Posts Tagged ‘The Mountie’

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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Nostalgia Overload

Oh, Caaaaarleton, our alma maaaaaaaaaaater, we haaaail the maize and bluuuuue... (Image from

ON LOCATION! — In Minnesota/Iowa this week!

WEATHER: Big, hot sky.  No clouds.  No shade.  The usual Iowa-in-summer.



WHERE TO: Heaven (which is to say, “Northfield, Minnesota“), then home, which is arguably even better.

MOOD: Nostalgia-until-my-head-explodes.


My dear readers, I apologize for being remiss in posting.  It’s been a week full of travel and incoherentness, and as a result — a week of very little running.  I began writing this post from the library on my college campus, as I took a break from my 5-year college reunion festivities. Rest was a necessity, given the exhaustion I had from partaking in three truly taxing activities:

1) Drinking

2) Giving the “here’s-what-I-do-now-and-what-about-YOU?” speech

3) Raucous laughter.

…the raucous laughter being the result of the cadre of women with whom I associated in college, all of whom miraculously stopped their world-domination plans to come back to school for 4 days.  Hanging-out-time with these women is truly exhausting because of the competitive nature of our conversations, in which we all try to (a) out-loud and (b) out-dirty each other.  As I sat in the library drafting this post, in fact, The Bear began G-chatting me.  She sent the following messages:


grope grope”

<chewbacca noise>”
And while this does not capture the full depth of the filthy discourse in which we ladies generally partake, it at least gives you a measure of the maturity level.
And as it turned out, running became a prominent part of the weekend after all, and not just because of my midday detox jogs through town.  No, I might add that one highlight of the 2010 Carleton College Reunion was the Class of 1985’s Saturday-night dance party getting streaked.  I have absolutely no idea what kind of beautiful, ballsy, uninhibited pervs would do such a thing, but when I find out, I will by all means let you know.
Anyway, the whole thing required a lengthy Sunday-night sleep as well as a lengthy Monday-morning running-and-stomach-discomfort-fest to get out of the system.  And yet I am pretty sure that I am still slightly sore from dancing and laughing so hard, which I think we can agree is the mark of a weekend well-spent.
Today I am back in Iowa, and my jog this morning was full of the hallmarks of an Iowa run: no shade or clouds, for one, and a pervasive hot-ness that is sort of surprising.  Which is generally bad, but it intensifies the also-pervasive smell of soil, which if you don’t understand, you just won’t understand (if you understand…).  But there are new aspect this time around as well…for instance, a nearby road construction project has increased the traffic on my family’s road from 1 car per day (usually ours) to a veritable gridlock of 7 or 8 per day…all of whom drove by me as I shirtlessly tromped down the gravel road.  All also seemed to be filled to the brim with small screaming children, who either gave me the thumbs-up or a laughing fit as they kicked up gravel all over my sweaty body.  Fortunately, as I wiped the sweat-and-dust-paste from my body, I had a few new wind-turbine colonies in the distance to contemplate. 
More disturbingly, however, I was not greeted by a snuffling, hyper pack of swine as I ran up onto the yard.  This is because my father is perpetually fidgeting over the decision of whether or not to continue raising animals.  I’m not sure what he thinks he will do with his time, but my guess is taht he will move a few buildings.  Since all his daughters have left home, the man has taken to rearranging buildings the way that the rest of us rearrange furniture.  Except, of course, massive forklifts, bulldozers, tractor trailers, and cement mixers generally don’t come into play when I’m moving an ottoman.  My dad, on the other hand, gets to hang out with a large group of men and go “BRRRRRMMMMMMM” while they slide a garage from the south side of the house to the southWEST side. 
The point of this story is that every time I come home I get a pretty good idea of where I get my sort of obsessive squirrelliness.  So when Dad asks, “How can you run so much?” I can generally answer “How can you buy 75 pigs on a whim and then move the machine shed 20 feet?”  And he will say, “Ah, touche.”  Or, more realistically, “Aaaagh, don’t be a smartass.” 
Furthermore, Mom eats peanut butter with a spoon (and also a healthy sense of gusto).  Another “where-is-that-from” question solved.
That’s all I got.

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.

Greener (Read: More Masochistic) Pastures

Soon I will look like Dean. Making me the scariest woman ever.

WEATHER: 45 — uncharacteristically cold for May in DC.

MILES: 10, with 8 hill repeats over by the Duke Ellington Bridge

MILES THIS WEEK: 13 (counting my sissy hung-over attempt at running yesterday)

WHERE TO: Adams Morgan, Duke Ellington Bridge, Rock Creek Parkway a little way, home.

MOOD: New lease on life (well, almost).


