All Terrain

I love unseasonably warm days. They mean that I get to go and play outside, even though it's winter in this inhospitable climate. The forecast for today called for near-record highs in the low 60's, which was pretty ironic since there is still plenty of snow on the ground from last week's storms. After a poor night's sleep I saddled up and rode to the meeting point: the zoo parking lot. I know, weird, right?

Anyway, the roads were damp and grimy, but it was great to have my bike back out on a real road again, actually moving forward when I pedaled. So what if I was getting a giant stripe of grit and grime up my back? I was out on the road again! It wasn't even cold. My new 3/4 length cycling tights and a light jacket were warmth enough. Later I even whipped out my sunglasses, although admittedly it was to keep the mud from getting in my eyes. The temperature was nice, but there were tiny microclimates everywhere. One minute it was warm and humid, and the next it was cold and clammy depending on how much snow was around.

There were 5 of us, 3 men and two women. We weren't out to ride as hard as we could (a guy that we'll call 'Jorge' was on his commuter bike, and 'Pedro' was on a single speed), we were just here to ride so that we could be out.
"What are those growths on your handlebars?" 'Pedro' asked, pointing at my aero bars.
"They're not mine, I swear!" I said.
"Tri geek! Tri geek!" 'Jorge' screamed, pointing at me.
"No, no! Not me! I'm just holding them for a friend! Really!" I yelled for the world to hear.
"Are you a triathlete?" asked the other woman, who we'll call 'Alejandra'. I knew who 'Alejandra' was by word of mouth before I met her for the first time yesterday. She was the only other woman who could keep up with the Big Boys on Saturday morning shop rides. I wanted very badly to hate her, but she was so sweet and cute that I just couldn't do it. Instead, I just wanted very much for her to think I was cool.
"I do triathlons," I said carefully. I hate calling myself a triathlete, especially around roadies where triathlete means "stuck-up douchebag who doesn't know how to ride his/her bike." "But I'm starting to move away from it because I'm such a terrible runner," I went on. "I just have the bars on now because they're so much more comfortable on the trainer."
"Oh, okay," she said. I'd passed the test!

After about 20 minutes the rout passed my house. "Hi Claire's house!" everyone yelled. My house is clearly a family house. Yesterday 'Alejandra' had asked me if I was on the market for a boyfriend since her 26-year-old son was finally about to graduate college and she didn't want him to move back home. I had just told her I wasn't available. "So, Claire, are you married, or do you have a boyfriend?" 'Alejandra' wanted to know after seeing my parents' large house and the 3 cars in the driveway.
"No," I said. It was an either or question.
"How old are you?"
"25..."
"Twenty-five! My son's 26!" she began. "You should..."
And this is where it was my turn to say something. Could the situation get any more awkward? "Got any daughters?" I asked.
A loooooooong moment passed.
One by one understanding dawned on all their faces. "Aaaaaah!" said 'Jorge'.
"Aaaaahhh!" said 'Alejandra'.
A couple of beats passed. "Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!" said 'Pedro'.
"What?" said 'Pepe'.
It was probably the least uncomfortable outing I've ever suffered.

We were riding a rout with undulating hills, which means that I have to work my butt off to stay near the front so that I don't fall too far back when everyone passes me on the hills, especially in this group where everyone kept up with the big boys on the Saturday shop rides. But the damnedest thing was happening, I was starting at the back of the pack and leaving everyone behind on the hills. Again, it's December and no one was riding hard, but still. I was kicking butt! Climbing next to 'Jorge' up a longer hill his breath started hissing and whistling.
"'Jorge', are you working hard?" I asked. I was busting his balls, but also, I wasn't really sure. Maybe he was just breathing hard as a joke. I wasn't working hard at all and I was having no trouble talking.
When we got to the top of the hill, 'Jorge' asked, "How did you get so fast, Claire?"
I knew we were all out of shape, and that "fast" had no practical meaning, but it was nice to hear. I wasn't as fast as I usually am, but everyone else was even slower. Maybe I wasn't losing as much fitness as I thought. "I've been lifting weights," I suggested.
"We'll have to weigh you down!" he said.
"Or it could be all the running that we tri-geeks do in the winter, Jorge." I winked.

