High Anus Half

Today was my chance to save myself from the confidence blow at my half marathon 2 weeks ago. Two weeks ago you could tell I was pissed from the finishing photo. I looked like this:

I look pissed. I look like I've just thrown down the gloves and I'm coming over to beat the living shit out of the photographer. (The other photos are even worse, but I'll save that humiliation for another post). Today I rallied for a rematch at the High Anus half marathon on Cape Cod. Okay, okay, Hyannis (pronounced hi-YAN-nis), but that's no fun. Mindy was going to be there, and the forecast was for sun and New England beach weather (barely above freezing), so it promised to be a good day.
Just as I pulled off the highway into standstill traffic, Mindy, who had shown up super early to the venue in order to get a good parking spot, texted me saying, "I got a killer spot! Right across the street." I should have known something was up when I pulled into a parking lot that clearly belonged to a strip mall and not a convention center. I followed some other runners about a quarter mile up the road, readying myself to murder for a toilet if need be. When I walked in the door I didn't see too many people, but the crowd got thicker and thicker as I elbowed my way through the hallway. I passed a line the length of a long course swimming pool, thinking that it must be the packet pickup and soldiered on into the thickening crowd. HOLY SHIT! It was the bathroom line! I later found out that there were over 3,000 runners there for the marathon, half marathon, and 10k distance, along with their spouses, kids, mothers, coaches, and any other kind of race groupie jetsam crammed into the tiny "convention center".

Just a few feet beyond the bathroom, by some miracle, I ran into Mindy. After a short hello I said, "Mindyyyyy, I've gotta pee soooooo bad!" She offered to stand in line for me while I went to pick up my number. Mindy rocks! I pushed on up the hall like I was swimming upstream. Nobody seemed to be getting anywhere in a hurry, and then suddenly the sea parted. Dick and Rick Hoyt wheeled past me amid a thousand murmurs of "Good morning, Dick. Good morning, Rick." Had I not been thunderstruck I would have hopped into the slipstream left in their wake, but of course I've sat sobbing in front of youtube videos set to cheezy music and wished I could thank them for the inspiration and let them know the emotion that they inspired in me. So I said nothing, just stood aside like a dummy, and then when I'd recovered, pushed on ahead to pick up my number. On the way back out of the ballroom, some woman was bent over, hanging onto Ricks hand, and sloshing through a fawning, sentimental monologue. It made me glad that I had decided not to say anything. It made me wonder if Rick ever resents his disability for the sole reason that he can't get away from these people when they come up to him, or tell them to fuck off and come back when they have something more original to say.

Dipshit face!

When I had pushed my way back Mindy was still waiting in the bathroom line, now bearably close to the front. Once I'd relieved myself in one of the three, count them, three stalls, we staked out a square yard of space to sit while we waited to pass the time before the start. Then, after snapping some pictures of my John Rocks!!! t-shirt, it was off to do the stuff dump and line up at the start.

Mindy, who kicks ass in more ways than one, filed herself away among the 8-minute milers, while I moseyed on back to my place among the more "colorful" pack farther back. Next to me was standing a 6-foot tall man in a garbage bag held together with duct tape. I could understand the garbage bag if it were raining, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky. He looked kind of like a fucked up hobo muppet. Behind me there was a guy whose nerves (or perhaps a sense of superiority reserved only for those who are superior to no one) compelled him to fill every silent second with cynical, condescending comments. "C-V-Surf," I heard him read off the back of my shirt (cvsurf.blogspot.com), "there are so many blogs out there, and so many of them are bo-ring!" And then he went on to go off about how boring most people's lives were. I had an urge to point out the obvious, that no one was forcing him to read them, and that I thought his incessant blabbering was pretty fucking bo-ring too, but unlike him, I was being forced into enduring it. Unfortunately I'm only a bitch in my head, the rest of me is pretty nonconfrontational. I contented myself by mentally tearing him a new one, telling him all about how I could tell from his voice, diction, and what he chose to talk about that I thought he was a pretty big fucking loser himself, and if he was back here with the 9+ minute milers he could just get down off his high horse, because he was nothing special and probably never would be to anyone who had to endure his pretentious blabbering. Meanwhile, inexplicably the people in front of us started pushing back. And then HE TOUCHED ME. He put his hand on my back and said, "don't worry I've just got my hand here so you don't back over me," or something like that. Like I was going to break his toe with my 130 lb on top of a heavily-padded shoe sole Ugh! I couldn't wait for this fucking thing to start to get away from this guy. I'd made someone fall over and roll down the street once by cutting him off in a crowded start, I wondered if I could do it again.

To my relief, my Garmin, which had been chasing its tail for over 10 minutes finally caught a signal just before the national anthem started. Back where I was we couldn't hear anything over the PA system other than "Mmmmh mmmh, mmmh mmmh mmmmh", so the national anthem sounded like, "mmh-mmh mmmh mmmmh mmmmh mmmmmmmh..." The asshole sang every verse or two, and when it was finished, deemed the singer fit for American Idol. I deemed him fit for a swift kick to the nuts. Then we heard a "mmhmmh, mmmh, MMMH!" that sounded a lot like "Ready, set, GO!", and we stood still for a little while. Then we moved forward a couple of feet and stopped again - because that's what you do at big starts - and then we began running.

Mile 1: I'd done a 3-hour ride the day before, and my legs felt a bit crusty. Although people were pretty good about seeding themselves correctly at the start, and we were able to start running right away, it took awhile to get the not-so-fresh feeling out of my legs.

Mile 2: I have no idea what happened here. It was so crowded that I couldn't see the side of the road for mile markers for another several miles.

Mile 3: My legs finally started to loosen up. I felt warm. I felt sweat trickle down my face. Why can't I seem to get this winter clothing thing down?!


Mile 4: "Yum, smell that bog smell!" I heard someone say behind me. Yep, it smelled like a mixture of sulfur and methane: that bog smell.

Mile 5-6: Dum-de-dum-de-dum. I'm running down the street. Dum-de-dum-de-dum.

Mile 7: We're running down the street, minding our own business, when this guy comes by on a bike in the other direction and YELLS, "GET ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE ROAD" in the same voice that cops yell, "PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" in the movies. And then I said the one thing I uttered to another living soul during the race, "My goodness!" I said. The woman next to me chuckled, and that was it for human contact until the end.

Mile 8: I decided that rather than count down miles I would just imagine that I was running on a familiar 6-mile out and back I do at home. That way I would have a way to rationalize the distance I had left. Right now I was 1 mile in, right by the train station.

