Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
update
It seems ironic to quit a blog that's about not quitting...but it might be time to move to different pastures. I'm still thinking about it. I'd like to start a new blog, about all the things I like, and record the exciting and fun things that are coming into my life. But my focus is just all over the place, and the personal blog seems dead.
Yesterday, I tried going for a run. It didn't turn out well. I made it maybe half a mile before the foot started to act up. I turned around and went to an amazing coffee shop and got a "bucket" of "Special". This morning, I did 30 minutes on the bike and another 10 on the ArcTrainer. I've been concentrating on heavy lifting lately, and I love it, but I need cardio or I'll go crazy.
My foot is killing me now. Ace bandaging probably does nothing two months post-injury, huh?
Oh, and I got into grad school. :-)
Yesterday, I tried going for a run. It didn't turn out well. I made it maybe half a mile before the foot started to act up. I turned around and went to an amazing coffee shop and got a "bucket" of "Special". This morning, I did 30 minutes on the bike and another 10 on the ArcTrainer. I've been concentrating on heavy lifting lately, and I love it, but I need cardio or I'll go crazy.
My foot is killing me now. Ace bandaging probably does nothing two months post-injury, huh?
Oh, and I got into grad school. :-)
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Just because you don't want to be a quitter doesn't mean you have to be an idiot.
File this one under "lessons learned"
For the past two years I've been taking graduate classes at the college where I also work full-time. I've taken the courses as non-credit, while applying to the Master's program, with the assumption that, due to the quality of my writing samples, resume, and high GRE scores, I would one day get in to this incredibly competitive program.
Last week, after staying up too late too many nights to finish a presentation, I was sitting home with tonsillitis working on a 20-page paper, and I got a rejection letter. Another one. My second.
Surrounded with books and index cards and storylines, and Chloraseptic spray and salt water, and tea, I will admit, I cried a little bit, and I will not even be ashamed of it. And fever tears hurt.
However, there was a nice handwritten note on my rejection letter from the Director of Grad Admissions. The purple felt pen invited me to come by and see her if I wanted to discuss. So, all cured up on Monday, that's what I did. And so started the kind of day that, when all was said and done, felt like a neatly tied up sitcom ending.
I realized, after talking to her, that I had been pursuing the entirely wrong things for me. It was astounding how off the mark I'd been, and how swayed by the low acceptance rate that looked to me like a big red bullfighting flag with the world "challenge!" on it. That's all. All that reading and writing made me miserable. Stressed. Completely unable to write here, or in my other journal. While I absolutely loved my classes and the things I was able to learn, writing & publishing was not my track, not my passion. Re-ve-lation.
The Director relayed that while my GRE scores were "off the charts" (which, technically, is an impossibility) and all my recommendations were "nothing but glowing" that the committee shared the opinion I was now coming to. I was just not a fit for such a specific program. Then, she handed me an outline of another program she and the committee did think I was a fit for. And it was perfect. I'd already been considering it, before she mentioned it. Because writing, just for writing, isn't my passion, but commuication is. Revelation numbero dos.
I talked to a current student in the program, and that only confirmed that this was something I should at least seriously explore. By that afternoon, I'd gone from panicked to excited.
There was still the matter of my paper. I went and visited my professor in his office before the last class of the semester, and told him my situation. While I loved the class, and everything I had learned, the idea of writing a 20-page research paper "just for fun" was extremely daunting, and depressing. And amazingly, he understood. I'd been agonizing over this particular issue since I recieved the letter. I didn't, obviously, want to be a quitter, the person who dropped a class on the last day of classes. But, just because you don't want to be a quitter, doesn't mean you have to be an idiot. And I am pretty sure idiot gluttons for punishment (a category I fall into more than occasionally) are the only ones who would write a 20-page paper for nothing.
My professor, after a spot of being righteously indignant that I didn't get into the program after two tries, said that based on my work thus far and his knowledge of me as a student (I'd taken two classes with him) he would feel comfortable giving me a B without the paper. He said, quite simply, he didn't believe I would learn anything from the exercise, and would possibly leave the course overwhelmed, stressed out, and bitter. That wasn't his intention when he designed the class. And it just made so much sense. I am now totally okay with not doing the paper.
And all's well that ends well. We chatted about my research, which I actually found quite interesting, so it was like a mini book report, in a way. Then I went to the last class of all, and four hours flew by like nothing.
So, I've shifted my goals significantly, and I'm actually much more excited about my education and career than I was when I was relentlessly pursuing this particular goal. It's like a lot of things. I realize that in my running, I kept relentlessly pursuing the marathon goal, because it was the "holy grail" of running, but kept getting injured and sidetracked. I don't think I will ever run a marathon; it's not for me. And even when I say that now, I still feel a twinge of disappointment. But I realize that my goals reflect just as much about who I am than my accomplishments, and just because a goal is an impressive rite of passage that features on myriad Bucket Lists, doesn't mean it should be mine.
I'll be porting my application over to the other program, and should see, hopefully in a few weeks, if I get in.
Anyway.
On the running front, well, nothing. I re-hurt my ankle last night putting on pants, which either means I need to go to the doctor or just stop putting on pants. Today, I went to the gym for the first time since the tonsillitis, and did my usual "back to the gym" routine of 45 or so squats, which will, as it always does, render me completely incapable of walking tomorrow.
But boy, did it feel good today.
I'm still trying to think of what I want this blog to be, what direction I want it to go in. Obviously, it's not really a running blog anymore, and I'm afraid it will continue not to be. I'm too afraid to go to the doctor in case she tells me to stay off my foot, or that I have to have surgery. Without going, I'm not running, because it feels like all the tiny bones on the top of my feet are crunching together a bit. But, I can bike and I can lift and I can do other things, and without this kind of movement, I go crazy. So it's worth it, for now, to continue moving and forget about running.
But, there are so many other things I'd like to write about. It seems that the personal blog has gone by the wayside, and most folks post about one or two things. I don't want to just write a fitness blog or a grad student blog or even a beer blog, but I'd like to combine these things and other interests in a cohesive way that presents a sort of designed energy. I'll have to think on that one for a bit.
For the past two years I've been taking graduate classes at the college where I also work full-time. I've taken the courses as non-credit, while applying to the Master's program, with the assumption that, due to the quality of my writing samples, resume, and high GRE scores, I would one day get in to this incredibly competitive program.
Last week, after staying up too late too many nights to finish a presentation, I was sitting home with tonsillitis working on a 20-page paper, and I got a rejection letter. Another one. My second.
Surrounded with books and index cards and storylines, and Chloraseptic spray and salt water, and tea, I will admit, I cried a little bit, and I will not even be ashamed of it. And fever tears hurt.
However, there was a nice handwritten note on my rejection letter from the Director of Grad Admissions. The purple felt pen invited me to come by and see her if I wanted to discuss. So, all cured up on Monday, that's what I did. And so started the kind of day that, when all was said and done, felt like a neatly tied up sitcom ending.
I realized, after talking to her, that I had been pursuing the entirely wrong things for me. It was astounding how off the mark I'd been, and how swayed by the low acceptance rate that looked to me like a big red bullfighting flag with the world "challenge!" on it. That's all. All that reading and writing made me miserable. Stressed. Completely unable to write here, or in my other journal. While I absolutely loved my classes and the things I was able to learn, writing & publishing was not my track, not my passion. Re-ve-lation.
The Director relayed that while my GRE scores were "off the charts" (which, technically, is an impossibility) and all my recommendations were "nothing but glowing" that the committee shared the opinion I was now coming to. I was just not a fit for such a specific program. Then, she handed me an outline of another program she and the committee did think I was a fit for. And it was perfect. I'd already been considering it, before she mentioned it. Because writing, just for writing, isn't my passion, but commuication is. Revelation numbero dos.
I talked to a current student in the program, and that only confirmed that this was something I should at least seriously explore. By that afternoon, I'd gone from panicked to excited.
There was still the matter of my paper. I went and visited my professor in his office before the last class of the semester, and told him my situation. While I loved the class, and everything I had learned, the idea of writing a 20-page research paper "just for fun" was extremely daunting, and depressing. And amazingly, he understood. I'd been agonizing over this particular issue since I recieved the letter. I didn't, obviously, want to be a quitter, the person who dropped a class on the last day of classes. But, just because you don't want to be a quitter, doesn't mean you have to be an idiot. And I am pretty sure idiot gluttons for punishment (a category I fall into more than occasionally) are the only ones who would write a 20-page paper for nothing.