After about an hour, 'Jorge' lead us into a jogging park where I had never been before. The roads were closed to traffic, and there were a lot of walkers and dog walkers about, and they all said the same thing to us: "Ice ahead!" I was beginning to get the hang of this biking over ice and snow thing; all you had to do was slow down a bit, hold on tight to your handlebars, and come at it in a straight line, and you would be to the other side in no time. But then we hit the ice everyone was talking about: a quarter mile of sloppy, slippery, watery ice covering the trail. We slipped and slid down the slope on our bikes. Then my back wheel slipped out from under me. "SHIT!!!" I screamed as I clipped out at the last second. "Excuse me," I said sheepishly as my bike went down under me. It's not ladylike to cuss.
"Nice save," said 'Pedro'. He was talking about me not breaking my hip.
After that, one by one we started walking our bikes. It was slow going: ice is hard enough to walk on when you're not wearing cycling shoes, and my bike kept slipping as I pushed it. I was behind because I was the first to fall off, and so I tried to mount a couple of times to catch up, but every time I pushed down on the pedals the back wheel spun and the bike stayed in place. When we finally reached the end of the ice, I tried to clip in. It was impossible, I must have gotten shit in my cleats. I tried stepping down with all my might on the pedals, but there was no way. I stopped and checked my cleats, and they were jammed full of ice. I stood there poking at it with a stick until the stick broke.
"Stomp," said 'Jorge'. So I stomped, then I tap danced. Finally we dug the ice out of my cleats with 'Pepe"s knife (who carries a knife on a bike ride?!) and we were able to ride back out of the park.

"Have you ever been mountain biking, Claire?" asked 'Pepe' when we were back on the road. I said I hadn't. "You should really give it a try. It'll help you with your bike handling skills on different surfaces."
"Are you suggesting, 'Pepe', that my bike handling skills on that ice were lacking?" I joked. "Does this have something to do with my aero bars?"
"I'm just saying that you should get into it now when you're young and broken bones heal quickly." Now why would I want to get into something just for the broken bones?

After our little ice capades I was getting tired of our adventure. I'd had enough of daring and excitement. I had dirt in my teeth, my feet were frozen, and I was beginning to wonder about the brand new digital camera that was sitting in my back pocket now that the back of my jersey was soaked. We rode for another 45 minutes through places that looked familiar from when I was a kid, but I hadn't seen in 15 years. I had absolutely no idea when we would be home, and so every minute dragged on. Finally we reached a place I recognized: I'd been here before, recently! Sure, I'd been lost at the time, but I'd been running, so we couldn't be far from home. In fact, I'd been lost on this road twice. Two weeks in a row I'd set out to do a new rout that I'd found on mapmyrun.com, with directions in my pocket. Each time on this very road (some 10 miles into my run), the directions had fallen out of my pocket somewhere along this road and I'd had to find my way home along hilly, windy streets I'd never seen before without the aid of directions. This road was bad luck. AND it went over a huge hill.

As we started to climb the hill, something felt funny in my bike, like maybe there was something stuck to my wheel. I looked down, but it's so hard to tell if you've got a flat while you're sitting on your bike. I don't flat very often, so I'm a little slow to catch on when I do have one. Everyone was half way up the hill before I screamed "FLAAAAAAAT!!" at the top of my lungs and they sent word up the line. I had known that I would get a flat today. The melting snow had washed all kinds of shit into the road, I just couldn't believe it was happening now, just a few miles from home. 'Jorge' and 'Pepe' helped me change the tube quickly. For the first time today I was getting a good look at my bike, and it was FILTHY. There was dirt, filth, and grime spattered on every surface and crevice of the whole bike. Great, now my bike would be ruined along with my brand new digital camera. 'Alejandra"s face was covered in grime, and I suspected mine was too. I had hardly hit my water bottle all morning and I was hungry and thirsty. 'Pepe' found the offending piece of glass in my tire and handed it to me. "I'm afraid to look for more because my hands and the bike are filthy. I'm afraid I'm going to put more in than I'm going to take out." We all held our breath as the cartridge filled up the tire. "I'm waiting for the tssssssss," 'Pepe' said.
"I'm waiting for the BOOM!" said 'Jorge'. "There's nothing more insulting than that!" Phew, I thought it was just me who managed to load my tubes wrong and wind up pinching them when I pumped them up.

We were back on the road in no time, but now I was nervous. Flats always take away my mojo, and this street was bad luck. I still climbed to the top faster than everyone but 'Pepe', but as we were riding down the back side I hit a bump and my pump came out of my saddle bag. I tried to turn around and get it, but I couldn't get my bike moving back uphill in the big gear I'd been riding downhill. Finally 'Pepe' was able to find it, but now I felt like a real dick holding everybody up. I hate it when I can't solve my own problems and other people have to help me. Stupid bad luck street.

Right: That's not a 5 o'clock shadow, that's all the road grime on my face. Please ignore the helmet hair.

I got home without event, though. My camera was fine, and I was able to use it to take pictures of how filthy I'd gotten.

