Eat your WEEties... or your words

groaaaaaaaaannn

In this week's episode of Claire's Sunday adventures we are going to talk about the Frostbite 15k, in Raynham, Massachusetts. This race seems to have gotten its inspiration for a t-shirt design (above) from a Laffy Taffy wrapper or a popsicle stick. If I'd known the t-shirt was going to be that crappy I would have stayed in bed.

Before the race even started I was pooped. This was my last workout before a rest week, and the day before I had ridden 3 1/2 hours. Normally that kind of a ride wouldn't be a problem, except that life got in the way and I didn't get to eat much afterwards, nor did I have much for dinner that night. So when I woke up this morning I actually had some quad soreness coming down the stairs. I never get sore! On top of that I had taken Thursday to do some speed work. Hold on, let me explain...

See, I like doing speed work about as much as I like ironing. I don't do either. But then last week Bree Wee left me a comment that read:

"Nice job on holding the low 9 min. miles... get some speed work in and you can be sub 9s!! Honest!"

"Speedwork" is a dirty word. Normally when people tell me to do speed work I change the subject while in my mind I'm giving them the dirty look of a lifetime and swearing never to listen to another word they say for as long as I live. But when someone who gets results like Bree's tells you to do speedwork, well, at least give it a shot. That way I can always come back and say, "SEE! Ha! It didn't work! I told you so!" and then snap my fingers so my private nurse will push me away in my wheelchair. I'll show you, Bree, I thought as I climbed on the treadmill. The plan was to do a threshold workout that I think is a Jack Daniels (the runner guy, not the whiskey) thing: run 800 meters at goal marathon pace, then 400 meters recovery, then repeat. I forget how many times you were supposed to repeat, but since technically this was supposed to be an "above 10 mile" day I decided, 13.1 miles would be a good distance. Yep, I ran another half marathon on a treadmill. This was all part of the plan, purposely do it too hard, too long, and all wrong. When my legs are worn down to bloody stumps, you can't say I wasn't trying, and I'll have a good excuse never to do speed work again for as long as I live. So I did it, I ran 12 of the 13.1 miles holding just below a nine-minute mile for half a mile, and cutting it with a 9:15 mile for "recovery". Afterwards I purposely did minimal stretching and waddled off to work where I sent Bree some message to the effect of, "Okay, I did what you wanted. I did some speed work. Now I don't have to do it any more for as long as I live, right? So, can I expect this speed to kick in by tomorrow, or do I have to wait till next week?" Psh, I thought, I sure showed her.

Back to this morning with my sore legs. For some reason I had gotten it into my head that it was going to be 50*. It was not 50 degrees, it was somewhere around 20 degrees, and in the low teens with the wind chill. I was shivering inside the school, and I could tell I was going to be one unhappy Claire all morning. As usual, I got out of the car with my bladder about to burst and made a bee line for the bathroom, where it was clear from the stench and the stall turnover that people were not following Claire's #1 Rule of Public Pooping: Don't. I waited until the last possible moment to walk out to the starting line, and as I was leaving I ran into John from last week's tour of the hills of southern Rhode Island. John was wearing nothing but shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt. New Englanders are nuts. At the start they had some sub-par singer struggle through the national anthem, and I stood there grumbling to myself about how we have to have the longest damn national anthem in the world and how I'll be damned if I'm going to take my had off in this freezing cold. Then bam, and we were off.
There was a period of about 2 and a half seconds where I was tempted to pick it up a little bit, but the stiffness in my legs, the freezing cold, and my general ennui with the whole situation made me kick it back a gear. Maybe if the t-shirt were cooler I would have been more motivated. I thought, Bah, just keep it at a pace where you won't be counting the miles. That way it won't seem like a long way. Even so, because I'd seeded myself so far back as a result of leaving the school late, I kept easily passing people through mile 1, and still in mile 2. In fact, I didn't wind up staring at the same back for more than about a minute until around mile 4. Weird. And even then, hardly anyone passed me. Weirder. Around mile 3 I came up behind an old man with a bit of a hump and a day-glow orange knit hat that was fraying and coming apart in about 8 places. I prayed it was Grandpa, my nemesis from the Busa Bushwhack, but when I passed him he didn't look like Grandpa at all.