My professor, after a spot of being righteously indignant that I didn't get into the program after two tries, said that based on my work thus far and his knowledge of me as a student (I'd taken two classes with him) he would feel comfortable giving me a B without the paper. He said, quite simply, he didn't believe I would learn anything from the exercise, and would possibly leave the course overwhelmed, stressed out, and bitter. That wasn't his intention when he designed the class. And it just made so much sense. I am now totally okay with not doing the paper.
And all's well that ends well. We chatted about my research, which I actually found quite interesting, so it was like a mini book report, in a way. Then I went to the last class of all, and four hours flew by like nothing.
So, I've shifted my goals significantly, and I'm actually much more excited about my education and career than I was when I was relentlessly pursuing this particular goal. It's like a lot of things. I realize that in my running, I kept relentlessly pursuing the marathon goal, because it was the "holy grail" of running, but kept getting injured and sidetracked. I don't think I will ever run a marathon; it's not for me. And even when I say that now, I still feel a twinge of disappointment. But I realize that my goals reflect just as much about who I am than my accomplishments, and just because a goal is an impressive rite of passage that features on myriad Bucket Lists, doesn't mean it should be mine.
I'll be porting my application over to the other program, and should see, hopefully in a few weeks, if I get in.
Anyway.
On the running front, well, nothing. I re-hurt my ankle last night putting on pants, which either means I need to go to the doctor or just stop putting on pants. Today, I went to the gym for the first time since the tonsillitis, and did my usual "back to the gym" routine of 45 or so squats, which will, as it always does, render me completely incapable of walking tomorrow.
But boy, did it feel good today.
I'm still trying to think of what I want this blog to be, what direction I want it to go in. Obviously, it's not really a running blog anymore, and I'm afraid it will continue not to be. I'm too afraid to go to the doctor in case she tells me to stay off my foot, or that I have to have surgery. Without going, I'm not running, because it feels like all the tiny bones on the top of my feet are crunching together a bit. But, I can bike and I can lift and I can do other things, and without this kind of movement, I go crazy. So it's worth it, for now, to continue moving and forget about running.
But, there are so many other things I'd like to write about. It seems that the personal blog has gone by the wayside, and most folks post about one or two things. I don't want to just write a fitness blog or a grad student blog or even a beer blog, but I'd like to combine these things and other interests in a cohesive way that presents a sort of designed energy. I'll have to think on that one for a bit.
Monday, April 12, 2010
In just a week, the 114th Boston Marathon will take over my city, and I will love it. I, of course, will not be running it for so many reasons, but I'll be thinking of my friends and thousands of strangers who run while I cheer on my Red Sox from nine rows behind home plate with my favorite Yankees fan.
I still can't run. I'm going stir crazy to the point where I see people doing their longish taper runs before the marathon, in last year's blue-and-yellow marathon jackets, and I feel a white-hot stab of jealousy. Yes, jealousy, that in just over a week they'll be slogging out 26.2 miles of sheer soul-soaring agony, and I will be limping from my little red seat to the Fenway Guinness stand and back. This is utter crazyness. It's been three weeks since my last run. I've pushed through some stationary bike rides, and done so many lightweight front squats that my quads were in searing agony until, oh, about now. My brain's been so all over the place that I've actually seriously considered therapy. THERAPY!
Then I read this. Why.Do.I.Keep.Not.Making.This.Connection?
I used to joke, when I got into the whirlwind, honeymoon, holycrapicanreallydothis stage of running, that I did it because 'It's cheaper than therapy'. And yet I constantly have to keep reminding myself how much it really matters. Seriously, proven-research, MATTERS.
On the way home in the car that night, my purple swollen ankle wrapped in ice bags and on my friend's lap in the back seat of the car, I cried not because it hurt so much (it did) but because, as I whispered I have to run. I can't not run.
I'm not a good runner. I'm never going to run a marathon or an 8-minute mile. But, as I said in my last post, I need this. I really need it. I'm a runner, for better or for worse. Sometimes I hate it, but I need it. Especially now, with some of the emotional stressors that are wreaking havoc on my brain. I miss stopping on the causeway at sunset and laughing. Given the way my foot still feels, I don't get the feeling I'll be running for at least another month. I should probably just go to the doctor, but I'm afraid there's not really much that can be done at this point, and I just need to let it heal on its own. I realize I would be extremely bad at being really injured. Maybe I'm afraid of having to get surgery. Maybe I think that if I jut ignore it, it'll eventually heal or go away.
But I can NOT be sedentary. This is the longest I've gone without consistent exercise for the last two years. So I'm heading to the gym today, and hopefully every day this week. I'll report back on the effects of that, which hopefully will not involve reinjury, at the end of the week.
I still can't run. I'm going stir crazy to the point where I see people doing their longish taper runs before the marathon, in last year's blue-and-yellow marathon jackets, and I feel a white-hot stab of jealousy. Yes, jealousy, that in just over a week they'll be slogging out 26.2 miles of sheer soul-soaring agony, and I will be limping from my little red seat to the Fenway Guinness stand and back. This is utter crazyness. It's been three weeks since my last run. I've pushed through some stationary bike rides, and done so many lightweight front squats that my quads were in searing agony until, oh, about now. My brain's been so all over the place that I've actually seriously considered therapy. THERAPY!
Then I read this. Why.Do.I.Keep.Not.Making.This.Connection?
I used to joke, when I got into the whirlwind, honeymoon, holycrapicanreallydothis stage of running, that I did it because 'It's cheaper than therapy'. And yet I constantly have to keep reminding myself how much it really matters. Seriously, proven-research, MATTERS.
On the way home in the car that night, my purple swollen ankle wrapped in ice bags and on my friend's lap in the back seat of the car, I cried not because it hurt so much (it did) but because, as I whispered I have to run. I can't not run.
I'm not a good runner. I'm never going to run a marathon or an 8-minute mile. But, as I said in my last post, I need this. I really need it. I'm a runner, for better or for worse. Sometimes I hate it, but I need it. Especially now, with some of the emotional stressors that are wreaking havoc on my brain. I miss stopping on the causeway at sunset and laughing. Given the way my foot still feels, I don't get the feeling I'll be running for at least another month. I should probably just go to the doctor, but I'm afraid there's not really much that can be done at this point, and I just need to let it heal on its own. I realize I would be extremely bad at being really injured. Maybe I'm afraid of having to get surgery. Maybe I think that if I jut ignore it, it'll eventually heal or go away.
But I can NOT be sedentary. This is the longest I've gone without consistent exercise for the last two years. So I'm heading to the gym today, and hopefully every day this week. I'll report back on the effects of that, which hopefully will not involve reinjury, at the end of the week.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Pity party, table for 1 please!
A couple weekends ago, I sprained my ankle. Doing cartwheels. Yes, cartwheels. And yes, I am 29 years old.
Then last night I reinjured my ankle, running for the bus in the rain.
And this morning, I dropped a computer on my head.
I haven't been running since St. Patrick's Day, and that was after a two or three week hiatus due to a mean ol' cold. This sucks. I hate not exercising. It makes me full of crazy.
Today at lunchbreak I might try to hop on the bike for awhile. This is probably not a smart idea. In my current state of stagnation, I am okay with this.
Also, I had a small epiphany. It's really a repeat epiphany, but I don't like to deal with it's enlightenments so I continue to have it over and over again.
If nothing happens to me, if I do nothing, I will have nothing to write about.
Something has got to give.
Then last night I reinjured my ankle, running for the bus in the rain.
And this morning, I dropped a computer on my head.
I haven't been running since St. Patrick's Day, and that was after a two or three week hiatus due to a mean ol' cold. This sucks. I hate not exercising. It makes me full of crazy.
Today at lunchbreak I might try to hop on the bike for awhile. This is probably not a smart idea. In my current state of stagnation, I am okay with this.
Also, I had a small epiphany. It's really a repeat epiphany, but I don't like to deal with it's enlightenments so I continue to have it over and over again.
If nothing happens to me, if I do nothing, I will have nothing to write about.
