Archive for the ‘Tempo Runs’ Category

Dreams Can Come True!

Everybody! Kerri wants you to succeed! (Source:

WEATHER: Beautiful.  Warm but not humid, and sunny and beautiful and beautiful.



WHERE TO: All of it.

MOOD: Glowing.


For those of you scoring at home (or for those home alone) <rim shot>, I have just over three months to get myself in prime condition to qualify for the Olympic ultramarathon trials.  So it’s time to get crackin’!  I hear that Alberto Salazar trained for a whole 4 months before he ran in the Olympics, so I have some time to make up if I want to achieve my dream. And as it turns out, if you don’t know how to accomplish any particular goal, there is a wealth of information out there telling you exactly how to do anything–anything–you set your mind to.  And so, using one of the shortest checklists that I could find for how to accomplish a goal, I give you:


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Oh good God.

WEATHER: Mercifully better (which is to say, 93 degrees).

MILES: 12.


WHERE TO: Georgetown, Cleveland Park, Glover Park, etc.

MOOD: Woop!


Jessica released from the kiss of true love and looked deeply into Ryan’s eyes.  She thought that he might be The One.

“I should let you know,” he said, “I’m a physical therapist AND a trained masseuse aside from this job, so really I’ll only be home at night to rub your shoulders, make sure you never get injured, and sleep with you.  That’s about it.”

He was, indeed, The One.

Jessica’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket.  She answered, only to hear Zuckerman’s assistant in an absolute frenzy.

“Mr. Zuckerman was ambushed by a bunch of angry hipsters wielding banana creme pies and sharp pointy sticks and is now in a humiliation-induced seclusion for the rest of his life!  Can you take over his column indefinitely?”

“Absolutely!” chirped Jessica.

Just then, a truck crashed through the plate glass windows on the front of the store.  Jessica and Ryan raised their forearms, blocking the spray of glass.  A few shards scraped Jessica’s hand.

The truck driver, unharmed, came charging in.  “I’m so sorry I smashed the store with my Diet Coke truck and injured you!  Please accept a lifetime supply of Diet Coke as compensation!”

“OK!” said Jessica.

An elderly-but-healthful-looking yellow lab then scampered in through where the windows until recently had been.

“Buford!” yelled Jessica, recognizing the dog she had lost at 10 years of age.

A paperboy ran through the streets.  “Extra!  Extra!  Eating excess amounts of peanut butter with a spoon cures cancer and all other afflictions!  Also works with raw cookie dough!”

Jessica grew weak in the knees.

Her phone buzzed again.  “Hello, Ms. Boudoir!” said the voice on the other end of the line.  “Boston Athletic Association here, letting you know that you are just so damn talented that we will give you automatic entry for the rest of your life.  Entry fees waived, of course.  Cheers!”

Jessica giggled giddily.

“Did I mention that I hate it when women wear brassieres?” said Ryan.  “You should probably just never wear one.”

Jessica died of happiness (metaphorically speaking, of course, for she was still alive enough to live happily ever and ever after).

THE END!!!!!!!!!


<lights post-coital post-romance-novel cigarette>

Don’t act like you’re not impressed.

ROMANCE! (Part 1 of 7)

.......what the WHAT?

WEATHER: Take a guess.

MILES: 10.


WHERE TO: Lincoln Park, Mall, Lincoln Memorial, home

MOOD: Sensual.


I’ve realized that I’ve been an absolute hellbitch lately, mostly due to just about the worst week at work ever last week (“Who taught me how to write?  Drunk baboons?”), combined with a tiring running weekend (“I will PEE ON EVERY NON-WORKING WATER FOUNTAIN I FIND, I SWEAR TO GOD, WASHINGTON, DC!”), which has made me less than pleasant to live with (“Bring me the head of whatever ass-hat loaded this dishwasher!”).

Life is taxing sometimes, dear readers.  Sometimes it’s all too much.  Sometimes life voms on your shoes and steals your lollipop.  Sometimes you need an escape.  Sometimes you want to light some candles and get down with your bad self in a bubble bath with a box of Godiva and a glass of Cabernet and an Enya CD while breathing winsomely, “Calgon, take me AWAY!”

