Archive for the ‘Angry Runs’ Category

Emo-Running! The best kind!

Strong displays of emotion make me break out in hives, you know.

WEATHER: A bit humid, but cooler.

MILES: 10?

MILES THIS WEEK: Counting is hard.

WHERE TO: National Cathedral, other places.

MOOD: Overwhelmed.



Alright, bitches.  Cue music.

Even when you’re a kickass ultrarunner (if only in your own booze-and-peanut-butter-puffins-addled mind) and superpumped about your Olympic prospects, sometimes you feel like you’re having one of those days.  And then sometimes you feel like you’re having several of “those days” all at once.  And then sometimes you feel like several years’ worth of “those days” have been squished together into a tiny, superdense ball of time, which then ‘SPLODES into a giant supernova and then your life is just this flaming-out celestial event, complete with black holes and wormholes and burning and pain and Stephen Hawking and a landlord who decides to be a real sore asshole to you about the fact that he is clearly morally opposed to following DC building code when renovating your apartment, as is evidenced by the fluctuating water content of your bedroom.

Continue reading

Recovering from Injury (Step 2: Anger)

Dear World: I have finally found a use for Limp Bizkit. You are welcome.

WEATHER: Gorgeous.

MILES: 2.  Yes, 2.

MILES THIS WEEK: <sigh> 2.

WHERE TO: <headdesk> The treadmill at the Y.



To recap: Last time, we worked our way through Injury Stage One (Denial), and we are now able to admit that we are injured. Of course, today of all days was the wrong day to be fresh out of denial, for today was the day of the BOSTON MARATHON.

“Hey!” say your well-meaning friends, who care deeply about you and thus are interested in your extracurriculars. “Are you running Boston this year? Good luck!”

And you, in your infinite maturity, for you have worked through Denial, will respond with a jaunty, “Been there, done that!”  Or perhaps a shrug and a, “Nawwww.  I’m taking the year off.”  Or maybe you’re VERY strong and can say, matter-of-factly, “No; I’m injured.  Maybe next year!”  Semicolon and all!  Good for you!

Continue reading

The Jingle All The Way 10K Report Card (subtitle: The Difference Between 10Ks and Marathons) (subtitle: DJ eats her words) (subtitle: sort of) (subtitle: I still vow to make fun of 5Ks.)

Hey. I got an idea. Attach these to your shoes and run and try not to feel homicidal. Go on. Do it.



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?”

Continue reading

How it Went… (plus a bonus montage)

Always fade out in a montage.

WEATHER: Delightfully chilly



WHERE TO: Self-pityville

MOOD: Harumph.


Dear Readers,

Yesterday was the Marine Corps Marathon, and I gotta tell you…sometimes race day does not go according to plan.  I mean, sometimes you get blisters, sometimes your shorts chafe, sometimes your gels fall out of your sports bra, and sometimes you slow way down to chat up that dreamboat who is, frankly, below your running standards but waaaaay above your “reasonably hygenic and literate” standards.

Continue reading


So yeah. I'm promoting conspicuous consumption now. Deal with it.

WEATHER: A little hot, but really, conditions are perfect.



WHERE TO: Allllll over.

MOOD: The thrill of the mighty huntress.*


*…by which I mean I KILLED A MOUSE this morning.  So yeah, this has nothing to do with running, but it does have to do with badassery, so I’m just gonna roll with it.  See, the Irishwoman informed me last night, when the mouse scurried out from under the oven as I was baking cookies, that OH MY GOD THERE’S A MOUSE BY YOUR FOOT GET IT GET IT.

OK, sure, fine.

Continue reading

An Open Confession

"Father, is shaving squirrels and keeping them in a box in my closet a mortal or venial sin? I mean, I'm gonna do it anyway..."

WEATHER: Sticky to the point of slippery.  Sit-still-and-sweat weather.

MILES: 5.5


WHERE TO: All over.

MOOD: Remorseful


Bless me, O Running God/Gods, for I have sinned.

It has been four days since my last post; six since my last REAL post, and the wrath of the net is upon me.  Yea, it is like chaff upon the ground after harvest; it is like salt upon my face after a shitty, 90-degree race; indeed, yea, it is like those stupid water belts upon novice runners.

And so today I confess my running-related transgressions unto you.

I have been neglecting my physical therapy exercises.  May God have mercy upon my soul.

I have neglected to wear sunscreen during my runs for a period of a duration of several weeks now.  May God have mercy on my soul.

Whilst running in the land of Minnesota last weekend, I saweth women with abdominal muscles which, unlike mine own, did not look like pasty haggis, and lo, I was filled with several of the deadly sins — envy, greed, rage, and indeed lust…but yeah, mostly envy.  May God have mercy on my soul.

In high school track, when I was given even a hair’s breadth of room on the left side of a runner, I passed on the inside.  May God have mercy upon my soul.

In high school track, I also spat to excess as I ran.  I knoweth not why; perhaps a nervous tick, perhaps to get rid of the cotton-mouthy-feeling-of-dread that was given unto me when the announcer shouteth, “FIRST, LAST, and ONLY CALL for the GIRLS’ THREE-THOUSAND-METER RUN!”  But for this reason (and this reason ALONE), I acquired the nickname “Spitter.”  And yea, though I kneweth that “Spitter” had carnal connotations, I did not exactly knoweth the nature of such connotations, and yet I acteth as though I did, and lo, did I use the name “Spitter” to comedic effect.  May God have mercy upon my pathetic soul.

Just before it came to pass that I broke up with my last boyfriend, a boy who indeed did skip my races, during a time when I still hath the privileges of the keys to the door of his dwelling, I did enter said studio apartment in the dead of night, whilst he was out, I knew not where, presumably with a woman of a hipster nature who, yes, perhaps did not have abdominals like a compressed, pasty haggis, and who perhaps looketh friggin’ fabulous in painted-on jeans of two-percent spandex, and who hath also, perhaps, a greater familiarity with the works of Thomas Pynchon and also The Who than I, but who also presumably hath never sweat one drop in her existence and really when you think about it probably had a name like “Caitlin” or “Ashley” or some damn shit, well let me tell you I drank all the alcohol in his home (i.e., about a half cup of Listerine), coated my body in BodyGlide Anti-Chafing formula and slid around on the floor of his goddamn studio apartment humming the Indiana Jones theme song and periodically interjecting in a snide fashion, “Watch THIS race, ass-hat!” and “I’LL show you a FEAR OF COMMITMENT WHEEEEEE” and various other things that didn’t really make sense, in retrospect, and furthermore in retrospect this wasn’t so much punishment for him as a good time for me, and though he did mop the floor really vigorously for like a week, he did also fall during his next uberdramatic “I feel TRAPPED” tirade and bonk his head on his guitar amp, which did, OK, sort of make me giggle, and May God have mercy on my soul, I guess.

I may or may not have forever ruined running gels for a dear fellow runner of mine by comparing the substance inside to a fluid that cannot really be described except by the word “splooge.”  I would ask for mercy, but let’s face it: it wouldn’t really be sincere, now would it.

I wrote this entire rather subpar post without any real idea of where I was going or what to write about at all, and I’m still not sure, to be honest.  But now that I’ve said “splooge,” I’m pretty sure I can’t go anywhere but down.  Because “splooge” always comes at the climax.  Ahahahahahahahaha.


<sniff, awkward shuffling of feet>

I’m going to hell.

Protected: Sisterly Love and Giant Turkeys

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