Something has got to give.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Chicks dig not being the only chick in the weight room
After I get out of my ballet class, I hang my coat in a dented locker and make my way back to the "light" weight room. It's been too long - five days, to be exact - since I've hoisted some heavy things. I'm on to stage 2 of NROLFW and can't wait to start off with some front squat/push presses. There's a piece of posterboard with the markered words "WOMEN ONLY FROM 4:30 to 9:30". Normally when I use this gym, a city-sponsored club two blocks from my apartment that costs $70 a year, this room is empty. But tonight, it's hard for me to make my way to the old-fashioned squat rack to grab the bar. This pleases me, for some reason.
This is no Sports Club LA. The Nautilus equipment is newish, but everything else is dusty and there is only one clamp for the barbell, making squats and bench presses even more sweat-inducing than usual. I fear gaining strength, because the dumbbells only go up to 20lbs, and to use any heavier ones, I'd have to go to the "heavy" weight room. We can hear the meathead grunts from the other side of the gym.
The best thing about tonight is the variety of women lifting, pressing, pulling, and laughing. I see several pairs of women guiding each other through a series of moves written out on pads of yellow legal paper. Two older Hispanic women in second-hand track suits take turns doing cable machine pulldowns, one doing her set while the other one dances to the radio, laughing with a toothless cackle.
I hear "excuse me" and "may I work in?" and girls walk considerately around me as I do step-ups onto a bench.
When I jog home in the cold to make sure to be on the couch for the LOST premiere, I feel invigorated and happy, so far from the mess of nerves and blue I was while I was in Florida (yeah, Florida. I'm that ungrateful.)
I need to remember that I need this. I NEED THIS. If I don't move, I will stop.
It's that simple.
This is no Sports Club LA. The Nautilus equipment is newish, but everything else is dusty and there is only one clamp for the barbell, making squats and bench presses even more sweat-inducing than usual. I fear gaining strength, because the dumbbells only go up to 20lbs, and to use any heavier ones, I'd have to go to the "heavy" weight room. We can hear the meathead grunts from the other side of the gym.
The best thing about tonight is the variety of women lifting, pressing, pulling, and laughing. I see several pairs of women guiding each other through a series of moves written out on pads of yellow legal paper. Two older Hispanic women in second-hand track suits take turns doing cable machine pulldowns, one doing her set while the other one dances to the radio, laughing with a toothless cackle.
I hear "excuse me" and "may I work in?" and girls walk considerately around me as I do step-ups onto a bench.
When I jog home in the cold to make sure to be on the couch for the LOST premiere, I feel invigorated and happy, so far from the mess of nerves and blue I was while I was in Florida (yeah, Florida. I'm that ungrateful.)
I need to remember that I need this. I NEED THIS. If I don't move, I will stop.
It's that simple.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Oh hey internet!
So it's been awhile, eh? I bet y'all thought I'd quit, a'cause of the title of this blog and stuff. Faked you out pretty good, didn't I?
Okay, I jest. I was having a conversation with a friend the other night and we were talking about blogging and I said "Yeah, I used to have a blog about how I quit everything and then I quit writing in it".
Once those words came out of my mouth (and everyone laughed at them because hey, they're funny) I realized how silly that was and so here I am!
I've also been terrible about reading your blogs, but I'll try to be better about that as well. For awhile, I was really trying to avoid internetting at work but it hasn't seemed to up my productivity much, so I'm onto other avenues.
I will be honest, I did kind of quit running for a bit after Falmouth. It's dang cold here in Boston, and I am an unrepentant klutz and fall down enough just walking on ice. So I switched to primarily weightlifting, and I feel pretty darn good about it. In six weeks, I've increased my squat from 50 to 85 pounds and my deadlift from 75 to 115. I feel energized and my clothes fit better and my posture is awesome. I've been following the program from this book, and I love it. The nutrition advice, not so much, but it's really hard to eat that much and get all that protein!
However, I have been itching for another challenge, and courtesy of my friend M, I think I've found it - a wacky 12-person relay race. Timewise, it fits really well with the training plan for the Run to Remember half-marathon, which my friends J & A are planning on running. I ran it last year, and made a pretty poor showing due to major ITB, and that's not going to happen again this year.
Despite how dejected I get at my unshakable slowness, I kind of like collecting those race numbers and sticking them on my wall, dangit.
In addition to all that, I'm taking a ballet class at the L Street Gym on Tuesdays. It's been a long time since I danced, and let me tell you, you think you're in shape from doing one thing and then three minutes of tondues and bourres kick your butt. I did get upgraded from the Beginner class to the Intermediate class after my first Beginner session, but we'll see how that goes. I took ballet for over 8 years and could never figure out what to do with my arms.
My non-fitness related pursuits include banditing grad school for one more semester (11 memoirs in 12 weeks, 11 3-page papers, 1 45-minute presentation, 1 20 page research paper, 1 big "what have I gotten myself into?"), my recent guitar purchase (I used to play and then, big surprise, quit) and mandolin aquisition (it came free with the guitar), and decision to Julie & Julia my way through this cookbook.
Hope you'll join me in my quest to not quit any of these things in the coming year, or quit this blog.
Okay, I jest. I was having a conversation with a friend the other night and we were talking about blogging and I said "Yeah, I used to have a blog about how I quit everything and then I quit writing in it".
Once those words came out of my mouth (and everyone laughed at them because hey, they're funny) I realized how silly that was and so here I am!
I've also been terrible about reading your blogs, but I'll try to be better about that as well. For awhile, I was really trying to avoid internetting at work but it hasn't seemed to up my productivity much, so I'm onto other avenues.
I will be honest, I did kind of quit running for a bit after Falmouth. It's dang cold here in Boston, and I am an unrepentant klutz and fall down enough just walking on ice. So I switched to primarily weightlifting, and I feel pretty darn good about it. In six weeks, I've increased my squat from 50 to 85 pounds and my deadlift from 75 to 115. I feel energized and my clothes fit better and my posture is awesome. I've been following the program from this book, and I love it. The nutrition advice, not so much, but it's really hard to eat that much and get all that protein!
However, I have been itching for another challenge, and courtesy of my friend M, I think I've found it - a wacky 12-person relay race. Timewise, it fits really well with the training plan for the Run to Remember half-marathon, which my friends J & A are planning on running. I ran it last year, and made a pretty poor showing due to major ITB, and that's not going to happen again this year.
Despite how dejected I get at my unshakable slowness, I kind of like collecting those race numbers and sticking them on my wall, dangit.
In addition to all that, I'm taking a ballet class at the L Street Gym on Tuesdays. It's been a long time since I danced, and let me tell you, you think you're in shape from doing one thing and then three minutes of tondues and bourres kick your butt. I did get upgraded from the Beginner class to the Intermediate class after my first Beginner session, but we'll see how that goes. I took ballet for over 8 years and could never figure out what to do with my arms.
My non-fitness related pursuits include banditing grad school for one more semester (11 memoirs in 12 weeks, 11 3-page papers, 1 45-minute presentation, 1 20 page research paper, 1 big "what have I gotten myself into?"), my recent guitar purchase (I used to play and then, big surprise, quit) and mandolin aquisition (it came free with the guitar), and decision to Julie & Julia my way through this cookbook.
Hope you'll join me in my quest to not quit any of these things in the coming year, or quit this blog.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Heart grow fonder
I've decided that running, like most of my relationships, is best when we don't see each other that often.
After a 3-week hiatus, and deciding I was in winter running retirement (and I mean "retirement" in the Brett Favre sense) I was overcome with the urge to take a quick jog on Saturday. A quick jog turned into a six mile run, at sunset, along the coast. This time, I was rewarded with the sight of a massive cruise ship leaving port and slowly slicing through the water, lit up against the greyblue sky, as I rounded the back of Castle Island. Despite my burning lungs and snot-covered jacket sleeve, I stopped in my tracks and let out an instinctive laugh of pure joy. It's a weird reaction I've realized I have, but it's certainly not bad. During a good, solid, "fast" run, especially around sunset, I often find myself stopping, staring, and laughing. Ahhh, endorphins.
Interestingly enough, after three weeks of not running, I ran a faster 6-miler than I think I have run all summer. Despite a hard wind in my face, despite my face insisting on producing snot rockets even though I have a strict no-snot-rockets policy. I've realized this past year that the less I run, the better I am at it. The bike intervals are really helping my endurance and leg turnover, and the kettlebelling is really helping my leg strength. My calves are killing me, though.
If only I could find a way to stop my nose from running so much, I think I'd run through the winter.