Mile 9: Somehow I had Edith Piaf's Mon menage à moi stuck in my head. I breathed to the words, inhaling to "tu me fais tourner..." and exhaling "la tête..." and striding with the Pum, pum pum pum pum pum PUM. (If you want to hear what it sounds like click here.) It was weird running music, but it's what was stuck in there, what can I say. I was beginning to think I should start running with an iPod.

Mile 10: I heard a spectator yell out something about a 9-minute pace. What? Was he crazy? What was wrong with his watch? I was running pretty easy, just singing songs to myself in a language I barely understood. Could I really be going that fast? That made me want to drop the hammer a little bit. But then again, when I try to drop the hammer, I usually wind up having to slow down and pick it up again later. So I just kind of dangled the hammer a little bit, so it would feel like maybe it was in trouble. There was this woman in front of me with the most unfortunate butt I've seen in awhile. It stuck out but was soft-looking and kind of boxy. Not that it's my place to criticize, but this was a new kind of butt I'd never seen before. I marvelled at it in horror. If this woman knew how ungainly her butt was, she wouldn't have chosen those pants, that's for sure.

Mile 11: Wait, is that girl wearing... ghettophones? Sure enough, there was a girl running in front of me in studio-style headphones, a zip-up hoodie that looked like it came from Aeropostale, and red valuer pants over... the nicest butt I have ever seen! I didn't look back up at her headphones even once. It was spectacular, nicely shaped, just big enough, but not even the smallest perceptable jiggle. I wanted to pull old boxy-butt over and make some constructive comments. Instead, I swore to do more lunges.

Mile 12: I'm back from the lake now in my imaginary run, running past the middle school and the library. I'm almost home. I willed myself not to think about anything. I still felt fresh, let's keep this under control. There was still a steady stream of people in front of and behind me. I had just as many people around me now as I had at mile 2. This was ridiculous!

Mile 13: The half marathon runners veered off to the right and into the convention center parking lot. There was this hill, about the incline of a parking garage ramp, leading the .1 mile up to the finish line. I thought that was a pretty lame trick. I sprinted as fast as I could, but still got out-kicked by about a dozen people. The last I saw the clock, it said 1:59: 55. I threw my hands up in the air. I'd done it! I'd broken 2 hours! But now that I'd stopped, I felt like I was going to puke.
I walked around in circles to keep the blood moving so I wouldn't yack all over the crowded finishing area, then I leaned over to untie my chip. This messed with my lungs which sent me into a spastic cough, which almost sent me over the edge into puke territory again. As I was re-lacing my shoe, a volunteer came over and picked my chip up off the pavement, which was a good thing, because I probably would have forgotten it there if she hadn't. And when I stood up again, there was Mindy! "Did you win?!" I asked. Mindy wasn't thrilled with herself, but she'd logged a time that would have sent me to the hospital around mile 1. I told her that I'd set a new PR and she hugged me. As we walked away I checked my garmin, "Hunh, it says I went 13.3 miles."
"I think yours might be a little bit off," said Mindy.
"Nooooooooo! I ran farther and faster!" I corrected her. Clearly, Mindy doesn't know how these things work. GPS is NEVER wrong, unless it says you're going slower than usual, silly.

We went inside where I ate the world's nastiest bagel (I think it might have been older than I was). Dunkin' Donuts was giving away free donuts, and I couldn't believe how many runners were walking away from the table with a donut hanging from a finger on each hand. Talk about things that would make me puke! We then went to a diner where over french toast Mindy and I tried to decide who was more annoying: pretentious, know-it-all newbie triathletes or rich, attention-seeking, stay-at-home triathlon moms.

Unfortunately Mindy still had to check out of her hotel, so as soon as we finished our french toast, she took me back to my car. She yelled something about, "Have fun in your shiny new car!" as I was shutting the door. I made a whaaa? face at her, then a oh yes, I understand gesture that a Japanese tourist might make when they have no clue what you just said, but want to please you. I mean, my car was covered in salt. As she pulled away I realized that she probably said, "Congratulations on your PR." Oops.

I'm not ignoring you!

I just want to let everyone know that I haven't forgotten about you. I miss reading your posts and having you read my thoughts. But between double training sessions everyday and the final push for this insane project at work, I've been lucky if I get my 20 minutes of internet over breakfast a couple of times a week. I will be back in March when said project is over (although it will take a miracle to reach our deadline!) and I can cash in on all the comp time that has been promised to me.

See you soon!

There once was a girl from Nantucket...

I have only been to the islands off of Cape Cod once: Martha's Vineyard when I was about 8. All I remember was that I was too young to pick strawberries at a farm there, we drove around following signs we'd seen on the other side of the island for another strawberry farm, and wound up at the same place. My memory of the islands ends there. I have never been to Nantucket, except in vitro. The story goes that my mom and dad were standing in a windmill overlooking a cranberry bog when my mom got nauseous and told Dad that she thought she was pregnant. Understandably, I don't want to know too much about this story, since I come from the stork and my parents have never touched each other inappropriately. However, when my friends in college got wind of the story, it started the rumor that I was conceived in a cranberry bog on Nantucket. Which could lead to all kinds of fun limericks such as this one based on today's race:

There once was a girl from Nantucket
Who woke up with a cold and said, "Fuck it."
She'd been ill for too long,
And didn't feel strong,
But when they told her to stay home she said, "Suck it!"

Only the race wasn't on Nantucket, it was on Martha's Vineyard. The Martha's Vineyard 20 Miler. Martha's Vineyard doesn't offer such cool limerick possibilities as Nantucket, though. There once was a girl from Martha's Vineyard, Who hung her iPod on a lanyard... Never mind.

Our story begins on Thursday morning when I woke up feeling a little bit under the weather. I can't be getting sick again, I thought. I'll just go for a long swim, a chlorine soak will do me good, and then I'll get a good night's sleep tonight. Only I didn't make it to that night. By the time I got home from work my nose was like a faucet. Friday was worse, if that's possible. Now before you go telling me that I've been training too hard, let me assure you that I've been training less, significantly less, since I got sick. And intensity has gone out the window. The problem is my damn job. I've been working 50+ hours a week for the last month or more, taking the late train home (which is always delayed), I get home, rush out to work out as fast as I can, and barely have 20 minutes to shove some food and water into me before bed time. I'm probably not adequately fed or watered by bed time. And I haven't been sleeping well, because I just dream about what I've been doing at work all day and wake up a million times a night. So if I hear anyone say I'm training too hard, I'll release all the wrath of an overworked under-compensated worker on you (you know, go postal).

