Archive for the ‘Easy runs’ Category

Economic Stimulus!


WEATHER: Fantastic.

MILES: 6.

MILES THIS WEEK: A bajillion, plus 6.

WHERE TO: Catholic University, Howard U. Reservoir.

MOOD: Renewed.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Well, hi there, everyone.  I’m back from the great blog-vacation, and I have renewed zeal and vigor for informing your beautiful asses about all things running.

During my time off, life continued generally as it usually does (i.e., clumsily aping the motions of a successful journalist), but I did go on a quick vacation up to Cape Ann, Massachusetts, where I saw two wonderful, wonderful friends from college marry each other. I cried like a total weenie, this is true, but I managed to bite off both ends of a Twizzler and use it as a straw through which I drank eight beers and subsequently did the “throwing sparkles dance” AND the “butt dance” for several hours regain my composure in fine style and then hit shamelessly on the wedding officiant tell the bride and groom how much they have meant to my life.

And, of course, I ran.  The mileage has further pushed into uncharted territory. I won’t tell you exactly how many total miles I am now running per week–a figure that actually sort of troubles even me at this point–but it’s smaller than the number of chickens (nesting hens, not roosters) that you can fit in a U-Haul and bigger than a breadbox.

Seriously, the break was a good time to regroup, take a deep breath, brainstorm, and clip my toenails, and let me tell you, I think we’re going to be better than ever here at The Running Log. The operation is growing, and I can feel new opportunities awaiting this enterprise around every corner.  And so it is with great pleasure that I announce:

THE RUNNING LOG IS HIRING!

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Girrrrrl, We Got to TALK.


WEATHER: 82 with 542% humidity at SIX A.M., YOU GUYS.

MILES: 5.5

MILES THIS WEEK: 27.5

WHERE TO: Howard U. reservoir, Northeast, etc.

MOOD: Wet.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

OMG, you guys!  So much to tell you all!  It has been FOREVER!  Go get your latte and settle in, because we got to get REAL with each other, sister, and just dish.  Here.  I’ll go first:

1) Registration for the JFK 50-miler started on the first of July, which I just realized yesterday.  My marathon times strangely enough qualify me for guaranteed entry, so I should just do it, right?  <shiver> <squirm>  I should.  I mean, yes, it’s $150, but that’s sort of smart of those wily race organizers, making sure you put your money where your blackened-big-toenail is up-front, because who is going to back out of a $150 race?

I know what you’re thinking:

“You might.  …Back out, I mean.”

No, I won’t.

“Are you crazy?”

Stop asking me that.

“Are these race organizers ridiculously old-school, requiring an actual paper form sent via mail with a paper check and even an SASE, even though no one even knows what an SASE is anymore?”

They sure are.  …Ridiculously old-school, I mean.

“Your legs look particularly ravishing today.”

Don’t I know it.

2) Vignette from my Saturday long run, at ca. mile 15.  I’m standing by the Jefferson Memorial, slammajamming a neon-green-flavored Gatorade, when a man and his family step off a Japanese tour bus.

Man: <looks me up and down, particularly my blindingly white and not terribly attractive but nevertheless bare stomach>

Me: <chug gulp slobber gulp dribble>

Man: <turns to family> <gestures at me> <LOUD STRING OF UNINTELLIGIBLE JAPANESE SYLLABLES>

Family: <loud laughter>

Me: <slightly more abashed> <swig gulp gulp> <scamper away>

I have the distinct feeling that I got majorly zinged.

3) New tattoo!  I won’t tell you where it is, but I will say it’s small, discreet, in a place that my sports bra covers, and it’s not my right bosom or left bosom.

Well.  That was fun.  And now, off to start my next post, as suggested by the Paki on the Ask a Runner! page.  See?  I do take suggestions.  But only non-stupid ones.

Nostalgia Overload


Oh, Caaaaarleton, our alma maaaaaaaaaaater, we haaaail the maize and bluuuuue... (Image from http://www.carleton.edu).

ON LOCATION! — In Minnesota/Iowa this week!

