At It Again

On May 2nd, 2010, I completed the New Jersey Half Marathon.

A triumphant moment.

After months of training through icy winter weather and pushing myself farther than I ever thought imaginable, I crossed the finish line in just under 3 hours. On top of that, I raised (with many of our readers' help) $2600 for the Leukemia Lymphoma Society through Team In Training. The carb-loading pasta orgy that took place the night before the race was bliss. The actual race? Brutal. The weather was unseasonably warm. And in warm I mean so goddamn hot that I got a tan from the asphalt. There was also a lack of water stations so dehydration was a very real issue. I walked more than I planned and my time suffered for it. But I--a gym class failure--finished. If they weren't playing Michael Jackson at the mile two marker, I might have given up right then. If it weren't for the kindness of the Long Branch citizens turning their hoses and sprinklers on us, I might have passed out. If I didn't have my trainer and friend Jenn by my side, I would've talked myself out of the whole stupid thing and found the nearest air conditioner. If it wasn't for TNT members and my family and friends cheering, I might not have been smiling when I crossed the finish line. 

This helped too:

Encouragement I can get behind.

I thought a lot about the wine. Especially cold wine. Upon returning to Manhattan, I promptly ate my body weight in brunch (my own and that of those around me), downed about 10 cocktails, and went to bed for twelve hours. A glorious finish.

So what did I do after completing an unbelievably insane goal that my friend Scott talked me into all that time ago? I stopped running, took a trip to France, and gained about 20 pounds through cheese and macarons alone. There was one point where I even stuffed a croissant with ice cream. And ate it. With gusto and glee.

Yeah, this happened.

Then I came home and I dabbled in running. But I also continued to dabble in eating. And then the temperature dropped and I turned to hibernation. I abandoned running altogether. I picked up a bad Westville takeout habit. Every now and then I would look outside at the dark days of wintry mixes and snowpocalypses and wonder to myself, "Did I really run ten miles in this last year? Outside? Sometimes twice a week? Surely that never happened." And if it weren't for the photo evidence and this blog, it would feel like my accomplishment never really happened at all. Through the holidays and into 2011, I put on another thirty pounds...a fact that I just discovered by weighing myself for the first time in months.

The weather is thawing now and I had the opportunity to put on a dress recently. I should've been thrilled, but the truth is, my thighs quickly became so glued together that it was painful. No amount of baby powder or runner's glide would unstick them. This small moment (and not so small chafing rash) was a turning point. It wasn't the increasing tightness of my clothes or my inability to attempt a mile...though those were factors too. The fact of the matter is that I am the heaviest I have ever been, so out of the shape that I feel like I'm starting all over again, and am starting to think with concern, for the first time, about what this could mean for my health. The half marathon is a distant memory and I need to remember what I'm capable of again.

No, I don't plan to run a marathon anytime soon. Or even a half marathon for that matter. I did it, it's over with and I'm in no rush to do it again. But it is time to start running again. I hope you'll join me.

Here's to new beginnings...and trying to love the road.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming (soon, I hope)

Bloggers,

This is the longest I've gone without blogging since Celeste and I started this journey back in November -- and with good reason. Almost two weeks ago while charging through a TNT hill work-out, I felt a searing pain on the top of my left foot (the same spot that gave me grief a couple months back). Sprinting uphill wasn't the problem; on the downward recovery, I couldn't hit the ground without hurting. I figured I'd show some restraint, cut practice short, and let my foot heal. The damage, however, had already been done. After hustling around the city for a week, not running, and feeling only minimal relief, I took Coach Mom's advice and went to see a podiatrist. I had resisted for a few days because I was nervous about the recurring nature of the pain. I didn't want to be told that there was some chronic issue with my foot.

Highly recommended by a co-worker of mine, the doctor did not disappoint. She conducted a thorough foot exam (and sent me for an x-ray) and concluded that the problem was with the fit of my sneakers and how tightly I've been lacing them for the past few months; she suggested I see a physical therapist and invest in new shoes.

Who am I to disagree with medically-mandated shopping? The pain having subsided, I trekked uptown to JackRabbit Sports earlier this weekend and spent an hour with an outstanding salesman (shout-out to Mark on 14th Street) who recommended a wider, more padded sneaker. Enter the Asics Nimbus wide (read: fatty) model. Named after a puffy breed of cloud, the shoes are spectacularly comfortable; I couldn't wait to get in them and hit the road again. After being off my feet for a week and a half, I prepared myself to start slowly, trying a 7 or 8-miler to get my body back into a groove before upping mileage to pre-injury distances. I laced up last night and, loving the balmy (for February) evening air, felt amazing heading down the FDR on the route you all know by now is one of my favorites in the city.

Somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge, however, disaster struck. I tripped over some errant litter on the walking path and fell to the ground, twisting my left foot and landing on my side. I stood up to regain my bearing and found that I couldn't put any pressure on it without experiencing piercing pain. Sans cell phone and cash (wielding only my keys and a subway card), I literally hobbled down some side street with no clue how I would get myself back to my apartment. Searching fruitlessly for the 6 stop near the Brooklyn Bridge, I stopped at a pay phone and cried while trying to call my parents collect. No doubt the most embarrassing moment of my training thus far and I'm putting it out there to remind everyone how emotional the process of prepping for a long-distance race can be. The sudden jarring shift from the elation of running again to the devastation of knowing that thanks to a clumsy fall I'd be off my feet for another week tore me up.

I sat on the curb waiting for a cab that never came (I figured when I got back to my apartment I'd buzz for my roommate to bring down some cash), tears still welling up in my eyes, frustrated that some asshole's trash could wreak such havoc. A public bus shuttled me to around the corner from my apartment and I stumbled back by hopping on one foot for a block's length. I've been icing, Advil-ing, and reclining for the past 24-hours. The pain is very much present but I can feel it getting better slowly, if not surely. I'm upset (I'm furious) and I'm exhausted from worrying so much about what this means for my training. The only sources of comfort right now are knowing that in due time the human body heals and that the TNT calendar has been so demanding this early in the game. That we've been doing distances longer than a half-marathon for almost a month puts me in a great position for a May race. A few weeks off the road shouldn't really destroy the master plan (knock on wood).