Instead, I'm going to get back to weightlifting. If I can find a time when my little gym isn't so crowded, I'm going to start off with a 2x/week barbell program with squat, bench, deadlift, and overhead press. I'll do the 30/60/90* intervals on the bike twice a week, and possibly throw in at least one kettlebell session. After six weeks of that I'll reassess and come up with a new plan!
*30/60/90 is my new favorite cardio workout. I picked it up, of all places, in Glamour magazine and it's loosely based on some popular class at Equinox. The basic idea is that for the first ten minutes you do 30 seconds hard, 1 minute easy; the second 10 minutes you do 1 minute hard 1 minute easy; third ten minutes you do 90 seconds hard 1 minute easy. It's challenging, fun, and makes time fly by. It even makes the elliptical difficult. I love it, and every week I crank up the resistance just a little. It's fun to see how many more miles I put in for the same 40 minutes.
After a 3-week hiatus, and deciding I was in winter running retirement (and I mean "retirement" in the Brett Favre sense) I was overcome with the urge to take a quick jog on Saturday. A quick jog turned into a six mile run, at sunset, along the coast. This time, I was rewarded with the sight of a massive cruise ship leaving port and slowly slicing through the water, lit up against the greyblue sky, as I rounded the back of Castle Island. Despite my burning lungs and snot-covered jacket sleeve, I stopped in my tracks and let out an instinctive laugh of pure joy. It's a weird reaction I've realized I have, but it's certainly not bad. During a good, solid, "fast" run, especially around sunset, I often find myself stopping, staring, and laughing. Ahhh, endorphins.
Interestingly enough, after three weeks of not running, I ran a faster 6-miler than I think I have run all summer. Despite a hard wind in my face, despite my face insisting on producing snot rockets even though I have a strict no-snot-rockets policy. I've realized this past year that the less I run, the better I am at it. The bike intervals are really helping my endurance and leg turnover, and the kettlebelling is really helping my leg strength. My calves are killing me, though.
If only I could find a way to stop my nose from running so much, I think I'd run through the winter.
Instead, I'm going to get back to weightlifting. If I can find a time when my little gym isn't so crowded, I'm going to start off with a 2x/week barbell program with squat, bench, deadlift, and overhead press. I'll do the 30/60/90* intervals on the bike twice a week, and possibly throw in at least one kettlebell session. After six weeks of that I'll reassess and come up with a new plan!
*30/60/90 is my new favorite cardio workout. I picked it up, of all places, in Glamour magazine and it's loosely based on some popular class at Equinox. The basic idea is that for the first ten minutes you do 30 seconds hard, 1 minute easy; the second 10 minutes you do 1 minute hard 1 minute easy; third ten minutes you do 90 seconds hard 1 minute easy. It's challenging, fun, and makes time fly by. It even makes the elliptical difficult. I love it, and every week I crank up the resistance just a little. It's fun to see how many more miles I put in for the same 40 minutes.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Has anyone seen my 10-miler?
Missed it, again. But, I did have a great time tailgating at Foxboro/Gillette and watching a rainy Patriots win.
I am a bit worried about continually missing these long runs. I tell myself it's okay, since I rarely ever run less than 6 miles, and exercise at least 4-5 days a week. I also tell myself it's best to err on the side of caution, since my leg has been hurting after all my runs and I still worry it might be a pre-stress fracture. But it's still not a good way to train, especially if I want to actually finish this one without walking.
I am a bit worried about continually missing these long runs. I tell myself it's okay, since I rarely ever run less than 6 miles, and exercise at least 4-5 days a week. I also tell myself it's best to err on the side of caution, since my leg has been hurting after all my runs and I still worry it might be a pre-stress fracture. But it's still not a good way to train, especially if I want to actually finish this one without walking.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Captain Speedypants I am not
But still, I've been having some fantastic runs lately.
Ah, fall. Perfect running weather, but so tragically shortlived. I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness as I run across the causeway, and see the perfectly glass-like surface of Pleasure Bay. This too, shall pass.
Last week, after my miserable 800s fail, I took some time off from running for the rest of the week. Did I feel a little guilty about missing my scheduled tempo run AND 10-miler? Yes. Yes I did. Especially because it had only 70% to do with "I'm tired" and 20% to do with beer. Or maybe the reverse.
Anyhoo, I've sworn off the track. With my relatively well-calibrated Nike+ system, I can do intervals on the road, which I much prefer to the monotony and wind-in-my-facedness of the Dot track.
Monday night I did an amazing 6-miler, most of which was a tempo run. I'd planned on doing 4 miles at tempo, but was already warmed up from a long walk home, so I set off at a jog and them kicked it up to a 9:45 or so pace for the remainder. When I realized I was about to close in on under an hour, I kicked it up and sprinted up 1st Street towards M Street field to make 6.01 miles at 59:52. When I got to the end, gasping for air and laughing, I was so glad I'd decided to run instead of study (though that decision had me falling asleep in bed reading Montaigne the next night, but I digress).
Last night I did 800s/half mile repeats along the same route, sometimes with a pace under 8:30. And managed to do all 4 of them, each faster than the first. Ending, again, at M Street field. Again, out of breath and laughing, limping up the stairs, and doing some stretches in the grass while the neighborhood men's beer league had their softball championships.
I'm definitely set in my running route ways by now. I love this route so much I can't see changing it, but I know I need to. I have a terrifying 8 mile tempo run on my schedule (UGH) and that is just not going to fit in with my carefully planned out down-the-coast-around-an-island-and-ending-at-a-ballpark perfect running route.
Saturday I'm going to get that 10-miler in.
Ah, fall. Perfect running weather, but so tragically shortlived. I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness as I run across the causeway, and see the perfectly glass-like surface of Pleasure Bay. This too, shall pass.
Last week, after my miserable 800s fail, I took some time off from running for the rest of the week. Did I feel a little guilty about missing my scheduled tempo run AND 10-miler? Yes. Yes I did. Especially because it had only 70% to do with "I'm tired" and 20% to do with beer. Or maybe the reverse.
Anyhoo, I've sworn off the track. With my relatively well-calibrated Nike+ system, I can do intervals on the road, which I much prefer to the monotony and wind-in-my-facedness of the Dot track.
Monday night I did an amazing 6-miler, most of which was a tempo run. I'd planned on doing 4 miles at tempo, but was already warmed up from a long walk home, so I set off at a jog and them kicked it up to a 9:45 or so pace for the remainder. When I realized I was about to close in on under an hour, I kicked it up and sprinted up 1st Street towards M Street field to make 6.01 miles at 59:52. When I got to the end, gasping for air and laughing, I was so glad I'd decided to run instead of study (though that decision had me falling asleep in bed reading Montaigne the next night, but I digress).
Last night I did 800s/half mile repeats along the same route, sometimes with a pace under 8:30. And managed to do all 4 of them, each faster than the first. Ending, again, at M Street field. Again, out of breath and laughing, limping up the stairs, and doing some stretches in the grass while the neighborhood men's beer league had their softball championships.
I'm definitely set in my running route ways by now. I love this route so much I can't see changing it, but I know I need to. I have a terrifying 8 mile tempo run on my schedule (UGH) and that is just not going to fit in with my carefully planned out down-the-coast-around-an-island-and-ending-at-a-ballpark perfect running route.
Saturday I'm going to get that 10-miler in.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
When life gives you FAIL...
Last night, after an soul-suckingly unproductive day at work, I went to the track to do my first 800s workout. 4x800. I admit, I was nervous, but kind of excited to sprint out the frustrations of the day.
Fail fail fail.
My target pace was 4:22/800, which is about an 8:45 pace or so. I couldn't even manage that. I got 4:33 for the first one and 4:32 for the second. And then I was done. I just couldn't do any more. 2x800 crap.
It's either my body or my mind that betrays me. I'm not even sure which. But as I was jogging slowly to the start of the lane, giving myself a pep talk that if I could "just do one more, just one, then you can stop" I found myself just walking away. Through the gates, towards the road. And jogging off into, quite literally, the sunset. It's like my mind, through the pep talk, always just makes my body do what it wants.
It took awhile to get my breath back. I walked for a bit. Cursed myself. Wondered if I should just give up on running. If after a year of regular running and exercise, a 9 minute mile still feels like a dead sprint to me, it might just be time to find a new hobby. I'm not exaggerating - a 9-minute mile feels like a DEAD. SPRINT. I'm beginning to wonder if the only reason I did so well in my last 5k is because the course was incorrectly measured.