WEATHER: Big, hot sky.  No clouds.  No shade.  The usual Iowa-in-summer.

MILES: 5

MILES THIS WEEK: 16

WHERE TO: Heaven (which is to say, “Northfield, Minnesota“), then home, which is arguably even better.

MOOD: Nostalgia-until-my-head-explodes.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

My dear readers, I apologize for being remiss in posting.  It’s been a week full of travel and incoherentness, and as a result — a week of very little running.  I began writing this post from the library on my college campus, as I took a break from my 5-year college reunion festivities. Rest was a necessity, given the exhaustion I had from partaking in three truly taxing activities:

1) Drinking

2) Giving the “here’s-what-I-do-now-and-what-about-YOU?” speech

3) Raucous laughter.

…the raucous laughter being the result of the cadre of women with whom I associated in college, all of whom miraculously stopped their world-domination plans to come back to school for 4 days.  Hanging-out-time with these women is truly exhausting because of the competitive nature of our conversations, in which we all try to (a) out-loud and (b) out-dirty each other.  As I sat in the library drafting this post, in fact, The Bear began G-chatting me.  She sent the following messages:

“<SCREEPY STARE>

grope grope”

UUUUUUNNNNNGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
<chewbacca noise>”
“SCREEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!! panties!!!!”
.
And while this does not capture the full depth of the filthy discourse in which we ladies generally partake, it at least gives you a measure of the maturity level.
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And as it turned out, running became a prominent part of the weekend after all, and not just because of my midday detox jogs through town.  No, I might add that one highlight of the 2010 Carleton College Reunion was the Class of 1985’s Saturday-night dance party getting streaked.  I have absolutely no idea what kind of beautiful, ballsy, uninhibited pervs would do such a thing, but when I find out, I will by all means let you know.
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Anyway, the whole thing required a lengthy Sunday-night sleep as well as a lengthy Monday-morning running-and-stomach-discomfort-fest to get out of the system.  And yet I am pretty sure that I am still slightly sore from dancing and laughing so hard, which I think we can agree is the mark of a weekend well-spent.
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Today I am back in Iowa, and my jog this morning was full of the hallmarks of an Iowa run: no shade or clouds, for one, and a pervasive hot-ness that is sort of surprising.  Which is generally bad, but it intensifies the also-pervasive smell of soil, which if you don’t understand, you just won’t understand (if you understand…).  But there are new aspect this time around as well…for instance, a nearby road construction project has increased the traffic on my family’s road from 1 car per day (usually ours) to a veritable gridlock of 7 or 8 per day…all of whom drove by me as I shirtlessly tromped down the gravel road.  All also seemed to be filled to the brim with small screaming children, who either gave me the thumbs-up or a laughing fit as they kicked up gravel all over my sweaty body.  Fortunately, as I wiped the sweat-and-dust-paste from my body, I had a few new wind-turbine colonies in the distance to contemplate. 
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More disturbingly, however, I was not greeted by a snuffling, hyper pack of swine as I ran up onto the yard.  This is because my father is perpetually fidgeting over the decision of whether or not to continue raising animals.  I’m not sure what he thinks he will do with his time, but my guess is taht he will move a few buildings.  Since all his daughters have left home, the man has taken to rearranging buildings the way that the rest of us rearrange furniture.  Except, of course, massive forklifts, bulldozers, tractor trailers, and cement mixers generally don’t come into play when I’m moving an ottoman.  My dad, on the other hand, gets to hang out with a large group of men and go “BRRRRRMMMMMMM” while they slide a garage from the south side of the house to the southWEST side. 
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The point of this story is that every time I come home I get a pretty good idea of where I get my sort of obsessive squirrelliness.  So when Dad asks, “How can you run so much?” I can generally answer “How can you buy 75 pigs on a whim and then move the machine shed 20 feet?”  And he will say, “Ah, touche.”  Or, more realistically, “Aaaagh, don’t be a smartass.” 
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Furthermore, Mom eats peanut butter with a spoon (and also a healthy sense of gusto).  Another “where-is-that-from” question solved.
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That’s all I got.