So bloggers, back to the couch and boob tube I go. I'll keep you posted re: this stupid injury and can't wait till I write about how great it feels to wake up at 6:30 a.m. in the freezing cold and bang out 18 miles before brunch.

Onwards and upwards, right?

8 Mile

Yeah, I just made an Eminem reference. Deal with it because I ran 8 miles today and I can do what I want! Except walk up stairs...I can't do that very well right now.

I finally used the watch from the future that Jenn gave me months and months ago. It uses GPS triangulation to calculate my distance and pace and it's awesome. I mean, it's 2010, guys. This is the future.

Now I'm going to enjoy the best part about running: eating.

No Pain, No Gain

Plagued by a stomachache that won't go away, I'm sitting in my kitchen wearing pajamas at 9:30 on a Saturday night. What is wrong with me? For the first time since this morning's long run, I don't feel totally wiped out and have the energy to update you bloggers on a week of tough workouts post-half-marathon, capped off by today's fifteen miler. Maybe it's the fact that fifteen is next in line in increments of five, but I'd been looking forward to hitting this training milestone for quite some time (maybe even more than tackling 13.1). It was not, however, the sensational experence I had been hoping for.

I woke up this morning at 7:00 a.m. aware that we should be expecting a cold one. I didn't quite get how just frigid it was going to feel in Central Park. 13 degrees recorded without factoring in wind chill is not exactly an ideal climate to push one's body in (particularly when said body is still recovering from a race just six days earlier). As soon as I stepped out of my apartment building, my body was stiff, my mind was elsewhere, and my upper abdomen was all kinds of wonky. For the first time in a few weeks, I made it to practice on time via subway (kudos, Scott!), joined up with (a sizably smaller) TNT crew and hit the road with Carey, Dimitry, and Coach Doug. With the help of Carey's Garmin and Doug's knowledge of the park, we veered off from the routine outer loop and messed around on the bridle path and the recreational facilities. I heated up moderately well and was fine with the slower "long run pace" but knew something was slightly awry when Carey told us our mileage...and we still had half the length to go.

Usually on these long runs I am game to pound through the workout and keep going; today I literally could not wait to be finished. Visions of burgers and fries danced around my brain as we finished the tenth mile...and still had a five-mile lower loop to complete. Though Carey, Dimitry, and Doug were great company, I was out of the zone today. After stretching and walking over to the West Side, though, the pain began. While my muscles were mostly fine, my outer extremities were frozen to the point of having no feeling. I grabbed the first available cab and dashed into a diner near my office and sat silently for a good ten minutes while I tried to re-heat. In retrospect, I think the mental feeling of not having "blazed through" a Saturday run exacerbated the physical pain. Regardless, it was a tough one today; it seems my body is still working out its last kinks from the race last weekend.

However, I've done it: I've hit 15 miles and am 11.2 away from race distance. No pain, no gain. It's amazing thinking how far we've come in such a short while. Today while on the eastern stretch in the 90's, a young woman with a backpack spotted Dimitry and Doug's TNT gear and frantically sought to catch up with us believing she was late for the training run for "the marathon." We figured out that she was meeting up with the Summer Season crew for their first practice and sent her in the right direction, reminding me of my first practice in November when a bunch of Fall Season runners whizzed by in the middle of a 15-miler. That distance seemed absurd then, but was a reality today.

All of these workouts - the tough one today, the 6:30 a.m. pre-sunrise speed workout with Dimitry in the snow on Thursday, and the brutal hill training on Tuesday night (let's not even talk about that one) - are in the service of achieving a much greater goal, and I think that's what I love most about this experience. Setting small goals and winning little victories positions the ultimate accomplishment that much more within reach.

So I'm sore and my stomach is still bugging me, but I'm optimistic and ready to go to bed.

Adventures in Carb-Loading: The Tale of My First Half-Marathon

I've posted the results already, so I guess this is like reading a book when you've peeked at the last line before starting. And all the middle school overachievers out there, I know you know what I'm talking about. Though I spent the bulk of the 48 hours prior to it slightly freaking out, the Manhattan Half-Marathon was a really great experience. Most importantly, the souvenir race t-shirt was far more stylish than the yellow number we got at the Fred Lebow 5-miler.

I kid, I kid.

For your reading pleasure, here's something of a rough timeline of the weekend in which I lost my half-marathon virginity.

Friday, January 22

7:00 p.m. Leave the office energized for Sunday's race and excited to enjoy a (moderate) Friday night in Manhattan for the first time in a long while.
8:12 p.m. Whilst changing clothes, look in the mirror and tell myself that I am not going to get fucked up tonight.
9:00 p.m. Order a bottle of wine at dinner with Talya (confidant and co-worker extraordinaire).
10:15 p.m. E'er'body in the club gettin' tipsy...
10:32 p.m. Beers at a dive on Avenue A. Just a beer. NBD, okay?
4:30 a.m. It's 4:30? What race? Sunday? Pizza!