Anyhoo, I'm walking home all Debbie Downer and blowing my nose on my Ronald McDonald House tech shirt, when I decide on a whim to take off my shoes, jump the short sea wall, and do absolute-top-speed beach sprints barefoot. About 25 seconds each, jogging slowly back to the start, I think I did 5 or 6, and the sun was setting and frankly, it was amazing.
Just what I needed.
Fail fail fail.
My target pace was 4:22/800, which is about an 8:45 pace or so. I couldn't even manage that. I got 4:33 for the first one and 4:32 for the second. And then I was done. I just couldn't do any more. 2x800 crap.
It's either my body or my mind that betrays me. I'm not even sure which. But as I was jogging slowly to the start of the lane, giving myself a pep talk that if I could "just do one more, just one, then you can stop" I found myself just walking away. Through the gates, towards the road. And jogging off into, quite literally, the sunset. It's like my mind, through the pep talk, always just makes my body do what it wants.
It took awhile to get my breath back. I walked for a bit. Cursed myself. Wondered if I should just give up on running. If after a year of regular running and exercise, a 9 minute mile still feels like a dead sprint to me, it might just be time to find a new hobby. I'm not exaggerating - a 9-minute mile feels like a DEAD. SPRINT. I'm beginning to wonder if the only reason I did so well in my last 5k is because the course was incorrectly measured.
Anyhoo, I'm walking home all Debbie Downer and blowing my nose on my Ronald McDonald House tech shirt, when I decide on a whim to take off my shoes, jump the short sea wall, and do absolute-top-speed beach sprints barefoot. About 25 seconds each, jogging slowly back to the start, I think I did 5 or 6, and the sun was setting and frankly, it was amazing.
Just what I needed.
Friday, September 4, 2009
I am not going back to school
Back in possibly December, I mentioned that I was applying to a graduate program at the college where I work. One of the major major perks of working at a college is, of course, free tuition! I'm pretty smart (i.e. I know some big words and don't cross the street into traffic) but I've never been much of a school person. However, I'm much older than I was during undergrad, and felt this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
During my first year of work, I'd been deliberating over which program I wanted to pursue, and ultimately decided to go for my first choice, Publishing & Writing. This was risky on a couple levels. First off, this program is the most selective in the whole college. Of the 200+ applications they get every year, only 50 or so are admitted each year. Staff doesn't get any preferential treatment in the application process either - we are treated just like any other applicant and have to go through the same process, including recommendation letter, GRE, deposit, etc. I hit several snags in the process, including taking the GRE in a massive snowstorm, not thinking I was going to be able to get recommendation letters in on time, massive writer's block while writing my essay, and realizing via my transcripts that I failed Community Chorus sophomore year of college. Yep. I'd thought that was just some sort of bad recurring dream that I stopped going to a class and forgot to drop it. Not so much. Totally real.
Despite all of that, I managed to make it onto the waitlist in May. However, this past Tuesday I got the little ol' rejection letter. Wah wahhhhh.
I don't feel so bad about it, really. I tried, and I tried HARD. And I'll try again, I think. I can only take three graduate classes before I have to "matriculate or go home", and I've only taken one, so I've got the next year to dig in, get some As, and BFF it up with some of the professors in the department. So that's that.
I'm half going back to school, so I'm half running a marathon.
Yesterday did 4x400 @ 8:20/mile on the treadmill, then out to my friends' new house in the 'burbs to knock down some sheetrock. Which was AWESOME. Who knew I was so great at demolition?
This is why I work out/train/exercise, whatever you want to call it. So I'm the first person my friends think of when they need to knock down a wall. So that my hands are calloused enough from kettlebell swings that I can hold onto a crowbar without wincing and putting on gloves. So that I can knock down an entire wall in the time it takes both my friends to knock down half the same size wall. And so that afterwards, I can confidently walk into the Chinese restaurant down the street wearing jorts and a Doug Mirabelli t-shirt and order two scorpion bowls and still make it to work at 8am.
During my first year of work, I'd been deliberating over which program I wanted to pursue, and ultimately decided to go for my first choice, Publishing & Writing. This was risky on a couple levels. First off, this program is the most selective in the whole college. Of the 200+ applications they get every year, only 50 or so are admitted each year. Staff doesn't get any preferential treatment in the application process either - we are treated just like any other applicant and have to go through the same process, including recommendation letter, GRE, deposit, etc. I hit several snags in the process, including taking the GRE in a massive snowstorm, not thinking I was going to be able to get recommendation letters in on time, massive writer's block while writing my essay, and realizing via my transcripts that I failed Community Chorus sophomore year of college. Yep. I'd thought that was just some sort of bad recurring dream that I stopped going to a class and forgot to drop it. Not so much. Totally real.
Despite all of that, I managed to make it onto the waitlist in May. However, this past Tuesday I got the little ol' rejection letter. Wah wahhhhh.
I don't feel so bad about it, really. I tried, and I tried HARD. And I'll try again, I think. I can only take three graduate classes before I have to "matriculate or go home", and I've only taken one, so I've got the next year to dig in, get some As, and BFF it up with some of the professors in the department. So that's that.
I'm half going back to school, so I'm half running a marathon.
Yesterday did 4x400 @ 8:20/mile on the treadmill, then out to my friends' new house in the 'burbs to knock down some sheetrock. Which was AWESOME. Who knew I was so great at demolition?
This is why I work out/train/exercise, whatever you want to call it. So I'm the first person my friends think of when they need to knock down a wall. So that my hands are calloused enough from kettlebell swings that I can hold onto a crowbar without wincing and putting on gloves. So that I can knock down an entire wall in the time it takes both my friends to knock down half the same size wall. And so that afterwards, I can confidently walk into the Chinese restaurant down the street wearing jorts and a Doug Mirabelli t-shirt and order two scorpion bowls and still make it to work at 8am.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
This is kind of what I was afraid of...
Since Birthday Week, I haven't been quite able to get back the regularity and intensity with which I'd been exercising previously. This is a problem. I'm jittery, and I feel I've started to lose my strength. I haven't gained back all the weight I lost, but I can still feel myself getting flabby and sluggish and weak, and I don't like it.
So, I declare today, and all Mondays to come, Motivation Monday.
This article has been lambasted all over the internet, or at least maybe I just read blogs and sites that would typically lambaste it. They're better at the lambasting, and focus on the general concept and misinformation in the article, but it serves to remind me of why I started exercising regularly and how I now keep it up.
It was hard for me to get motivated to exercise at first because the general motivation for people, especially women, to workout is to lose weight, or because they don't like their bodies. I've never felt that way, so the regularly prescribed elliptical or treadmill boringness just never seemed worth it. When I really started running, it started as a very basic challenge, then eventually grew into a lifestyle. Simultaneously, I was going through a very stressful and difficult time, and realized that running really helped and refreshed me mentally and emotionally. Then, once I gained the confidence to realize I could do things I'd never thought possible (5 miles? seriously?) I branched out to find different forms of exercise that I really enjoyed and that made me feel like a total badass. Now, if I don't exercise, I feel jittery and dull and scattered and generally unpleasant.
On that note, I'm going to the gym to get in a solid kettlebell session for the first time in three weeks. You're welcome, quads.
Happy Motivation Monday! What gets you motivated?
So, I declare today, and all Mondays to come, Motivation Monday.
This article has been lambasted all over the internet, or at least maybe I just read blogs and sites that would typically lambaste it. They're better at the lambasting, and focus on the general concept and misinformation in the article, but it serves to remind me of why I started exercising regularly and how I now keep it up.
It was hard for me to get motivated to exercise at first because the general motivation for people, especially women, to workout is to lose weight, or because they don't like their bodies. I've never felt that way, so the regularly prescribed elliptical or treadmill boringness just never seemed worth it. When I really started running, it started as a very basic challenge, then eventually grew into a lifestyle. Simultaneously, I was going through a very stressful and difficult time, and realized that running really helped and refreshed me mentally and emotionally. Then, once I gained the confidence to realize I could do things I'd never thought possible (5 miles? seriously?) I branched out to find different forms of exercise that I really enjoyed and that made me feel like a total badass. Now, if I don't exercise, I feel jittery and dull and scattered and generally unpleasant.
On that note, I'm going to the gym to get in a solid kettlebell session for the first time in three weeks. You're welcome, quads.
Happy Motivation Monday! What gets you motivated?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Race report : Falmouth Road Race '09
Picture this.
