:00.008-04:00

I think I may be taking my new competitive drive a little far. On the way to and from PA, we saw several cars with '26.2' bumper stickers. My first observation is that far too many people are now running marathons, which means I'm being forced to up my mileage to an ultra. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #1.

But my second observation is even worse. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #2 has me pushing the gas pedal to pass these cars. Even when I'm not driving. I press my right foot on the floor, like wives often do when they need their husbands to brake already. Except I'm pressing the imaginary gas because there's an SUV with a little white circle on the back that reads '26.2.'

"Oh, no you don't, Miscellaneous Sedan. I will go 90 if need be. My bumper sticker is totally going to smoke your bumper sticker."

What is wrong with me? Who thinks that way? Who talks smack to a fender?

I got into running in the first place because it was far less competitive than ballet. No one in amateur running tells you you're fat or you have lousy turnout. No one critiques you because your hair and make-up are all wrong. You compete as much as you want to in running, unlike ballet, where you're forced into competition whether you like it or not. And in racing, you compete fiercely on the course and then chat congenially with the person who beat you (or who you beat) as soon as you cross the line. On Monday, I was racing one other woman for part of the course, and after we both finished (I beat her--ahem), we chatted casually about how humid it was and what fun it was to race. That's the best part of competitive running, if you ask me. You race, then you chat.

Along the same lines, while I love winning AG awards and competing for a top-3 spot in my group, I wasn't hung up on finding out if I placed second or third in my AG last weekend. I can let it go pretty easily and don't beat myself up over competition. For his part, though, Henry was pretty disappointed that I didn't have a trophy to give him. (That always makes a running mom feel just swell.) As far as he's concerned, there is really no point to watching me race unless I get him a trophy or free food at the end.

I won an Amazon gift certificate for placing at the 5k a few weeks ago, and I discovered I can buy 12 trophies with it, which would give me one for that race, one for Monday's race, and 10 more for just being awesome in general. Knowing you can buy trophies from Amazon in a six-pack really makes me feel all warm inside. I can reward myself and stroke my ego whenever I want, even if I lose. Competitive Drive Disorder Symptom #3.

Another reminder that my blogging will relocate on Monday June 1. I have called the movers and will provide a change-of-address URL as soon as I have it to share.

Run Like Madness

2009-05-25T20:07:00.009-04:00

You need to move up to the line.

That is the moral of this post. I know you're not supposed to give the moral until the end of a story, but I have big news that seemed to merit a bold-type-faced statement like that.

In 3 acts:

Act I

This weekend we dragged our butts back to PA (a-gain) for a family reunion so I had to do my long run in Harrisburg a-gain. Brian and I ran separate days, so I went back to the Susquehanna to run my 14. I am happy to report that I was not approached by any sketchy men (woot), but the run itself s-u-c-k sucked.

Hot
Humid
Funnel cake

I won't belabor the run, but suffice it to say, it took forever, and it was 85 degrees when I finally finished. If the half-mary is like that, I'm toast (pun intended). By mile 10, I was nearly out of water on my fuel belt and would have whored myself for a garden hose. When I saw the kind lady in her garden, I was pleased the whoring would not be necessary, and she filled my bottles and let me spray my head with her hose.

That helped me get another couple of miles, when it was time to pick it up to HMP. Again, not my day. I eeked out a bit more than a mile at that pace, but it was so unbelievably hot--with no shade--that by the time I smelled the scent of frying funnel cake, there was no way I'd make it to 14 miles without serious nausea setting in.

It was a street fair, and once you add velvet paintings and a brass band to the mix of heat and fried dough, I was on the verge of passing out. I pushed myself as hard as I could go without actually passing out--moved myself up to the line of consciousness--and finished with a jog to mile 14.

Finis. Last long run before the race. It's ok. I'm satisfied, and if the conditions cooperate, I will be confident heading into the HM.

Moving on.

Act II

Monday morning--today--was the 5k. Again humid, but not so hot, which was the best I could hope for this weekend, I guess. It was a fairly local schmokal type affair, which always suits me fine. I knew beating 22 minutes would be very close, given the humidity, but I wanted to try to do what I set out to do.

Full throttle. Three sevens.

