Psssshhh. Whatever. You're having WAY more fun than these losers.
WEATHER: Beautiful! 85ish and non-humid and beautiful! Tralala!
MILES THIS WEEK: 15ish.
WHERE TO: C&O Trail
MOOD: Fantastically excited.
Today we started the hardcore tapering, meaning that this week’s long run was under 20 miles. Yeah, it disturbs me, too. But that’s how it goes when you have 13 DAYS UNTIL RACE DAY! Ohhhh I can’t breathe for the vast quantity of excitement coursing through my veins right now (that and the lack-of-blood-sugar in said veins, as I am waiting patiently at the Apple store for my files to alll back up onto a hard drive and I will have to wait here much longer, apparently, and I haven’t eaten in forever, so that is sort of fiddling with my bodily/breathing/metabolic functions as well) (anyway).
Grandma’s Marathon in 2 weeks. I am running it this time with the illustrious C., whom you may remember from blogposts of yore. And if you don’t,
you are not sufficiently loyal and you can go straight to hell allow me to give you a quick rundown: C. is a delightful person w/ whom I went to college, and who is now doing Ironmans.
Stationary cycling AND an hour of C+C Music Factory? I'M IN! LET'S GO SPINNING!
WEATHER: Hot and humid. Which I sort of love.
MILES THIS WEEK: 19.
WHERE TO: Tralalalala, fields of happy green non-injured beauty, covered in bunnies and flowers and, yeah, OK, a few blisters.
When we last left off, we had worked our way through Stage 2, which involves copious amounts of anger and questionable ways of dealing with it.
And now, reluctantly, I invite you to enter
Stage 3: Mourning
Alright, sweetheart. Let it out. Cry open-mouthed, choking sobs and bang your fists on the floor. Drink a pint of Wild Turkey. Make and eat an entire loaf of banana-peanut-butter-chocolate-chip bread WITHOUT EVEN BAKING IT. <rubs your back, holds you close> There, there. Yes, I realize that you just vommed whiskey/batter all over my chest. It’s OK. Shhhhh-
<smacks you upside the head>
Ok, 30 seconds is up. Mourning is over. Now it’s time for:
Yes, you might be injured, but you are also most definitely a MIGHTY PRINCESS FORGED IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE.
WEATHER: Unseasonably warm.
MILES: A few. Sort of.
MILES THIS WEEK: A few. Sort of.
WHERE TO: Wandering aimlessly and listlessly in the vast and lonesome desert that the injured runner trods, dragging my gimpy foot behind me as I wail to the heavens in agony.
MOOD: Improving. Which isn’t saying much.
My dear readers, it has been too long. And so the blog makes it TRIUMPHANT EFFING RETURN with a new and informative topic:
HOW TO DEAL WITH AN INJURY. Allll 12 stages.
So. Put on yer ass-kicking boots and grab a juicebox and a Percocet and a girly mag. It’s gonna be a wild ride.
The nectar of the gods.
WEATHER: Chilly (for DC, that is…so maybe 30 degrees)
MILES THIS WEEK: πr^2
WHERE TO: Dupont Circle, Georgetown, etc.
MOOD: Face-‘splosion is imminent.
My dear readers, I lost roughly 15 pounds over the weekend. Or, at least, that’s my estimate, and I’m pretty sure that 98% of it was expelled in the form of post-nasal drip. You see, I stayed home from work on Friday and stayed home from life yesterday as the result of a truly fantastically ass-kicking cold. The kind that–if you weren’t doped to the gills on NyQuil (for the congestion) and ketamine (for the hell of it) and nutmeg (for the purpose of testing urban legends) and thus unable to do anything other than pet your roommates’ faces and mutter, “pretty kittyyyyyy…”–would make you sit back, fold your arms, and nod appreciatively at the awe-inspiring power of Mother Nature and Her Evil Pathogen Minions.
Hey. I got an idea. Attach these to your shoes and run and try not to feel homicidal. Go on. Do it.
MILES: None. BOOM.
MILES THIS WEEK: Honestly, do you care? Especially if I don’t? Jerkface.
WHERE TO: Nowhere today, but yesterday…the Jingle All The Way 10K!