Saturday, January 23

9:45 a.m. Waking up, wonder why my shoes are still on?
10:35 a.m. Sans shower on an uptown A train trying to make it to a Team in Training special event to learn more about the really incredible work of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
10:47 a.m. The subway doors close at 59th Street. The conductor announces, "Next stop: 125th Street." The event is in the West 70's. Fuck.
10:53 a.m. In Harlem, catch first possible downtown A train back to 59th Street.
11:00 a.m. Grab a cab at Columbus Circle and dash uptown.
12:00 p.m. Inspired and moved by the words of LLS staffers, cancer survivors (some who've become marathoners), and supporters. Decide to walk across Central Park to take in the gorgeous spring-like weather rather than hop a bus to pick up my bib and D-Tag (a chip for race scoring).
12:03 p.m. In front of the Museum of Natural History, freak out that previous night's excess debauchery will screw up my running ability tomorrow. Mom calms me down.
1:00 p.m. Self-reflection and gorging at a bagel joint near New York Road Runners headquarters post-pickup.
4:30 p.m. Afternoon oatmeal, obvi.
9:30 p.m. Convinced to make a quick appearance in the West Village at a birthday celebration. Pick up a massive plate of pasta and bring it on the subway to a friend's apartment. Devour said platter and eat the entire loaf of bread. Friends look at me repulsed.
10:35 p.m. Cab it home.
11:40 p.m. Text Janneke and ask her to call me in the morning to help me wake up. She asks me why I'm still awake. Good point, Janneke.
12:00 a.m. PASS OUT.

Sunday, January 24

6:15 a.m. Wake up. The sun has yet to rise over New York City and baby I'm ready to run. Two pieces of toast, some water, and half an oatmeal raisin PowerBar.
6:35 a.m. Janneke texts. Yep, I'm awake! No, I didn't drink last night.
6:42 a.m. Friend Carly who's also running texts to check that I'm awake. Friends know me a little too well.
7:00 a.m. Good luck call from Mom and Dad.
7:20 a.m. Um, still in my apartment. Shit.
7:35 a.m. Having sped uptown in a cab, finally make it to Central Park. Find Janneke.
7:45 a.m. Too much water at breakfast; really need to take a leak; porta-potty lines WAY too long.
7:47 a.m. Pee on a tree near the starting line.
8:00 a.m. Much better rendition of the national anthem. Alone in my corral, hear the horn.
8:00:40-something a.m. Thanks to crowd congestion, finally reach the starting line.
Mile 1: Keeping Coach Christine's advice in mind to start out comfortably and ease into a race pace, freak out as a ton of my corral-packers dart ahead and past me. Eating their dust, worry that I'm going too slow.
Mile 2: Bang out a sub-7:00 minute mile.
Mile 3: Remember that Christine and the coaches know way more than I do. Fuck the people who are literally huffing and puffing as they sprint this early in the game. Slow down, get my shit together, and enjoy the perfect brisk morning air.
Mile 4: Having spilled water and gatorade on self at two beverage stations, make my way up the dreaded Harlem Hill slightly soggy and very determined. Remember that I'm going to have to do this bitch again at mile 9. Overhear a coach remind some of his runners that the West Side hill work isn't complete.
Miles 5-7: Very glad to be within earshot of this mysterious running guru who dispenses sage advice and encouragement to his team members. Contemplate thanking him on reaching the halfway mark. Realize he and his runners probably think I'm creepy for hanging onto them.
Mile 8: Coach Steve's voice comes into my head. The strategy we discussed was to take the first 8 at a comfortable pace and haul ass for the last 5. Bye bye, guru and new friends who never looked at me.
Mile 9: Well, hello, Harlem Hill; we meet again.As I watch some of the people who passed me at the start struggle up the incline, I'm proud of myself that I've got energy to push it. Slowest mile but whatever.
Mile 10: Get through the remaining Western hills. Feeling friggin' awesome. Very thankful to have taken Christine and Steve's advice. Continue to pass some of those people from the beginning.
Mile 11: Excitedly spot teammate Junior. We run together for about a mile. He introduces me to the game of fishing. You spot a runner ahead of you and haul ass until you pass. Then you find your next target and continue. Nice change of pace; ease comfortably to sub-6:50.
Miles 12-13: Pushing it really hard. Really, really hard. Trying to make up the lost time on Harlem Hill.
Mile 13.1: Turning the corner on 72nd Street, the finish line comes into sight. Pound the pavement for the last tenth of a mile. I did it. In one hour, thirty-three minutes, and thirty-two seconds, I ran the Manhattan Half.
9:46 a.m. Literally devour my free bagel in six or seven bites.
9:50 a.m. Pose for some pictures with the TNT gang and cheer on the rest of the "purple people." Excited to find Lindsay and appreciative she came out to support.
11:59 p.m. Post-half-marathon and post-Lady Gaga concert at Radio City, fall asleep feeling like a runner and thankful to live in New York City.

Halfway There!

I ran nearly 7 miles today. An hour and twenty-three minutes nonstop. I also almost shat my pants during the last mile. Whatever. It's cool.

When you're training for a distance run, you gain some crazy muscle mass. I was poking about my quads and realized that I have acquired some impressive thighs. This reminds me of one of many stories of my athletic past. I think it's about time I started to share these stories.

I've always had sizable and powerful thighs. I believe it was my mother who first dubbed me "Thunder Thighs". This is a nickname that I at once abhor and adore -- for what I think are obvious reasons. In fifth grade over a meal of Chinese food, my friend Ben and I decided to join the Brookline swim team. I loved and still love to swim. However, when it came to the water, I was more buoyant than I was brisk. I did okay...but I seemed to have some trouble with a very key part of competitive swimming: diving. For some reason, I just could not get it right. Every time I leapt into the water, my thighs would angle in such away as to slap violently against the surface. My form could not be fixed. And oh it was painful. I'd work myself into such a panic right before I had to go up onto the starting block. Here we go again. The slapping also caused some splashing and there came a point when people knew to move away from the pool and shield themselves in the front rows when it was my turn to swim. Every time without fail I'd spray everyone within a certain radius when I touched down in the water. While Ben went on to be MVP of the season and much later a college champion swimmer, I (probably because I was able to dive into the pool once or twice without creating a tidal wave) received the Most Improved trophy and retired after one year.

We have to start somewhere.

Movin' On Up

First, a message for Mr. Scott:

OHHHH!

How unbelievable? The kid who couldn't run a lap around the gym just lapped Central Park TWICE (and then some). Readers, our friend Scott is a rockstar. Scott is a half-marathoner.