In a rinky dink race, where not only are there no timing mats at the start, there are no chips at all, I simply had no choice but to move forward, up to the start line. This is ballsy and cocky and all the male genital adjectives you can think of. I was standing next to the people who would be winning the race. And some 8 year olds. Funny how that happens. The winners and the children, side by side.

The race started with a "Go!" and as promised, I was a bat outta hell.

Mile 1: 7:00

Where's the water? Where's the water? Where's the fucking water?

Oh, look, six horses standing in the middle of the street, waiting to headline a parade, no doubt.

Weave the horses. Avoid getting kicked in the head. You really can't beat racing six inches from a horse's ass.

Mile 2: 7:09

Where's the fucking water?

Thank you for the dainty sip of water.

Sucking wind. Sucking wind.

I hate 5k. I hate 5k.

I'm such a fraud. Speed work, full throttle, bats outta my ass. This just fucking sucks.

And then I heard her in my head. Mary. Iron Matron comes to me. Whispers words of wisdom. My dear friend, who has been in my corner through so much.

SHUT UP BRAIN.

Go. Go. Go. Push. Push. Push. And this is my brain's thought before it settled down:

At least when you're sucking wind, you know you're breathing and alive. So run hard damnit.

Mile 3: 7:15

Round the corner. Finish line. Finish line.

21:54...
21:55...
21:56...

21:57 Finish.

and the .1 at a 6:35 pace (sprint much?)

I don't know where I placed. I think second or third in my age group, but we couldn't stick around because we had to drive 8 hours back to Mass. (the state; we're not Catholic).

Move up to the line. Run like madness. Suck wind. Know you're alive.

Act III

Moving up to the line is terrifying. Running like madness is terrifying. Moving forward into new territory is terrifying. But often fantastic.

I am thrilled and energized by a new development in this blog. Starting June 1, I will be blogging as a featured blogger for Competitor Running's online entity, thus moving the bulk of my blogging energies to that domain.

My style, topics, and energy will remain the same as it is here. Even the title will remain the same. I will be the irreverent and neglectful mother you have all come to expect, and I am sure I will continue to deliver all the running schadenfreude you are used to receiving from me. Injuries, failures, excessive sharing about bladder control issues, and my trademark righteous indignation all will continue. It's the same blog, only, you know, kinda like a job sorta.

I will maintain this URL for the archives and will pop over to blog here once a week or so, when I feel compelled to drop the f-bomb a half dozen times in a post or steal copyright-protected photos of celebrities. But really, my Competitor Running blog will be the same schtick you're used to getting here. In fact, now that it's sorta kinda like a job, it will probably be far superior to my lazy posting about things like the weight of my shoes.

I'll badger you with reminders to update your feeds in the next week, but I hope you'll be excited to make the move with me.

So, there you have it. In three acts: moving up to the line. Scary, but good.

Full Throttle

2009-05-22T08:02:00.006-04:00

I'm trying not to obsess too much over numbers, but runners often do this.

26.2
3:40
8:20
13.1
1:40
7:37
3.1
21:xx

My mind is swirling with numbers, and I'm learning that I can both love the process of running and the pursuit of the digits. That the means and the end are both gratifying, and more and more, they are becoming inseparable.

Iron Matron wrote the other day about the effort we put into training for the sake of our love of its experience. She said it best: "how the effort we put into something is worthy -- just because to put effort into something is to participate in and engage in life" (emphasis in original).

This perspective is new to me, but I'm embracing it. I am pushing myself in new directions that risk failure or even pain, but if I didn't make the effort, I would not be fully engaged in life. I would be timid or, worse, restrained.

I think I'm drawn to the 5k and the speed work now because it lets me go full throttle. I've never been a full-throttle kind of girl before because the idea of pushing as hard as I could and still failing to win was terrifying. But now I've been bitten by the desire to try for things that always seemed outrageous and scary. Even after thinking I'd lost my kid, I went full throttle in the Groton race because my brain and my body wanted to push (see photo). And came in second in my AG in the end. Sometimes the effort pays off, and sometimes it doesn't, but the risk to push hard (even when it's hot) is Good in and of itself.