Friday night (the night before the race) I was so congested that I couldn't believe that so much snot could come from one person's head. But congestion was my only symptom, so I figured I'd be okay. Have you ever heard of Afrin? It is best thing ever. You spray it up your nose, and magically, within 30 seconds you're not sick anymore! And you stay not sick for 12 hours. Like I said: best thing ever. The second best thing ever is Nyquil. I took a giant swig around 8:30 and had the lights out before 9:00. And then the trouble started. The only thing that Nyquil does for congestion is put you in a coma so you don't notice you're snotting on your pillow. But my great gobs of snot were so out of control, that not even Nyquil could knock me out. Finally I dropped into a fitful sleep where I dreamed that I had to keep careful track of how long I lay on each side to make sure that my nostrils had an equal amount of snot for the table of contents I was writing, so they could check it at the race: I was dreaming about work and my cold at once. Not a very restful sleep. Then, around 1:00 the phone rang. I woke up, worried that it might be bad news. Eventually, I dropped back off to sleep. Then, around 2:30 I got a text message. It woke me up, then I couldn't fall back asleep because my snot had become completely unmanageable. I squirted some Afrin up there, but it took awhile to calm down and fall back asleep. Then my cell phone rang at 4:15, right near my head (it's really loud). I looked at who it was to make sure it wasn't an emergency and hit ignore. It took awhile to drop back off. I was getting annoyed. And fucking A, wouldn't you know, at 5:30 it fucking rang again!

When my alarm went off at 5:45 I finally checked the messages. Text message, 2:04 AM, Andrew in Grass Valley, CA: "Hi, happy late Valentines Day. Call me if you're up." Now, one would think that when I didn't call, I wasn't up. Voicemail, 3:54 AM: "Hi honey, I was jus' calling ta see if youwere awake. I called your landline and your momanswered, and she sounded a little pissed... And then I realizedit must be like 1 in the morning out there..." and the message goes on for 2 minutes slurring about how he's sorry for waking my mom up. You DON'T CALL SOMEONE AT 4AM AND APPOLOGIZE FOR WAKING THEM UP AT 1!!! Next message: 5:32 AM: "Hi honey, I just wanted to see if you were awake. I was going through some old pictures and I found pictures of you and me and Paul and Sarah... and I just want to catch up and see how you're doing, so if you get this tonight, why don't you give me a jiggle," (I remember that phrase because he said it twice). "So I hope everything is going well at the publisher... Sorry for waking your mom up..." and on and on. I think this is one of the situations where murder is acceptable.

So my morning was already off to a rotten start, especially since I needed that good night's sleep so desperately. The morning wasn't nearly as dramatic as the night before, so we can cut to me climbing on the shuttle from the parking lot to the ferry. I was surrounded by geeky club-runner-types and struggled to suppress my cough for fear of someone telling me what everyone already knew, that I shouldn't be doing this. The ferry was filled with runners and adolescent hockey players (and their hormones). As far as transportation goes, I think ferries may beat out trains as my favorite way to travel. There were comfortable, padded chairs, plenty of room to move around, and lots of personal space. I took stock of the empty seats looking for a safe introspective-looking companion who wouldn't stick their nose in my business and tell me not to run if I coughed too much on the 45 minute ride. I picked a (very attractive) woman who looked a lot like Mary-Louise Parker. I think Mary-Louise Parker should marry me, by the way. Meet Sheryl. As I sat down she let out this barking cough. I was delighted. "Oh, you have it too?" I asked, hiding my glee with commiseration and let out a little cough.
"Yeah, I woke up with it on Thursday" (me too! maybe we're soul mates!) "and my fiance told me that I was crazy and that I should just stay home." (Fiance? Damn.)
"Yeah, I've heard that one before," I said.
She then pulled out a nose spray much like mine (only it wasn't Afrin, this might explain the outcome of later events), tore off the cellophane safety seal with her teeth. I could tell that in different circumstances this woman and I could be great friends. She started squeezing the top of the spray to get the pump started and jumped when a 6-inch stream of water squirted out. "Shit! I thought it was going to be a mist, not a frigging jet!" she said, and shoved the thing as deep into her nose as it would go. "Cough drop?" she asked, handing me a roll of Hall's. I've developed a Hall's addiction this past month. "I have Dayquil, too," she said as we sucked on our cough drops.
"Wait, you've already taken it, or you're going to take it after the race?" I asked. That's strong stuff. You have to have a pretty high tolerance to be able to run or operate heavy machinery on that stuff.
"Ummmmm, I'm gonna take it. No, I mean I've already taken it. I had to think about that one..." she said. This woman was definitely some kind of soul mate.

"The thing is," said Sheryl, "I never know what to wear at these things." She opened up her back pack and showed me a selection of no fewer than 4 jackets and sweatshirts. I was crazy to hope this chick was gay. That's okay, I'm in love with Mary-Louise Parker, Sheryl's just cool. She bored me to death weighing the pros and cons of every possible combination and went off to the bathroom to change. I wish she hadn't bored me with describing the outfits and had entertained me with the changing part... but I'd be rewarded later. We'll get to that. We spent most of the ride over having a non-committal conversation until it came out that she'd done Goofy last year, and then we had enough to talk about to get us all the way to the island and then some.

In line for the bathroom I let out a couple of deep coughs to rearrange the shit in my lungs. A 6' British grandmotherly type behind me said, "You sound like someone who shouldn't be running 20 miles in February."
"Yeah, it sounds like that, doesn't it?" I said in a tone of voice that really said, "It sounds like that, but really I'm a grown-up and nobody can tell me what I can and can't do, so THERE!" I ran into Sheryl a few more times, and also finally saw Gadfly Thom in the 45 minute wait for the start. For someone who's been emailing me incessantly trying to get me to go to races, Thom was surprisingly distant. I was almost offended.

We went down to the start and I paid special attention when they announced that they were going to sing the national anthem. I wanted to see if The Chick who always sings it was a real person or a recording. Instead the singer was some local Vineyard boy. "I encourage everyone to sing along to get your lungs warmed up," he said.
"Hold on, we gotta find a flag," a runner yelled. Someone pointed to the top of a building behind us about 300 yards, so all the runners turned their backs to the starting line and began to sing. It was really pretty amusing to see. I did everyone a favor, though, and didn't sing. Then we turned around in time for the cannon to go off and we crossed the starting line, which an Official USATF Course Measurer Dude had moved back 200 feet from last year (thanks a lot, asshole).

Poor, poor Claire with a cold,
Who thought herself sufficiently bold,
She felt like ass,
But couldn't possibly pass,
On a 20 mile run in which she was enrolled.

