Posts Tagged ‘Howard U.’

Recovering from Injury! (Stage 8)

Rest in peace, little buddy. I hardly deserved you.

WEATHER: Coolish (75 maybe?) but humid as all get out.



WHERE TO: Metropolitan Branch Trail, Catholic U, Howard U Reservoir, etc.

MOOD: Exhausted from a long weekend involving 24 hours of epic food poisoning, a subsequent ice cream binge, a too-long post-food-poisoning Sunday long run, and a Grey’s Anatomy binge (which, like the 4 servings of ice cream, feels so right at the time, until you feel dirty and wish you hadn’t)


Recovering from Injury: Stage 8 — Leaving your iPod in the little gel-pouch on your running shorts and thus accidentally running the little fellow through the washing machine

Sigh.  Happens to the best dimmest of us.  <muffled sob>

Please, drop what you’re doing today and observe a few moments of silence for Little Blue.  He played a damn good Enrique tune.

Economic Stimulus!

WEATHER: Fantastic.


MILES THIS WEEK: A bajillion, plus 6.

WHERE TO: Catholic University, Howard U. Reservoir.

MOOD: Renewed.


Well, hi there, everyone.  I’m back from the great blog-vacation, and I have renewed zeal and vigor for informing your beautiful asses about all things running.

During my time off, life continued generally as it usually does (i.e., clumsily aping the motions of a successful journalist), but I did go on a quick vacation up to Cape Ann, Massachusetts, where I saw two wonderful, wonderful friends from college marry each other. I cried like a total weenie, this is true, but I managed to bite off both ends of a Twizzler and use it as a straw through which I drank eight beers and subsequently did the “throwing sparkles dance” AND the “butt dance” for several hours regain my composure in fine style and then hit shamelessly on the wedding officiant tell the bride and groom how much they have meant to my life.

And, of course, I ran.  The mileage has further pushed into uncharted territory. I won’t tell you exactly how many total miles I am now running per week–a figure that actually sort of troubles even me at this point–but it’s smaller than the number of chickens (nesting hens, not roosters) that you can fit in a U-Haul and bigger than a breadbox.

Seriously, the break was a good time to regroup, take a deep breath, brainstorm, and clip my toenails, and let me tell you, I think we’re going to be better than ever here at The Running Log. The operation is growing, and I can feel new opportunities awaiting this enterprise around every corner.  And so it is with great pleasure that I announce:


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Girrrrrl, We Got to TALK.

WEATHER: 82 with 542% humidity at SIX A.M., YOU GUYS.

MILES: 5.5


WHERE TO: Howard U. reservoir, Northeast, etc.

MOOD: Wet.


OMG, you guys!  So much to tell you all!  It has been FOREVER!  Go get your latte and settle in, because we got to get REAL with each other, sister, and just dish.  Here.  I’ll go first:

1) Registration for the JFK 50-miler started on the first of July, which I just realized yesterday.  My marathon times strangely enough qualify me for guaranteed entry, so I should just do it, right?  <shiver> <squirm>  I should.  I mean, yes, it’s $150, but that’s sort of smart of those wily race organizers, making sure you put your money where your blackened-big-toenail is up-front, because who is going to back out of a $150 race?

I know what you’re thinking:

“You might.  …Back out, I mean.”

No, I won’t.

“Are you crazy?”

Stop asking me that.

“Are these race organizers ridiculously old-school, requiring an actual paper form sent via mail with a paper check and even an SASE, even though no one even knows what an SASE is anymore?”

They sure are.  …Ridiculously old-school, I mean.

“Your legs look particularly ravishing today.”

Don’t I know it.

2) Vignette from my Saturday long run, at ca. mile 15.  I’m standing by the Jefferson Memorial, slammajamming a neon-green-flavored Gatorade, when a man and his family step off a Japanese tour bus.

Man: <looks me up and down, particularly my blindingly white and not terribly attractive but nevertheless bare stomach>

Me: <chug gulp slobber gulp dribble>

Man: <turns to family> <gestures at me> <LOUD STRING OF UNINTELLIGIBLE JAPANESE SYLLABLES>

Family: <loud laughter>

Me: <slightly more abashed> <swig gulp gulp> <scamper away>

I have the distinct feeling that I got majorly zinged.

3) New tattoo!  I won’t tell you where it is, but I will say it’s small, discreet, in a place that my sports bra covers, and it’s not my right bosom or left bosom.

Well.  That was fun.  And now, off to start my next post, as suggested by Madam Sixpack on the Ask a Runner! page.  See?  I do take suggestions.  But only non-stupid ones.

Protected: Too much change, too many emotions. I need to lie down.

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Chill the f**k out; I got this.

WEATHER: 22 degrees, sunny.

MILES: 5.5



WHERE TO: Up around the Howard U. Reservoir, down towards-but-not-quite-to Dupont Circle, back via a complicated winding route that you wouldn’t understand because it involves a lot of math.

MOOD: Ready for action.  And love.


Class starts tonight.  I actually sit in a Basement Gelman Library computer lab as I type this, ready to get down on some chi squares, standard deviations, and various other Greek mathy letters that will become my secret on-the-side hotties (running being my real lifemate for the next 4 months) (OK, probably more like 4 decades) until school is out.

I’m looking forward to ending grad school and being able to devote more time to running, guitar-ing, cooking, baking, etc. … so much so that I’ve already begun planning THE RAGER OF THE CENTURY for sometime in May.  If you’re in DC, swing by.  I’ll do kegstands with you.  Ooooh, so excited.  Let the countdown begin!

That rosy optimism happy rant said, I did have my first freak-out cry of the term today, having lunch w/ my fellow running friend, C-dawg.


Me: <faux-confidently explaining my thesis-class-capstone-job load for the term>

C-dawg: “You have HOW much work to do this term?”

Me: <falls off chair, sobs>

C-dawg: <pats DJ’s arm>  Uh…there, there?

We’re batting 1.000 in terms of crying days:days of school ratios.  Hooray!  Batting 1.000!  That’s usually good, right?  Right.

So.  The mantra for the next 4 months: “Everybody, chill the f**k out; I got this.”  Because I do, dammit.