When Patti blogged her goal of a 2:45 marathon, I didn't shake my head or raise my eyebrows. I called her. And we have continued to talk about competition and daring and being "runners with kids" versus "mothers who run." Full throttle on the road, in our goals, and in our lives is not something women my age with a family to raise are meant to do.

And yet, here I go.

A belated congratulations to my coach, Nate Jenkins, who will be competing on the U.S. team at the World Marathon Championships in Berlin in August. This post is for you and the speed you've subjected me to.

Desperately Seeking 21 Minutes

2009-05-20T15:52:00.003-04:00

I am in hot pursuit of something I want so bad I am dropping my love of grammar in this sentence to express it. I want redemption, vindication, and wish fulfillment. I want to fly by the seat of my pants. I want to run fast and hard and get it done. I want to hit the 5k jackpot in my mind:

3 sevens*

Blackjack. Kaching.

Not long ago, I thought the 5k was a royal waste of time and money. So short, not worth it. I ran 5ks with friends and family to kind of mosey along on a little joggy jog. But something changed in me in the last few months, and now I get it. It helped that I've started winning AG awards in my last two 5ks, and that kind of extrinsic validation turns out to suit my shallow side quite well. Yes, running is a beautiful practice and process, but I kind of like the brutality of the chase and the gratification of seeing my name in the top 3 for my age, even if there are only 6 people in my group**. It also turns out I'm more competitive than I thought.

And then there's my performance at the 5k a few weeks ago. I so wanted that 21 minutes on the clock, and I missed it by 9 seconds. I'm traveling back to Central PA for the long weekend***, but I found a 5k on Monday morning. I'm going to run that race like a bat outta hell, then get in the car for another 8-hour drive, hopefully with a shiny AG award, an overly inflated ego, and 3 sevens on my splits.

I'm particularly motivated because the race is in my old 'hood, where I went to high school and suffered the cliched gym class mortification of many adult runners. I need to unload that baggage, preferably in the first mile to help me run a negative split and meet my goal.

So, 21 minutes please. To go out and do what I need to do.

*and I'll give the extra tenth to the running Gods in however many seconds they require

**I have a theory of why I'm winning these awards in the small, short, local races. I am at the age that most women are having babies, so the fact that I have a 4-year-old puts me at a competitive advantage.

***and running long alone, so dear God, please prevent sketchy guy from finding me.

Burning Pain Crystallized

2009-05-17T19:21:00.009-04:00

I'm reading the book Running & Philosophy, which is so far a tasty read for the heady runner. You don't get much better than tracing Martha Nussbaum's thinking on the embodiment and musicality of emotion through running. The woman memorizes operas while she's in marathon training so she can recite them in her head on long runs without an iPod. Both insane and admirable, if you ask me.

Martha, however, has nothing to say about how much my ass hurts, even to sit. Except maybe the quote she gives from Mahler: "A burning pain crystallizes." Kind of sounds like a koan (or a fortune cookie), but that is definitely it. A crystallized, burning pain in the ass.

Saturday, I did my longest training run for the half-marathon in three weeks: 16 miles. It wound up being 16.7 miles, but who's counting? Actually, I was--every hundredth of a mile for the last 7/10 of a mile to my car, as my butt spasmed.

I ran the first 9 miles on my own, then was joined by speedy Jill for the rest. I tried to keep up, but we were running at 1 on a hot afternoon and her smokin' pace... well, she smoked me. My average pace wound up a disappointing 8:23, and I didn't hit the last two miles at HMP like I needed. Bah.

8:23 for almost 17 miles. And I was so bummed by it, I consoled myself with a can of real, full-sugar, all-the-sodium Coke on the way home. It was the best 12 oz. of Coke ever created. My compliments to the factory. Have you ever had a tough long run and then decided that the first thing you consumed afterward was the best possible substance ever made? That was the Coke. I should have kept the can, it was that good.

But the real point of note is that I was disappointed in the 8:23 pace. True, it was slower than I will need to feel ready for the half-marathon. But a year ago, I would have shaved my head for a 17-mile training run at that pace.

This makes me realize something pretty annoying about my personality. I am perpetually dissatisfied. You could say that this means I am always open to growth, learning, evolution, experience. Wouldn't that be nice? Really, it just means that I am usually bitchy and hungry.