MOOD: Unnnnnngh. <shiver>
There are ruts, dear readers, and then there are Ruts. Ruts with a capital R and 10-foot concrete walls on each side with no footholds to allow you to scramble out and scurry away. Ruts created by having run the greatest race of your life and then having written happy fun blog posts about it and having fallen increasingly in love with hundreds of people, especially the residents of Hagerstown, Maryland, in the process. And then realizing that your life no longer has purpose. No goals. No future plans. <choking bourgeois sob> Ruts that can only be broken out of when you are at the Red Derby on your birthday a little over a week ago with your college friend Mr. Cool thrusting two tequila shots into your hands and also saying, “ARE YOU SO PUMPED FOR THE JINGLE ALL THE WAY 10K?”
You're an inspiration to us all, you beautiful Canadian bastard.
WEATHER: Chilly, windy.
MILES THIS WEEK: Erm….13ish.
WHERE TO: Thus far? Barely a block from home today.
MOOD: Fragile in body, lazy in spirit. Also kind of itchy.
Nothing in my body is quite back to any sort of normalcy yet since last weekend. It took a whole three days before I could stand up or sit down without vocalizing. My walk was particularly pitiful-looking, so much so that my editor at work told me on Monday that, instead of me going to talk to him in his office when he hollered for me (for my workplace is the apex of professionalism), we could just yell across the hall to each other.
As it stands right now, running again is still tough. I know, I know; I had planned on a luxurious month or so of doing anything but running post-race. Biking! Power-walking! Jazzercising! 1980s Jane Fonda aerobics videos! Shakeweights! Learning to play the theremin! Calming the house thermostat wars! Working on my issues with relatively innocuous words like “naughty,” “fungible,” and “hosiery”!
That is SO TRUE.
WEATHER: Gorgeous and autumnal, once again.
MILES THIS WEEK: 8.5
WHERE TO: Georgetown, around that general area, back.
My dear readers, I don’t ask you for much. I put up my posts and I hope you read them and derive some form of enjoyment. I occasionally nuzzle your neck at night when I’m feeling lonely. But now I ask you to sit there and nod understandingly as I explain to you that THE G.D. BOSTON MARATHON SOLD OUT IN ONE EFFING DAY AND EVEN THOUGH I DUTIFULLY LOGGED ON AT 9 A.M. THE SITE WAS DOWN AND BY THE TIME I GOT BACK ON THAT AFTERNOON IT WAS SOLD OUT, GODDAMMIT SO I WILL STOMP AROUND IN MY STRIPEY KNEE SOCKS AND YELL AND THROW MY BOWL OF FROZEN BROCCOLI AT THE WALL WHILE MY HOUSEMATES ROLL THEIR EYES AND WAIT FOR THE TANTRUM TO PASS HOLY FREAKING KNICKERBOCKERS WHY AM I YELLING.
WEATHER: Sort of hot for October
MILES THIS WEEK: 29
WHERE TO: Nowhere.
MOOD: Filled with the joy and ennui that are the spirit of Columbus Day
I know what you’re thinking: I don’t burn out, right? RIGHT. I mean, I wake up every morning and leap out of bed, yelling, “PUT ON YER SPORTS BRA AND ASS-KICKIN’ BOOTS! IT’S GO-TIME!” Then I put on my spandex bodysuit and a few yards of multicolored tinsel and go leaping around DC until I have my ya-yas out, or until that security patrol guy on the Mall sees me, shakes his head and says, “You again?” and chases me around on his Segway, none of which really makes any sense for him to do, because since when was there a law against LOOKING GREAT, huh, you fascist?
I get more hits when I include beautiful-man pics. Go figure.
MILES: Zero. POW!
MILES THIS WEEK: Many. Already.
WHERE TO: Nowhere.
I was at this party a few weekends ago at which a friend asked me if I listened to music while I run.
Now, let me digress for a second. Because I feel like every single runner I meet is either a Luddite purist or incapable of going on even a simple two-mile jog without having Tool drilling into his/her skull at volume level 14. No one is in-between. Which I don’t get. Because sometimes you need Enrique to move you along, and sometimes you just need to silently judge other runners in silence, you know?
“Not all the time,” I responded.
“Well, don’t you go CRAZY? What do you think about?” she asked.
Ironically, her question itself has made me go crazy, because now when I’m running all I can think about is, “Huh. What AM I thinking about?” and now my flow is totally gone. (Thanks a lot, party-friend-lady. Jerkface.) It’s like when you for whatever reason start thinking about breathing and suddenly realize that you can’t do it correctly anymore, and now maybe it won’t be voluntary anymore and you’ll have to think about breathing until the day you die. Holy s**t, that would suck, wouldn’t it?