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?
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
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.
My Weekend...
My weekend started like this:
...and ended like this:
Today I'm going to try to run 8 miles. God help me.
Love,
Eds
Saturday, January 30, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Texts from Maya Angelou
"Thunder thighs was always a term of endearment. All to nibble on when you were a munch. Now they are thunder to achieve the goal."
--Mom
--Mom
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
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.
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