I know I'm lucky to have a fast metabolism physiologically, but I'm realizing that my personality has a fast metabolism, too. I process an experience instantly and am immediately looking for the next thing. There's no appreciating the forest for the trees or the big picture or whatever your favorite cliche is. Hence the dissatisfaction with the 8:23 pace and the decent work ethic to improve and conquer my dissatisfaction.

Ironically enough, as I'm typing this, my son just said, "You're kind of a lazy mother." It's funny 'cause it's true. I am kind of a lazy mother. A lazy mother who runs 40 miles a week. (I'll show him lazy. There's a four-year-old who's going to do some hill repeats this afternoon.)

I'm going to try to be more content with my progress and my state of affairs. If that doesn't work, I'm going to start drinking more and blame my stagnation on alcohol. Externalizing dissatisfaction is truly the best approach if you can't remove it, that's what I always say. I'm sure Martha Nussbaum would agree.

Drunk Lizards, Celebrities, Hats, Speed, and Self-Promotion

2009-05-14T11:08:00.010-04:00

In Roman numerals because they make me feel all classy:

I. I bought my ticket to Australia. It was a big, terrifying moment. So now I have to go get some language CDs to learn Australian before I go. You think I'm kidding, but I got an email from my guide the other day that said, "Please bare with me. I've been flat out like a lizard drinking for the past week."

My immediate first thought was, "Holy shit. I just dropped some serious cash on a trip led by a lush who is politely asking to see me naked. And something about a lizard."

Turns out, Richard is not a drunk and just had a small homonym hiccup. An Australian friend translated for me and reassured me he's just been really busy. What that has to do with an overhydrated lizard is still a mystery to me. But I want to fit in, so I am going to track down some tutelage in Australian colloquialisms. On a running trip where I'm sleeping in the middle of nowhere with 8 strangers, I will need to be able to be able to determine if being called "mate" is just friendly or a request to procreate.

II. I had a consult with an agent about my book the other day. His advice? "You should write a book about celebrity moms and pregnant celebs who run instead." I love a good US Weekly baby bump as much as the next gal, and I'm sure Reese Witherspoon is lovely. But I really don't think that documenting her running habits will be very helpful or inspirational to most of us, even though I know it must be challenging to have loads of money for child care, a super hottie to run with you, and exquisite genetics that you can't ruin.

And anyway, who really wants tips from celebrities when they look like this on a run?

Seriously, Ms. Hudson, get an armband for that iPod.

This is not at all to say I wouldn't splash pictures of Jake Gyllenhal all over my book regardless of their relevance, however.

Also, the well-meaning agent told me no one would publish or buy a book written in the first-person by someone who is "just a well-educated woman with a cute kid and a nice husband." Alrighty then.

III. I've had this hat from Head Sweats to review for weeks now. I had no idea writing a witty review of a hat would be so much harder than reviewing detergent. Really, the Head Sweats people probably don't care what I have to say. They just want to optimize their google results. So I'll help them out:

Head Sweats makes a great cap. Heat Sweats makes a cap that is lightweight and dries very quickly. Head Sweats also makes visors and other hats in many nice colors. Head Sweats Head Sweats Head Sweats.

Also, Rachel is on the homepage for Head Sweats, looking fierce as always.

IV. Track for speed work tonight. 10 x 600m in 2:42 each with rest intervals of 400 m in 2:02. Hoping for the best with my dicey IT Bands. Plus wind, rain, allergies, insomnia, and a serious crapitude. In other words, I'm looking at some major bonk potential.

V. Maybe I should take my own advice. Check out my new post over on Chi today if you're dreading your next workout.

Tennis Balls: Non-Therapeutic

2009-05-12T20:05:00.005-04:00

I am sitting on a tennis ball. This afternoon, I was lying on a tennis ball. The tennis ball and I are becoming very friendly. Yes, in case you were wondering, it hurts, so it's kind of a tense friendship. I would like to, say, take a racket and thwack my friend clear across the grass, but that might actually please the ball and send it into a reverie about Wimbledon. So instead, I will keep it under my ass, where it can communicate closely to the knot at the top of my IT Band.

