Archive for the ‘Rest Day’ Category

Thoughtful Discourse

I get more hits when I include beautiful-man pics. Go figure.

WEATHER: Fantastic.

MILES: Zero.  POW!

MILES THIS WEEK: Many.  Already.

WHERE TO: Nowhere.

MOOD: Exhausted.


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?

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Ask a Runner, Vol. 2

WEATHER: Gorgeous.



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


…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:

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"My heart says 'no,' but my loins say, 'Bring it AAAAWWWWWNNNN!'"

WEATHER: Sweet God, it is hot.




MOOD: Sweet God, I’m feeling hot.


A note to readers: Yes, there are several of you out there, but there are two of you in particular who made an attempt to raise me proper.  We all see how that turned out.  But out of deference to those two parental figures, whose opinions I care about greatly, I have painstakingly edited the below scene to make it more befitting of the way a lady should write.


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How to Run

A Camelbak? Really? Must you?

WEATHER: 82 and breezy and dry allllll day. 🙂




MOOD: Pooped.


First things first: a couple bits of bloggy housekeeping —

1) New page!  The getsuperfreakingpumped page will inspire you by suggesting a weekly running jam that will totally blow your freaking mind and send you out the door with happiness, style, and good viiiibes, bro.

2) A reminder — Ask a Runner! is where you can ask all those questions you have always wanted to ask about running but have been too afraid that I’d berate you.  Which I will, let’s be honest.

Speaking of things you don’t know, let’s talk form, kids.  Yesterday morning, as well as Monday, I saw these women out running…women who looked even more pained and inconvenienced than your average runner.  And while I normally would wonder why, I could immediately tell what the problem was — they were running with their knees pointed DIRECTLY AT EACH OTHER.  Not even joking.  This seems to be a thing among the female set especially — what, is being pigeon-toed and knock-kneed and splay-heeled something they taught you at finishing school, right between doily-starching and man-pleasuring?  Because I’m telling you right now, Florence — I don’t care if your hips are 4 feet wide and child-bearin’…there’s no excuse for running like that.

Same goes for all you people with the floppy wrists, chins jutted forward, loud sole-slapping noises, arched backs, and nodding heads like a bunch of those ponies they got on those beer commercials on the teevee.  Really.  You’re making the rest of us hurt.  My joints ache just watching you.  Put it away.  Put it all away and don’t run again.

Or you could perhaps learn.  You look smart.  OK, yes.  I have faith in you.  Let’s have a quick rundown of:


Step 1: Admission.

As with all 12-step programs, the 12 Steps of Running Form begin with admitting that you have a problem.  So slip a running shoe on your right hand and raise it and repeat after me: “I admit that I am powerless over my poor form and that my life has become unmanageable as a result.  I will never again clench my jaw, overstride, or wear Nikes, because those things are for losers.”

Step 2: Seeking a Higher Power.

Congrats.  You’re here.  ONWARD!

Step 3: Jog in place.

OK, here’s where the practical steps start, so take a deep breath and sort of jog in place.  Good.  OK, pick your feet up a little more, and….nice.

Step 4: Move forward.

So you’re not doing so bad at that, so maybe let’s move forward a bit.  Don’t strike your heel, land on the midfoot, don’t swing your hands in front of you…nice.  Wow.  You picked that up quick.  See how easy it is?  Great.  So let’s go to…


OK, so I know I picked on the ladies earlier, but honestly, guys?  I see you all all over this goddamn town, and there’s a large contingent of you out on your leisurely morning jogs, only it’s nowhere near leisurely or even pleasant-looking, since you’re all taking AS. BIG. OF. STEPS. AS. POSSIBLE.  Just this stupid boiiiiing! boiiiiiiing! boiiiiiiing! thing, and I know, you’re tall, you think you’re going fast, so you might as well just hunker down into every step and really just kick it allll out there, but really with every step it is as if you’re trying to tell the world, “IhaveahugeWAAAAAANG!  IhaveahugeWAAAAAANG!” and honestly, the rest of us are not impressed.  You’re inviting injury.  I hope you get it.  You tool.

Step 6: Take off that silly water apparatus.

Yeah, I know, it’s none of my business.  You wearing that water belt or that Camelbak is not hurting me, and to be honest I’m just being a big big insufferable snob by telling you what to do, yeah, I know, but.  Sweetie.  That’s why God made water fountains.  And Team in Training tables on Saturday mornings along Rock Creek Parkway for you to steal Gatorade cups from.  What — are they going to CHASE YOU DOWN?  Please.  Not if you’re not bounding like a freakshow or knee-knocking like a jerkface, they won’t.

Step 7: While you’re at it…

You know, that fuel belt was weighing you down an awful lot, and come to think of it, so are all those silly clothes you’re wearing.  Maybe we should all just run naked.  As Nature intended.  Yeah.  That might be better.  You go first.  Don’t worry.  I won’t look.  <covers eyes>


Hey!  Where ya’ goin’?  HEY!  Why are your shorts on?

Step 9: Baby, baby, lemme splain…

OK, so I didn’t look MUCH.

Step 10: Let’s start over.

OK.  We can do this.  We can do it more intuitively and empathically, how about that?  I’ll put on some Tori Amos, we’ll let our hair down, sit in a circle and talk about how our running form FEELS, eh?  Maybe toss a few warm fuzzies around…OK.  I’ll coach you through this.  Go.  If your running were an animal, what would it be?


