7% of these people are triathletes. 100% of them have complexes about it.
Dear Humble Readers of The Running Log,
I have been tasked with offering a counterpoint to DJ’s race review (see the last post). As an amateur blogger and former resident of Washington, DC, I fancy myself an expert on most every topic. So why not add marathons to my repertoire, right? Right.
Once upon a time, there was a Grandma’s Marathon….
Here. Have a lollie.
WEATHER: Warm and sunny and delightful — 72 degrees and not humid.
MILES THIS WEEK: 9.5
WHERE TO: Back into Mojo-land.
MOOD: Cautiously optimistic.
First, let me say that I HAVE MY MOJO BACK! Did I do 23 miles yesterday? Yes. Did I receive several facefuls/eyefuls of gnats? Yes. Is my chest slightly abraded from carrying Gu packets in my sports bra? Oh, you better believe it. Is life back to normal? <punches air> Helllls yes!
Anyway. On to the important stuff: getting over your injury. You’ve cross-trained, you feel yourself getting stronger, etc., and yet — and yet.
The injury isn’t better-better. It’s just sort of half-assed improving. And you, as the world’s greatest super happy fun time run run runnerperson ever, do not do anything that isn’t at the very least 90-percent-assed. But you also don’t need no stinking doctor. Also, you were sick that day in college where they taught you how to be an adult and how health insurance works, so words like “deductible” and “copay” and “HMO” and “doctor” are still a little mystifying to you.
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.
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?
MILES THIS WEEK: 16.
WHERE TO: Nowhere — Kaboom!
First things first, sports fans: I’m IN! The 50-miler form entry has been accepted, and they returned my SASE with a slip of paper saying that I now have the privilege of running for 9 hours straight. WHOOPEE! Want to be on my aid crew? Yes you do. Drop me a line if you want to force-feed me a banana with peanut butter at mile 37.
Second things second: Rusty did not get in, but still has a shot at doing so via a charity entry. If you see him on the street, give him a hug and $20. Actually, even if he weren’t trying to get in, I’d tell you to do this. Poor guy is a law student at one of the most depressing places on earth (coughGWUcough). Stroke his head and gently hum to him while you’re at it. He needs it.
Anyway. What with my obsession for the past seven posts with heaving bosoms and hoo-hahs and love-juices and throbbing, hard-as-steel loveshafts of swollen, heat-radiating manhood and so on, I completely forgot that there are people out there who NEED MY EXPERTISE on things other than breasts and erections. And so I give the second installment of
ASK A RUNNER!
…in which I answer honest-to-God real questions from runners like you, ESPECIALLY those special folks who posed questions on my “Ask a Runner!” page. Good job, kids.
Q: I have shoes and running clothes. What other gear might I need to be a truly successful runner? — Samuel, Austin, TX
A: Let’s make a nice little shopping list so you can better support the military-industrial-running complex. Here goes: