Next Rest Area, 26.2 Miles

I can’t believe that I’ve just completed my second week of preliminary marathon training.  Ten minutes of plodding running followed by five minutes of desperate gasping for air in which bugs and other unsuspecting airborne creatures that couldn’t escape the vortex created by my desperate wheezing contribute to my protein intake for the week.  Now I know why nature abhors a vacuum.  It upsets her delicate balance as I rob hundreds of spiders and bats of their breakfast. 

While I did not start training with the intent of losing weight, I thought that dropping thirty pounds might just be a fringe benefit.  Wanna know how much weight I’ve lost?  None.  Not one ounce.  Mr. Dingo says this is because I’m gaining muscle, that water weight from sore muscles will eventually disperse, yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah....  Thank you, Charles Atlas.  He suggested that I go by measurements instead.  So I dug out the tape measure expecting to be pleasantly surprised.  I was surprised all right.  Do you want to know how many inches I’ve lost?  This   much.  See that teeny space between “this” and “much”?  Yep, that’s how many inches I’ve lost.  Thank goodness we have a tape measure with hundredths of inches on it or I might have missed the incredible improvement altogether.  It boggles the mind, doesn’t it?  It’s not fair.  I’ve changed my eating habits considerably.  On most days, I can go at least fifteen minutes without eating a candy bar.  And not one Twizzler today.  Not one!

So, someone please tell me when the weight should start melting off.  Right now, while the grass along my running trail is still wet with Spring rain, everything is alright.  Come the hot, parched days of summer, when everything green hoarsely begs for water, it will be a different story.  The sparks thrown off by the rubbing of my thighs will cause wildfires.  You’ll hear about it on the news.  “Well, it has been a very hot summer, but these are the first wildfires Central Park has ever known.  Back to you in the studio, Ernie.” Maybe I should alert the authorities now so they can start monitoring the water levels in The Reservoir.

Speaking of water, I thought that eating properly would be the most difficult part of marathon training but it’s not (I say as I wipe the grease from the fourth hamburger I’ve had this week from my keyboard).  It’s the peeing.  I have a bladder the size of a postage stamp.  In the two weeks I’ve been training, I have found every bathroom and port-o-potty on my running route in the park.  If I have the slightest sip of water at any time prior to my run, I’ll have to pee before I get to park entrance.  Running only makes it worse and all I can think about is the next pit stop.  What am I going to do in Florence?  I’m sure that the running route is not going to be lined with a Starbucks — a tiny bladder’s best friend — every fifty yards.  If Florence is anything like other European countries I’ve been to, I’m going to have to carry a pocket full of change to use the public loos.  Do they make running shorts with pockets that big? I am worried about how much change I will have to carry.  I will be the next wonder of the world.  Like the Great Wall of China, you will be able to see me from space. 

Or, even worse, I will have to resort to using adult diapers to make it through the race.  I have this image of myself being interviewed at the finish line by an Italian news crew speaking to me in broken English:

Reporter: Missa Dingo.  How does-a persona go from-a being a-thirty pounds overweight-a to a- winning la Firenze Marathon in only a few-a months-a?

Dingo: (Smiling brightly as the camera pans close, her waterproof makeup perfectly intact and her too-white teeth causing a momentary sunspot on the lens.) Depends....

Well, wildfires and pit stops be damned, I’ll get across that finish line!  Maybe not first or second or fiftieth.  Maybe the clowns on their stilts and the old people with their fancy prosthetic hips will finish before me.  I will be there though, at the very same finish line the one-man band with his accordion and the drums on his back and the cymbals between his legs will have passed only hours before.  I may not be there with bells on, one-man band will have taken all of them, but I’ll jingle the euros in my pocket like castanets.

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Beer, It Isn’t Just for Breakfast Anymore

Oh my holy hell, y’all, I have a stock tip for you.  Ibuprofen.  Yes, sales of ibuprofen are going to go through the roof within the next few months.  When I’m lying on the apartment floor after a run, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m practicing my visualization — you know, “seeing” myself completing the marathon, imagining having a great workout, all that New Age mumbo jumbo that scientist begrudgingly admit is important in helping us achieve our goals.  So far, my visualization has included picturing myself getting off the floor and going into the kitchen for a beer.  What usually happens is that I end up begging Mr. Dingo for some ibuprofen with a beer chaser.  What, you think that beer is not an appropriate workout beverage?  I should be swilling Gatorade perhaps?  You forget, my friends, that I will be running this marathon in Florence.  Beer is just the first step in my post-marathon training.  I need to be able to hold my liquor when I go out for the celebratory binge meal after the race.  I would hate to embarrass you, my fellow countrymen, by falling face first into my plate of pasta after only one cask bottle glass of wine.  So, in order to prepare for the post-race festivities, I am chewing ibuprofen and chugging beer.  Why beer?  Because, really, who drinks wine at 7:30 in the morning!?  What, do you think I am an alcoholic? 

My training plan is great.  Before actually training for distance, the training manual I’m using prepares your body and your mind for the rigorous workout to come.  Visualization and gradual increases in running time are on my agenda for the next few weeks before training for distance and speed.  Right now, I’m running for five minutes and walking “briskly” for five minutes.  I think briskly means slightly faster than a zombie lurch but slower than the mad dash during the Pamploma Running with the Bulls.  Next week I jog for ten and walk briskly for five.  You see the pattern here?  This is the training plan that Wheaties used and now look at her — she’s competing in the Ironman in October.  While I am immensely proud of her, the only Ironman I wanna do is Robert Downey, Jr.