A panda?  Now you’re just f**king with me.  Hahahahahahahahaha that’s just great.  Ohhh.  <wipes tear>  Ohhhh.  Awesome.

Step 12: We do not push our coach.  We do not-

Ow!  Hey!  Quit it!

**Next week: Removing a PowerGel that an angry runner has lodged up your nose.**


I mean…why ask why?  (Image from




WHERE TO: Anywhere I feel like!

MOOD: See this post’s title.


Today a lovely and close friend from college, who I will call Doris, called me.

“I’M LOSING MY MIND, DJ!” was the thesis of the call.  You see, Doris has runner’s knee, and has moved to Crazytown as a result.  The conversation made me strangely emotional, as I recalled my months on the DL.

Apparently, Doris’ husband (who is also — kickass! — training for the NYC marathon) essentially told her, “Calm down.  It’ll get better.”  And while, yes, the runner with a nagging but low-pain injury needs to take a chill pill and also develop a meaningful and close relationship with a physical therapist, STAT, telling them to “calm down” is about the equivalent of telling someone with ebola who is also bleeding out the eye sockets, “Walk it off, champ.  It’s just a sprain.”

Dramatic?  Yes.  Overstatement?  Probably.  But fiddle-dee-dee.  Bite your tongue.  To tell the Serious Runner not to run is like…well… <violin chorus cue> telling the sea to stop roaring like a restless lion.  Like telling the clouds to stop their inexorable dance across the heavens.  <oboes and timpani chime in> Like telling a daisy not to bloom its beautiful face toward the sky.  Like telling that little brat from across the street to stop trying to pee on your bicycle tires as you ride by.  <sopranos> Like telling a foul-mouthed blogger to stop using the word “boner” so much.

Some forces, friends, can’t be stopped.

So when Doris told me her worries and frustrations, I felt for her.

She said, “I see all these people with PERFECTLY GOOD KNEES not taking advantage of it!”

“I know!” I chimed in, rolling about on my bed at 11 AM.

“Like, do you know how GOOD YOU HAVE IT?”

“Dude!  Like, get up off your ass already,” I added, rolling over to my computer, consulting Bing image searches to compare the merits of shirtless-Prince-of-Persia-Jake-Gyllenhaal-covered-in-a-fine-layer-of-Arabian-Sand-grit versus shirtless-Gladiator-Russell-Crowe-covered-in-a-fine-layer-of-Coliseum-dirt-grit (revisionist history is SEXY, bitches!), and also whether I could survive on the sawdusty dregs from Friday’s trail mix left in the baggie in my work-backpack next to my bed, or whether the strenuous trek down two flights of stairs would be necessary so that I could score a few spoonfuls of Quik (shut your godawful mouth, haters; I don’t judge you for those nudie Carol Channing pics I found in your den).

See, even in light of Doris’ withdrawal, I was suffering myself from a mild case of burnout.  You know you need a day off when, even not-training for anything, you’re running enough that your plantar fasciitis is acting up and the word “fartlek” is no longer funny and your soul hurts when you see the giant mobs of Team in Training people out on the trails because YOUR running isn’t fighting disease or helping people or dutifully clogging the trails around Bethesda for the rest of the world (hey.  Just saying.).

Ever since my convalescence, I had been attempting to do every run with a good old can-do gung-ho grateful-for-my-health KAPOW! sort of spirit, but Jaysus.  Sometimes it feels so optimistic and perky and spunky that I want to punch myself in the face and do a self-administered swirly. So (sorry, Doris), I did the unthinkable — I took TWO STRAIGHT DAYS OFF.

I know.  Easy, tiger.  Soon I’ll start organizing my sock drawer by size and not color WHOOOOOOA I JUST BLEW MY FREAKING MIIIIIND.

Anyway.  Tomorrow is another long run.  Back on the horse, back to the sweaty drippy fun.  Mmmmm…..


Oh, and in other news, Madam Sixpack has a blog.  In which she tackles the big life questions, about God and love and war and conflict and pain and joy and loss and suffering and…oh, no, my mistake.  It’s about her love of reading about throbbing, painful erections.  ENJOY!

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.

My Bad, Universe.

Look! I brought you flowers AND the plague!


WEATHER: Overcast, constantly threatening rain without actually doing it.  Man the fuck up, nature.

WHERE TO: My bed, where I watched a terrible formulaic awesome episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

MOOD: Remorseful.


Today I succeeded in getting snippy or downright outwardly-bitchtastic with just about everyone I know, either over e-mail or face to face.  Better people than I would call this a “lack of self-control” or “personality deficiency.”  I personally choose to call it “how I deal with shit.”  Sleep-deprived, overworked, friend sleeping over for all of next week, new housemate moving in this weekend, two all-day school commitments next week, plus work.

<le sigh.  Clearly I’m not living the good life.>

Thus, I came home from work and collapsed on the bed and watched the most mindless crap I could think of.  I did not come home and run, and I most certainly did not come home and do schoolwork.  Which is where I now turn my attention.

So anyway.  If I had any contact with you today,* I am truly sorry about the vibes.  If you have no idea what I’m talking about, call me and I’ll flame you mercilessly for a few minutes.  Then you can be part of the club.


*Exception: gorgeous, distinguished-looking young man in the cafe this morning.  I was not mean to you; I held the door for you and made a valiant attempt to not give you the creeptastic eye.  Yes, you, guy with the two canes.  Even hobbled by some-congenital-defect-or-another, you looked divine.  Annnnd I now have a new stalker hangout.