I was running, and I was sweating buckets like usual but I never, ever did get warm that whole race. And worse, a little before the half way point the gusts of an icy headwind right in our faces began and didn't let up until mile 8. Since I was soaked, I felt it tenfold. I just kept thinking back on how the race was called the FROSTBITE 15k, and how I'd thought it was going to be in the 50's. How did they know? How did they know? I kept whimpering to myself in my head.

note: grades look far more severe because of the length of the course being squished into a skinny little graph.

At the 10k mark we hit the first hill, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I heard a voice gasp as we turned the corner and saw the road tipping skyward. I couldn't believe it, it sounded like something I would say, but the voice wasn't mine. I took another look at the hill, actually it didn't look so bad. It was the only decent hill on the course, but still nothing compared to the monsters 'arry and I tackled last week. The only crappy part was that once you got to the top of the steep part, it just kept going up and you never got a break. But other than that, it was fine. Really. I even passed some more people! Oh yeah, I forgot, around mile six was also where I started getting shooting pains in my shins and butt. They threw off my stride a bit, but they were unpredictable and therefore bearable. Meh, I've got a rest week coming up, I thought. And anyway, I'm not going that fast.

When I hit 8 miles I wanted to run as fast as I could. I wanted to get this over with and crawl back into the nice, warm school, but I made myself hold back until I could see the finish line. When I did see it, I let loose like something important were on the line. "Come on!" I barked to the first person I passed and ran like the dickens. Only an hour and 20 minutes or so had gone by. I had no idea whether this was good or not, but I could see the school beyond the finish line and that was what was important.

I made a half-assed attempt to look cool for the cameras on the way over the mat, and finally uncovered the Garmin to see what kind of pace I'd been holding. "Holy shit! 8:42! I don't think I've ever run that fast in my life!" I said out loud to no one in particular. In fact, when I look at my pace, the only mile where I went above a 9-minute mile was the uphill mile.
Holy cow! It worked! My one tongue-in-cheek speed session hurled me below 9 minute miles, just like Bree promised. I know that's not how speed work works, but come on, that's pretty incredible. Now I am going to say something that you may never catch me saying again: Bree, I was wrong. I will do speed work in the future. At least once more, I promise.

Epilogue: They were serving breakfast in the cafeteria, and you'll never guess who I sat with... 'arry! And I'll be seeing him again next week in Derry. I think 'arry is going to be my new BFF.

Mr. Annoying

Since the beginning of January I've been waking up at 4:30 EVERY weekday morning to get in a second (or first, depending on how you look at it) workout every day. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are Masters days. I'll have to tell you about that sometime, but first I have to figure out what the women in my lane are named. I think it's Sue, Suzie, and some other S name that sounds like Susan but is not. Sally maybe?

Anyway, every day we do what I would have once thought impossible: we're actually IN the water by 5:20 AM, and warmed up, ready to go by 5:30. We always finish around 6:30 when the pool opens for general adult lap swim. Sometimes people show up a little before 6:30 and sit on the benches in board shorts or with silly goggles and snorkles in their hands waiting for us to finish. You can tell that they're all the type that swims breast stroke and never gets their hair wet, or takes one minute to splash across the pool. I actually like seeing them sitting there though, because it means that we're almost done.

Today we did short sets: short sets of fast free, short IMs, short pull sets, short kick sets, short sprints. By the time we got to the kick sets, the rec swimmers had already begun to trickle in. Must be 6:20. The next time I had a rest at the wall I reached for my water bottle and there, right next to it, inches from the pool, were a pair of gnarley, hairy old man feet. I looked up and on top of those feet there was a man in his 60s, goggles already on, arms crossed, glowering down at me. I pushed off, did my 50 of whatever it was, and when I got back and looked up again, I was still staring up his chicken legs at his speedo-clad package. He hadn't moved and was still glowering. A few lengths later I came to my rest, and to my relief, he was gone. Gone from my life, but not from other lanes'.