Almost immediately I knew that today just wasn't going to be a speedy day. I ran the first mile in somewhere over 9:30, and couldn't have picked it up if I wanted to. Not that I was pushing that hard, it was just a 1-gear running day. That was okay, I didn't want to blow up like last week. There were these women yapping away behind me for the first half hour, talking about how beautiful the weather was, picking which houses they would buy when they won the lottery, and just generally talking about how happy they were to be running. "You guys are so positive!" I said. "I wish I could have you over my shoulder for the whole race!"

"We're our own best cheerleaders," one of them told me. They took me in to a growing group of women that I ran with until mile 5, but eventually I fell behind and didn't make much of an effort to catch up. I was running very conservatively, I told myself. Really, their pace was just a little too fast for my one gear of the day.

At mile 5 we ran about 2 blocks up a road and turned around and came back, and I got a look at the people that were behind me. My god, there was hardly anybody! I tried not to let it get to me. This was my one speed today, and I was going to stick to it. Now that I've seen my splits and I think about it, it was probably more because of the competitive running atmosphere this time of year in Boston, and the kinds of fields it attracts rather than my actual running ability. But we're not going to worry about that. I just wasn't in a hurry.

The weather forecast had been predicting weather in the mid-twenties so I had bundled up in a t-shirt, a medium-thickness Under Armour jacket, and my thermal ninja sweatshirt. (I put the John Rocks! t-shirt off for a week, figuring that this race would be too long to not have the option of re-arranging layers). I was burning up. The cheerleaders had been stripping layers the whole time I was running with them and laughing at themselves as they stabbed themselves while re-pinning their numbers. I thought for sure it must be about 40 degrees, but when I touched the hair on the back of my neck, it was frozen. Weird. Sheryl came out of nowhere at mile 8 and said hi. "I had to stop and take off one of my layers," she said. "I tied it around my waist." I could see that. "You should do it too," she said, when I told her I was sweating like crazy. "I feel like I can breathe a lot better too." Breathing a lot better sounded pretty good since I was still coughing a lot. I waited until the 10-mile marker and stripped down to my t-shirt and took off the Under Armour. Stopping set me to coughing, coughing led to more coughing, and I was just beginning to get it under control again when I started running again. A spectator was watching me, looking alarmed. "It's not as bad as it sounds," I assured her and ran away before she could tell me that I shouldn't be doing this.

It just so happens that around the 10 mile mark is where we leave the beach and turn uphill into the woods. My god! It was FREEZING. The chilly wind cut through my ninja jacket and I was accutely aware that my nipples were very, very visible to anyone who cared to look. Well maybe now that I'm cooler I'll run faster, I thought. I wasn't making bad time. I'd hit the 10-mile mark in about 1:30, but my hamstrings were starting to ache and I could feel the beginnings of blisters on my arches. Really, it wasn't a big deal, but it was so lonely out there and I had nothing better to think about. Hardly anyone was around, and I was either passing or being passed, but wasn't falling into stride with anyone. God, I was bored. Going up a hill half way through mile 11 I saw this pack of the funniest looking birds I'd ever seen. They looked like pigeons that someone had stuck a basketball into their tummies, so they had this tiny little head and these big, fat bodies. There were about 5 of them. At first I thought they were wild turkeys, but they didn't have the butt poof that turkeys have. I would have taken a picture, but I was over it. "What the hell are those?" I yelled to the guy 20 feet in front of me (translation: "Please talk to me!").
"I have no clue," he said and ran on. Then one of the birds made this weird EEE-eeee sound that sounded like a rusty mattress, which I think is weird fat pigeon bird speak for, "What the hell are those?"

Putting all the hills at the end of the course was a pretty rotten trick, even if they were small.

I really wasn't feeling too bad, but when I hit mile 13 I was feeling pretty over it. I had no idea how I was going to get through 7 more miles of this lonely rolling hill bullshit. And then I came up behind Sheryl. She was walking, and when I pulled up next to her I could see she was crying. I stopped to walk with her. It's not like I was in a hurry, right? "I just feel so shitty," she whimpered. "My head hurts, my legs hurt, I can't breathe, I'm so cold, and I can't stop crying..." she sobbed and then burst out with a dry coughing fit. "I just want to drop out, but I have no idea when the next aid station is." We'd just passed one at mile 13, so I knew she had a ways to go.
"Come on, I'll walk you there," I said. This was a damn good excuse to not run for awhile, and it gave me someone to talk to. "You know," I said, "you think you got it bad, I pee a little bit every time I cough." That made us both laugh, and cough.

There once was a runner named Sheryl,
Who couldn't choose her winter apparel,
She thought her cold'd be bearable,
When I found her she felt terrible,
And was crying like she was in real peril.

"I just don't want to come home with pnemonia," she said. "My fiance is going to say 'I told you so' when I get home." Ugh, I told you so. Avoiding that was exactly what was keeping me going. "I'm just so freezing!" she whined.
"Well why don't you put your other sweatshirt back on, silly?" I asked. She still had her Under Armour tied around her waist. I'd put mine back on over my ninja sweatshirt a mile ago.
She gave me some excuse about not being able to put it on over the other layer because it was too tight. Then she looked around and said, "Screw it, all I see are women around anyway," and stripped down to her bra to change. Yes! Once Sheryl warmed up she started to feel a bit better. She decided to walk/run, but I got a side stitch and we wound up doing more walking than running. "If I make it to mile 15 then I might just keep going," she said. We got to mile 15, and she decided to keep it up. "Mile 16 will be coming up soon, and then we only have 4 miles left!" she said. Suddenly she sounded like she had more energy than me. Who was helping whom here anyway? But pretty soon Sheryl started to flag again, and she dropped out as soon as she could find a spectator to bring her back to the start. Shit, I thought as I ran away, what am I going to do now? I still had more than 3 miles to go and now my legs had cooled off and frozen up.

I pulled up along side a guy that was running markedly slower than I was, but slowed down to keep pace with him. At his first grunt I said, "How you feeling?" which really meant, oh god, talk to me, talk to me, talk to me!
"Great!" he said. Oh thank goodness, someone positive!
"Yeah? Well I feel a hell of a lot worse than I did when I left this morning, I'll tell you that," I said. His name was David, and he and his buddy (I forget his name, let's call him Wilbur) were training for their first marathon under their third friend, Russ's training. This was their first 20 miler ever, so they were thrilled with every step they managed to squeeze out past their previous record of 16 miles. I ran with David, Wilbur and Russ straight through to the finish. Every time the conversation flagged I kept them talking about anything. A couple of times I even said out loud, "For heaven's sake, someone SAY something!"

It is what it is, nothing impressive, but finished. Splits are a little off because my GPS stops when I'm going slower than a 17 min/mile (about .4 miles).

We came into the finish line after exactly 3 hours and 31 minutes with them doing this funny windmill thing with their arms and me looking exhausted and confused. As we shuffled into the chute I yielded to David. "Get behind her, she was first!" the volunteer growled at him.
"Yeah, get behind me or I'll punch you. No cheating!" I snarled and smiled at him.

I went into the high school and got my No Weenies race t-shirt (which is my new favorite t-shirt). I shoveled some noodle stew down my gullet (not nearly as exciting as the clam chowdah everyone else was eating, but it hit the spot) and set off to stand in the line for the shuttle to the ferry to the shuttle to my car. Boarding the ferry there was a ramp about one story high. "Oh god, another hill!" I whined. This seemed like a pretty good moment to quit running forever. Once on the boat I did my best to stretch out, and then put my feet up on the back of the chair in front of me, until the passenger next to that chair (a non-runner) gave me a dirty look. I chatted with the guy next to me and watched a group several rows up crack open one bottle of Sam Adams after another. God, that looked good. I was so jealous.

I waited forever and a day for the shuttle back to the parking lot with the Sam Adams group still knocking 'em back. When the shuttle finally came, the ringleader pulled out yet more bottles. "Where are you getting all those from?!" I asked.
"You think this is the first time we've done this race?" the ringleader asked. "We have a very kind friend. You want one?" Did I ever! But then again, once I started they would have had to take me home with them and keep me. That might have been more than they bargained for. Four hours and forty-five minutes after finishing (after getting lost all over south eastern MA) I finally trudged through the door, ready for a big dinner and bed.

Surprisingly, today (Sunday) I'm not even sore. Not even the least little bit. Pretty amazing.

(Coming soon: Some of the UGLIEST pictures of me ever taken)

I need $80

I just got a call from my "Cycle Buddy", a chick who I've never met in a city where I've never lived. Kari is just one of the services provided by the AIDS LifeCycle. My cycle buddy a bottomless resource for training and fund raising advice. I've never spoken to her before. I didn't even pick up the phone this time.

Kari said I'm doing AWESOME! (Kari likes dramatic adjectives and superlatives). If I raise $1,000 by Friday, then I get a ALC WINDBREAKER! (Kari's emphasis, not mine). Last year my friend Lorraine got a wind breaker, and she said it was really nice (I never got to see it since they lost her luggage when she came out to visit in Barcelona). Right now I have a total of $920. In other words, I'm $80 away from a wind breaker.

So here's the promotion: the person who puts me over the $1,000 mark by Friday will win said windbreaker. That's right. You will not only get the satisfaction of helping a GREAT cause, but you will also receive a windbreaker of a value roughly equivalent to your donation. Also, if you visit my fund raising page you can read a blog never published on this page OR the old No Wetsuit Girl home. To donate, click here!

For those of you who don't know, the AIDS LifeCycle is a 7-day 545 mile bike ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles. All proceeds from the event go to the San Francisco AIDS foundation. To find out more you can read the Claire-colored description here, or visit the SFAF's home page here.

(Athletes who are planning to do IM NZ next month are excluded from this competition, because I know you need that money now more than I do).

the I Should Have Stayed Home half marathon

If you caught my last post, you heard about the half marathon I accidentally signed up for this weekend. I want to say, "It seemed like a good idea at the time," but the truth is, it never seemed like a good idea. But you can go back and read about that yourself. Let's just say that I shouldn't have been doing a lot of running this weekend, especially in the snow storm with 20+ mph winds that they were predicting. But anyway...

I suppose I should introduce you to the race: The Loco Half at the Hamptons. The name is deceiving because it was not in the Hamptons, which I think that most people would agree is somewhere in New York (I think... well you know what I mean!), and not a seedy boardwalk in Southern New Hampshire. The Loco part though, well that's what I was for signing up (only I was loca, I hate it when people don't use the right gender in Spanglish).

iframe src="http://js.mapmyfitness.com/embed/blogview.html?r=15b9c6c5ae7c04a17cdd188d2739e39d&u=e&t=run" height="700px" width="100%" frameborder="0">Half at the Hamptons
Find more Runs in Hampton, New Hampshire

The start was abnormally late: 11:00, so I got to sleep in until a decent hour and eat a leisurely breakfast. There were no major dramas in the morning, or on the drive up. I was pleased that the sun was out instead of the nasty snow storm they were predicting. This year was the first time they've put on the event, and when I got out of the car with my usual too-much-water-plus-my-only-cup-of-coffee-this-week emergency, I found the first problem with the race planning: a line for the bathroom about 50 people deep stretching out the door. Uncharacteristically I decided to hold it and went in to get my chip and t-shirt. The shirts were the nicest tech shirt I've gotten this season in a nice blue and yellow that matched the colors of my alma mater perfectly. I got some women to take my picture in my "Warrior Woman Rocks!" t-shirt and went to find an alternative place to pee. I then went back to the car to grab all the stuff I needed for the race and set out to find the starting line.

Something funny happened with the flash. But hey, it's me, what did you expect? This is the home of shitty pictures.

I walked back up the strip away from my car for a few blocks looking for an archway, a timing mat, a clump of runners, or something to let me know where the starting line was. It seemed like everyone was walking towards me, so I turned around and started following them. But then, one by one people started turning back the other way again. What WAS this? When I didn't see any more runners in front of me I turned back, too. I found a line of cones blocking off the street and planted myself there, thinking this was the most starting line-like thing I'd seen so far. Luckily I was right, and people started filling in around me.

I wanted to seed myself somewhere around the 9:00 mile pacer to break my PR of 2:01:27. The pacers were supposed to be wearing yellow hats. The problem was that they were giving away yellow hats at the race and they were all over the place. Eventually I found the 9:00 mile guy and snuggled in close to him. They played the national anthem again, and I think I'm starting to recognize the singer. There's this distinctive thing she does where she goes up about 4 octaves on the last "freeeeeeeeeee". Either there's a chick who tours around doing all of the races in southern New England, or everyone buys the same recording off of racedirector.com or something. Then there was a gunshot, which sounded more like a clap than anything else, and I elbowed my way closer to the pace bunny as we started moving.