I am wincing. Wincing, quite obviously, reminds me of my coach. Wincing, cursing, and panting. This is what Nate does to me, but not in the good way. Nate assigns me mileage that hurts. And to get rid of the hurt? More stuff that hurts. Like tennis balls in my tendons.

But because I'm radically faster than I was a year ago when I started training with him, I know I'd do whatever he says to be race-ready and meet my goal. Like crack. If Nate put "smoke a pipe of crack" on the schedule for my taper week, I'd be in the old station wagon headed to some alley in Lowell with my credit card. (Dealers take Visa, I assume).

And I know I'd do whatever Nate said to take away the pain that speed work causes.

Sit on a mace? Right on.

Snort crushed Vicodin? Hells yeah.

Sit in a tub filled with ice water so cold it burns? Bring it, baby.

Oh, wait... I guess I already do that last one.

Good god, he's a sadist. It is no lie that the man once told me a massage should hurt. For that reason, I almost called the one listing under Massage: Non-Therapeutic in my phonebook before I realized that "Christine and Company" was probably an altogether different kind of massage. Though, some might take issue with categorizing Christine et al.'s services as "non-therapeutic," and I'm sure she'd make it hurt if you asked her to.

Wow. That was a tangent from which I cannot seem to return.

Christine = pleasure. Coach = pain. Ah ha, there it is. Nate has sadistic but effective training plans, and the only happy ending you get from his treatments for injury is the ability to run more and harder.

And I do have a masochistic streak, which is why I let him spank me with those speed workouts and his remedies for injuries. But just once, I want to email him with an ache or pain and have him recommend a strawberry-scented bubble bath and a cup of hot chocolate and those little tiny marshmallows.

Until that day, it's the tennis ball and ice bath for me. Let's just hope Nate doesn't advocate I join a pyramid scheme that promises high returns and a BQ. Cause I'd do it.

Bacon Makes It All Okay

2009-05-11T09:02:00.005-04:00

After a week of insomnia and allergies driving firey spikes through my eyelids*, I had yet another 14-miler on Saturday. May have been a bit cranky and unmotivated with motivation not helped by rain, tightness in my IT Band, and a pesky piriformis on the left side.

Still, I am used to the 14-milers now. I think I've done about four or five of them so far in this training cycle. I am even used to running the last few miles under half-marathon pace. Just like the marathon training, when I was fixated on the numbers 3:40 (goal time) and 8:20 (pace), I see my target numbers everywhere. Houses, license plates, clocks:

1:40 (goal)

7:37 (pace)

The 14-mile training runs are rote, and the times might as well be tattooed on me.

And then on Saturday I walked it in.

Walking. I like walking on a beautiful spring day in Harvard Square. I did it yesterday. It was lovely. I like going for a little walk to prevent the emergence of my alter-ego, Mommy Who Yells. I endorse walking. But not when I should be running.

I do not like walking mile 14 of a training run.

I knew the run would be ugly, but not that ugly. I was in such a foul mood that when I saw a young deer playing in some tall grasses, all I could think was "bastard tick vehicle."

The ITB and piriformis pain really set in about mile 9, so I stopped to stretch in the drizzle. But the mosquitoes were ravenous for some blood seasoned with sweat and frustration, so I had to keep moving or I'd be eaten alive. When my Garmin let me know it was time to pick up the pace for the last two miles, I tried. I really did. But by then, my entire body wanted me dead.

At mile 13, it was over. Walking a mile takes a lot longer than I would have thought, giving me plenty of time to cultivate some solid self-chastisement and providing the mosquitoes an opportunity to dig in with wild abandon.

This put me in really magical mood for Mother's Day. I got up Sunday and basically ditched my loving family for a 15-mile bike ride to gain some perspective and a lot of pollen in my eyeballs from the wind.

An obviously much-needed massage appointment to work out the knots fell through in the afternoon, leading me to lose the perspective I'd gained when I whined, "Even my massage guy is avoiding me!" I can't believe that is a sentence I've spoken. Woe is me.

Still, a day on which I consume a breakfast of bacon, champagne, and city life is a good day. And maybe those three are just the tonic for my IT Band and pain in the butt. Because that, a foam roller, and an abundance of self-pity are all I've got to ease my pain.

