Archive for April, 2010

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,


How today went:


I am Spartacus.

I punched a tiger.

I ate a penguin.

I put my face in the lasagna.

I wrote my name on my arms so people would yell “DJ!” as I ran by.

I drew a penis on my forehead so people would yell, “Huh???” as I ran by.

I grabbed your boyfriend’s ass.

I head-butted your mom.

I jumped on the bed so hard I bonked my head on the ceiling fan.

I bloodied my socks.

I spun in circles until I started walking funny.

I ate every leftover in the fridge, including the capers and egg carton.

I scraped the salt from my body and put it in the restaurant shaker.

I turned my pee orange.

I walked up to Scott Brown and gave him a high five, then punched him in the scrote.

I refused to wear a watch.

I did a booty-dance with the medal-distribution people.

I stopped at mile 24, pointed at my left knee, and told it that it was MY BITCH NOW.

I came home and showered and scrunched my hair until it was Texas-pageant-mom big.

I licked my medal.

Friends, I ran a 3:39 with minimal training and moderate effort.  Ms. Physical-therapist-to-the-stars Chilli is getting 5 dozen cookies.  You all are getting a fist-punch-to-the-air at the MacBook cam (which is not on, suckahs).

What a long, strange journey it has been.

*raises fists, punches air, juggles pillows*

*Terrified vomiting*


Also, it’s so cold here.

Ohhhhhhhh I’ve Made a Huge Mistake.

Oh sweet merciful crap, I'm a dumbass.

Well, shit.

It struck me last night at about 3 AM, as I for the 9 billionth time re-wedged my 5’8″ frame into the 3’8″ of makeshift sleeping space of the two seats allotted to me on my 10-hour overnight train voyage from DC to Boston while the mucous-factory-Asian-woman across the aisle spread her pathogens generously throughout the car with her window-rattling coughs and snorts and the wiry men throughout the car prepped for THEIR Boston-Marathon experience by alternately snoring as loudly as possible and calling their sweethearts to blather about how fast THEY would run the race and how prepared THEY were, what with their 4 weekly 20-milers they’ve all been doing since the 4th grade and the powerglide they’ve been applying and also eating, just to prevent chafing inside AND out, because they are hardcore and …

<cue freakout in 3…2…>

…anyway, it really did strike me that this might be a terrible idea.  I’ve been injured and I’m not even really sure that that run the other weekend was quite 19 miles.  It might have been more like 17 or 18.  And I feel fat.  And I feel like I’ve forgotten how to marathon.  And I feel slow and lazy.  And honestly kind of pimply.

So there is the very real chance that I might blow this.  Which leads me to my new philosophy:

You can’t blow it if you’re not really trying.

Yeah.  That’s right.  I’m going to drag my (awesome) corral-10 ass back to the rear of Wave 1 and dilly-dally for 26 miles and have a FREAKING AMAZING TIME DOING IT.  I will make running friends.  I will wave at the Citgo sign.  I will kiss a Wellesley girl.  I will proposition a BU frat boy.  I will lick the face of a Gatorade-distribution volunteer.  I will pee on Fenway.  I will dance on Sam Adams’ grave, because that sumbitch punched my grandma once.  And it will not take me one second shorter than four hours, I promise you that.


Yeah, still nervous.

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: 70 and BEAUTIFUL.  SUNNY.  Full of Easter bliss.

MILES: 19.

WHERE TO: All over the glorious creation that is DC.

MOOD: Chock full of the holy bliss that is that of the long-distance runner.


1And on the sabbath, the third day of the weekend (counting Friday), the tourists poured forth from their hotels and friends’ homes in Arlington 2and came forth to parts of DC including Georgetown and Hains’ Point, 3but most especially the Mall, 4and they did multiply and cover the land, gawking at the cherry blossoms and waiting like schlubs for the tourist shuttles.

5When lo, she who had lived for 40 days in the wilderness of physical therapy and yoga and the teeny GW swimming pool opened the door of her house and went forth into the land of the District of Columbia, 6spreading good running vibes everywhere that she went, 7and also spreading sweat on every street corner, where she stopped at traffic lights to squeeze out her ponytail, which was soaked through with the honest sweat of those who labor.

8And the tourists were grossed out, and they made this known, for they sayeth to her, even the little ones sayeth to her, “GROSS!”  9And indeed, it was gross.

10But she who was healed completed her 19-mile loop and went unto her home, where waited her housemate, The Irishwoman.  11And The Irishwoman said, “Are you not injured?  Surely your knee is not alive and well, for only several months ago we laid it to rest in Ace bandages and ice packs.”

12And she-who-was-healed pumped her fist in the air and responded, “Truly, I say unto you, Irishwoman, the leg is better, and it brings hope 13that I might complete Boston, which is in two weeks, should I have enough time and money to do it, as my life is currently taken over by school, 14which sucks the big one.  15A lot.  16But I am a rock star.”

17And the woman whose leg was healed by the grace of God 18and also by Chilli, the adorable physical therapist, 19raised the “rock and roll” hand sign at the Irishwoman, and they bumped chests.  20And yes, the healed one did slime the Irishwoman with her copious sweat, but they were not ashamed, for theirs was the joy of those who live in DC at Cherry Blossom Time.