Rainy Days and Mondays

Forgive me for my absence, Innernetz.  I’ve been in a funk lately (two points for everyone that just started singing “Give up the Funk” by Parliament) and kicky new rain boots just haven’t been able to lift me out of it.  In fact, my kicky new rain boots mock me.  They mock my pain.  Mockers.  Mocky McMoccasins.  You see, my new rain boots are Chooka’s rockin’ turquoise Tattoo City.

For those of you too lazy to click over or who get distracted by the champagne fountain of never ending linkage on every web site, I’ll describe them for you.  What?  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.  The champagne fountain?  If you’ve ever been to a wedding with a champagne fountain you know that it starts innocently enough.  You take a glass from the top of the cascade and two hours into the wedding reception after you’ve slaked your thirst following the Electric Slide, deftly dodged the bouquet toss, and worked your way to the bottom tier of glasses, you are so drunk that you forget where you are or why your tongue is down the throat of a guy dressed in a valet parking uniform.  That’s not just me, is it?  IS IT?! 

Anyway, to prevent a linkage meltdown that will have you on some page featuring ambiguously dressed boy bands from Thailand, I’ll describe them for you.  They are turquoise.  They have various tattoo related images stamped all over them.  Oh hell, that description doesn’t do them justice.  Just go look at them but come right back.  No linky-linky!

Well?  What did you think?  They rock, right?  How could they not cheer me up, right?  Because, Innernetz, they remind me of the tattoo that I’m not going to get.  You see, I told myself that after I finished the marathon I would get myself a tattoo.  I have a cool one designed by Mr. Dingo himself.  He rocks almost as much as my rain boots.  I don’t have any other tattoos and this tattoo, this post-marathon tattoo, was going to have a lot of meaning for me.  Alas, I don’t think it’s meant to be.  My short runs (eight miles or less) have been great. I feel strong, I feel invincible!  However, for the past three weeks my long runs have been disastrous.  I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of my 14 mile run because, basically, it blew.  Determined to finish the run, I hobbled the last 5 miles.  I got to the front of my building and had to call Mr. Dingo to help me up the stairs to the apartment.  He swooped down and carried me away.  It was an Officer and a Gentleman moment.  Without all the kissing.  I can’t really blame him.  With my face red and puffy from crying and snot hanging from my nose, I made a less than attractive romance movie heroine. 

My leg was a mess.  With my knee swollen to Saturn-like proportions and unable to bend, I dashed off a poor me e-mail to Lesley, my bloggy running guru, at JustRunJustLiveJustBe.  Lesley gave me some great advice and even helped revise my training schedule.  A week to recuperate, a few fantastic short runs, new running shoes, stretching exercises, Advil, and a mental pep talk and I was on my way!  NOT.  My 16 mile run tonight was aborted at mile 9.  Mile 9!  For those of you not mathematically inclined, that’s 7 miles short of tonight’s goal and 17.2 miles short of an actual marathon.  Yes, it was my knee again.  Not only that, but in my obstinate persistence to complete the 14 miles from the week before, I think I sustained a stress fracture to my foot.  I’ve had stress fractures before.  Years of soccer, horseback riding, and lodging my size 8 ½ up people’s asses has made me thoroughly familiar with the throbbing and sharp pain associated with the injury.  In short, Innernetz, my marathon dreams are fucked.

I have only four weeks left until the marathon and it’s simply not enough time to recover.  I knew after my 14 mile run that things were not looking good and it sent me into a mild depression that I have been trying to fight all week.  I was depending on tonight’s run to give me the mental and physical boost I needed to make it to the marathon.  Instead, after having Old Man With Walker almost lap me on tonight’s run, I’ve been sitting in my nasty running clothes crying, “Why me?! Why me?!” wondering if Tonya Harding had somehow managed to whack my knee with a tire iron when I wasn’t looking. 

This past week, none of my usual storm cloud dispersers have been able to lift me out of this funk.  Not my favorite massacre scene from 30 Days of Night, not teaching, and not even walks with Dingo Girl.  For some reason Dingo Girl has decided to turn over a new paw and instead of having to beg and plead just to get her to walk around the block, she wants to RUN!  Run everywhere.  Run downstairs.  Run around the block.  Run to the park.  Run, run, run.  See Dingo Girl Run.  Run, Dingo Girl, run! 