Up until this Friday, I was having a really lame running week. Since I was sidelined sidewalked (HA) with the flu for so long, I was itching to run. My body was ready to go. My chest? Not so much. I felt like a nerdy asthmatic middle schooler with their inhaler (this may or may not be something I was in the past...) every time I tried to make moves. I had to give up on the hill run on Tuesday because I was wheezing so badly. Needless to say I was bummed. I wasn't moving forward. I had to wait until my chest cleared.

Then came Friday.

I'm gonna throw it out there. I think I qualify to make the band now. This Friday marked a huge milestone for me. Five miles has been a bit of a mental blockade to me. I've gone that distance before but never at a continuous run. The mere concept of running nonstop for that long was unfathomable to me and being able to cover that distance became the wall for me to fling myself over. On Friday I got to Jenn's and said I was going to do it. I was going to run 5 miles continuously. And I did. In fact, I ran 5.5 miles.

And the craziest part? I totally could've run further! This was the first moment that I felt that, yes, I can actually do this. I believe that running is mostly in the head. The hardest part is convincing yourself to keep going. The first loop of the Central Park reservoir was fine and I reminisced about how just last summer I wasn't able to run the entire thing around. On the second loop, my brain started its do I have to do this monologue. As we neared the final stretch of the second loop, I started to get excited. Every step I took after completing the second loop would be longer than I've ever run continuously before (the previous longest being a 5k). And by the time I was into the third loop, I was actually chatting. My body begrudgingly realized that I was in this for the long hall and just went along with it. To round off the 5 miles, we peeled off the reservoir after the third loop and headed Southward on the road. We were going to stop at one of the pre-designated stoplights. But we just kept going. All the way back to 72nd street. And again, each step forward became the furthest distance I'd ever run well...ever!

Shit just got real. This marks a big point in my training because now I know it can be done. We've got just over three months left. Let's do this.

I plan to run a half half-marathon today. Or 6.55 miles. There appears to be a monsoon outside. Incidentally, my best runs are when it's raining but these clouds aren't playing around. The temp is pushing 60 degrees right now, though, and the cold weather is supposed to return to us this weekend...

I know I can't compete on the same level as Scott. And this isn't a competition. But I think that maybe my sub-conscious is a little jealous of Scott's stellar achievements. In my dream last night, I was in some random class with him and we had this big test. I thought I did fine. I studied. In the next class, the teacher hands back the list of results. I had an 85 which was listed as the average score of the class. Alright, I'll take it. Then Scott showed me his score and it was 95 and the number #1 in the class. Typical!

Let Me Tell You About My Day

It's almost 1:00 a.m. and I have been awake for 19 hours. In that period of time, I scarfed down some toast and half a PowerBar, powered through two loops (and a little more) of Central Park's main running course for 13.1 miles or so, scarfed down a bagel at the finish line, cheered for the TNT runners, spent three hours at a board meeting for a nonprofit I volunteer with, shopped for groceries, ate dinner, had drinks with friends, and saw the one and only Lady Gaga in concert at Radio City Music Hall.

I am pooped.

I want to tell you all about the Manhattan half-marathon. I do. And I will. But not right now. Now I am icing my knee and heading to bed.

But if you must know: 1:33:23 / average mile: 7:08.

Holla.

If you can believe it, the hills are even more alive...

...with the sound of wheezing and cussing.

Team in Training got real tonight. If you think last week's hill workout sounded fun, this one was a doozy. Exactly seven days ago our coaches sought to instill in us a respect for the hills we'll inevitably have to conquer and to better equip our bodies for those upward surges that come out of nowhere. Having mastered the basics, tonight was about pushing ourselves to the limit and seeing just how fast we could propel ourselves uphill. Awesome. The workout was structured a little something like this:

• Run slightly uphill at a fast pace for a distance equivalent to about one city block.
• At the point where the incline really starts to steepen, haul ass as fast as friggin' possible for another three city blocks.
• Recover back down to the starting point for the total four blocks.

(Preceded and followed, of course, by a mile-plus warm-up/cool-down).

We did this 6 times. I gotta say, despite the pained looks on our faces as we launched into the final stretch of each uphill sprint, it was actually a blast. First, the weather more than cooperated; it was a balmy 45+ degrees in Central Park tonight (leaving me slightly overheated in my two top layers and gloves). Secondly, we had an extra element of competition. In my haiku collection last week (I love saying that), I alluded (in five syllables) to "a new friend" joining us at practice and giving me a literal run for my money on the road. He (Dimitry) was back tonight to ignite my competitive ridiculousness.

MOREOVER, some total rando named Paul showed up and completely schooled every single one of us. He told us that he'd only run one marathon before and did it in 3:06. WTF. More than a few four-letter words were uttered as we ate Paul's dust. And then we found out that, contrary to public belief tonight, Paul wasn't a friend of our running buddy Junior's (like we all thought). He was a complete stranger who found his way into a TNT practice and made all of us look like old ladies. Somewhere around the fifth go-around he just disappeared into the night. Maybe he's a unicorn.

The workout tonight will doubtlessly come in handy this weekend for the half-marathon, as we'll be facing the brutal Harlem Hill not once but twice over the course of the 13.1 miles. Janneke, Carey, Ren, and Junior are all racing and I'm very glad that there will be some familiar faces in the crowd. As I wrap this entry up and head to bed, I'm left to wonder: will the complimentary race t-shirt be as insanely yellow as the one we got for the Fred Lebow Classic? We'll find out this weekend, dear bloggers.

Live from New York, it's...

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE: A Haiku Collection

Tonight in the park

We did hill work up "Cat Hill."

It was really cold.

I put on cute gear

And cab'd it with Lindsay there.

We were kind of late.

The group had just left

So I haul'd ass to catch up.

So much for warm-up!

I plan'd to not race

But when we started uphill

I met a new friend.

He was really fast.

And I am competitive.

So I pick'd it up.

Coach Steve said "Faster!"

So I went really quickly,

Trying to pass him.

At the end, I did!

(Just barely, so I can't brag.)