Sometimes, girlfriend, you need romance.

And so I am here to deliver you from your hellish daily life with a romantic story, delivered to you in serial format…partially in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for more running-log goodness, and partially…no, actually, mostly in an attempt to get you to keep comin’ back for the goods.

Tonight, I bring you part 1 of 7.  Why seven?  Well, I’ve always found seven to be the most sensual of the single-digit integers.

So, without further ado, I bring you:


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The Universe Works in Mysterious Ways…

Dude this is EXACTLY HOW I LOOKED! (Photo courtesy of one of the first pics that popped up when I Googled "road rash")

WEATHER: I want to shower every 5 minutes.

MILES: 10?


WHERE TO: Adams Morgan, National Cathedral, Georgetown, Dupont Circle.

MOOD: Pensive.


It has been too long since my last post, a fact that was sloshing around in my head as I trotted through Georgetown this morning.  And then the universe gave me something to write about.

I saw this dude with no shirt, red shorts.  From the back and two blocks away, he looked to be about 45 or so (can I tell? YES I CAN.).  And magically, it always seems to be the quick, sinewy, middle-aged-dudes who go about my speed, so I thought this would be the perfect rabbit for me to chase for my last few miles.  I picked up the pace, springing along at a good clip, ready for the thrill of the chase, the joy of catching another runner, the lovely wild and free sensation, lalala.

“I will write tonight about the thrill of the chase, the joy of catching another runner, the lovely WHY ARE MY FEET DUMBASSES OH NOOOOOOO…”

And soon I was skidding along Q Street, my feet having caught a sidewalk brick that was just the teeeenist bit out of place, which sent me stumbling and spinning along so that, by the time I got a hold of myself and the momentum had stopped, I had scrapes along my ankle, hip, elbow, hand, shoulder, and somehow my right shoulder blade.  Furthermore, I am both proud and ashamed to say that I was going so fast that I’m pretty sure I bounced.

So I stood, wiped off the grit, inspected the damage, and was horrified to see a woman walking toward me with her dog baaaawwwwww someone saw that!

This very well-dressed, white-haired, glassy-eyed lady walked up and said placidly, “It’s a beautiful morning for a run!”

Whoa.  Hey.  Is this broad messing with me? <Irony scan>  Huh.  No…..

ME: <picking gravel out of my upper thigh/ass> Yes…yes…beautiful…?

SHE: <not even really catching my eye, continuing walking past> Just beautiful!  Much better than yesterday!

ME: <dabbing at blood> Um…a little help?

SHE: <humming contentedly, wandering off>

I suppose I’m a little at a loss for what the moral of all this is, or if there is some deeper hidden meaning to this story, or if I need to justify even why I told it to you at all, blog-readers.  Except to merely point out that this is what I go through just to put up blog posts to entertain you, and it’s a thankless job I tell you what, and you just come home and put your feet up and ask where’s dinner, where’s the paper, where’s my blog post well HERE!  Your dinner is burned, the dog pooped on and then ate your paper, my body is scarred and ruined, but oh well, at least your BLOG POST IS DONE BAAAAAAAAAAA <sniffle> THINGS USED TO BE DIFFERENT WITH US!  We used to just stay up all night cuddling, remember?  Wasn’t that great?  There are other ways to be intimate, you know!  <face in hands, wailing>


Oh, by the way, The Mountie has a new blog, and you should read it.  In it, she chronicles her summer in Alaska — living, learning, loving, and only occasionally being eaten by polar bears and penguins.

Running with the Pagan Spirits

WEATHER: 30 degrees

MILES: 10.5, including 2 x 15-min. tempo runs



WHERE TO: Down Rhode Island Ave., to K Street, to Georgetown, up Wisconsin Ave., across on Macomb Ave. to Connecticut Ave., then Dupont Circle, then home.  In case you cared to know.