In the end I rode a whopping 35.81 miles in 2 hours and 21 minutes, for a SCREAMING average of 15.2 miles per hour. To be fair, that included the quarter mile traversing of the glacier in Breakheart Park. But still, I can't wait to get back on the roads again for real! How long till spring?

Left: my filthy legs. I am not wearing anything around my ankles, that's just the sock line. My feet are red and blotchy because they're frozen.

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.

It's getting cold in here, so take off all your clothes

If you caught my rant on Friday, you'll know that I am not happy about the severe winter weather that's come early to Boston this year. This was not in the contract! When I moved back from sub-tropical climates after 6 winters, it was under the assumption that global warming would prevent bullshit like this. But I digress. The point is, I complain a lot, but that's only because I'm getting out there anyway.

Knee deep in snow after shoveling

With another 6-8" of snow forecasted for Sunday (this on top of Friday's 8-12"), the only time I would have to do my long run was on Saturday morning. On Saturday morning it was about 17* outside. A previous Claire would have said, "Fuck that", gotten drunk on Friday night and slept it off on Saturday morning, because it's impossible to run in that shit. But the new Claire is tougher than that and doesn't care if running in 3 layers under a big cotton sweatshirt makes her look fat.

I tried my best to run on the sidewalks, I really did. Where there were sidewalks, anyway. They might be clear for half a block, and then there would be all these dozens of footprints in 2" deep muck that was frozen stiff that made it hard to keep your balance or push off, or move forward in any way. Then, at the end of each block, right after the curb there was about a meter of hard, brown, dirty snow, about 6 inches deep that the street plows left for the sidewalk plows, and the sidewalk plows left for the street plows. Six inches, boo hoo, right? Well that stuff was hard to pick through, and fair weather princesses like me don't like to get snow in their shoes. And that was where it was easy! Sometimes I would get to the end of the block to find that there was snow piled up 4 feet at the end of the carved-out sidewalk and I would have to turn around and run back a block to get out to the street. There were several sections where I would get trapped on a really badly-cleared sidewalk for 1/4 of a mile where there were no crossroads, and the waist-high snow between me and the road was too high for a lilliputian like me to climb over. There was nothing to do but keep picking through the uneven hard snow. I tried to give myself permission not to care about pace.

I paid attention in 1st grade, and I know it's not safe to run in the road, but with the sidewalks the way they were (when there were sidewalks at all) I had to run in the road more and more. But there's a lot less road now, since the snow covers the shoulder, and with everyone riding SUVs these days... I was forced to run through the spill-over from the snow banks at the side of the road so the street surfaces weren't much better than the sidewalk. I took comfort in the fact that if I had to dive head-first into a snowbank to avoid a car, it wouldn't hurt too much.

When I came down from a 6.5-mile loop through the hills I set out for another 5 miles around the lakes. Yikes! If I thought it was cold inland, you should have felt it around the lakes! I took my glove off to eat some Shot Blocks, pulled the ziplock out of my pocket, and the zip ripped off. Plop! The bag fell ripped-edge-down onto the road. Damn. Half my blocks had little flecks of road smooshed into their sticky, squishy surface. Then, when I tried to pull my glove back on, I couldn't get my hand in. In the few minutes it had been off, it had frozen into shape and I had to beat it up quite a bit to get it flexible enough to pull it back on my hand. I couldn't feel the skin on my face and the cold was biting through my 4 layers of clothing.

On the way back home I got to run in the middle of a back road for a glorious 2 blocks without stumbling through any hardened snow. It was wonderful. Despite the 13 miles in my legs, I felt fresh and new, like I could run another several miles without crashing. I almost felt springy! Despite the fact that every muscle in my body was aching from running on slippery, crumbling and uneven surfaces, I realized that I will rarely have to run on anything so difficult again. When we finally get to see the trails and sidewalks again (hopefully sooner rather than later), I'll be a machine. The treadmill would never get me in this kind of shape.Snow up to my knees. (Side note: I would just like to point out that I just looked out the window and saw a father walk by pulling his 3-year-old kid behind him in a sled. They were IN the street, sledding. No kidding.)

When I came in the door the tips of my hair that had been sticking out from under the hat were frozen. I coughed. Then I hiccuped. Coughhiccup. My mom asked me something and I couldn't answer. Every breath made me cough, which made me hiccup, which made me cough and hiccup again. I sounded pretty silly.

After workouts like this it makes me that mean kind of proud of myself. It makes me want to
gloat and call other people pussies. It makes me want to push Mother Nature's face into a snowbank and ask how she likes it. It makes me want to make a muscle in front of overweight people. It makes me feel good about myself.