A good workout, team!

The best part was when

Lindsay and I got dinner

At Neil's Coffee Shop.

Veggie burger, soup,

And a tall glass of water

Tasted really good.

The subway was cold.

Now I am home on the couch.

"Idol" starts tonight!

THAT. WAS. AWESOME.

It's 10:15 a.m. I'm back home and I friggin' demolished that race. Having been off my feet since Sunday's nightmare-cum-triumph, my body clearly wanted to get out there and hit the road. I met up with TnT this morning at 7:30 following an epic cab ride uptown chauffeured by a Bengali former soccer player who sent me off to the starting line with encouragement. Thanks, man.

Having been off a race course since last spring's Revlon Entertainment Industry Fund Walk/Run 5K (and I'm totally not kidding), I was admittedly a little antsy about race day protocol and getting everything in order. A few thousand people were out there in the freezing cold (literally) and the chaos at the baggage check area was more fun than nerve-wracking. Unable to spot co-worker Lindsay or this blog's very own Celeste, I made my way to the TnT hang-out spot where I ran into Janneke, one of the girls who usually keeps pace for me. Relieved to have someone there for speed consistency, I listened to Coach Christine's pep talk and got some pre-race advice from Coach Steve who changed everything today. In the cab I planned a scheme where I'd start out around a 7:30 pace for the first mile, ease towards a 7:00 pace around the third mile, get through Central Park's notorious "Cat Hill," and finally go balls-deep for the final mile. He told me to throw all of that out the window.

When I told Steve the game plan, he furrowed his brow and said something to the effect of, "Come on, you can do better than that." He suggested going out at a 7:10 and building to a sub-7:00 after the first mile. I doubted my ability to pull this one off, but his belief in my pacing encouraged me to give the race a harder try than I had planned. Janneke, Carey (the other girl I usually run with), and I began together at the starting line following a less-than-spectacular rendition of the national anthem. In the second corral behind the 6-minute milers, we hit the road at a comfortable pace. What I didn't know was how congested the course would be the beginning. I lost both of them about a quarter-mile in and went off on my own. At the first mile marker, I saw that I had met Steve's goal for me of a 7:10 first mile and started amping up the energy.

By the second and third mile markers, I was feeling good and saw on the race clocks that I was actually racing sub-7:00 miles. That realization gave me an absurd burst of adrenaline and I knew that given the short race course, I could really use it to kick the final mile's ass. Dressed a little too warmly, I started pulling down on my Under Armor a little bit before Cat Hill, slowed down a bit, and then shot up at the end where I was really excited to see all of our coaches screaming and cheering. I threw all of my shit into the final half mile and, breathing heavily, sailed through the finish line and saw the clock: 33:40. Give or take a 10-15 second delay at the starting line, that's an average 6:42 mile.

UPDATE: Final time was 33:23 / average pace: 6:40.

FUCK. YES. Tell that to the fatty in high school.

I was ecstatic and went to retrieve my bag with a huge, goofy grin plastered on my face, feeling nearly invincible. When I spotted my pack, I overheard a bunch of runners talking about the race. Said one speed demon to another, "Yeah, it was alright. You know, a solid 28 minutes. Felt okay." Said the other to the first, "It's all good, man."

Um...I suppose there's always room for improvement?

I can hear garbage men cleaning up from the bars on my block...

Celeste is a rock star. That's all there is to be said. While she worked her ass off this week, I wasn't able to get nearly as much time in running as I would have liked to (due to a number of circumstances, some good, some not so good). 

Runners say that the road is the great equalizer. We'll soon find out. It's 6:44 a.m. The sun is slowly rising over Manhattan, and I'm about to race the NYRR Fred Lebow 5 Miler (my second race ever). Game on. 

Sing us out, P.S. 22 Chorus.

A 5K a Day

Remember how I ran a 5K on Monday?

Yeah, well, I did it again last night. In 34 minutes and 47 seconds. Over three minutes faster than the night before. No big thing. No big deal. Whatever, I do what I want.

When Christine, the head coach, yelled out my time as I crossed the finish, I blurted "Holy Shit". Then I almost simultaneously vomited and peed my pants because I stopped running immediately instead of slowing down gradually. Dumb. My body was like HEY NOW. I was so surprised by that time. The only other time check I heard had me at an absolutely solid 11-minute mile but I felt that I was slowing down over the course of the race. As opposed to Monday's run, there are tons of gradual hills in the lower loop and we were going around it almost twice. I think it's safe to say that "hills" is up there with "winter" and "Gosselins" on the list of things I don't like.

I have to admit, I ran smart and it worked. I discussed with Jenn that I should actually take it easy on the few flat/downhill stretches on the lower loop and really push myself on the hills. This was a lifesaver and made me look pretty awesome when people would pass me on the downhill and I'd bound past them on the hill as they started to struggle.

I decided to start with the 11-12 minute mile group (after fighting an intense urge to go with the sub-9ers because Guy in a Dodgers Hat was taking off with them...swoon). People took off. I noticed that people are finding it difficult to pace themselves. It's so hard to fight the temptation to keep up with the person in front of you instead of listening to your body. So I really shut everything off around me and paid attention to my own comfort. I didn't speak to anyone and I don't think I looked further than ten feet in front of me the entire time. I was getting in the proverbial Zone.

What to think about when you're running alone?

Usually for me it's, "I'm going to die." But I diversified. I may have solved the meaning of life around mile 2.5.

After about half a mile, I was already negotiating with myself. Well, maybe I'll take a walking interval when I come back around to Bethesda fountain. Maybe I'll grab some water from my bag. Maybe I'll just do one loop. I got up the hill to Bethesda and considered. My throat was dry. But I went straight past. As I passed the "finish line" to begin my second loop, I started using that as my motivation. Every stride was putting me further from the start of the loop and closer to the end. I hit the glorious "blank mind" once or twice on that second loop and boy does time go faster when that happens. I talked urged myself through the hills and imagined an invisible gear shift inside of me.

