Currently Reading: The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Prisoner's Dilemma by Trenton Lee Stewart
Last Movie Watched: New York, I Love You
Song In My Head: Landed - Ben Folds
It's been five days since my last run and I'm going into withdrawal.
Since Snomageddon hit DC on Friday, there hasn't been much opportunity for running, given the blizzard like conditions followed by nearly three feet of snow (not followed by extensive plowing). And now, there's a call for more snow tomorrow. Doesn't nature know that I have a marathon in 82 days (oh sweet Jesus, that's less than three months)?
At this point I'm ~17 miles behind my training schedule, if I don't count the 2.2 mile round-trip walk we took to Giant yesterday (I mean, that's sort of like the Easy 2-3 prescribed by Runners World). I'm fully prepared to dive back into the schedule once the weather permits, but those aren't miles I can really make up at this point.
The good news is, spring is just around the corner (right? right?!?) and even if that doesn't mean immediate warmer temperatures, it means more daylight, so I can run before or after work soon enough. If I can continue to steady my pace - which has been slowly but surely evening out around 9:24 - and maintain weight training, I'm confident that I can keep on keepin' on with my plan. And hey, silver lining, this is a good rest for my right calf, which was showing sings of returning to last spring's injured state.
Still, as I've mentioned, my biggest concern is that this week will come back to haunt me somewhere around mile 16 or 20 on May 2nd. My mind will focus on the 17 miles I've missed this month, rather than the dozens of miles that preceded and followed. I will hit the wall and no amount of catchy music on my iPod, not Lady Gaga, not Journey, not even Bruce, will save me.
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Stumble in the Snow
Currently Reading: Mennonite in a Little Black Dress by Rhoda Janzen
Last Movie Watched: Inglourious Basters
Song In My Head: Love is Gonna Save Us - Benny Benassi
First the snow ruined my training and then it ruined my dinner party.
To be fair, first I "interrupted" my training. On Wednesday night, I got into bed at 10pm. I was going to fall asleep early. I was going to be rested. I was going to get up and run at 6:45am.
I did get up at 6:45am. And then I reset the alarm for 7:45am, having made a deal with the devil (myself) that I could just run 2 to 3 miles on Monday, my cross-training day, instead. No harm, no foul - I'd still get the miles in, but I'd also get some much needed sleep, as I hadn't been able to doze off the night before until nearly 1am.
But then came Saturday, and with it 6 inches of snow. I'm a fan of snow, inked myself with a flake and everything, but I am not a fan of snow on days when I a) have to run 6 to 7 miles and b) have planned a dinner party for 13 people. The run, of course, could be rescheduled, and was completed this afternoon. The dinner, however, was a three ring circus of Scottish excess, replete with haggis, multiple incarnations of shortbread and a bounty of bawdy poetry. Food preparation began 20 hours in advance, with the assistance of a color-coded spreadsheet. Ingredient reconnaissance began on January 18, when I drove 8 hours round-trip to New Jersey to pick up the haggis from my hometown Scottish butcher. This was, as Robbie Burns himself may have said, a shite show.
I'd already pulled three batches of shortbread out of the oven and refrigerated the base of the cottage pie when the cancellations began to pour in. By the time our party was halved, I'd already seasoned the tatties and neeps and set the haggis to boil. By the time we were down to our final party of five, there was nothing to do but adopt my best brogue and recite Burns' dirtiest words myself, with the help of John, his sister, Erin, and eventually two friends who braved the storm. We did what damage we could to the vittles and verse, encouraged by a glass or two (or more) of single malt.
Our guests left early, so John and Erin and I were left to clean up and collapse in front of the television before 10pm. I made it through the first scene of Inglourious Basterds before passing out from exhaustion. Scalped Nazis, it turns out, aren't enough to keep my eyes open after a day of baking, blending and ballyhooing. I roused myself long enough to stumble up to bed, where I remained until roughly 9am.
Here's the upside (besides the fact that the first three bites of haggis didn't taste "that bad"): cooking tired me out more than running has. I knocked out just under a 10k this morning, and I still haven't felt the fatigue that last night delivered. Each run is easier, if not easy. The few stitches that have dared to bite into my side were mere nibbles before they faded into nothing. There has been no mid-run bargaining, no cries of exhaustion, no collapsing at the end of the trail.