Well, readers, after a long lapse filled with schoolwork, stress, schoolwork, stress-baking, and a kegger at my house last weekend, I am back with the blog-posting and ready to answer all your running-related questions, as well as to inform you about the finer points of my running, like shinsplints, mental toughness, and intestinal woe.  Things are great in grad-school land, except I have yet to get the final OK on my thesis (move it along, advisors…) and the OK from my grad school that I passed the (impossible and arbitrarily-graded, from my understanding) language exit exam (why do you hate me, GWU?  WHY?).

This morning’s run was great — I wore my day-glo-yellow 2009 Boston Marathon t-shirt and did hill repeats, which made me feel like a bad-ass.  The shirt being relevant here because (sad but true) sometimes wearing a Boston shirt is all that makes me want to get through interval workouts, because interval workouts are as much fun as pap smears (or ear-peeing, as an earlier post put it).

But on to the point, which is, of course, what race to do next.  As a still-poor almost-graduated grad student, I can’t be gallavanting off to God-knows-where just to pound the shit out of my legs.  So we’re staying local.  Which will actually be kind of fun.  To wit:

1) Marine Corps Marathon.  Yeah, I had promised myself I’d try something new this year, but then the Mountie e-mailed me, saying she was doing it.  And since I usually feel selfish and guilty calling up all my friends/coworkers/etc. and telling them to come stand on a chilly corner in Crystal City for 3 hours only to see me jog by in a soggy, mildly coherent, burgundy-faced mess late in the morning, I thought it might be nice to have someone to share the guilt with. So come October 31, the Mountie and I will be rocking that shit, after which I hope she will do me the honor of joining me for my customary shameless use-my-plate-as-a-trough-brunch-fest.

2) JFK 50-Miler.  OK.  I have a little tale to tell you, and it starts back in April 2004, when I was studying abroad in London.  I was 6 years younger and 25 pounds heavier and, on the particular night in question, 12 beers drunker than I am now.  My friend Monica and I had been jogging together every day in Hyde Park, and so naturally we thought the Twin Cities Marathon would be a good first race.

“DJ!  Let’s do it!” she screamed.

I raised my fists triumphantly and fell off my bar stool.

On Saturday night, 10 marathons later but this time only about 5-beers drunk, I found myself having a similar conversation with my friend Rusty.

“Let’s do the JFK 50-miler!” he screamed.

I raised my fists triumphantly and sloshed beer down my front.

Ultramarathons — these decisions are best made while drunk.

So I will be doing the JFK 50-Miler, a race that sounds awesomely hardcore.  I quote the Reston Runners website dedicated to this race:

“Almost all runners experience some serious low points during the run where you forget that it’s actually more fun than the MCM. Usually this occurs between 25-35 miles. Expect this. Know that this will pass. Second, third and fourth winds are almost guaranteed. You are not allowed to drop out because you are tired. You are only allowed to drop out if you are injured. You are not allowed to pretend you are injured.”

…AWESOME.  And then there are the tips for crews:

“When your runner arrives, don’t expect him/her to be able to do anything or think clearly. … Offer food- don’t be offended if they refuse-ask again.”

Honestly, this might sound insufferable, but I think this is a logical next step.  I mean, I finish a marathon now and sort of shrug and limp home, either pumped or depressed about my time.  Now I will run a race in which my ONLY GOAL will be to finish.  I will finish and have my post-race/post-partum laugh-cry and then get in the car for a post-race/post-partum flipout at how awesome I feel.  Which will probably involve more delirious laugh-crying.


OK, so you may find this all to be an absolutely ridiculous plan, but you have to agree that reading the blog posts will be entertaining.  You’re excited.  Don’t lie.  So here’s to new projects and feeding the obsessive beast that is running.  Mmmmmm, this will ROCK.

Calming Down…

Let the Annual Foodgasm Commence!

OK, team.  Auntie DJ is sorry she got all superpissed about…well, everything last week.  I’ve gone to my corner, come back a new woman, blah blah…

The crazy has been coming back to a certain degree.  Remember my tarot card post?  That was riiiight when this whole injury started nagging away.  A part of me has wondered if perhaps the tarot cards brought this on — that the unholy demon that has attached itself to my left patella and has been humping away at it for a month and a half was brought home from Barnes and Noble in that one fateful seafoam green box.  So when I came home from school in my usual exhausted heap the other night, that little part of me reached for the cards and held them dramatically above the kitchen garbage can, ready to send them the way of coffee grounds and Red Bull cans I’ve slammajammed at 3 AM during paper-writing-fests.

But hey.  Let’s all calm down for a second, because we know which “part of me” is talking here.  It’s the part of me that went to Bible camp and came away convinced that Ouija boards (manufactured by Satan himself) (oops…no, I was mistaken…Parker Brothers) would condemn me to a life of damnation and sadness and that perfectly nice gay people would one day be dragged into the fiery pit to assume their places alongside murderers, single mothers, genociders, and Buddhists.