So, that’s where I am these days.  It’s not like good things haven’t happened to me this week.  The Cougar came for a visit, I got a gift certificate to a fantastic spa, blah, blah, blah.  I didn’t want to write a whiny post but that’s just where I am right now.  I feel defeated.  I feel like a quitter. 

And now Dingo Girl needs to go for a walk run.  It’s raining.  And my new rain boots are still mocking me.

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I Should Run With A First Aid Kit

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because, well, it just sucks.  Trying to fit it into my schedule has meant running in 80-degree heat and pouring rain.  But, on a good note, I bought new running shoes!  They’re the same brand as my old shoes but instead of the run-of-the-mill (what the hell does that mean anyway?) blue and white, I got silver and yellow!  Oh yeah, I’m looking like Flash Gordon these days.  Although sometimes I wonder, if I looked like Commissioner Gordon would Christian Bale come rescue me around mile 12 when I’m floundering and my pace has the waddling, decrepit gait of The Penguin instead of the breezy gazelle like leaps of a jogger? 

Mr. Dingo mocks my running belt, which holds 40 ounces of water and fruit-punch-flavored Gator-Aid, four packs of energy Gu (delicious Vanilla Bean), keys, and my homemade emergency contact information card.  Well, it’s not really a card.  More like a post-it note with my name, address, and a message that says, “If my prone, desiccated body is found sprawled on the side of the road, please touch up my hair and make-up before contacting the media.  Oh, and call Mr. Dingo.” But the running belt really is cool, if a bit heavy with all that liquid.  In fact, although Mr. Dingo mocks my belt, he admits that there may still be enough room between some of the water bottles to attach a grappling hook and a flashlight that would emit the Bat Signal.  He laughed but I am scouring the internet for just such a thing.

Since my running schedule has changed, I haven’t seen the usual freak parade.  Mr. Jazz Hands has been absent but he could just be off mourning the closing of Rent.  OLWW hasn’t been seen for weeks.  She probably finally succumbed to heat stroke.  In her place, however, is some guy who looks as if he was trying to get to the Bingo tournament at the Home for the Aged and Infirm but made a wrong turn at the cafeteria and ended up at the hilliest part of Central Park.  Unlike OLWW, his walker is motorized.  He just can’t seem to find the speed controls.  The last time I passed him going downhill, his walker was about three steps too far ahead of him.  He had a panicked look as his sweaty, gnarled fingers began to slip off the handles.  I would’ve offered to help (Shut up!  I would have!  Maybe.) but just then his walker decided to veer off to the right into the curb effectively stopping his downhill plummet.  I figured if he was still there on my second lap I’d steal his walker because by then I’d need it I’d offer some assistance. 

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, that I’ll stop to help a dog but I won’t stop to help another human being.  I suppose this isn’t the time to mention the guy who had a dufflebag and picnic basket precariously attached to the back of his bike.  As he slowly pedaled up the hill the picnic basket would swing widely to the left.  And then widely to the right.  The guy looked like a tightrope walker as he swayed back and forth trying to keep his balance.  All the other runners gave him plenty of room because it was just a matter of time before he fell over.  And he did.  The picnic basket spilled all over the road and the dufflebag made a loud CRACK! sound.  Oh!  Did I mention that there was also a little girl strapped into a child seat on the back of the bike?  And I do mean strapped.  In lieu of a seat belt the guy decided that duct tape was an appropriate restraint.  The little girl wasn’t hurt so I didn’t stop.  No, really!  She wasn’t hurt!  In fact, she was laughing so hard she was crying. 

The fact that I was close to tears myself made me a little less open to whatever terror she was feeling.  Brat, you don’t know the meaning of terror.  Terror is having already gone eleven miles with your legs aching, blisters forming, and knowing that you have two more miles to go.  That, my dear whiny kid in your Hello Kitty bike helmet, is terror.  Pick up your spilled apples and smushed PB&J and shut up.  Get back to me when life gets really hard and then we’ll talk.