It's 6 in the morning on Sunday. Meg and I are waiting for my brother PJ to come pick us up to drive to Falmouth. I've been dressed and ready since 5:15. I'm nervous - but not entirely surprised - that PJ is late and incommmunicado. I love my brother more than anything, but he can be unbelievably irresponsible, and is not a morning person. I'm cursing my good name for not somehow making the impossible possible, and finding an overnight parking spot in Southie so the driving impetus would be on me. I've called him twice. He never picks up though, nobody in my family does. We distrust cellphones and always keep the ringers off.
Finally, he calls. He's frantic, his alarm "didn't go off". He's on the road and says he'll be here in 20. We're already late. Way late. I bite my tongue, remain calm, tell him it's fine. At least he's on the road. I run down the street to the neighborhood bakery and grab coffees and breakfast sandwiches and bottles of water. When I get back, Meg mumbles from her position under the covers that the phone's ringing. It's PJ again. Now he's completely freaking out - "I've just been pulled over, this guy is threatening to put me away. He says I was speeding and I smell like beer."
Again, I bite my tongue and remind PJ that while I understand the logic of not changing one's clothes or showering before running a sunny 7-miler, that if one was out at a party the previous night and spilled beer on one's outfit, one should probably have considered changing before getting into one’s mother’s borrowed car and speeding on the Mass Pike.
I tell him to keep me posted, and hang up so I don't run to the taxi stand and make a cab take me to the general area of exit 22 so I can wring my brother's neck. My nails have left giant red marks in my palms. I go to tell Meg what's going on, but she's in the bathroom throwing up. "Come look!" she shouts "There are bugs in my vomit!"
"Why are you looking at your puke? Stop right now. Flush it."
"It's cool though! Come look!"
"Absolutely not"
PJ calls again. I pick up. He says he can't find the car's registration, and he also might have misplaced his wallet last night so he doesn't have his driver's license. He gave the overly aggressive cop his passport and is now just sitting in the car waiting, in his own mind, to be handcuffed and thrown in the slammer.
At my repeated insistence, Meg finally stops inspecting her own throw-up and flushes the toilet.
I take a deep breath.
I feel like Michael Bluth.
By some bizarre miracle, the cop lets PJ off with just a ticket, which PJ refuses to look at. He arrives to pick us up, and I notice he's wearing the race shirt from the last 5K we did. It's electric lime with the words "Will Run for BEER" printed on the front in purple comic sans. He's also wearing the Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts, which he wore the last two times he lost his wallet and also the time he ran them through the wash with his passport still in the pocket. When I mention this might have something to do with the police officer's attitude, he replies with a string of profanities.
"These shorts need to go. They have to be BURNED."
I suggest a Viking Funeral.
About halfway there, he's certain he's forgotten to bring his bag with his running clothes and shoes. By the time we get to the Bourne Bridge, he's made up his mind to run the entire 7.2 mile course barefoot, in the aforementioned "Will Run for BEER" shirt and Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts. "I have to." he says "It's for the KIDS."
We finally make it, over an hour too late. Of course, we get caught in an absolutely epic cluster-f of traffic, and opt to peel off into a parking lot and run to the meeting place. PJ checks the trunk and realizes he did in fact bring his sneakers. So that's good. Though I think it would have taught him a nice lesson to have to run barefoot. We jog to the house that was designated as a meeting spot for the Ronald McDonald House runners. One of the House volunteers drives us to the buses that drive runners to the start. We run to that too. It's the absolute last bus. The roads are closed and they let us off about a mile from the course start.
We run there too.
After all that, we make it into our starting corrals with the approximately 10,000 other runners, about 5 minutes before the starting gun sounds.
Just because this is all amazingly clutch does not make it okay.
Nor does it make it any less hilarious.
Meg hasn't been training much and has never run more than 3 or 4 miles, but insists she'll finish if she can just stay with me. I'm not sure I can handle the responsibility of being a pacer. She stops to walk at about half a mile, and I tell her she can do it, keep it up, and she starts to jog again. This trend repeats several times over the first mile until she just gives up and I lose her in the thick crowd. I stop and wait for her after mile 2, but she never shows. I get back into the crowd and hope she makes it to the end.
My race was uneventful. After the slow start, and waiting for Meg, and having to walk for a bit due to an excruciating side stitch, I lost my hope for a good time. But, I don't really care. I'm just glad we made it here. I brought my camera and just enjoy the course and the crowds and the frequent water stops and the kazoo & banjo band at mile 6 and the stunning view of the ocean. Before I know it, it's over. This year, I'm smiling instead of crying as I see the American flag fluttering from the crane over the finish line.
PJ made a great time of 1:04. Meg finished before the course closed. And together, with fewer runners than last year's 40, the Ronald McDonald House team raised over $70,000 for the Boston Ronald McDonald House, with more still coming in. This amount helps defray about 1/8 of the House's operating costs for a given year.
Sometimes, in so many ways, making it to the starting line is the greatest challenge of all.
It's 6 in the morning on Sunday. Meg and I are waiting for my brother PJ to come pick us up to drive to Falmouth. I've been dressed and ready since 5:15. I'm nervous - but not entirely surprised - that PJ is late and incommmunicado. I love my brother more than anything, but he can be unbelievably irresponsible, and is not a morning person. I'm cursing my good name for not somehow making the impossible possible, and finding an overnight parking spot in Southie so the driving impetus would be on me. I've called him twice. He never picks up though, nobody in my family does. We distrust cellphones and always keep the ringers off.
Finally, he calls. He's frantic, his alarm "didn't go off". He's on the road and says he'll be here in 20. We're already late. Way late. I bite my tongue, remain calm, tell him it's fine. At least he's on the road. I run down the street to the neighborhood bakery and grab coffees and breakfast sandwiches and bottles of water. When I get back, Meg mumbles from her position under the covers that the phone's ringing. It's PJ again. Now he's completely freaking out - "I've just been pulled over, this guy is threatening to put me away. He says I was speeding and I smell like beer."
Again, I bite my tongue and remind PJ that while I understand the logic of not changing one's clothes or showering before running a sunny 7-miler, that if one was out at a party the previous night and spilled beer on one's outfit, one should probably have considered changing before getting into one’s mother’s borrowed car and speeding on the Mass Pike.
I tell him to keep me posted, and hang up so I don't run to the taxi stand and make a cab take me to the general area of exit 22 so I can wring my brother's neck. My nails have left giant red marks in my palms. I go to tell Meg what's going on, but she's in the bathroom throwing up. "Come look!" she shouts "There are bugs in my vomit!"
"Why are you looking at your puke? Stop right now. Flush it."
"It's cool though! Come look!"
"Absolutely not"
PJ calls again. I pick up. He says he can't find the car's registration, and he also might have misplaced his wallet last night so he doesn't have his driver's license. He gave the overly aggressive cop his passport and is now just sitting in the car waiting, in his own mind, to be handcuffed and thrown in the slammer.
At my repeated insistence, Meg finally stops inspecting her own throw-up and flushes the toilet.
I take a deep breath.
I feel like Michael Bluth.
By some bizarre miracle, the cop lets PJ off with just a ticket, which PJ refuses to look at. He arrives to pick us up, and I notice he's wearing the race shirt from the last 5K we did. It's electric lime with the words "Will Run for BEER" printed on the front in purple comic sans. He's also wearing the Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts, which he wore the last two times he lost his wallet and also the time he ran them through the wash with his passport still in the pocket. When I mention this might have something to do with the police officer's attitude, he replies with a string of profanities.
"These shorts need to go. They have to be BURNED."
I suggest a Viking Funeral.
About halfway there, he's certain he's forgotten to bring his bag with his running clothes and shoes. By the time we get to the Bourne Bridge, he's made up his mind to run the entire 7.2 mile course barefoot, in the aforementioned "Will Run for BEER" shirt and Cursed Cargo Camo Shorts. "I have to." he says "It's for the KIDS."
We finally make it, over an hour too late. Of course, we get caught in an absolutely epic cluster-f of traffic, and opt to peel off into a parking lot and run to the meeting place. PJ checks the trunk and realizes he did in fact bring his sneakers. So that's good. Though I think it would have taught him a nice lesson to have to run barefoot. We jog to the house that was designated as a meeting spot for the Ronald McDonald House runners. One of the House volunteers drives us to the buses that drive runners to the start. We run to that too. It's the absolute last bus. The roads are closed and they let us off about a mile from the course start.