MOOD: Stress-relieving


So here’s the thing: a new school semester has begun, and, to be honest, I can’t come up with something fresh and insightful (because what is more insightful than jokes about pee and g-spots?) every day.  So we are enlisting the assistance of a nifty hobby I’ve taken up since Christmas, in the interest of procrastinating schoolwork: Tarot-card-reading.  I’m just going to draw a card at random and apply it to my lovely morning tempo run, which went better than expected.

Now, I know there are those of my friends and acquaintances reading this who, for various spiritual reasons, do not approve of occult-based spiritual practices, even those based upon decks and books bought out of sheer boredom off the bargain rack at the only Barnes & Noble within driving distance of my fantastically isolated home while Christmas shopping with my mom.  And I respect that.  I very much do.  But I also feel that, if you feel that Tarot should be paid no mind at all, there is little greater disrespect that can be paid to it than inclusion on a 3rd-rate running blog maintained by a frayed-nerved, sleep-deprived, romantically challenged twenty-something wannabe writer who has run out of ideas.


Today’s running card:

Look at 'er. She's just OWNING that chair.

So.  The Queen of Wands, according to a random (but very informative) Tarot blog I found, “is a passionate, confident, powerful woman. She’s full of life and expects to achieve anything she desires. The fires in the background remind us that her energy can become destructive, if unchecked. Beneath her throne, the cat waits to pounce. She is completely connected to her animal instincts.”

Also note that the accompanying card (at left) shows a distinctly Xena-like, almost tranny-ish lady who is definitely working the power stance on that chair.

Ummm…well, I did kick a few cats while I was running today…so check off the “destructive” and “animal instincts” parts.

Huh.  This is a toughy.

Basically this lady looks like she set fire to a village, found a chair, put her pet cat down and pulled out her sword for a leisurely polishing while she celebrated the spoils of victory.  “Yep.  I got it goin’ on,” she’s saying.

I did not set fire to a village this morning — I hocked up a few lugies (sp?) on the Georgetown sidewalks.  And when I got home I did the First-Street-striptease (unzip shirts, untie tights, pull out keys, take off hat and gloves, all while jogging up to house) so that when I got in the house I could RIPITALLOFF and jump straight into the shower, because living in a house with four women, one has to JUMP on that shower when it’s open, because sometimes it seems that roommate so-and-so is just WAITING to hear your keys in the front door, and then takes THAT (and NOT her alarm clock) as her wake-up call to get herself into the shower for what I presume is wax-everything-fest-2010, judging from the time it takes.*

So I left sweaty clothes and spit in my wake, sat down in my crappy Target desk chair, and brandished my hair dryer and make-up for a looking-good session in front of my MacBook, because, OK, no I do NOT own a mirror, so Photo Booth is just going to have to do.  And then my oatmeal spilled all over my bag on my way to work.

Once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Clearly tarot is unlocking the universe for me.  I’m going to bed.


*Housemates: if you read this, I take major creative license, I realize.  Don’t hate me or spit in my peanut butter.

Braceface? What are you doing here?

WEATHER: 28 degrees at running time.

MILES: 10, intended to include a 2 x 15-min tempo run but which ended up being just a 10-mile medium-paced wander around Georgetown/Glover Park/Cleveland Park/etc.





I did 10 miles even after a night of semi-quality sleep that involved dreams about being 14 again and dating my freshman-in-high-school boyfriend, who I shall hereinafter call Braces.  Braces was making macaroni and cheese and furthermore informed me that he was buying a parakeet and running off with The Worst Woman to Attend Our High School Ever (hereinafter TWWTAOHSE) (or perhaps just “Bitchtastic”).

Anyway.  It was stressful.

So I didn’t exactly “do” the “tempo” part of my run this morning.  In fact, I mainly just ran in a way that “felt good” and probably ended up “being on average as fast” as a “tempo” “run” might be, any”way.”  Is my hardassery slipping???

Meh.  I did 10 anyway.  And it was chilly.

Also, today’s question — why does the McDonald’s in Adams Morgan play booty music outside at like 6:30 AM?