In the locker room after we'd finished (right on time at 6:30, mind you) the women were doing their usual gabbing. "Did you see that Annoying was here today?" said Anne (the most uncouth of the group). I appreciated that he had a nickname, but it could have been more creative. At least pick the right part of speech! Anyway...
"Is that the guy in the speedo who stood at the end of my lane giving me dirty looks for 5 minutes?" I asked. Yep. "Thank goodness he went away, he was making me nervous."
"Oh no, he didn't go away," said Rachel who was a hard core competitive swimmer through college. "No, he got in. He decided that our pace was the one that suited him best and he got in our lane and tried to swim with us. And it was only 6:20."
Now I'm the first to get on a soap box about gym etiquette, especially in the pool... He was definitely out of line, and definitely did what he did just to be an ass hole. And the fact that he does this sort of thing often is pretty inconsiderate. But you gotta admit, it is pretty funny.

It's called Rhode Island, the least they could do is lable their Rhodes

First off, congratulations to Angry and Leana, both of whom completed their first marathon in Disney World this weekend. Leana, never one to take the easy way, did hers on the heels of a half marathon the day before. My hat goes off to both of you. Congratulations!

Thirty minutes after our heroes had already crossed the starting line in the Magic Kingdom (or is it Epcot?), I was just rolling out of bed. It was 6:30, mind you, and I had my own little romp to do down in southern Rhode Island. I was really hoping that my girlfriend would show up and make the 2 hour drive worthwhile. Rhode Island may be a small state, but it's apparently possible to be down there for 2 hours and still not see the person you were looking for. Damn. Anyway, the destination was a 10-mile fun run in Jamestown, down in the bottom part of the state where all the inlets and stuff make it look like it's falling apart. True to my M.O., I really meant to be on time, but then factors beyond my control held me up. First I had to de-ice my car (it took several minutes of staring at the inside of a frosted-over windshield for the idea to occur to me that I could scrape the frost off with a credit card), then there was a bitchy 50-something woman with purple hair patronizing the poor little Brazilian girl at Starbucks and holding up the line (anyone over the age of 21 with hair the color of a crayola crayon should be put in a mental institution). Then, of course I missed one of my exits and had to turn around. Then there was a cop driving under the speed limit holding up traffic (aren't you allowed to pass a cop if he's going 10 mph below the limit?).

I managed to arrive on time, but I had to pee so bad I was beginning to understand how normal adults can be driven to wetting their pants. As luck would have it, somebody had decided to set up camp in the onesy at the local cafe and I was about ready to pick the lock I had to go so bad. I must have made an interesting impression on the half dozen runners that piled up behind me in line as I hopped back and forth and squeezed my knees together while we waited 5-minutes for Mr. Pokey to finis his morning business. Now I know that this is something that nice girls don't talk about, but it's a pet peeve of mine: Why do people poo in public bathrooms? I never go in any bathroom but my own, I couldn't if I wanted to. I understand that not everyone has the same fickle GI tract that I do, but when it's a 1-person bathroom in a crowded place with very little ventilation, I just find it rude. It reflects poor planning. It takes too long (because it's never the quick pooers that go in public places), and it leaves the room uninhabitable for the next several guests of the porcelain palace. I think public bathrooms could benefit from a little modification to the old "Do Not Flush" list. "Please do not flush feminine hygene products or turds down this toilet. If you have a turd, please hold it until you can dispose of it properly." Anyway, that's just my opinion, and I feel better now having expressed it.