Sure, I'm still in the early stages of the war. Really, this is just basic training. I'm jogging up Currahee and I've got Bastogne in front of me. For now, I'll relish the accomplishment of energy and drive. Who knows how long they'll last?
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Last Movie Watched: Inglourious Basters
Song In My Head: Love is Gonna Save Us - Benny Benassi
First the snow ruined my training and then it ruined my dinner party.
To be fair, first I "interrupted" my training. On Wednesday night, I got into bed at 10pm. I was going to fall asleep early. I was going to be rested. I was going to get up and run at 6:45am.
I did get up at 6:45am. And then I reset the alarm for 7:45am, having made a deal with the devil (myself) that I could just run 2 to 3 miles on Monday, my cross-training day, instead. No harm, no foul - I'd still get the miles in, but I'd also get some much needed sleep, as I hadn't been able to doze off the night before until nearly 1am.
But then came Saturday, and with it 6 inches of snow. I'm a fan of snow, inked myself with a flake and everything, but I am not a fan of snow on days when I a) have to run 6 to 7 miles and b) have planned a dinner party for 13 people. The run, of course, could be rescheduled, and was completed this afternoon. The dinner, however, was a three ring circus of Scottish excess, replete with haggis, multiple incarnations of shortbread and a bounty of bawdy poetry. Food preparation began 20 hours in advance, with the assistance of a color-coded spreadsheet. Ingredient reconnaissance began on January 18, when I drove 8 hours round-trip to New Jersey to pick up the haggis from my hometown Scottish butcher. This was, as Robbie Burns himself may have said, a shite show.
I'd already pulled three batches of shortbread out of the oven and refrigerated the base of the cottage pie when the cancellations began to pour in. By the time our party was halved, I'd already seasoned the tatties and neeps and set the haggis to boil. By the time we were down to our final party of five, there was nothing to do but adopt my best brogue and recite Burns' dirtiest words myself, with the help of John, his sister, Erin, and eventually two friends who braved the storm. We did what damage we could to the vittles and verse, encouraged by a glass or two (or more) of single malt.
Our guests left early, so John and Erin and I were left to clean up and collapse in front of the television before 10pm. I made it through the first scene of Inglourious Basterds before passing out from exhaustion. Scalped Nazis, it turns out, aren't enough to keep my eyes open after a day of baking, blending and ballyhooing. I roused myself long enough to stumble up to bed, where I remained until roughly 9am.
Here's the upside (besides the fact that the first three bites of haggis didn't taste "that bad"): cooking tired me out more than running has. I knocked out just under a 10k this morning, and I still haven't felt the fatigue that last night delivered. Each run is easier, if not easy. The few stitches that have dared to bite into my side were mere nibbles before they faded into nothing. There has been no mid-run bargaining, no cries of exhaustion, no collapsing at the end of the trail.
Sure, I'm still in the early stages of the war. Really, this is just basic training. I'm jogging up Currahee and I've got Bastogne in front of me. For now, I'll relish the accomplishment of energy and drive. Who knows how long they'll last?
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The Daily Battle
Currently Reading: Under the Dome by Stephen King
Last Movie Watched: The Accidental Husband
Song In My Head: Walk on Water - Eddie Money
Running every day is hard.
Correction.
Getting up to run every day is hard.
Once I am out on the sidewalks or streets, dodging traffic, causing daydreaming pedestrians to jump with the shout of "Excuse me!" or "On your left!", all is well. Or as well as one can be with an elevated heartbeat and lungs working overtime. At that point, I've forgotten how cold it is, how tired I am and how I could still be curled up in flannel sheets with an orange cat warming up my feet. I am moving. I am determined. I am rocking out to Journey and Lady GaGa and no one even knows it.
Thirty minutes earlier, it's a different scene. My face is pressed against the pillow, one eye open and glaring at my alarm clock. 6:35am. I turn slightly, looking out the window above the bed in my basement apartment and quickly discern that it is dark. This does not surprise me, as it has not been light before 7am since last year. In fact, just last night I confirmed on weather.com that today's sunrise is not until 7:23am. It's unclear why I've set my alarm this early. Everything is unclear at 6:35am.