Anyway, I’ve discovered that ibuprofen is my friend.  I’ve already gone through a bottle and have sometimes wondered if it would ease my aches and pains faster if I ground it up first and snorted it through a dollar bill.  Side note:  I read that 80% of all paper currency in the US contains trace amounts of cocaine.  Think about that the next time you are going through airport security and one of those friendly looking drug sniffing dogs comes your way

As I’m lying on the floor visualizing the ibuprofen levitating from the medicine cabinet into my hand, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m meditating.  But I’m not.  I’ve found religion.  Yes, those “visualization” moments on my floor are actually prayers.  I’m bargaining with God. 

Me:  God, if you just let me move my legs, I promise I’ll stop making fun of the woman who runs in high heeled sneakers.  But I can’t promise that I won’t stare. 

God: 

Me:  Just a toe, God.  If I could just move my right big toe, I’ll stop cursing the stroller mom who thinks it’s okay to talk on her cell phone while pushing her damn double stroller in the running lane taking up the entire path so that I have to go into the grass to go around her. 

God:

Me:  Okay, since you’re God, you know that I’m lying.  I won’t stop cursing her, but I will stop cursing in that fake under my breath way that’s loud enough for her to hear it.

God:

Me:  I got nothin’ else.

God:

So, marathon training is going well.  I’m actually enjoying it.  To tell you the truth, I never thought I could run for five seconds and now I’m zooming along at the speed of erosion for five minutes at a time.  I freakin’ rock!

(Get it?  Erosion?  Rock?  Oh come on!  That was funny!)

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The Last Supper

I don’t know how it happened, one minute I was emailing my friend Wheaties about our upcoming trip to Philly and the next I was committing myself to run a marathon with her in November.  “With” should be translated to mean, we’ll both be running on the same continent.  See, Wheaties has been a marathoner and triathlete for years.  She runs, bikes, and swims — for fun!  The only running I do is for the subway and I consider life sweet if I’m swimming in a good bottle of Pinot Noir by the end of the evening.  As for bikes, I haven’t ridden one in years.  Biking in NYC is out of the question unless you’re a courier.  NYC couriers have balls of steel.  It may make sitting on their bikes a bit uncomfortable but it also enables them to dart between buses and cars within an ass hair of death without batting an eye. 

With all this in mind, the thought that once the race started I would actually be within shouting distance of Wheaties is laughable.  But, the thought that I could actually train for and run a marathon by November appealed to me.  As did the marathon location: Florence, Italy!  Yes, the marathon is in Florence, Italy.  If that’s not motivation to get off my ass then you really need to just stick a feeding tube down my throat and turn me over every two hours so that I don’t get bed sores.

On Saturday, I went to Barnes and Noble and got a great book on training for marathons.  I then headed to Paragon Sporting Goods, the mecca for all things athletic in NYC.  The crowds were insane and intimidating.  All the customers seemed to know exactly what they were looking for and did not mind pushing me aside to get it.  And then, a ray of light from heaven showed me the way.  His name was Carlos.  Carlos was fantastic!  I told him my goal (26 miles through the beauty of Florence) and my current level of activity (pub crawls through Little Italy).  After trying on at least eleven pairs of shoes, I finally settled on the white and blue Saucony Progrid Guide.  They feel like air.  Or at least as if my feet have wings.  I am Mercury!  If I don’t run the marathon, I can at least deliver flowers for FTD.  Carlos gave me some running pointers and I was on my way.  It was a gorgeous day and, on my way home as I strolled through the farmers market in Union Square smelling the flowers and avoiding the temptation of home baked goods, I felt that anything was possible — even running a marathon. 

Later that evening, Mr. Dingo suggested that we go out for my last calorie-laden, trans-fat saturated, no holds barred meal.  We went to Brother Jimmy’s.  Yes, there are better places for BBQ in NYC but Brother Jimmy’s is located a few blocks away from the real culinary goal of the evening — Cold Stone Creamery.  Brother Jimmy’s is a loud, crowded, twenty-something hang-out but, when the smorgasbord we ordered appeared, all the noise faded into the distance.  It was like a romantic movie scene where the lovers spy each other and the focus is narrowed to their dreamy faces as everything around the edges gets all fuzzy and out of focus.  It took me a few seconds to realize the Mr. Dingo was talking to me, “Dingo.  Dingo!  We’re supposed to share that appetizer platter!” Spoil sport.  Take a look at this and tell me: is there enough for two people?!?

There was this weird fire thingy in the middle.  I don’t know what it was for.  Mr. Dingo suggested that it was placed there to prevent me from reaching over and taking his share of the food.  Good idea, that. 

I was full, distended tummy full, by the time we finished the appetizers.  When the entrees came I made an attempt to eat, knowing that in a few days I would be looking back at this meal with longing.  I also had to save room for Cold Stone’s Cake Batter Ice Cream.  I made a valiant effort to eat but ended up with a rather large doggy bag to take home to Dingo Girl.

Walking to Cold Stone after that meal was painful.  I felt like Violet Beauregarde after eating Willy Wonka’s Three-Course Dinner Gum.  Just roll this ol’ blueberry down the street, Mr. Dingo!  My tummy hurt.  I think I got stretch marks from all the BBQ I ate.  Cold Stone was delish but I couldn’t finish.  My stretch marks got stretch marks.  Yes, it was an exercise in gluttony but at least it was exercise, right?

I know that the next few months will test my determination, stamina, endurance, and Mr. Dingo.  Wheaties is going to help me train via internet and I hope that, by the time we meet in Philly this May, I’ll be able to run a few miles with her.  One of my biggest hurdles will be overcoming my mental quirks.  I tend to take on too much but become frustrated when I just can’t seem to do everything at my top form, and then I grow discouraged and disappointed in myself.  Oh boy, is it fun to live with me then!  It’s like a constant state of PMS.  Mr. Dingo, however, is a trooper.  I am sure that his preparation for this Florence marathon will consist of lots of wine and whine — and I think you know who’s doing the latter. 

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