So, the marathon is a little over a month away.  Mr. Dingo and I have made our reservations at a cute little bed & breakfast.  I don’t know how much I’ll be able to enjoy either the bed or the breakfast as I’ll be too nervous to eat and then too sore to care.  I’m excited though.  I never thought I’d be able to get this far and I don’t think I would have if it weren’t for Mr. Dingo and you, my dear Innernetz.  I keep thinking of the great party and all the gifts and money you are going to shower me with when I complete the marathon.  Gifts + Money = motivation.

I’m right about the gifts and money, right?

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I’ll Make My Own Lemonade

I got back to NYC late last night. Woohoo!  Now I can catch up with my blog reading and commenting and you can catch up with commenting on mine (comment-whore hint).  Although Mom kept me busy shopping, cleaning out gutters, and installing an Odd Boy alert system, I managed to stick to my running schedule.  But not without mishaps.

I went for a run yesterday and got lost.  In a subdivision.  What was supposed to be a three-mile run turned into a four-and-a-half-mile slog through a tangled knot of streets with names like Dancing Deer Lane, Dancing Deer Lane Court, and Dancing Deer Court Lane Partridge in a Pear Tree.  Is it any wonder I got lost?  I bet even Santa, being the deer expert that he is, loses his way in this neighborhood. I would feel bad for the poor toyless tykes of this neighborhood except not one of those little fuckers had a lemonade stand set up yesterday in the ninety-degree heat.  What’s up with that?  How do these kids make money?  They can’t all be mowing lawns at $65 a pop. So, no lemonade yesterday, and thus I made sure that Santa will get lost in this neighborhood by switching all the street signs.

My running times were slower this week.  It could have been because of the god awful humidity but it’s more likely the lack of snark material on my run.  There was no one to distract me from my collapsing lungs.  And the only change in scenery from one cookie cutter house to the next was the color of the Honda Civic in the driveways.  I did not come across any other runners this week.  There were kids on bikes, a few skateboarders, and one rollerblade.  No, not someone on a pair of rollerblades but a kid peg-legging his way down the street on one rollerblade.  It was so pathetic that I can’t muster a snide aside even now.  Okay, I snarked a little at the time but it was so lame, I’m not even going to share it with you.  I did see one old lady with a cane walking on the sidewalk.  She did not look like she posed an OLWW-type threat.  She was just going to the mailbox but I made a note to myself to keep an eye on her just in case.

I should’ve brought my iPod to help me pick up the pace but I’ve been running without it lately.  Trying to keep the earbuds in my tiny ears was just too distracting and I like being able to hear my footsteps and my breathing.  I can also hear the water sloshing around in the water bottle strapped to my waist.  The fact that I have to use a bungee cord to get the thing around my waist is a drawback.  It feels like a corset or an external gastric bypass.  The waist belt is so tight that I can’t breathe much less drink. And if I’ve had any liquids in the last month or so, the pressure of the belt as it jostles my waistline sends ripples to my bladder making sure that I have to pee when I am at the furthest point away from home.  Being one to plan not only for zombie invasions but other worst-case scenarios, I have this potentially embarrassing situation already figured out.  First, drink all the water.  Then, pee in the water bottle, relieving my bladder, and, finally, make some money in the process by selling it as lemonade to some unsuspecting runner.  These suburban kids may not know how to turn a buck but I am a survivor. 

So, why did I buy a waist belt that was too small?  It was on sale at Target.  Duh! 

Speaking of Tar-zhay — and I always seem to be speaking of Tar-zhay — as Mom and I were walking to our car at the very back of the parking lot earlier this week, I made the non-judgmental observation that the people here seem very, very out of shape.  Especially compared to the people in NYC.  I think it’s because the people in NYC walk so freakin’ much.  And then there’s running after cabs, so even if you do end up taking the cab across town, the brief sprint to beat out the guy on crutches trying to carry two bags of groceries counts as both cardio and strength training — and you get some resistance training in there too if you have to hold the door closed as he tries to yank it open.  No, this did not happen to me.  I just saw it happen to others a few times.  Really!  And if it had been me, I would’ve pushed the guy down on the way to the cab so that there was no chance he could come after me.  And that counts as contact sport training, too.  Anyhoodle....

