Archive for the ‘Easy runs’ Category

Protected: Sisterly Love and Giant Turkeys

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

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

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Well Done, Readers!


WEATHER: Chilly — 55ish.

WHERE TO: Columbia Heights and Adams Morgan

MOOD: Exhausted.


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,


The Republic of DJ

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


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

WHERE TO: Howard U. Reservoir

MOOD: Ba-ba-booyah.


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>.”


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!”


WEATHER: Mid-30s, rainy and gross.

MILES: Not since high school have 3 measly miles felt so good and non-measly.

WHERE TO: Logan Circle and surrounding area

MOOD: Cautiously optimistic, once again.


The hole lets the happy in.

God bless the good people at Ace bandages.   My God, I feel fab.  Not fully rehabilitated, mind you, but at least somewhat human.

Random Internet Strangers are the BEST.

WEATHER: Over 40!  Sunny!


WHERE TO: A magical land of KICKASS!

MOOD: OMG!  You guys!  Guess what!  You guys!


YOU GUYS.  Today I ran 2.5 miles.  Without pain!  WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO….

Why did I decide to run?  Runner’s World forums, that’s why.  I went on and asked the good fellow-injured runners about whether my doctor was a dumbass or not for telling me to run on a clicking knee.  As it turns out, other people have gotten this advice before.

Upon reflection, maybe I’m the dumbass.  Seasoned medical advice?  No, thank you.  Advice from a bunch of other yahoos who are probably also 50 kinds of pervy?  Helllls yes!  So.  I tied on my running shoes and out the door I went.

Now, let’s not freak the hell out with joy yet, because I came home and iced and — graawwwrrr — there was indeed some hurt.  But LESS, kids!  And — strangely — it has migrated from the outer corner of my kneecap to the inner edge.


I’m just gonna take this as a sign of progress (right?  RIGHT???).  I think I have to, because I’m starting to lose touch with reality in a very small but very real way.  My brain has been living in my left knee for the last month; every time I sit or stand or go down stairs or go up stairs, all I can do is tune every sense to this one stupid joint and think, “Is it popping?  Yes?  No?  Whoa!  Wait!  Stop!  Did we feel something there?  No?”

People wouldn’t know it to look at me, but at any given moment, I’m internally either celebrating a successful stand-up or mourning the teeniest imagined twinge from hopping off of a curb.  So today I tried a new experiment — I spent an hour today running errands and imagining that my right knee was the hurt one, and just focused on that.  And suddenly I realized that I could totally mentally fabricate these little aches and stings — IS MY RIGHT KNEE POPPING OUT?  HOLY FUCK!  SIT DOWN!

Which is encouraging — maybe I’m more healed than I thought! — or upsetting — maybe I’m a running-injury-hypochondriac! — depending on how you look at it.

Anyhow, at least we know that recovery is possible, but it will be slow.  <sigh>

In other news, I ran into S. at Starbuck’s the other day.  He was little help.

“My knee does that too!  I run on it!  Don’t worry about it!  Let’s go for an 18-miler!”

Needless to say, I walked home drinking a Grande Pike’s Place Roast seasoned with bitter tears.  Screw you, S.  You’ve been running all of what — 2 years?  Bah.  You’ll get yours.  <sniffle>  You really <choke, sob> will.  OH GOD COME OVER TO MY HOUSE AND MASSAGE MY LEG YOU STUPID HANDSOME EDUCATED SOMEWHAT FUNNY LAWYER-Y PERSON. <tantrum on floor>

It strikes me now that I end up crying in like half of these posts.  So here is a picture to up today’s happy quotient by like a BAZILLION.  Hoo-wah!

He's totally defeating Gannon. WITHOUT Game Genie.


WEATHER: Over 50!

MILES: HOW MANY?  11 on the elliptical.  Which I equate to…oh, 8 miles running, as calculated by the “because-I-flippin’-say-so” calculator.



WHERE TO: The gym at work.  A little 2-foot by 3-foot space therein.

MOOD: Hopeful


I’ve been icing the knee so much that I have a couple spots of mild frostbite popping up.  I know, I know, the ice pack says “do not apply directly to skin,” but it just won’t WORK AS WELL, DAMMIT, if I do it the WUSSY way.  Plus, this gives me an added feel-all-better benefit…you know that old joke where the guy goes to the doctor…

GUY: Doctor, my finger is broken.

DOCTOR: <stomps on Guy’s foot, shattering several bones>

GUY: <through tears of anguish> Why did you do that?

DOCTOR: Your finger doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?

Well, I am both the psychopathic doctor and hapless patient in this scenario, in the sense that the frostbite rubbing against my pants all day makes me wonder if it’s actually the joint that hurts or if it’s just the skin.  Which is strangely comforting, because if I can’t tell, the injury couldn’t be that bad.

Anyway, the knee feels strangely not-that-bad right now and didn’t even twinge on the walk home from work, even when I jogged across a couple of streets to avoid homicidal DC drivers.  Hoowah!  Hope!