Having relieved myself, I was ready to run. Most of the dozen or so people there were training for Boston and would be doing much of my same long race circuit as a buildup. I was feeling great and trotting along with the front runners for the first mile and beginning to feel pretty good about myself. I was sure that I could make these guys eat my dust if only I knew what the rout was, but I hung back and listened to the run-down of what courses were going to kick my ass this winter. According to these guys, all of them were going to kick me all up and down the playground. "Don't worry," said a guy named John. "If you can run an 8 minute mile at Derry, you'll be fine for Boston."
"I think I've only run one 8-minute mile in my life, and then I probably fell off the back of the treadmill at the end," I said. Then we hit our first hill and I started drifting back through the crowd until no one was passing me anymore and I was relieved until I figured out that I was bringing up the rear. The next 5 miles were about barely hanging on and not losing the group in the distance. As we rounded the tip of the first loop we passed a lighthouse on our left, and to our right was the ocean looking beautiful and blue. It was one of those moments that you want to stop and take it all in, especially if you feel like your gut is going to bust and you haven't "taken in" any oxygen for at least a mile. Later, when I looked back at my splits I'm not surprised that I (literally) felt like I was going to faint, miles 3 and 4 (the front half of the willie... I mean peninsula... on the map below) were around 8:35 and 8:45 per mile pace. Oh, and did I mention I ran 17 miles on Thursday? I had stopped having fun.
Luckily, one of the runners took pity on me and came back to keep me company (and peel me off the sidewalk if need be). He had one of those cartoonish English accents that someone would have if they said "jolly old England" a lot in conversation. He didn't say H's, he said apostrophes. 'is name was 'arry. Just as I was striking up a conversation with 'arry, my cell phone rang. Normally my policy is not to answer the phone while running, but I knew this would be Angry on the far side of the finish line. "How'd you do?!" I gasped as soon as I picked up.
"Don't you ever make me do anything else like that ever again," Angry stated, slowly and clearly. But after that I couldn't hear anything else that he said. I told him I'd call him later, hung up, and turned back to 'arry.

I was glad to have jolly old 'arry around to keep me company, but the truth is he didn't do much for my self esteem. 'arry was over 70 years old and the second fastest 70-something-year-old in New England. And he only started running when he was 57! The story went that one day he was having a pissing contest (his words, not mine) with a friend of his who said that he couldn't run a certain loop in his neighborhood. He said he could, and by hell, he did. When he told his friend about it and how long it took him, his friend signed him up for a race that weekend. They went on one more run the week before the race. Then that weekend he took out his age group. The race was 5 miles. No shit, he just decided when he was 57 years old to start running, his third run EVER he won a 5-mile race. And here he was running up these hills cool as a cucumber while I was beginning to wonder if maybe that awful wheezing coming out of my throat was something I should be worried about.

To my defense, though, the course was hilly. It felt like we were always going up hills and never coming down them again.
Once we had finished the first out and back everyone was so spread out that the first runners had missed the turn, and the last runners, well who knew where the hell they were. The organizer went out to fetch the front runners, and 'arry and I went off to do the last loop by ourselves. "Just keep going straight, you can't miss it," said John, the organizer. Well that seemed easy enough. 'arry dragged my sorry ass up and down some more hills and I was really starting to feel sorry for myself. Did I mention I ran 17 miles on Thursday? I did? Well, good. Although my legs weren't cramping or tired, I just couldn't seem to push myself, even to keep up with a 72-year-old elf (he was about my height). Then we came to a T-stop. "What do you think we do 'ere?" asked 'arry. "You think we go left?"
"No, that would be the same direction that we came," I said, horrified at the idea of getting lost and having to run longer in this horrible place where the ground was never flat. So right we went, and all seemed to be going well until we got to a dead end with the ocean on all sides.
"Well what do you suppose we should do now?" asked 'arry. "I think we're supposed to be over there," he pointed far, far across the water to a town on the other side. I couldn't make out a bridge anywhere in sight. I was pretty sure he was wrong, but I knew we were going to have to keep going over that last awful hill again, no matter what. We doubled back and just as we had begun running a pickup came along with a ZZ-Top look-alike inside. "Do you know 'ow to get back to Jamestown?" 'arry asked.
"Just follow the yellow brick road," said ZZ. Was that supposed to be cute? I MUST have been hypoxic, because I actually checked the color of the pavement. Yep, dark grey, just like I'd remembered it. "Go straight on until you hit the rotary, then bear right. That'll take you right back into town."
"I think 'e means for us to go back over that big 'ill again," 'arry told me. He was right. Over the hill and about 3/4 of a mile we were at another t-stop. Was this supposed to be a rotary? People will call anything a rotary around here. Well, at least ZZ top hadn't led us astray, and we found our way back to town in exactly 1 hour and 43 minutes. That's 9:11 minute miles. And may I remind you I ran 17 miles on Thursday. I felt... a bit like I was going to hurl.