Protected: Sisterly Love and Giant Turkeys


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Protected: Too much change, too many emotions. I need to lie down.


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Well Done, Readers!


MILES: 6

WEATHER: Chilly — 55ish.

WHERE TO: Columbia Heights and Adams Morgan

MOOD: Exhausted.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Well, kids, Boston and the day after were two of the BIGGEST-READERSHIP DAYS EVER here on therunninglog.  Thank you for validating my potentially disastrous decision to run my body into the ground.  I have a friend — I will call him “Frenchy” — who has on several occasions stated his attitude towards marathoning as follows:

“…or I could just sit here and smack my head against a brick wall for 4 hours.”

Fair point, Frenchy.  And after my run AND Crampy McPainypants ride THAT NIGHT back to DC in coach on Amtrak, I sort of felt the same way.  But with one key difference: I felt like a SUPERHERO who had smacked her head against a brick wall.  For 3 hours and 39 minutes.

Anyway, I now find myself neck-deep in finals (TEN MORE DAYS OF WORK, KIDS!) and in near-panic territory.  The sleep-or-running dilemma, which I have heard is not a tough conundrum for many people to deal with, pesters me every morning at around 6 AM. And so it was this morning, but I powered through.  But only barely, and I now am sucking down Ricolas and praying that the scratch in the back of my throat doesn’t morph into a giant phlegm demon.  Blaaaaaargh.

You know, I could write something way more funny and exciting but I’m exhausted and I got shit to do, kids.  We talk later.

Love and kisses,

DJ

The Republic of DJ


I don't have anything smartass to say about cherry blossoms. Sorry, kids.

MILES: 3

WEATHER: The kind of day that proves the existence of a deity of some sort.

WHERE TO: Howard U. Reservoir

MOOD: Ba-ba-booyah.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

This is just how we do things in the Republic of DJ, kids.  We get injured, we bitch, we moan, we go to overpriced appointments with ineffectual doctors, we recover, and when our physical therapists say, “I’m restricting you to 10-mile runs for a few weeks,” we calmly respond, “OK.  So I’m running the Boston Marathon in 3 weeks, naturally.”  Then we crank out a master’s thesis, which — including table of contents, appendix, index, dedication, shout-outs, and autograph page — is 120 freaking pages, and we invite all our best and loudest girlfriends to town for Cherry Blossom Fest (and consequently, I think because of the decibel level, but it might also be the pee in the reflecting pools, get banned from all future Cherry Blossom Fests).

So.  I’m running Boston one week from today.  Do I know how it will go?  No.  Will it be a PR?  Absolutely not.  Will it be AWESOME anyhow?  Sure as hell, my friends.

Life is stressful.  Life is beautiful.  I will take my overnight train to the race and then take an overnight train back and not have to miss any work at all.  Because I did not alert anyone at work that I would be running this thing.  And so, when on Tuesday they say, “So, how was your weekend, Danielle, and why are you walking funny?” I can just respond with my usual, “Oh, you know…bonerrific,” and they will shrug and nod.

Or, if I’m feeling like a badass, I will be able to say, “Oh, you know…I sort of decided to run the Boston Marathon.  Also, afterwards, I got down and got bonerrific.”  And they will be blowwwwwwwwwwn away.

So I will finish that race in a slower time than ever before and drop to my knees and vom and diarrhea at the same time.  But before I do, I will shake my thang and recite the pledge of allegiance to the Republic of DJ:

“I pledge allegiance

to the 50-foot radius that surrounds my body,

which I have declared the Republic of DJ,

and to the prevailing legal code,

which is based around the perpetual goodness of being naked

and also drinking Diet Cokes in the shower.

Stop judging; it’s delicious and relaxing also,

and you need to relax

when you’re rocking this shit <flashes webcam>.”

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Or maybe I will just do my best running-man dance and recite the abbreviated version:

“God bless!  Touch my bum and BELIEVE!  Let’s go get wasted!”

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