*Generic-brand Claritin, you are a cruel box of non-drowsy empty promises.

Evidence That I'm Working on It

2009-05-07T15:16:00.006-04:00

The Runner's Lounge Take It and Run Thursday theme today is running and motherhood, and I promise that once Mother's Day is over, I won't beat this dead horse quite so hard with my primary shtick. (Probably.) But in keeping with the TIaRT theme, here is an excerpt from the book to prove that I am indeed writing something.

If you find yourself in London and decide to go for a run, look out for Paula. Chances are at some point, you’ll see her with a fleet of enthusiastic runners close by. But it's not that Paula. Paula Mitchell, a native Texan who lives in London, facilitates groups of running mothers, most of whom she recruits when they’re running on their own around town. Maybe you’ll hear their feet pounding toward you, but more likely, you’ll hear their voices first.

It’s the sound of mother-runners on the path, and it’s a growing phenomenon that gives new meaning to the phrase social movement.

While thousands of groups of running moms begin formally online, many others are simply casual groups of neighborhood moms who notice each other on the sidewalks at the crack of dawn, getting a run in before the kids wake up and the hectic day launches. Or, they see each other in running gear at the school bus stop and make “fast friends.” The friendships build, a running day is set, and the pairings expand to triplets, eventually developing into small cadres of mothers operating their own aerobic neighborhood watch. These mothers aren’t Paula Radcliffes in the making, but the organizers of running groups for mothers know the potential to transform these women in powerful ways.

Leaders like Paula Mitchell welcome mothers of all running levels into their support groups of runners, knowing that running gives an escape that can preserve a mom’s sanity and provides a network of other women. Having lived in Borneo, Indonesia, and Belgium since leaving the U.S. for her husband’s career 15 years ago, Mitchell knows how it feels for mothers to feel isolated and without connections, especially in a foreign country. She began building informal running groups of other ex-pat mothers after moving to London and now leads beginner and experiences groups that tour London several times a week and travel together to half-marathons all over Europe. “My goals are to take these new runners from nothing to being able to call themselves runners. I get way more satisfaction out of that than being able to run a marathon two or three minutes faster than I did last time. There were times when that was important to me, but not anymore, ” says Mitchell.

Mitchell structures and leads the groups to give ex-pat mothers in London a footing when they find themselves living in a new city with few instant friendships. Even though she describes the groups as “loosely knit,” more than 100 women have been a part of her effort and come to rely on it as part of their lives while their families live in London. Among the words they use to describe Mitchell’s service are “amazing” and “inspirational,” and of her runners, Mitchell says, “Ex-pat women move to different cities every two years. They have no family, no friends around them. And they’re often frustrated or a little bit unhappy.” Their husbands go to the office, and the kids go to school, becoming immersed in new surroundings, but the women stay at home. “Most of our women are 35 to 55,” Mitchell says, “and a lot of them are completely lacking in confidence, just in life. And once they start running, they think they can do anything. And they can. Their whole frame of reference changes. It’s amazing to see the transformation.”

Not only do these runners develop greater confidence in their fitness, they experience new joy in life. “They go and do things they would have never done before. Changes that are internal, but you can see it on their faces, because they’re happier,” Mitchell reports. She attributes the transformation in her runner-mothers to the convergence of a social network of support and greater health and fitness in a sport that does not have to be competitive to be rewarding. “Most other sports are competitive,” she says. “You’re playing tennis against someone. Somebody wins and someone loses. Or someone is better than you. But running, you just throw on a pair of shoes and off you go.”

Along the same line, there are mothers who make a regular, obligatory visit to the gym to spend a reluctant hour on a machine or in a class, with the goal of losing weight, caring for their cardiovascular health, or preparing for a summer in a bathing suit.

And then there are the mothers who run.

These women make the time in their hectic family and work lives to run because it preserves a part of themselves that transcends the size of their jeans, concerns about blood pressure, or lounging at the local pool. Mother-runners are a community of women who turn to running for social connection, personal empowerment, and the knowledge that their running is a service to their families as well as themselves. While running might tone their quads or calves, mother-runners know that it is their core that is strengthened most from their passion and practice.

Happy Mother's Day, runner-mothers. Here's to neglecting our kids, one mile at a time.