Posts Tagged ‘Boston Marathon’

Pure, Delicious Inspiration

That is SO TRUE.

WEATHER: Gorgeous and autumnal, once again.

MILES: 8.5


WHERE TO: Georgetown, around that general area, back.



My dear readers, I don’t ask you for much.  I put up my posts and I hope you read them and derive some form of enjoyment.  I occasionally nuzzle your neck at night when I’m feeling lonely.  But now I ask you to sit there and nod understandingly as I explain to you that THE G.D. BOSTON MARATHON SOLD OUT IN ONE EFFING DAY AND EVEN THOUGH I DUTIFULLY LOGGED ON AT 9 A.M. THE SITE WAS DOWN AND BY THE TIME I GOT BACK ON THAT AFTERNOON IT WAS SOLD OUT, GODDAMMIT SO I WILL STOMP AROUND IN MY STRIPEY KNEE SOCKS AND YELL AND THROW MY BOWL OF FROZEN BROCCOLI AT THE WALL WHILE MY HOUSEMATES ROLL THEIR EYES AND WAIT FOR THE TANTRUM TO PASS HOLY FREAKING KNICKERBOCKERS WHY AM I YELLING.

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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.

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*

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.


The Boyfriend Analogy


WEATHER: 20 degrees and sunny.




WHERE TO: From Iwo Jima Memorial, across Key Bridge, over to the Rock Creek Park trail, and up through the park until our watches said it had been a bit over an hour.  And then back to Iwo Jima.

MOOD: Cold


Long run with S. today, up Rock Creek Parkway and back.  I had been considering a large bowl of oatmeal for brunch, with maybe a bowl of fruit on the side.  So naturally we went to Ray’s Hell Burger.  Having been eating quasi-vegetarian-ly for a while, and having not eaten red meat in at least 4 months, I was unsure.  Until I had a few bites, followed by a full-on mouthgasm, and had to lie down.

One topic on which S. and I talked today is the challenge of not showing off as a marathoner.  It’s a tough line to walk.  One tries not to bring it up, but then again — well, OK.  It takes up a lot of time.  It’s a daily companion.  It’s like a boyfriend.  So.  Imagine going through your life without telling anyone about your significant other because every time you did, you felt as if you were saying, “Ooh!  Look at me!  I’m dating So-and-so!  Lalala!”

But then someone at, say, happy hour brings up running and you just can’t help but get excited — “Oh, really?  Where do you run?  What races have you done?  ISN’TRUNNINGAMAZING??!?!!!?” you say, with a sort of creepy and disarming enthusiasm at having FOUND A KINDRED SPIRIT!  Maybe he’ll talk chafing with you!

But oh, now you’ve done it.  Because after rattling off all his achievements, large and small, then Mr. Happy Hour says,

“What races have you done?”

Now here you have a problem.  Do you say, “Oh, just a few here and there…” and hope Happy Hour leaves it there?  Or do you go for honesty?

Well, let’s assume you’re honest.

“Oh, I’ve done a few marathons.”  (Which, using my analogy, is the equivalent of saying, “Not only do I have a boyfriend, he’s HOT.  And LITERATE.”)

“Oh, which ones?”

“Twin Cities, Marine Corps, Grandma’s…” (“…and he’s employed…”)


“Boston…” (“…employed as a BRAIN SURGEON…”)

See, now Happy Hour is not so sure he’s happy he walked into this situation, but you’ve both gone down a path you can’t get off of, because once you tell someone you’ve run Boston, they HAVE to ask, “Ummm…how fast do you run?”

And so you respond by sort of muttering your qualifying time. (“Did I say ‘brain surgeon’?  Because I meant ‘brain surgeon AND a model AND an Italian chef AND the DC Fire Department’s resident HOTTIE…'”)

Happy Hour cocks his head, now clearly thinking you’re such a tool for having told him about your mad running skillz (boyfriend), and now he feels inadequate, and, to be honest, you feel kind of dirty, too, but someone is asking about your BOYFRIEND, for Chrissakes, and what are you supposed to do, just sort of shrug and say, “Meh, he’s OK”???  NO!  What did we learn in Girl Scouts?  HONESTY, kids!

“And how many have you run?”

And then you tell him your number.  (“Also, my boyfriend farts rainbows and knows where SEVEN HIDDEN G-SPOTS ARE.”)

Happy Hour, unable to take it, punches you in the face.  You slump to the floor, rubbing your jaw, a little stunned, but generally thinking, “Meh.  I probably deserved that.”


I think we can all learn a valuable lesson from this little parable: lie.  LIE. The next time someone asks me if I’m a runner, I’m going to go in the complete opposite direction.

“Ummm…I don’t have legs…”

I think this will work well.

Day 1 — SUCCESS!

WEATHER: 40 degrees F.





MOOD: Defiant.

TYPE OF RUN: Lying supine on floor, kneading stomach to facilitate digestion of excessive cookie dough consumption.


I did not run today.  I consider this a mark of pride, or at least I can rationalize as such.  I mean, there are all these fools out there who made big fat new year’s’ resolutions to run more, and so they went out running today.  They might go running tomorrow, depending on how much they’re doing the I-haven’t-run-since-the-Clinton-administration waddle.  They will roll over in bed on Sunday morning and say something about how it’s the Sabbath and Jesus/God/Yahweh/Allah/Earth Mother/Buddha/<secular humanist deity/Christopher Hitchens> doesn’t run on Sundays, right?  Right.  And so it will go.  But those people?  They are running today.

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