Meanwhile, while I was gloating and wrapping presents for charity in a toasty mall in Cambridge, just over the river in Boston some fools were doing the Santa Speedo run. 1.25 miles through downtown Boston in December dressed like this:
Really! Just when you think you can be proud of yourself, just when you think you're the craziest kid on the block, something like this comes along to one-up you... Anyone down for next year's edition?

Stood Up!

Today I drove up to Derry, NH (40 minutes north) to do a long run with a guy I met at the Busa Bushwhack, a 9 mile trail race I did in November. I spoke to "New Friend" Thom for awhile both before and after the race and he couldn't stop talking about the Boston Prep 16 Miler in Derry, NH in January. Somehow he'd come to the conclusion that I was not only going to do this race, but train for it with him. "New Friend" Thom lived on the course, and he continued to pester me over email to come up and run the course with him. For about 20 emails I waffled and made excuses until I suggested that Angry come up with me. I figured I could kill 3 birds with 1 stone: keep my promise of running the Derry course with "New Friend" Thom, spend some time with Angry, and have Angry protect me from sketchy guys who invite you to another state to run alone in isolated areas in the dead of winter. (Let's be fair, nothing about Thom was sketchy, but the situation put me a bit on edge). I said something in the email about wondering how we would all keep together given our different paces. Thom seemed to be offended that I suggested I bring Angry along and wrote, "I'm not worried about pace, I'm not going to ditch you. Listen, if you don't want to come, just say so". Well, if there's any way of convincing me of doing something, then call me out on my lies. I'll do anything not to be called a liar when I'm lying. "I'll be in Derry on Saturday morning at 7:50," I promised.

I was feeling imposed on by "New Friend" Thom for his friendliness, and when I realized that the office Christmas party was the night before our run I got even more miffed (because clearly, this was his fault). When they didn't have any acceptable vegetarian options at the Christmas party and all I had for dinner was asparagus, again this was Thom's fault. What an imposition! And when I missed the 9:40 train and had to wait another hour I began thinking, How dare he! And when my mom woke me up by calling me from within the house at midnight to see if I was home, this was clearly all Thom's fault.

But, stubborn as hell and true to my word, I got up at 6:00 anyway and drove up to Derry. Thom hadn't mentioned a meeting place, so I'd written 2 days before and said I'd just show up wherever the race's directions led to unless he told me otherwise. "New Friend" Thom did not write back to tell me anything different, so I pulled into a vacant elementary school parking lot at a few minutes before the meeting time. And in that parking lot I stayed, all by myself, for another 20 minutes. I'd been stood up! Now I've been ditched before when I can't keep up, but STOOD UP?! And by someone that I'd exchanged no fewer than TWENTY emails with! After everything he'd put me through yesterday with the trains and the asparagus?! This was too much! What the fuck?!

I wished I were a guy so I could pee FUCK YOU in the snow, maybe that would make me feel better. Furious and with a bladder that was already about to burst I turned around and went back home. The roads were nearly deserted (it was still a god-awful early hour of the morning) and I zoned out, wallowing in my frustration and trying to dream up a long run rout in the snow for when I got home. I was in the left lane, and just happened to look to my right and THERE WAS A NEW HAMPSHIRE STATE TROOPER GLARING AT ME! Not only that, the cop was yelling something and making exaggerated hand gestures, but his flashers weren't on so I'm not sure what he was doing. I looked quickly at my speedometer, but I was going under the speed limit. I looked around, and there were no places to get into the next lane, so I couldn't imagine that he was angry because I was traveling in the passing lane. I was wearing headphones, but he didn't know they were on and I had my lie all set for if he asked me. (No way, officer, I just forgot to pull them out of my ears before I started driving. I've been listening to the radio, sir). I was even wearing my seatbelt, but he was still over there making gestures and yelling something through his closed window. I gave him a whaaat? face, slowed down and moved over a lane. Then he passed me, pulled onto the median strip, and crossed to the other side. And then 2 seconds later I was back in Massachusetts. I was actually disappointed he didn't pull me over, 1) because I was curious about what the hell he was yelling at me for, and 2) because I was already feeling righteous and looking for a fight.


I got home without incident, and went out for a long-ish run (13.3 miles). The run itself was rather uneventful. I was only attacked by 1 dog. I didn't slip on any ice or get threatened by any more cops. I had no Shot Blocks or Sport Beans, but I used the poor man's alternative, orange slices, which seemed to do a pretty good job at offsetting my skimpy dinner the night before. I ran low on Gatorade, but bought more. My iPod batteries held out. I got home and my butt was killing me, but I had no other real aches and pains. And the best part: I maintained a pace of UNDER 9:30 per mile, THROUGH SNOW (some of which was deeper than in the picture)! That's good for me since my fair weather long run pace tends to hover closer to 10:00/mile. So I feel better now.