In conclusion, I murdered that 5K because goddamn it was cold and I really just wanted to go home.

Pretty Much Everywhere It's Gonna Be Hot

This was not the weather forecast for New York City this weekend:

Thanks, Arthur.

As Scott blogged, it was one freezing week and as such, I did very little running. Wah wah.

After my emo Christmas post, I took myself out for a run in Boston and was only mildly thwarted by icy mud puddles of death (see exhibit A). I put in about 2 miles just to feel my body moving again. I also got my eating under control and I've felt very on top of my food intake this past week. Last Monday, Jenn and I did a good 4 miles. And after that? I hibernated. My full intention was to go to TNT on Tuesday but when I walked outside and got slapped in the face by a gust of artic wind I said oh hell no and got the first subway home. New Year's Day was not a day for anything more than purely existing. I also had full intentions to attend the early morning run on Saturday. I even set my alarm for 7:40am and put it on the couch. Why the couch? Well, since Morning Celeste is a far more difficult creature than Normal & Ambitious Celeste, she has to be dealt with in different ways. And by that I mean manipulated into a conscious state. Since I sleep in a loft bed, I would be required to climb down from warm cozyfest, cross the living room and turn off my nuclear bomb warning alarm. This would hopefully get me awake. The next morning, the alarm went off. The building shook with gusts of wind. Bleary-eyed, I padded down from my loft. Success! I plodded across the room. So close! Turned it off. You can do it! And climbed right back up into bed and slept another 4 hours. Wait, that wasn't in the plan. Hibernation is fun.

New Year, New Week. In TNT tomorrow we're running a 5k. My runs are consistently longer than the 3.1 miles of a 5k but as we know my longest continuous running interval is only a little over 2 miles. I wanted to freeze my ass off be ready.

Today, I arrived in the UWS to meet Jenn at 3pm. Despite wearing more layers than a delicious cheese oozing bolognese lasagna, I was still shivering. My goal: to run two laps around the Central Park Reservoir without a single walking interval. 3.14 miles.

And I did. BOOYAH. In 38 minutes...a steady 11-12 minute/mile pace. I couldn't feel my legs or my butt the entire time because of the cold. No big deal. Up until the final quarter mile or so, I felt pretty strong. I always start off grumbling and hit a stride after the one mile mark. Getting my mind to wrap around doing the distance of 9 loops instead of just 2 is a bit impossible but I feel one step closer today. To me this was an even greater feat than running 5 miles because it was continuous.

Fun Fact: Shouting "I'm on a beach! I'm on a beach!" into the wind does not, in fact, make it warmer.

A New Year, An Epic Tome

Celeste's RuPaul video posted a couple of days ago is about looking good and feeling gorgeous (aren't all RuPaul videos about these things? At least conceptually). At the start of a new year, I was really hoping to tell you all about a week filled with doing both. I failed on all fronts. I was a hot mess. In the words of Beyonce, I was a beautiful nightmare. After that amazing twelve-miler last weekend through the streets of Boston (look at Odysseus back from war, that hometown hero returning glorious!), I took a day off to get my shit together (read: go drinking that night and avoid the painful next-day hungover run) and recover from the long distance. Upon returning to New York, I went for what I hoped would be a nice night run down the southern tip of Manhattan. Enjoying the spectacular weather and my body's abnormally limber state, I pushed it pretty hard for about seven miles, feeling a slight heel pain around the fifth mile that worsened until the completion of the run. See the photo to the left for further details.

I thought maybe I had tied my shoe too tightly. When I got home, I called Dr. Mom, and explained where I was hurting. The tone in her voice was enough to let me know that we had a little problem in the state of Denmark. Apparently I pulled my Achilles (hence the Homeric nod in that previous paragraph) and needed to stay off it for at least a couple of days. Well, that sucked. I was at a point in my training where I was confident and looking forward to upping not just mileage but speed and effort and all that other good shit.

As Dr. Mom knows all, I took her advice and stayed off the road for a few days, skipping what looked like an awesome TNT pacing workout up and down Central Park. On Wednesday night, feeling better, I put on my snazzy cold weather gear (see left) and was ready to hit the road once more to see if I could figure this heel thing out. Running past my local drugstore on my way to that evening's planned course, I saw that the pharmacy was closing in five minutes in advance of New Year's and if I wanted my prescription, I had to get it then and there. Another fucking run thwarted. When I finally got home and dropped the prescription (and dishwasher detergent) off, I was too lazy to get back out in the cold. I promised myself I'd make it out there sometime on New Year's Eve Day before the night's debauchery.

Long story short: obviously I didn't go running. Instead, coming home from a (fabulous) party, I excited a cab and slipped and fell on a patch of black ice and PULLED MY BACK. Another couple days off the road; another TNT workout (this time, the long run - 11-13 miles) missed. I woke up at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning to see how my back was doing and could make a few steps before it started to cramp up. Instead of swiping one of my roommate's Gatorades and heading uptown, I went back to bed like a lame duck.

TODAY HAD TO BE THE DAY.  I woke up having celebrated my friend Pat's birthday with a few too many rounds of margaritas a little too late into the evening and told myself I'd need to boot and rally and get 'er done. An hour after chowing down on a banana and a PB&J on a bagel and properly hydrating, I put on about 1000 layers of cold weather gear ready for to bang out another 12-er. As soon as I left my building, I felt like Helen Hunt in Twister. Calling today breezy is like calling Beyonce talented. Today was tornadotastic (and Beyonce is prodigious). I was slammed with gusts of awful city wind and nonstop snow for the bulk of the first six miles. People on the street looked at me like I was an insane person. I cannot tell you how many times I debated turning around (or when I hit the West Side Highway, getting into a cab). At one point I actually screamed out to the sky, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?" By the time I got uptown to 72nd Street, I was so defeated and exhausted that I took a two minute walking break and used the 120 seconds to reflect on whether or not to keep going.