You know, one of the most humbling and encouraging lessons that I’ve learned is that fat does not mean unfit.  I have about @&! pounds to lose and when I started running I thought that people would wonder what this chunky monkey was doing taking up space when there were real runners trying to get by.  And you know what?  Some of those real runners were much, much bigger than I was and they blasted by me on the running trail without even breaking a sweat or breathing hard. It boosted my confidence in a fucked up kind of way because, as they zoomed by me, I wondered what those chunky monkeys were doing taking up space when there were real chunky monkey’s trying to get by.  Even though I haven’t lost much weight, I feel so much stronger and more confident.  In fact, I am confident that, if ever faced with a cab duel with a guy on crutches carrying two bags of groceries, I could not only beat him to the cab but I could hold the door closed without so much as breaking a nail in the process. 

The second most important thing I’ve learned from running is how to spit.  Oh, don’t twist your face up like that.  Before I began running I would throw an undisguised look of disgust at runners who spit.  I usually watched the Ironman from the comfort of my couch, but occasionally cheered marathoners as they passed by during an early happy hour.  As I double-fisted a high quality brew like Natural Light while maintaining my balance on a bar stool barely bigger than one ass cheek, I was certain that, while I may not have been fit, at least I had class. Now, however, I understand.  No matter how dry your throat feels or how dehydration has caused your eyeballs to shrivel up like raisins and rattle in their sockets, there will be a nasty loogie waiting at the back of your throat.  It must be expelled.  Yes, that’s gross, but so is swallowing the loogie.  Do you want to swallow the loogie?  No, I didn’t think so.  I’ve learned two cardinal rules of spitting: 

1) Do not spit directly in front of you, especially if it is windy.  It is very important that you turn your head to your side. 
2) Make sure there is no one running by your side.

This wasn’t such a concern here in the ‘burbs but it’s something to keep in mind if you ever run the loop around the Reservoir in Central Park.  Helpful tips, I gots ‘em.

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If Miles Were Measured in Donuts

I haven’t written much about my marathon training lately because most of it consists of things like, “Oh my holy hell, it’s hot y’all!” and “Someone talk me out of this madness!” But overall it’s going well.  I have about seventeen weeks until the marathon.  Yes, seventeen.  I had to make a wee change in my plans.  I am not going to Florence for the marathon.  Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, I am still running a marathon.  It’s just not in Italy.  It’s in Massachusetts. Cape Cod, to be exact.  Racing in Florence with a weak dollar and the cost of everything rising due to oil prices seemed like a big burden right now.  So, instead, I decided to race in Cape Cod, which is just like Italy with fewer popes.

Why Cape Cod?  Well, everyone knows that Italy is shaped like a boot, but did you know that Cape Cod is shaped like an arm?  Check it out on a map.  I am all into running in places shaped like extremities, so Cape Cod and Italy were the natural next choices after my first race in Manhattan.  Hey, if any of you are truly disappointed by this change in plans, I will reluctantly accept donations of cash, air miles, free drink coupons, duty free discount certificates or, hell, any old thing, toward the Send Dingo to Florence fund. 

The Cape Cod Marathon is sponsored by Dunkin Donuts because, you know, donuts and exercise go hand in hand.  I’m counting on them to have donut holes at every water station.  Or even instead of water stations. I can bring my own freakin’ water, but I want to make Dunkin Donuts put their “America Runs on Dunkin” money where my mouth is.

While my race training has gotten tougher and the hills don’t seem to be getting any easier, I have reached a running milestone.  The other day, I finally passed the old lady with a walker I see on the park track all the time when I run.  And I did it with style and only a small amount of gloating because I’m just humble like that.  When I first started running, Old Lady With Walker would kick my ass.  She would come out of nowhere and I’d think, “I may be slow but at least I can beat Old Lady With Walker.” Only, I couldn’t.  I could never catch up to her.