We run there too.
After all that, we make it into our starting corrals with the approximately 10,000 other runners, about 5 minutes before the starting gun sounds.
Just because this is all amazingly clutch does not make it okay.
Nor does it make it any less hilarious.
Meg hasn't been training much and has never run more than 3 or 4 miles, but insists she'll finish if she can just stay with me. I'm not sure I can handle the responsibility of being a pacer. She stops to walk at about half a mile, and I tell her she can do it, keep it up, and she starts to jog again. This trend repeats several times over the first mile until she just gives up and I lose her in the thick crowd. I stop and wait for her after mile 2, but she never shows. I get back into the crowd and hope she makes it to the end.
My race was uneventful. After the slow start, and waiting for Meg, and having to walk for a bit due to an excruciating side stitch, I lost my hope for a good time. But, I don't really care. I'm just glad we made it here. I brought my camera and just enjoy the course and the crowds and the frequent water stops and the kazoo & banjo band at mile 6 and the stunning view of the ocean. Before I know it, it's over. This year, I'm smiling instead of crying as I see the American flag fluttering from the crane over the finish line.
PJ made a great time of 1:04. Meg finished before the course closed. And together, with fewer runners than last year's 40, the Ronald McDonald House team raised over $70,000 for the Boston Ronald McDonald House, with more still coming in. This amount helps defray about 1/8 of the House's operating costs for a given year.
Sometimes, in so many ways, making it to the starting line is the greatest challenge of all.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Tentative half-marathon plans are off - Amy has a wedding to go to that weekend. We're discussing other possibilities, but the truth is, I'm toying with the marathon idea again. I figure, why not? I keep saying I'm going to do it. My original promise was to run a marathon if I didn't get into school, and that's looking sadly likely right now. So, I've start talking myself into catching the marathon bug.
I keep doing this every time I -
a) Haven't run consistently for a couple weeks and conveniently forget how much it really sucks sometimes
b) Realize I don't have anything in particular to challenge me right now and
c) Feel somewhat adrift
Now, in all honesty, is 12 weeks enough time to train for a marathon?
I keep doing this every time I -
a) Haven't run consistently for a couple weeks and conveniently forget how much it really sucks sometimes
b) Realize I don't have anything in particular to challenge me right now and
c) Feel somewhat adrift
Now, in all honesty, is 12 weeks enough time to train for a marathon?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
all in good time
I have again been very remiss in blog posting, and blog reading! Thank you for the comments on my last post - they meant a lot. I've really been wanting to catch up with your blogs, but I have not had internet at home for a couple weeks and I've been trying not to blogread at work (despite the fact that it is 10am and I am most definitely blogwriting at work).
Let's keep it short & sweet & bulletpointed.
-I may be the only woman in America who loses eight pounds because the gym is closed for a week. I had to go to the doctor for something, and they put me on the scale as usual, and did not seem nearly as concerned as I was about this rapid weight drop. The assistant who weighed me, in fact, said "That's good, isn't it?" and if I hadn't been so exhausted and depressed from the previous two weeks and hearing the door open and close at 6am as my roommate D left forever, I would have given her a choice piece of my mind. It's attitudes like this that make me want to kick society in the butt really hard with pointy shoes.
-To add injury to insult, I fell down pretty hard on the sidewalk last Friday, which left me with a painful and kinda gross hand injury that pretty much prevents me from lifting weights (hence the weight loss, I'm assuming). I miss the iron. Wah. I was getting really good too - right before this happened, I was regularly lifting 60lbs over my head. Now I'm going to have to go back down to 40. This is going to be a slow healer.
-My slackage on running makes me worry if I'm going to be able to finish Falmouth this weekend. Luckily, my friend Megan is joining me and she hasn't run more that 3 miles, so I can run with her and pretend I'm being nice.
-My friend Amy has just about convinced me to run another half marathon. In 9 weeks. It might not be the best idea ever, but I may just be crazy enough to do it.
Non-fitness bulletpoints
-A long friendship ended last week, the same day my roommate left. I know it's over because I'm not necessarily as angry as I could be - just done. In a way, I'm almost glad it's over - kind of like the situation with my roommate. The relationship just wasn't healthy for me anymore. It's been sad, and a lot to deal with, but a week later and a nice 5-mile tempo last night and I'm calm as the nighttime ocean again.
-I finally got my act together and wrote an e-mail to the program director of the program I applied for last winter and was waitlisted for. No reply yet, but at least I did it. Better late than never.
-When one door closes, another completely unrelated door opens. My cousin and her awesome boyfriend just got engaged. And a close friend of mine is pregnant. Excitement and newness all around.
Let's keep it short & sweet & bulletpointed.
-I may be the only woman in America who loses eight pounds because the gym is closed for a week. I had to go to the doctor for something, and they put me on the scale as usual, and did not seem nearly as concerned as I was about this rapid weight drop. The assistant who weighed me, in fact, said "That's good, isn't it?" and if I hadn't been so exhausted and depressed from the previous two weeks and hearing the door open and close at 6am as my roommate D left forever, I would have given her a choice piece of my mind. It's attitudes like this that make me want to kick society in the butt really hard with pointy shoes.
-To add injury to insult, I fell down pretty hard on the sidewalk last Friday, which left me with a painful and kinda gross hand injury that pretty much prevents me from lifting weights (hence the weight loss, I'm assuming). I miss the iron. Wah. I was getting really good too - right before this happened, I was regularly lifting 60lbs over my head. Now I'm going to have to go back down to 40. This is going to be a slow healer.
-My slackage on running makes me worry if I'm going to be able to finish Falmouth this weekend. Luckily, my friend Megan is joining me and she hasn't run more that 3 miles, so I can run with her and pretend I'm being nice.
-My friend Amy has just about convinced me to run another half marathon. In 9 weeks. It might not be the best idea ever, but I may just be crazy enough to do it.
Non-fitness bulletpoints
-A long friendship ended last week, the same day my roommate left. I know it's over because I'm not necessarily as angry as I could be - just done. In a way, I'm almost glad it's over - kind of like the situation with my roommate. The relationship just wasn't healthy for me anymore. It's been sad, and a lot to deal with, but a week later and a nice 5-mile tempo last night and I'm calm as the nighttime ocean again.
-I finally got my act together and wrote an e-mail to the program director of the program I applied for last winter and was waitlisted for. No reply yet, but at least I did it. Better late than never.
-When one door closes, another completely unrelated door opens. My cousin and her awesome boyfriend just got engaged. And a close friend of mine is pregnant. Excitement and newness all around.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
confessional
It's been awhile since I've felt compelled to write here, or maybe moreso known what I wanted to write about. When I started this blog over a year ago, it was out of a desire to keep myself accountable as I began this seemingly impossibly running adventure; an adventure that I'd attempted to begin time and time again with no success. It started as somewhat of a running log for me, but the knowledge that it was public and could be read by anyone somehow kept me on track and accountable. And it really worked. I like to remind myself from time to time that I once struggled to run half a mile and now I feel weird if I run less than five.
I've been online journaling for years now, since before it was cool. I have a Livejournal (yes, a Livejournal) that I've written in for close to TEN YEARS. Back when I started that, it was more acceptable to write in diaryform, to be more confessional and angsty (and at 19, I'm pretty sure we were all confessional and angsty), and today that same Livejournal still serves the same function, with a dash of maturity and wisdom. But just a dash. I enjoy being able to "lock" my entries and know who is going to be able to read what I write. And knowing SOMEONE is going to read it makes me more conscious of the way I write, forcing me to weave a more compelling story with fewer details. I consider myself a private person, yet I throw handfuls of details about my life out into cyberspace for all to see. Maybe it's not so much privacy that compels me, but control - the desire to project a certain image of myself.
There's been a lot of topsy-turvyness in my life lately, most of it not so bad, but I've been leaning mainly on the Livejournal as my outlet, and let this blog slide. Back when I started the LJing, the targeted blog wasn't so popular as it is now. Now, everyone has a "running blog" or a "cooking blog" or a "photography blog", and even the personal blogs are so well-written and controlled and targeted, from what I've seen. And me? I'm all over the place. I say I want to be a writer - and am waitlisted to the best professional writing & publishing graduate program in the country right now - yet I can't seem to force myself to write a coherent and interesting bunch of sentences.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that lately I've been having trouble deciding where I want this blog to go - what do I want it to be? What does IT want to be? What do I want to say, and to whom?