So I did not throw away the cards.  I decided to take a deep Goddamn breath, close my eyes, count to ten, sing a few calming choruses of Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend,” and take stock of life.

The truth is that I’ve learned a few extremely valuable lessons in this time off from running.  Yes, this is where the oboe starts playing and we all get didactic-ified.  So sit down, sack up, and deal with it, pussy.

1) If I stop running, I will not cease to exist.

…not that I thought I would actually wink out of existence upon not doing my morning fartleks (but then, who knows?  I had never tried it.).  But it sort of was my “thing.”  It was how people (people who don’t know me terribly well, mind you, but still) introduced me at parties.  And somehow — though I am a smart, fantastically interesting person — I let it become my definition.  Which is scary, because we’ve all met that guy who can ONLY TALK ABOUT WEIGHT-LIFTING, and eventually we just want to punch ourselves in the teeth just hearing him talk about Romanian dead-lifts and squat-thrusts and Muscle Man 9000 Creatine Powder.  I fear that I was becoming VO2-max-and-shin-splints girl.  Perhaps I was.  And then it disappeared for <shudder, hands to mouth> SIX WHOLE WEEKS.  And I only barely held on to my sanity.  Which leads me to:

2) I need to take a freaking chill pill.

Yeah.  Know who’s in friggin’ grad school?  Me.  Know who needs to graduate and find a job?  Me.  Know who let running, a running injury, and then freaking the shit out about a running injury get in the way of a crapload of schoolwork?  This kid.

3) If I stop running, I will not become morbidly obese.

Militant feminist though I may be, the patriarchy’s obsession with having a kickin’ bod is still residing comfortably in my head.  And to be perfectly, brutally honest, it took me two or three weeks of doing a crapload of elliptical and subsisting on dust and sparkling water to understand that I wouldn’t be muffin-top-ing all up in everyone’s face if I didn’t get to jog every morning.  Sad?  Perhaps.  But we’ve learned our lesson.  As I type this, in fact, I am currently chomping down a handful of nature’s most perfect food, Cadbury Mini-Eggs (Slogan: “Ruining your life deliciously — every spring since you were 5.”).

4) Yoga is really kind of fun.

And here I thought I’d hate it.  But it allows me to be strong, flexible, and oh yeah make lots of fun observations about the yoga culture.  For example:

5) Most men only go to yoga when dragged by their girlfriends.

OK.  I hate gender-based generalizations.  I really do.  And I wish I could say differently, but this appears true in 99 cases out of 100.  Trust me, ladies, next time you’re hoisting your thigh over your shoulder to the strains of Thievery Corporation, take a glance over at Kevin.  He hates every second of this.  He’s red and shaking not because of a good workout but because his scrotum is stretched so thin it’s transparent.  Know what?  Next week, when Heated Bikram 1-2 rolls around, let ol’ Kevin stay home and drink bourbon and scratch his hairy ass (How do I know it’s hairy?  He was doing 20 gazillion downward dogs in front of me in those silly shorts you made him wear, OK, Brenda?) and sniff your undies for a few hours.  You’ll both be happier.

6) Physical therapy works…eventually.

How do I know?  Because…

HOLY FUCKING GOD I RAN EIGHT MILES TODAY WITH MINIMAL PAIN AND I FELT LIKE A REAL PERSON AGAIN!  I mean, OK, yes, I could be a person without running, but I was also a person who was forgetting what Georgetown or the Mall looked like or what it feels like to blow past some 50-year-old buzz-cut tool who refuses to let a girl of all things pass him.

And then?  You guys?  I came home?  And walked down some stairs?  And felt almost NO CLICKING!  How did this happen?  WHO CARES, BITCHEZ?  TOUCH MY KNEE AND BELIEVE, YE WHO DOUBT ME!

Interestingly, a very good friend and fellow marathoner, who I will call The Mountie, has been nursing runner’s knee for I think even a little longer than me, and she also started magically getting better this week.  It’s, like, a CONNECTION, man.  Like we just KNOW in our bones that it’s HEALING TIME, right?  Far out, yo…

Anyway.  I salute you, Mountie.  We are kicking this.  Tasty-style.  I’d invite Mountie to do a victory dance with me, but she’d put me to shame.  So I’ll just sit here in the corner and sing a triumphant rendition of the Indiana Jones theme song while she busts a move.  Are you all watching?  Goddamn right you are.  This is what VICTORY looks and sounds like in the Republic of DJ — off-key and hilarious, yet strangely sexual.

Yes, I’m aroused, too.  It’s OK.  Embrace it.