I'd never run with a pacer before. They spark up conversation wherever they go. "You wanna hear something really depressing," I heard one woman say, "you just got passed by the 9 minute pacer." Another person said, "I'm looking for the 7 mile per hour guy," and ran ahead. (The pacers were wearing pace signs, not speed. Go back to your treadmill, gymrat.) I tried to stay with the pacer, but he seemed to be dilly-dallying, so I just petered on ahead, figuring I'd hop on with him if he passed me again. The truth was, I wasn't feeling all that great. Friday had been a really, really shitty day at work, and I'd dealt with it by taking it out on the weights at the gym. My transverse abs ached every time I coughed or laughed, and everything from my lumbar spine down to the backs of my knees hurt from some punishing dead lifts that I'd done. I did not feel springy or nimble or any of that stuff you're supposed to feel when you run. I felt more like a mac truck at a Nascar race... or something.

For the first couple of miles I was running behind a woman whose jacket said BLAIR in big, fat letters, and I considered staying with her just to convince her to take a picture with me at the end, but then... you know, I didn't.

At mile 3 we turned onto some back roads and started slopping through about an inch of slush. So much for dry shoes. People were standing in their driveways, though, cheering like there was no tomorrow, so it was pretty fun. I was still passing people, and beginning to hope that once I was warmed up, my hamstrings wouldn't feel like useless pieces of lead. Wishful thinking. By mile 5 I was already counting down the miles. People in weird fashion emergency outfits were beginning to pass me. There was this one guy in a teal early-90's style swishy jump suit with hot pink trim, and another woman whose stretch pants I can't describe, but believe me, they were fashion felonies. A guy wearing a 1-piece tri suit with a lycra shirt and running tights underneath passed me. There was this couple doing a run-walk at about an 8:30 pace and every time they passed me I wanted to scream, "If you're running that fucking fast you're not ALLOWED to walk!" With every weirdo that passed, I convinced myself I must be running 11-minute miles. Everyone knows that the batty runners are in the back.

I'm going off on other people's outfits, forgetting that I looked like a real tool in my "Warrior Woman rocks!" t-shirt. One guy came up behind me and asked in an English accent why I had a .co.uk URL on my back. I sped up for a few seconds to blurt out some PR for my Limey friend, but once I answered in an American accent, I don't think he was as interested in anything I had to say. He dropped me pretty easily, and I dropped back to feel sorry for myself all by myself.

Around mile 7 I was already shuffling and was beginning to feel pretty darned sorry for myself. We crossed an intersection, and then there were all these people running back and forth from what looked like a water station up ahead. The people were all yelling, "911 is coming! 911 is coming!" A woman behind me said to her companion, "Oh, he must have fallen down." But as we drew closer and I could see someone doing CPR, it became pretty clear that he hadn't just fallen down. A few feet away a woman stood sobbing into a man's chest as he hugged her tight. The runner had been lying there long enough for someone to have gone and pulled a blanket out of somewhere, and a knot of about 20 or 30 runners had gathered around him. How do you just run past something like that? But there was nothing I could do. The man pounding away on his chest was the only one saving this guy's life, and the two dozen rubber neckers could only be getting in the way. I ran on feeling worse than ever.

By mile 8 some of the people who had stopped to stand uselessly around the guy with the heart attack started to catch up with me again. So many people passing me at once was so disorienting. I felt like when you're trying to get out of the ocean when there are big waves, and while you were moving forward a second ago, suddenly the wave is washing out and now the water is sucking you back and you're not moving at all. It was so draining being passed by all those people! Then it started to snow, big fat flakes that flew right into my eyes and made it hard to see. Aw shit, this is just what I needed.

It snowed harder and harder for the next two miles, and when the 9:00 pacer passed me at about mile 9 I knew there was no way in hell I could catch him. I just kind of gave up. I wanted to quit this stupid thing. I wanted to walk, but it was just too cold. I knew I should eat something, but I just didn't feel like pulling my shot blocks out with all the snow falling. My fingers might get sticky. So I sullenly settled into feeling sorry for myself as more and more people passed me. Looking at the gaits around me, I could tell I was running like shit because everyone else was running like shit, and they were passing me. Then, around mile 11 the snow turned to rain. Freezing, cold, wet, salty-smelling rain. Fuck this! I thought, and slowed down even more in order to eat some blocks. EEEEEEW!!! I had some black cherry Shot Blocks they'd given away at the Mid-Winter Classic last week, and they were revolting! It was like Robitussin with a bitter dark chocolate aftertaste and maybe something that tasted like burnt coffee (I don't like fake cherry flavor or chocolate). Blech! And because they were cold and I was breathing hard it took forever to chew them up and I had that nasty taste in my mouth forever.

The fucked up thing is that the only climb on the course was miles 4 and 5.

I was still plodding along, having a pity party for myself, trapsing through the rain next to the breakwater where the waves at high tide had deposited this nasty-looking seaweed in the gutter that looked more like vomit than anything else, when the 9:30 pacer passed me... going too fast for me to keep up. Screw him! I thought. And screw those fucking photographers popping up every 2 minutes. With my luck this would be the race where they don't lose all the pictures of me. I knew I looked like a drowned rat going through rigor mortis. It was all I could do to keep running. Screw everyone! Where's that damn finish line? What had I been thinking signing up for this stupid thing anyway? And when I get home I'm going to give Angry a piece of my mind for convincing me to do those stupid dead lifts! I spent most of mile 12 trying to find a way to blame Angry for my suffering. I don't know how, but somehow those stupid dead lifts were his fault. Jerk.

Finally, finally I got to the finish with a kid who looked more like a pothead than a runner grunting to my right, and a girl I'd talked to at the start and didn't feel like talking to any more on my left. Time according to my Garmin: 2:02:50, and 13.25 miles. Where the heck did that extra .15 miles come from?! That was a lame trick! I leaned down to untie my chip and started coughing. Each time I coughed snot and spit flew out of my mouth and nose onto the ground. If you can't untie your own damn chip, you shouldn't be allowed to race, I thought, jealous of the chick next to me who was having her chip untied by someone else.

I grabbed some water and snacks on my way out of the finishing area and looked around for any post-race attractions. The race was part of the "Will Run for Beer" race series being sponsored by my dear, beloved Harpoon Brewery, so I decided it would be best to just go back to the car before I got myself in some real trouble. My entire body hurt: my shoulders and biceps had cramped up long ago, not to mention my legs that felt like they hadn't even bent in 13.1... nay, 13.25 miles. I knew I should stretch out, but by the time I got back to the car I couldn't feel my fingers and was shivering so violently that I couldn't be asked to stand in the cold any longer. So of course my back and legs locked up in the car on the way home. The snow squalls followed me home, and the fear of driving in the snow tensed me up even further. By the time I got home I was so knotted up and in pain that I thought I would never be right again.