At first, I thought I had the upper hand.  OLWW is always dressed from head to foot in a white calf-length puffy coat — the kind you wear when the New York winter is at it’s worst and the mayor is telling everyone to stay home from work so the snow plows can do their job — and leather gloves.  She looks like the Michelin man, except I don’t recall ever seeing sweat stains under his armpits.  Anyway, I figured if I couldn’t catch up to her on my own power, she’d eventually fall out from heat stroke and I’d be able to hurdle over her prone body and claim victory.  Unless I was really tired from running.  Then I would have to step on her.  Gently. 

But I think OLWW has a tricked-out walker.  It’s sort of the Sports edition of walkers.  It has thick SUV wheels on the back legs and tennis balls on the front ones.  Tennis balls!  How could I compete with that?  She pushes this walker up and down the hills of Central Park like she just won a $5000 shopping spree at Tar-zhay and has only five minutes to reach the check-out line.  I thought, “Day-um!  I should be able to beat OLWW!” But I just couldn’t.  The distance between us would continue to increase until finally she came around behind me. 

And then.... this week, the impossible happened.  I passed OLWW.  I didn’t just pass her.  I passed her going uphill!  I was ecstatic.  Rocky Balboa couldn’t have been more pleased when he reached the top of those famous steps than I was at that moment.  I heard his theme music in my ears, danced a jig and did a couple of fist pumps in the air before becoming so out of breath my vision began to blur.  But I wanted to savor my victory.  So I turned around to see if she was choking on my dust.  Folks, I am just mastering the art of forward movement.  Running backwards is the Ph.D of coordination and apparently I don’t have that gift.  I tripped.  And fell. 

The world looks completely different when you are only six inches off the ground.  I did not relish having the Nike Swoosh tattooed onto my forehead by the approaching runners who did not stop.  Yeah, no one stopped.  They just kept on running although I think I heard one woman say something to her running buddy about stepping on me gently.  Through my haze of embarrassment, I swore I could hear OLWW’s wicked cackle as she anticipated leaving walker tracks across my outstretched body, so I quickly jumped up and continued my run. 

You would think making a complete ass of myself would dial back my snarkometer to acceptable leveIs, but you would be wrong.  The only thing that can make you feel better after an incident like that is to make fun of someone else.  It’s really not hard to do.  At my pace, there is plenty of snark material running right past me every few seconds.  The normal people pass me too quickly to fully engage my Bitch Vision, so all I’m left with is the freak parade.  Now, I know what you are thinking, and shame on you.  I am not a freak.  I just run like one.

I was not disappointed.  Two of my favorite runners appeared up ahead and instantly lifted my mood.  First there was the guy who runs like he’s on his way to a Broadway audition or the Extreme Cheer Challenge competition.  Arms bent at the elbow, fingers fully splayed, he has the perfect jazz hands. My internal iPod doesn’t know whether to start humming tunes from A Chorus Line or reciting dialogue from Bring it On: In It To Win It .  (Shush!  Don’t judge me! I’d like to see your DVD collection!) I always want to slap a Spirit Stick into his hands just to see what happens. 

Speaking of flashy numbers, did you know they make gold lamé running shorts?  Well, they do!  And my second favorite runner, Lame Lamé, has a pair for every day of the week.  Either that or she wears the same ones over and over again, but that’s just too nasty to think about.  Luckily, they make gold lamé running shorts in various sizes so you can choose ones that are two sizes too small, allowing everyone to see the shape of your girl bits.  I am glad I wear sunglasses because the reflection off her ass can scorch your corneas.  When she passed me the other day, the heat from her vulva-laser caused me to stumble, but I somehow maintained my balance.  Not only would falling twice in the same run have been mortifying, but it would be a sad day indeed if the last sight I ever had of this world was a pornographic baked potato and OLWW tennis balls approaching my forehead.

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98 Degrees and No Nick Lachey

I ran a 10K today.  And oh my holy hell, did I feel every K. As Marian the Librarian and I lined up for the start, I was worried.  It was only 9am and it was hot.  Sorry, let me rephrase that.  It was only 9am and it was so hot I was sweatin’ like a whore at bible camp.  And that was just from standing at the starting line! 