Oh, and UPDATE!: The Bear ran her half-marathon on Sunday in 3:12, after which, I understand, she ate many bagels and then screamed, crumbs of bread spewing from her mouth, “RAAAWWWWR!  I AM A GOLDEN GOD!  I AM A BEAUTIFUL ANIMAL!”

Good job, The Bear.

Dirty Little Secrets


MILES: Yeah…about that…



WHERE TO: Down N. Capitol St., around the Capitol Building, down the Mall, back home.

MOOD: Grumpy — cold coming on, knee injury coming back.


Dirty Dancing

Come 'ere, lover. We gotta talk.

Alright, readers.  We’ve known each other a while — you know a bit about me, I’ve shared my life and dreams with you, you’ve let me feel you up a few times.  Things are good.

But, baby, sit down.  It’s time we talked.  See, I haven’t been entirely…honest about a few things.  I know every day I give you my mile count, show you my dedication, tell you how my day went…

…but OK.  I’m just gonna say it: I don’t actually know the distance I’ve run on any given day.  To be honest, I just sort of guess. <knits fingers together, twists them nervously>  Now, now, don’t look at me that way.  I think I’ve been overestimating!  Like, I run for 45 minutes and I write it down as 5 miles, but you and I both know it’s more than that.  Because, <heh>, when was the last time I needed 45 minutes to-

Aw, hey.  Don’t do that.  Take your pants back off.  Come on.  I can ‘splain.  Oh, for the love of God.  Get back here.  How am I supposed to know distances in DC? I never told you I WAS measuring, anyhow.  I didn’t lie!  I mean, yeah, I could go to some sort of distance-plotting site, but it takes so long and ruins the mood, and it just FEELS better this way, you know?

Oh, hey.  Hey.  It’s gonna be OK.  We’re still gonna do this marathon together, you and me, and it’s gonna be great.  Now you know.  And aren’t you glad I was honest?

Do you still respect me?

<reaches out, touches your face tenderly>

C’mon.  C’mere.  Yeah.  That’s it.

<wraps arms around you, buries face in your neck, comforted>

Good.  OK.  Because I have a few other things to add.  Really minor.  Just general confessions.  Like I have several times relieved myself in non-port-a-potty places in DC.  And I did it all the time in Minneapolis, too.

There.  That feels better.  Oh and also while I’m confessing I stole a few energy gels from your sock drawer when you weren’t looking but they were the gross orange kind you like the least anyway and I pee in the shower sometimes but it goes all to the same place anyway and I spat in your leftover chili that one time when I was mad at you for leaving your goddamn hairs all over the bathroom sink again and I drew some really filthy pictures in the margins of your Bible and oh once or OK a few times I ateyourReddiWhipfromThanksgivingstraightfromthecanintomymouth andthecanhasbeeninthefridgeeversincebutyoudon’tseemtonotice.

I feel better.  Now.  Show me your hoo-hah.

Chill the f**k out; I got this.

WEATHER: 22 degrees, sunny.

MILES: 5.5



WHERE TO: Up around the Howard U. Reservoir, down towards-but-not-quite-to Dupont Circle, back via a complicated winding route that you wouldn’t understand because it involves a lot of math.

MOOD: Ready for action.  And love.


Class starts tonight.  I actually sit in a Basement Gelman Library computer lab as I type this, ready to get down on some chi squares, standard deviations, and various other Greek mathy letters that will become my secret on-the-side hotties (running being my real lifemate for the next 4 months) (OK, probably more like 4 decades) until school is out.

I’m looking forward to ending grad school and being able to devote more time to running, guitar-ing, cooking, baking, etc. … so much so that I’ve already begun planning THE RAGER OF THE CENTURY for sometime in May.  If you’re in DC, swing by.  I’ll do kegstands with you.  Ooooh, so excited.  Let the countdown begin!

That rosy optimism happy rant said, I did have my first freak-out cry of the term today, having lunch w/ my fellow running friend, C-dawg.


Me: <faux-confidently explaining my thesis-class-capstone-job load for the term>

C-dawg: “You have HOW much work to do this term?”

Me: <falls off chair, sobs>

C-dawg: <pats DJ’s arm>  Uh…there, there?

We’re batting 1.000 in terms of crying days:days of school ratios.  Hooray!  Batting 1.000!  That’s usually good, right?  Right.

So.  The mantra for the next 4 months: “Everybody, chill the f**k out; I got this.”  Because I do, dammit.

*mashes keyboard with hand*

WEATHER: 30ish




MOOD: Doooooop


Just home from happy hour.  Which lasted much longer than an hour.  I think the fact that I’m even writing this post shows the depth of my commitment to blogging.  Yay for caring!  Off to forage in the kitchen for delicious tipsy food!  Only to end up eating peanut butter with a spoon, as I always do!

That is all.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.