Luckily, after a hot shower, some stretching, and the better part of a box of macaroni and cheese I'm feeling better. I believe I've earned an afternoon on the couch with CSI re-runs, don't you?

PS Bill Paradis, the runner who collapsed on the course, passed away at 1:55 pm, around the time I was blowing sky high at mile 12. Please keep his wife, two kids, and grand kids in your thoughts.

Oops... I did it again!

(This post will contain no Britney Spears references, although one of these days I'll come out as a fan. Just not yet. I'm not ready.)

I accidentally signed up for a half marathon this weekend. I didn't mean to, I was just looking for an excuse to get out of town for a little while. You know, go for a drive, have a change of scenery... But no one in other cities would have me on 36 hours' notice and the race pickin's were pretty slim. And then I just happened to come across this half marathon in Hampton Beach, NH. It seemed like fun. I mean, 13 miles is 13 miles right? So my finger slipped (about 5 dozen times, oops!) and I accidentally filled out all the registration info. Oops.

Maybe I should have thought this one through. First of all, I'm not totally better yet. I haven't run more than 3.8 miles in like 3 weeks. IM training starts on Monday, so I was supposed to be taking it easy this weekend, making sure I was starting fresh... I'm supposed to have race-free weekends every once in awhile so I don't get burnt out... I really shouldn't be spending $50 on ANYTHING with my contract about to expire at work...

And that was all BEFORE I looked at the weather report. And I quote:

"Becoming windy with snow showers early, and a
steadier snow developing later on. High around 35F.
W winds at 10 to 15 mph, increasing to 20 to
30 mph. Chance of snow 80%."

What the hell was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn't thinking at all.

(P.S. Warrior Woman, you're up for t-shirts this weekend. Do you want Warrior Woman or your real name?)

Lent

Today is Ash Wednesday. I thought I should remind you because, if you're like me, you forget every year and inevitably tell someone they've got something on their face. It happens to me every single year, I see all these old ladies with smudges on their foreheads, and eventually I always run into someone I know and try to do them a favor (as I hope they would do for me) by telling them "you've got a..." rub forehead "thing..." Then they remind me that it's Ash Wednesday and we both feel like ass holes: me for being insensitive, them for walking around all day with crap on their face.

Anyway, my point: Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent. Traditionally during Lent Catholics (and Episcopalians like my mom, the renegade Catholics) show their love for Jesus by suffering and giving up meat and generally being chaste and moral. I'm not Catholic, or religious, or even very spiritual in any way, but I like the idea of taking 40 days and giving up an indulgence or a vice in order to appreciate the things I take for granted, or to break a bad habit. The whole giving up meat thing is kind of redundant for a vegetarian, so every year I try to give up something else. Things that I've given up in the past: drinking (that lasted about 3 days), smoking (that lasted about 3 hours), dairy (lasted about a week), sugar (I made it through a month that year), and lent (I made it all 40 days without observing lent the year I gave it up).

This year I wanted to give up something that was having a negative impact on my life. But since I've given up smoking, drinking, and even coffee (except in great moderation), I don't really have any addicting vices anymore. I thought of giving up rest days, but that just seemed like a great way to get injured. I thought of giving up food groups, but that seemed like a great way to get my parents to stop buying my food (I know, I'm spoiled!). And then I hit on it, my greatest vice: I stay up nights just to do it, and it has me lying lifeless on the couch for hours at a time. RERUNS! I spend hours a week watching CSI and Law & Order reruns. House is also a huge time suck, but I've just seen the last missed episode (and I feel like I've just gone through a break-up). So for 40 days and 40 nights I am going to give up re-runs, which probably means all TV what with the writers' strike and all.

Luckily, the Catholics have left a caveat for me. Sundays don't count as lent (that's why Catholics are allowed to eat meat on Sundays). That means that I can watch the CSI marathons on Sunday afternoons!!! That's 5 hours of dead bodies! Stay tuned to find out what I find to fill my buckets of free time from Monday to Saturday...

Chillin' in Maine

Months and months and months ago, in November or something, Nitsirk said to me, "Hey, if you ever come up to Maine, we should run a race together." I'm sure she wasn't really serious. I'm sure she didn't really want me turning up way up there in her peaceful northern hideaway... but never being one to give up an idea once someone's put it in my head, I found the next race in Maine longer than a 5k. That race happened to be the Mid-Winter 10 Mile Classic, on February 3, which seemed impossibly far into the future at the time. When I ran to Nitsirk gushing that I'd found a race she did her best to remind me that this was a February race... in MAINE... outside. But trying to dissuade me is like trying to get gum out of a 4-year-old's hair without a pair of scissors: impossible. And I can peer pressure like none other, so after calling her a chicken, Nitsirk was in, as was Dr. Nick, Mindy, and the bonus of finding a new friend in Iron Matron. I was so excited!

And then I got sick, and nothing was very exciting anymore.

By the time that it came time to make good on my threats to Nitsirk to actually make her shed her post-iron lethargy and run 10 miles all in one day, I was less than thrilled with the idea myself. I had gotten over the most severe symptoms of the flu, but I still had a nasty, hacking cough that was hard to stop once it got started. I hadn't worked out at all in over a week, and it was anyone's guess what running would do, let alone doing so freezing temperatures. Luckily, the forecast was predicting highs in the high 30's, so I didn't have to bear a real Maine winter's day.

Our little band of bloggers arranged to meet in front of the entrance to the cafeteria, and (believe it or not) I was the first to show up! I was wearing my supersexy Bob Rocks t-shirt and feeling like a bit of a tool. (Bob won this honor by being the lucky donor who put me over the $500 mark in my AIDS LifeCycle fundraiser). I put on my best "recognize me!" face, which is much like the face I used to put on at 8th grade dances when I walk around alone, hoping that being alone would increase the chances of a boy asking me to dance (it rarely worked). I kept looking for people staring at me, but everyone was staring at me in my supersexy Bob Rocks t-shirt. Finally someone had the guts to admit she knew me and I heard over my shoulder, "You really did wear a shirt that says Bob Rocks!" It was Iron Matron who spotted me first. I tried to sputter out an introduction and tell her how excited I was to have met a fellow blogger in the area through the coughs, but I think I only succeeded in alarming the mom in her. "Are you going to be alright?!" she asked.
"Psssh, yeah, s--" cough cough "su-cough-re." Who knew if I was going to be alright. I had no idea. "It's not as bad..." cough cough, sour face "...as it looks."