When the race started there was a large mass of forward movement.  From where I was positioned, I could see the thousands of racers in front of me stretched up Central Park West like a giant centipede.  It undulated and swayed in a multicolor array of bodies, clothes, and feet.  It was at that point that I decided I was either already dehydrated and hallucinating, or I was part of something big.  I chose to believe the latter.  Did I mention it was hot?  Hotter than the hinges of Hell.

Once we got into the park the shade provided some relief.  Not much, though.  I was so glad that Marian the Librarian was with me.  Chatting with her helped distract me from the heat.  Well, it only provided a little distraction because almost all we could talk about was the heat.  And beer.  Talking about the beer we planned to chug at the end of the race was definitely helpful.  The first fluid area came none too soon.  The stampede to the water tables reminded me of the westerns I watched as a kid when all the buffalo would suddenly startle and go running pell mell toward the cliff.  I swear, if the water table had been at the bottom of a cliff, I would’ve taken a swan dive into a Dixie cup.  Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.  In addition to the water tables, the race organizers had someone with a huge fire hose spraying water over the runners as we passed by.  Blessed brief relief!

Although I was pretty confident that the heat would take some of the people out of the race, I was also upset that some people weren’t instantly disqualified over poor fashion choices.  Now, I do not have fancy running duds.  I have running/bike shorts that eliminate the chub rub and a t-shirt.  However, I feel very strongly that if you are going to buy fancy running duds that you should buy a racer back bra to go with your racer back running shirt.  How many times do I have to say this folks?  Athlete or A-list superstar, No. Exposed. Bra. Straps!  I asked Marian the Librarian if she would mind if we picked up the pace a bit so I could issue a citation to the fashion wreck a few paces ahead of us.  She was against the idea.  I really think I need to have a chat with Obama and see if he can add this to his platform for the upcoming election. 

Things went along well for a while.  Until today, my longest run had been a little more than 40 minutes.  As we approached the five-mile mark, my race time was about an hour.  I was really proud of myself but could feel the effects of the heat and humidity setting in.  My legs felt great but I could feel my face was flushed and an overall exhaustion began to set in.  I also felt kinda dizzy.  Immediate warning sign of dehydration.  Although Marian the Librarian and I had water at every fluid station, it wasn’t enough.  It was about this time that I questioned the whole intelligent design theory.  Wouldn’t a truly intelligent design have us store water in our thighs like camels?  I mean, if my thighs are going to jiggle anyway, wouldn’t it be better to have that jiggle come from a useful function like water storage than as evidence of my peanut M&M addiction?  At the very least, there could be a place in my thighs to store M&Ms.

Marian the Librarian could see that I was faltering and kept me going with encouragement and threats.  Okay, so maybe she didn’t threaten me, but I honestly can’t tell you what we talked about the last mile.  We passed other runners who had passed out or who just plain ol’ couldn’t make it.  Paramedics and ambulances were almost as prevalent as the racers at this point.  Before I knew it, the finish line was in sight.  There were a lot of people cheering us on the last ¼ mile and it made such a difference.  Between the people at the side of the road cheering for us and Marian the Librarian telling me that she was not going to drag my sorry, sweaty ass across the finish line — Okay, maybe those weren’t her exact words; she might have said something like, “You’re almost there!  You can do it!” but I know she meant, “You’d better do it because I’m not going to drag your sorry, sweaty ass across the finish line!” — I crossed the finished line!  Woohoo! 

It was amazing feeling!  I can’t wait until the next race.  I enjoyed this race but it has made me realize that training for the marathon is going to suck like a Hoover.  Or maybe even a Dyson.  Does anyone even buy Hoovers anymore?  After beer and mozzarella sticks, our traditional post race fare, I made my way home.  Shower, nap, and mindless TV were the order of the day, although I dragged myself to a nearby salon for a pedicure and foot massage.  Heaven!  I called Marian the Librarian later in the afternoon.  While I had been basking in my accomplishment from the comfort of my couch, she had vacuumed her apartment, organized her upcoming vacation, written a novel, and developed a ground-breaking open-heart surgery technique.  It made me tired.  So I took another nap.  And then wrote this post.  The end.

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