When I hit Riverside Drive (the halfway point), the wind subsided and the snowfall calmed down. TIME TO MAN UP, CHALOFF. I picked up the pace, ran over to Central Park, and knocked out the remaining six miles. Definitely not my finest run but a vast improvement over the first six; after feeling like the island of Manhattan was trying to kill me, I was relieved to see that I could still pound the pavement and keep it together for the most part. I mean, concrete jungle where dreams are made of, right? Something like that. 

So, yeah, I'm back and ready for action. Countdown to the Manhattan half marathon: THREE WEEKS.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, TWELVE

Anticipating a frigid bout of wintry mix in the Greater Boston area this morning, I moved my regularly scheduled Saturday long run to Friday (yesterday). Anyone in Massachusetts can see clearly today that, though brisk, it's quite lovely outside (and by quite lovely, I mean a typical New England winter day). Thanks for the accurate forecast, Nicolas.

I've been feeling a little bit of pain lately on the top of my left foot; a diagnosis from Dr. Mom revealed that I've likely been tying my shoes a little too tightly. This ought to come as no surprise to those who know me and my penchant for very skinny jeans. I re-laced the ol' Brooks sneakers, threw on some very stylish new gear courtesy of Hannukah Harry and the fine folks at City Sports, wore my mom's snazzy Garmin watch, and hit the road for one of my most favorite runs yet: a 12-miler from the Boston Common in the center of downtown all the way out to our bucolic (sort of...) suburb outside the city.

Apart from having an opportunity to show off my very chic new Nike outerwear, I was looking forward to this one for a number of reasons.

• First, I've never run 12 miles before. As I mentioned in a previous post, as soon as TnT hit the 10-mile mark, each run going forward would be my longest-yet. This lends an added element of accomplishment to each Saturday bout of hauling ass and further legitimizes my post-run gorging. If you're curious, yesterday's snacks of choice were Raisinets, Chinese food, and beer. Hurray for a very balanced lifestyle.
• Second, I've never done a long run by myself. Running with my six or seven TnT compatriots is a social affair; everyone talks for the bulk of the workout and, as a result, it rarely feels like we've been pounding the pavement for ninety minutes. I was a little nervous about being out alone on the road with only my thoughts (iPods are for wimps, people) and holiday traffic to guide me along. Moreoever, I rely on teammates for pacing. Quick theory interlude: When going out for a long run during a marathon training program, you don't want to be a speed demon; you save the really fast runs for shorter distances or interval workouts. I have a very hard time keeping myself at a consistent, steady pace. Often I'll dart out too quickly and not even realize it. We aim for around an 8:00 minute/mile pace on Saturday workouts.
• Which brings me to my third point: I was very excited to try out a Garmin watch to help with the aforementioned pacing. As I couldn't just run along with the pack, I tried out my mom's very sophisticated Garmin watch. It tells you time, distance, and PACE. A glance down every couple minutes (or if you're obsessive like me, every twenty seconds) will tell you how fast you're actually going and enable you to make a conscious, deliberate decision to slow down or speed up. Or go home and eat.

That being said, as soon as I made my way around the Common, I knew things were going to be just fine. I went out a bit too fast (my first mile was at a 7:46 pace; it should have been an 8:30) but found that the combination of taking in new scenery and the rush of being alone propelled me well. I was reading an old issue of Runner's World yesterday and laughed when I read about people singing to themselves on long runs alone. Well, thank you, Jonathan Larson. For whatever reason, repeating whole verses from everyone's favorite rock musical Rent pushed me over the Mass Pike. La vie boheme, indeed.

I was too caught up in keeping track of my pace and actually making my way home safely (despite the fact that I ran almost exclusively on one very long street) to engage in weighty intellectual discussions with myself. I found that for the bulk of the run, my head was empty, my thoughts more concerned with the practicalities ahead. Only when I got home did I realize that a good 10 miles or so were part of the Boston Marathon course.

That one's another goal for another time. Yesterday's 7:50 minute/mile average pace is accomplishment enough for right now. And that means more Raisinets when my brother and I go see Avatar later today.

Florida and Big Dinners and Sunshine and Books and Stuff

Holiday greetings to all from sunny Palm Beach, Florida where the yentas play and we sip pinot noir like every day.

Vacation here has been lovely (if not a little bit ridiculous). Coming here can be like entering an alternate universe - there's more money, more gossip, and more nylon tracksuits than anywhere you could possibly find in New York City (save for maybe the 92nd Street Y). In between stuffing my face at the delicious restaurants Nana and Papa have secured reservations at (can we please talk about the Ocean Dragon at the Asian fusion palace downtown last night?), I've been keeping abreast of what's expected of the TnT-ers during this holiday week (and do look at the hyperlink when you've finished reading this entry...tee hee). I hit the road yesterday and banged out a nice 6 miler keeping up a steady 7:10 pace, which to my fellow elderly speed demons on the street must've looked like something out of The Fast and the Furious. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I needed about a mile or so to ease into the run; I think my body was somewhat shocked by the severe climate change and needed to adjust. Running along the intercoastal was fantastic and the experience was diminished only by the uneven sidewalk. Alas.

As tonight's group run is all about speed training, I wanted to have accurately timed intervals. Without the Garmin-wearing TnT teammates telling me when to pick up the pace and when to recover, I felt more comfortable on the treadmill, taking advantage of the exact timing/speed (and the cushiony surface). Since starting with Team in Training, I haven't once been on the machine and forgot what it feels like (a little piece of heaven compared to hilly Central Park). Armed with some headphones and a quality episode of Law and Order (SVU, obvi), I am happy to report that the hour-plus workout felt like nothing. By the time I'd finished eight rounds of 3 minutes hauling ass (even faster)/3 minutes recovering, Christopher Meloni had solved the case and looked mighty handsome doing it.