Next Mindy turned up and after some chit-chatting Iron Matron went off to warm up like the champ that she is and Mindy was left alone with me. I was doing a pretty bad job of trying to swallow my coughs and not look sick, but I wanted so badly for the new kids to like me! I didn't want to look like a lame horse! While waiting for Nitsirk to show up, we shot some pictures of my fabulous Bob Rocks t-shirt and I ran off to dump our stuff in the car while Mindy tried to spot Nitsirk who was "dressed in black with an Under Armour hat." Half the women in the room matched that description.

As you can tell, I put on my sexy face for this picture.

By the time I got back, Nitsirk had surfaced with Dr. Nick and we went out to the start line. In person Dr. Nick was not very much like what I pictured. He wasn't yellow at all, and when Nitsirk introduced him he didn't even say "HI, EVERY-BO-DY!" Meeting famous people in person is so disappointing!

Dr. Nick placed himself around the front of the pack, while Mindy, Nitsirk and I pushed our way to the back. "Do you think we're back far enough yet," asked Nitsirk. "Or do you think maybe we should be standing behind that really pregnant lady?" I looked over, and sure enough, there was a really pregnant lady. I mean, not really, really pregnant, but way more pregnant than anyone else in the crowd. Just before the start some girl tapped me on the shoulder, "I love your shirt, that is so cool!" And she was serious. Suddenly I felt much better. I hope that Bobby gets some new donations out of the deal, or at very least some new readers.

Right about here is where we met up with a fourth friend. Let's call this friend... Blair. A lot of people get confused and think we are the same person, we're not. As soon as the (silent and invisible) gun went off, I took off at 5 minute mile pace and ran a perfect race. I won. Overall. Blair, however, stayed behind to keep Nitsirk and Mindy company. Unlike me, Blair is a filthy slob and has no shame. Blair just happened to have the same post-flu symptoms as me, but do not be confused, Blair is NOT me. I was running 5 minute miles, remember? I set a course record.
Blair ran along with Nitsirk and Mindy chit-chatting and trying not to cough too, too much. Blair took advantage of the experience to pick Nitsirk's brain about ironman, which both exilirated and scared the living daylights out of her. (Blair's doing an ironman too, by the way, but this is just a coincidence). Blair also picked up some tid-bits about how other people are successful in combining relationships and training. She later relayed this tip to me, "don't ever date a lazy-ass co-dependent egomaniac again."

Pretty quickly, Blair figured out that the cough was not the only lingering part of the flu. She felt like her batteries were low, like she was running through water, like her body was made of lead... any simile for shitty running - Blair felt like that. Like me, Blair always runs with a water bottle, but Mindy and Nitsirk stopped at the first aid station at mile 2.5, and once Blair started walking she burst into a fit of coughing that didn't go away even when she started running again. She took a sip of Accelerade and a cough surprised her and she sprayed it out all over the road in front of her. The coughs were so violent and racked Blair's innards so much that it was like squeezing a mustard packet and to her horror, Blair felt a drip escape. See, I told you Blair was a slob, I'm so glad I'm not her.
Blair was very happy to have Mindy and Nitsirk around to distract her, because she was unpleasantly surprised with all the rolling hills on this course. "We're going to make a left and then go up a hill," warned Mindy.
A minute or two later, Blair wheezed a sigh of relief. "Was that the hill?" she asked.
"Nice try," said Mindy. Blair tried desperately to forget that she was running and focus on the conversation. But since she was sucking air like an asthmatic fat kid in gym class she just imagined what she would say if she were able to participate in the conversation. Her lungs felt like she was breathing through a cotton swab. She coughed to try to move the blockage, but that turned into another fit of coughing and leaking. Blair was very happy she was wearing the over-sized Rob Rocks t-shirt (that looked much like, but not the same as my Bob Rocks t-shirt) that hung well below her butt and hid her crotch from view.
"You're such a trooper," said Mindy.
"Aw, it's nothing. I feel fine," choked Blair, who likes to lie and pretend she's stronger than she really is.

"Oh my gosh, we're at mile 7 already!" said Nitsirk. "I feel better now than I did when we started the race!"
"I'm hungry," said Blair, who felt about 10 times shittier than she did at the beginning of the race. It felt like she was running with a 20-pound backpack.
At the final aid station around mile 8 Mindy and Nitsirk started running again and Blair's whole body turned to stone. "You know what, you guys go ahead," said Blair and stopped to die for a few minutes. Walking set her to coughing so hard that it wouldn't have taken too much exaggeration to puke at the side of the road. She kept waiting for someone to come by and ask her if she was okay, but no one did. She was fine, by the way. Thanks for asking, JERKS! As she checked for the bajillionth time to make sure her t-shirt was hanging down low enough, she looked off to one side (as you do when adjusting anything in the crotch department) and noticed that she was walking past a graveyard. Oh great, she thought. This way when I keel over and die they'll only have to kick me off the shoulder of the road and I'll just roll the rest of the way. That way I won't inconvenience anyone.

Surprisingly, the last 2 miles went quickly. She passed a stuffed moose holding a sign that said "Free pizza one mile!" and before she knew it she was running back down the long high school driveway. As Blair was running along the cone-lined driveway she saw a volunteer topple over onto his ass. It wasn't clear if he had stepped backwards and tripped over a cone, or if the car that was stopped for him had tapped him, but he was just sitting there and people from all around were running to help him. Blair thought of stopping, but she didn't know what she was supposed to do. Plus, she just wanted this to be over, someone else would help him. Blair is a jerk, I would have stopped and made sure he was okay. Blair crossed the finish line in just under 1:40. "Go me!" said Blair as she crossed, because she was pretty proud of herself for finishing, despite feeling so shitty. She was a trooper, Mindy said so! Mindy, Nitsirk, Dr. Nick, Mr. Mindy, and I were kind enough to wait for Blair to finish, and then we all went inside to refuel (except Blair, who disappeared). Inside we met Maine Runner and another Maine blogger, who, I am so sorry but I missed his blog name.

We're all munchkins, can you see the resemblance between the photos?

Afterwards Nitsirk and Dr. Nick went off to an open house and I went home with Mindy and Mr. Mindy to grab a shower before brunch. While Mindy was showering I got to speak to Mr. Mindy, who is a surfer. In Maine. But surely, he doesn't really go surfing in Maine, right? Yes he does! Year round! I was floored. I spent most of the time Mindy was in the shower trying to get my mind around surfing in 20-degree weather on a windy day. I am officially never, ever allowed to brag about swimming without a wetsuit again.

We then had a delicious and leisurly brunch, followed by a 4-minute guided tour of Portland, and a quick drive by the beach, because I had to see it to believe it. Lo and behold, there were seven surfers out in the ocean at that very moment. In Maine. Given, it was a warm day, about 34 degrees...