In tandem with that, lately I've been a bit burnt out with the running. I've had what feels like it might be a stress fracture, and it's been bothering me for months. I never seem to get any faster, I keep stopping and walking, I sweat too much, my nose runs, and I KNOW it's not supposed to be easy but keep feeling like some day I'll just tie up my shoes and FLY. So as I dabble in other areas of fitness, I wonder if I'll eventually give up running. If the numbers I've collected on my wall will someday just be enough; if this is just one of my myriad infatuations and that I will just tire of it eventually. And that thought made me sad. It made me profoundly sad. I want this to be part of who I am. And still, like any chronic quitter, there is a part of me that is terrified that one day I will just STOP all of this, and not be able to start up again, because now I know how truly hard it really is.
The gym is closed all week. And it's birthdayweek - I'm 29 years old today - so since last Friday, everyone wants to buy me food and drinkies and cakes and candies. And if I don't exercise, I just don't have the appetite to eat all those things, and it seems like such a waste. Not to mention my mind is all over the place, I'm both jittery and exhausted, and I feel like a slug.
Last night after dinner with a good friend, I took the train home, stuffed full of delicious pumpkin pancake and sangria. I came home to the empty apartment that I share with two boys who were strangers less than a year ago, one of whom is moving across the country in a week and who I am already missing much more than I thought I would. I came home to this home, this lovely home I kind of never want to leave, and I lay down on the floor in the living room and watched the ceiling fan spin, and wanted to do nothing but lay there and stare and let my pumpkin pancake settle.
But somehow, I found myself getting up, tying up my Nikes, and heading out into the dark.
On the eve of my 29th birthday, I flew. I flew along the shore, where the water was flat as glass, the boats barely bobbing, the dark sky collecting up light from the skyscrapers and spreading it out, dimly, between the clouds. I ran by the water, on the most beautiful night this summer has seen, and I didn't stop. I wiped my face on my shirt and blew my nose on my sleeve and I didn't care, and I kept on flying. The night fishermen I passed on the causeway were silent, but they watched me, curious and benign. The city skyline lit up and I turned and breathed it in as I rounded the back of the island. And as I finished those three miles and slowed into a brisk walk, taking off my shoes and jumping the short fence to the sandy beach, I realized : This is really part of me now. This is who I am.
I've been online journaling for years now, since before it was cool. I have a Livejournal (yes, a Livejournal) that I've written in for close to TEN YEARS. Back when I started that, it was more acceptable to write in diaryform, to be more confessional and angsty (and at 19, I'm pretty sure we were all confessional and angsty), and today that same Livejournal still serves the same function, with a dash of maturity and wisdom. But just a dash. I enjoy being able to "lock" my entries and know who is going to be able to read what I write. And knowing SOMEONE is going to read it makes me more conscious of the way I write, forcing me to weave a more compelling story with fewer details. I consider myself a private person, yet I throw handfuls of details about my life out into cyberspace for all to see. Maybe it's not so much privacy that compels me, but control - the desire to project a certain image of myself.
There's been a lot of topsy-turvyness in my life lately, most of it not so bad, but I've been leaning mainly on the Livejournal as my outlet, and let this blog slide. Back when I started the LJing, the targeted blog wasn't so popular as it is now. Now, everyone has a "running blog" or a "cooking blog" or a "photography blog", and even the personal blogs are so well-written and controlled and targeted, from what I've seen. And me? I'm all over the place. I say I want to be a writer - and am waitlisted to the best professional writing & publishing graduate program in the country right now - yet I can't seem to force myself to write a coherent and interesting bunch of sentences.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that lately I've been having trouble deciding where I want this blog to go - what do I want it to be? What does IT want to be? What do I want to say, and to whom?
In tandem with that, lately I've been a bit burnt out with the running. I've had what feels like it might be a stress fracture, and it's been bothering me for months. I never seem to get any faster, I keep stopping and walking, I sweat too much, my nose runs, and I KNOW it's not supposed to be easy but keep feeling like some day I'll just tie up my shoes and FLY. So as I dabble in other areas of fitness, I wonder if I'll eventually give up running. If the numbers I've collected on my wall will someday just be enough; if this is just one of my myriad infatuations and that I will just tire of it eventually. And that thought made me sad. It made me profoundly sad. I want this to be part of who I am. And still, like any chronic quitter, there is a part of me that is terrified that one day I will just STOP all of this, and not be able to start up again, because now I know how truly hard it really is.
The gym is closed all week. And it's birthdayweek - I'm 29 years old today - so since last Friday, everyone wants to buy me food and drinkies and cakes and candies. And if I don't exercise, I just don't have the appetite to eat all those things, and it seems like such a waste. Not to mention my mind is all over the place, I'm both jittery and exhausted, and I feel like a slug.
Last night after dinner with a good friend, I took the train home, stuffed full of delicious pumpkin pancake and sangria. I came home to the empty apartment that I share with two boys who were strangers less than a year ago, one of whom is moving across the country in a week and who I am already missing much more than I thought I would. I came home to this home, this lovely home I kind of never want to leave, and I lay down on the floor in the living room and watched the ceiling fan spin, and wanted to do nothing but lay there and stare and let my pumpkin pancake settle.
But somehow, I found myself getting up, tying up my Nikes, and heading out into the dark.
On the eve of my 29th birthday, I flew. I flew along the shore, where the water was flat as glass, the boats barely bobbing, the dark sky collecting up light from the skyscrapers and spreading it out, dimly, between the clouds. I ran by the water, on the most beautiful night this summer has seen, and I didn't stop. I wiped my face on my shirt and blew my nose on my sleeve and I didn't care, and I kept on flying. The night fishermen I passed on the causeway were silent, but they watched me, curious and benign. The city skyline lit up and I turned and breathed it in as I rounded the back of the island. And as I finished those three miles and slowed into a brisk walk, taking off my shoes and jumping the short fence to the sandy beach, I realized : This is really part of me now. This is who I am.
Friday, June 26, 2009
TIART: If I knew then what I know now
During the toughest middle part of tonight's run, I realized what nobody ever told me about running.
I mean, I know it's hard. Most people say it's hard. And many accurately quote that great line from A League of Their Own - "It's the hard that makes it great. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it."
What I know now, is that it never gets any less hard.
It just gets less impossible.
And hard does not equal impossible. Not at all.
Small blessings this evening, like the sun shining for the first time in so long I think I'd forgotten what it looked like. Six miles around the 'hood and Castle Island as the sun set over the city skyline. Happiness, wheezing, drenched in sweat, and with a raging side stitch.
Ahhhhhhhh.
Life doesn't get much better.
:)
I mean, I know it's hard. Most people say it's hard. And many accurately quote that great line from A League of Their Own - "It's the hard that makes it great. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it."
What I know now, is that it never gets any less hard.
It just gets less impossible.
And hard does not equal impossible. Not at all.
Small blessings this evening, like the sun shining for the first time in so long I think I'd forgotten what it looked like. Six miles around the 'hood and Castle Island as the sun set over the city skyline. Happiness, wheezing, drenched in sweat, and with a raging side stitch.
Ahhhhhhhh.
Life doesn't get much better.
:)
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Just for my record
It will literally not stop raining in Beantown. It's miserable. MISERABLE.
That being said, I went to the track tonight and did 6x400. Same goal of 2:05 per lap.
Here's what happened.
Lap 1 : 2:11
Lap 2 : 2:07
Lap 3 : 2:03 (!)
Lap 4 : 2:06
Lap 5 : 1:56 (!!)
Lap 6 : 1:59 (!!)
Pretty good showing, if I do say so myself.
I was pleased to see other folks at the track. It's tough weather to begin with, but by the shore like we are, the wind comes at you full force on the return straightaway. Brutal. I felt like I was running through water.
That being said, I went to the track tonight and did 6x400. Same goal of 2:05 per lap.
Here's what happened.
Lap 1 : 2:11
Lap 2 : 2:07
Lap 3 : 2:03 (!)
Lap 4 : 2:06
Lap 5 : 1:56 (!!)
Lap 6 : 1:59 (!!)
Pretty good showing, if I do say so myself.
I was pleased to see other folks at the track. It's tough weather to begin with, but by the shore like we are, the wind comes at you full force on the return straightaway. Brutal. I felt like I was running through water.
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