Having showered and eaten, I'm now enjoying the Floridian afternoon slump wherein you count down the hours to your evening dinner plans. Keeping up the running mindset, I've just downloaded Liz Robbins's A Race Like No Other to my Kindle and am very pleased with this new addition to the marathon book club (the first book being Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running). A journalist by trade, Robbins tracks seven or eight runners over the course of completing the 2007 New York City marathon. I'm only a few chapters in and am totally engrossed. Those she profiles include a 22 year old cancer survivor, elite runners like Paula Radcliffe, and a fiftysomething "glamorous grandma" on her 35th marathon. Robbins alternately highlights these individual racers and provides a fascinating, panoramic history of the race itself and the historic markers along the course. What I'm really taking away from the book is the idea that though Robbins has picked just several individuals, each runner has his own story likely worth documenting.

I guess this blog is how I'm choosing to narrate my own.

Run, Fat Boy, Run!

I'm going to be frank and get it out there: this was not my finest week of marathon training. In fact, I was dubious about my being able to pull off today's long run satisfactorily. Let's consider what was working against my favor.

1.) I drank a lot. Like, a lot, a lot.

2.) As a result of said drinking, I sampled much of the Lower East Side's finest streetside cuisine upon returning home each night. This included several falafel pockets and a few slices of pizza. Eating in the wee small hours does wonders for your physique.

3.) I gorged my way through both floors of my office, snacking on gifts and devouring platters at our three holiday parties this week. We know how to kick it in the buildup to Christmas and New Year's. With McDonald's, macaroni and cheese, and ice cream cake, obvi.

4.) I wasn't exactly diligent when it came to following this week's calendar. I showed up to practice on Tuesday and eked out a lame run on Wednesday....yeah. I spent most of the week at bars and movies.

So. My alarm rang this morning for today's 10-11 miler at 7:00 a.m. as per usual. Still tired from an uneasy night's rest, I hit the snooze button, slept for another HOUR, and woke up at 8:05 needing to be way on the Upper West Side by 8:30. I threw on clothes, swiped a Gatorade from my roommate (I'll buy you another one!), ran to the corner store and bought a Powerbar, and booked it uptown via a $20 cab ride. 

No dice. I arrived too late and the group was gone. Rather than go my own way, properly warm-up, and ease into a comfortable race pace, I hauled ass in an effort to try and catch up with my pacing group. Pounding the pavement for three and a half miles, I finally caught the gang near the West Village and was thankful to have company and conversation on this frigid, windy morning. The breeze off the Hudson was intermittently killer but we knocked out a solid 11.6 miles at a 7:50-ish pace (factoring in my ridiculous starting few). I sprinted the final dash with one of the girls in my pacing group and as we whooped it up coming into the group corral, a thought came to me:

My next run will be beachside in sunny Florida.

Adios, NYC; vacation awaits. See you on the flipside, racers and fans.

Broccoli, Broccoli!

Oh. Hey there. I um...hi. Do...do I know you?

So, yeah, I fell off the face of the earth for a little bit. Well, not really fell off of it, just went some different places on it. But I'm back!

I traveled to Miami and Los Angeles, both very sunny and warm places except when I'm in town apparently. The past couple of weeks, I've been dealing with a gross cold and a lot of work. I fully intended to keep up with my running schedule but, well, you know. I thought about going for a 3-mile run in Miami despite having a cold. I napped instead. Hey, at least I even brought my sneakers. The days between trips were so congested (GET IT) that I only managed a small workout with Jenn and blew off TNT altogether. In LA, I once again brought my sneakers and, you know what? I actually did my Saturday 3-4 mile run. 3.2 miles counts for that, right? I kept to a slow pace to get my body readjusted again. Up until I stepped on the treadmill, I had been feeling cranky and a bit anxious. Once I completed my mileage (or rather, once The Soup ended and the so-unbearable-E! True Hollywood Story: The Kardashians-that-I-had-to-leave-the-gym started), I felt infinitely better, lighter even. This subsequently made me mad. Running is now a necessity to my well-being. Goddammit.

So back in New York, back on track. I was a mess yesterday, hitting the ground running (HA) with a full plate of work that has kept me sleepless and stressed up until right now. Working out was a good way to take a break and clear my head. After doing a little arms and abs with my girl Jenn, I trudged over to Bethesda Fountain for my first TNT training in two weeks. Last time proved disastrous in the social arena but strong in the arm swinging, I guess. Tonight was cross-training night and we alternated 10 minute runs with 10 minute strengthening intervals (lunges, step-ups, abs, etc). Hooo boy I feel the burn today. The highlight of the workout was our man Broccoli. Broccoli was a rather colorful homeless character named for, among other nonsensical bon mots, his occasional yelling of "Broccoli, broccoli!". He got in on the action every now and then, blasted some Rihanna, and helpfully counted out our reps in various languages. Suddenly we had a crazytown TNT cheerleader. Well, we did until five squad cars pulled into the area and took him away. I was sad to see him go.

Lessons Learned: I am an antisocial runner. Really, I don't feel like chatting with you when I slogging up a hill. Unless you're Jenn, in which case you're usually telling me fun stories to distract and keep me moving.

After practice, I hustled Scott so we could get to the subway in hopes of having an opportunity to chat with Guy in a Dodgers Hat (again not wearing the hat but a red sweatshirt). I skipped down the stairs but didn't see him. So we walked down the platform, me a little sad, Scott in ultratight pants. And there he was! But some chick was talking to him. Damn her. We wait. The train comes. He gets on, she doesn't. So we all shuffle into the same car. Do it, Celeste. Just do it.

And guess what? I said hi! I shook his hand! I got his name! As per usual, I blacked out most of the interaction. I vaguely recall making him laugh at one point about Broccoli (thanks Mr. Broccoli, wherever precinct you are, for providing me with a brief moment of humor). That's good, I think. He has piercing blue eyes and is totally a little awkward which I kind of love. So yeah. I did it. Finally. Now I'll probably spend the rest of the season ignoring his existence.

The training was a good little break in my hectic week but oh man is it Friday yet? I just want to chill out like this guy:

Onwards.