This week's poll

Last week's poll on new year's resolutions barely warents mentioning. Seven people voted. Of those seven people, one wanted only to lose weight, one wanted only to compete in a certain event, and the rest of us wanted to do both. There was one vote for quitting something, and since that one person was me, and I actually quit that something almost 4 months ago, it hardly counts. Bleh. Let's see if I can spark a little more controversy and feedback this week.

Since last week we learned we all share the same goals of trimming down and getting faster in 2008, this post is about fitness "myths" (myths in quotation marks, because I'm sure that some of you will have my head on a platter for questioning some of the following Fitness Facts). But first, a little bit of an anecdote to get us all warmed up.

I haven't had a scale since I left Spain, and even then weight was measured in kilograms, so I haven't had an accurate idea of how much I weigh in years. Ever since the freshman 15, though (which I gained my freshman year in high school), I've been pretty much the same weight: 130. When I'm working out, I'm a trimmer 130. When I'm being a lazy slob, I'm a softer, flabbier 130. I could be standing on the moon and I'd weigh 130 lb. But since I've been home I've been training a lot and really watching what I eat. I thought for sure that after 3 1/2 months of this I would have lost at least 5 pounds. Probably more like 10. Heck, as long as we're pulling numbers out of our ass, I'd lost 20 whole pounds running around in the cold. Anyway, my point is, I know I'm skinnier. After a crappy day at work today I put on some workout clothes and a jacket I haven't worn in awhile and started to pack up to go work off my anger in the weight room. "Wow, in that outfit you can really tell how much weight you've lost," said my mom. Keep in mind that in my absence, even if it's only 2 hours, my mom always thinks I weigh 40 lb more than I do. (That's 170 lb., if you haven't done the math in your head.) I would come home from college at the fat 130 and she would say I looked like I lost weight. The clothes she buys me fit me like a tent. Anyway, mom thinks I'm so skinny. I tried to ignore the fact that my mom was staring at my ass and drove to the gym where I went straight to the weight room. I mean the real weight room, the one with the barbells and collars and scary muscle men, not the room with all the slick weight machines. I worked every muscle between my shoulders and my butt (plus some extra posterior chain work). It was the first time I've lifted weights since Thanksgiving, and the time before that might have been in 2005. That done, I go down to the locker room, already starting to feel sore, and what do I see sitting there innocently in the corner, but a scale. Nothing would make me feel better after a really shitty day at work than to find out that I suddenly weigh 110 lb. So I take a pee, strip down, and step on the scale, confident and feeling more light-hearted than I have ever felt stepping on a scale in my life. I looked down and saw...
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... a zero. Okay, I'd done it wrong. I re-tared the scale and stepped back on. It did that jumping around thing it does 120 (oh please, oh please!), 134 (oh god no!), 122 (go back down!), 128 (please tell me you're not done going back down yet!). When the numbers had stopped blinking and finally settled on a number, I couldn't believe my eyes. It showed...
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One Hundred and Twenty Nine Point Eight Pounds! You've gotta be fucking kidding me! I have lost a grand total of .2 pounds since I came home. That's like the weight of a baby carrot. And don't give me any of that bullshit about it being the end of the day and water weight and bowel movements and wearing my 10-lb underwear. I know about all that stuff, I am the QUEEN of rounding down on scales. I'm pretty sure I didn't have to take a 10-lb crap, and I'd left my 10-lb underwear at home today, so that was actually some kind of body mass.