I hit the snooze bar. I've allotted myself enough time for one, maybe two ten-minute delays. My gear is ready to go as soon as I stumble out of bed. In a matter of minutes, I can be suited up in UnderArmour and my Mizunos, Garmin on my wrist, iPod on my arm, and walking out the door. If I can just wake up...
I do not want to wake up. I want to sleep some more, get back to whatever dream it was that occupied my mind moments earlier. It was probably some sort of apocalyptic nightmare, given that I was reading Stephen King's latest up until midnight, but it's still better than the idea of opening my eyes beyond slits and going out into the January cold.
6:45am. The alarm returns. Without a thought I hit snooze, but I do not go back to sleep. I shut my eyes and begin to calculate, negotiate with myself and my schedule. According to Runners' World, I'm supposed to run 3 to 4 miles today. I can do that in 21 - 40 minutes, depending on my pace and the number of traffic lights I hit on my Old Town course. If my bus comes at 8:48am, that means I have to be finished running and home by 8am, which means I can START running at 7:20am. That's a whole half hour more of sleep! But it's not enough... I could sleep until 8am and find another chance to run later... during my lunch break, if I bring my gear to work and figure out the deal with the office showers. Yes, yes, that will be even better.
I reset the alarm. I settle back in to sleep. And then I get runner's remorse. It's sort of like buyer's remorse, but involves only a decision, not a purchase. I'm thinking about the rationality and consequences of my decision. I should run now. I don't really need another half hour of sleep. I should be stimulating my fitness economy. I do NOT want to shower at work.
This is the turning point. I get up. It's just after 7am. By 7:11am, I'm out the door and I am running. 4.48 miles later, I am home. I am slightly out of breath, I am flushed, I am sweaty. But I ran. I did what I was supposed to do, for the eleventh day in a row. And on May 2nd, when I'm running my first marathon, and my mind begins to negotiate and calculate, trying to tell me what I can and can not do with my muscles and my breath, I will be able to say, "No. This is a done deal. I did what I was supposed to do for the last sixteen weeks, so now I can do this." And I will.
But next week, when the alarm sounds on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and all the weeks after, the battle will begin again. There will be a battle every day until the war on May 2nd. And I will fight... by running away.
Four Months
Currently Reading: Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving
Last Movie Watched: Something, Something, Something, Dark Side
Song on iTunes: Tiny Vessels - Death Cab for Cutie
In four months , I will run my first marathon.
Really.
I mean it.
I realize I'm a bit behind on the marathon trend. The new thing is triathlons, and while I bet I'd do really well at the swimming bit (the fear of whatever shark/alligator/swamp thing is about to eat me will have me stroking faster than my KitchenAid), my propensity for clumsiness would result in my slipping/tripping somewhere between the running and biking.
I began running because I had friends who began running and also because I have a big mouth. Upon hearing of Richard and Erin's success with the Army 10-Miler, I made the mistake of saying, "Well if you can do it...". Here I am, three years later with three 5ks, four 8ks, two 10ks, and three 10-milers; my race pace has gone from 10:28 to 8:40. There are days when I can not wait to go out and run, and there are days when I reset the alarm for another hour of sleep. Some runs have me mentally cheerleading myself to finish from the very first step and others have me wanting to go further than my planned route. One week I'll be able to run 5 miles without thinking about it and the next I'll be tuckered out halfway through a 5k.
There's no logic to my running, so I've thrown it out the window and decided to embrace the illogical. Hence, the marathon.
Mostly, I am scared shitless by this idea, except when I am giddy at the idea of planning. A marathon is a planner's dream. There's a regimen, there are guidelines, there are charts! I have immersed myself in maps and calculators and tinker incessantly with my new Garmin 305 (a Christmas gift from jOHN). Yes, I was made for marathon-ing (except for my short legs, subpar lungs and the pudge that's invaded my waistline in the last year).
Still, on May 2, I'll be lining up in Pittsburgh with nearly 10,000 others, including jOHN and his dad, to crank out 26.2 miles. I have no idea what to expect, but I'm sure there will be a lot gained (and hopefully a few pounds lost) along the way.
Improvised Italian
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