So this week's poll question is: Which is the biggest crock of shit:
A) (said in the high-pitched voice of a peppy female friend named Kimmy) "Don't worry, you really are getting thinner. It's just that muscle weighs more than fat. You look great!"
B) (said in the voice of a wiry strung-out distance freak named Ben) "Dude, a triathlete has no place in the weight room. That shit'll slow you down. Makes you bulky. Go do some intervals."
C) (said in the squeaky, whiny voice of a Paris Hilton protégée named Chrissy) "OMG! Carbs are like soooooooooo bad for you. They like make you hella fat like hella quick. I'll never touch another carb as long as I live. BFF!" (You may insert a similar speech by Kimmy about protein or fats and vote for option C as well).
D) (said in the voice of an eighties aerobics instructor named Tammy with leg warmers and a terrycloth headband) "Cardio is the way to lose weight. You want to always stay at under 70% of your maximum heart rate, or what is called your fat burning zone. If you go any faster you'll just build big, ugly, bulky muscle. Ben from option B can tell you about how bad muscles are."

As usual, you can vote more than once.

Long-ish Run with Angry

Months and months ago Angry lent me a running pouch to use in my "marathon on a whim and a prayer". The pouch was very useful since it held all my nutrition and my camera, but it resulted in major bruising on my low back and wore a hole in the skin of my hip that you can still see the remnants of today. But this post is not about how easily I chafe (someday I will write that post, and there will be pictures of my boobs). Angry is running his very own undertrained (according to him) marathon next week in Disney World, so he came up to get the pouch back, get some priceless advice from yours truly (read: bullshit I make up to sound smarter), and get in one last decent run before the big day.

Angry is scared shitless about this marathon, so Friday night was about calming his fears of land sharks, alligator attacks, and sub-standard performances. "I'm so scared. I'm afraid that when the gun goes off I'll forget how to run and just fall over right there on the street, and all the fat women at the back will trample me. Or I'll forget how to run in a straight line and just run into a swamp right into an alligator's mouth." (The previous quote has been added for dramatic effect. Angry's being a wimp, but not that wimpy. Those were my fears before my first marathon).

The plan for Saturday's run was to keep the distance down to 8 miles or less and take a tour around Boston. I was responsible for rout planning, which is never a good idea because I always get lost and made the rout longer than it should have been. I came up with a rout along the Charles river that would take us past several colleges.
We ate a hearty breakfast at the hotel restaurant, took an hour to digest, and decked ourselves out in Under Armour cold weather gear. We compared butts in our tight pants (I would dare to say that mine was sexier), then we fired up the Garmins and dashed out the door. We had barely run a fraction of a mile over the Salt and Pepper (Longfellow) bridge before Angry had to stop to re-tie his shoe. Angry would have to stop many times over the course of the morning. I only requested one stop.

We ran into the city and around the Boston Common (where we saw our first college, Emmerson), and Angry whined like a scared puppy every time we had to cross the street, even if there was a walk light and no cars coming. Then we made our way back to the water to run along the Boston side of the Charles for awhile (where we passed BU). We were running pretty hard, but Angry kept holding us back. Every time we passed another runner he would size them up. If it was a chick, he would keep watching her over his shoulder until I was afraid he would trip over something or his neck would snap, then he'd catch up and say, "I should have come to school in Boston. I could really see myself living here." If the runner was a guy, though, he would give him a quick once-over and then scoff, "That guy thought he was such hot shit" and do an exaggerated imitation of good running form.

We were going along pretty quickly, holding something around 9:15 min/miles, and then Angry had to stop to check out a rusted-out bridge when we ran under it, so we stopped... and then we walked awhile. A few minutes up the road we had to stop and check out some toxic waste clean-up in the water. Then, crossing back over the river into Harvard, Angry had to stop again. "I just want to look at stuff," he said. So we looked. Angry could lean easily on the side of the bridge, but I had to tilt my head back to even be able to get my chin over the ledge. "Are we going too slow for you?" I asked.
"No, I don't think I could go any faster," whined Angry. "I think I had too much for breakfast and I have to pee." So we ran into Harvard Square to find a place to pee. When the public bathrooms were closed in the mall, Angry just wanted to look at the stores. It was pretty obvious he was just stalling, since the stores were closed. At some point in the mall Angry looked over at me, "Oh my GOD, you're soaked!" he exclaimed. Indubitably. I would say that I sweat like a man, but Angry wasn't sweating nearly as much as me, so I guess you could say that I sweat like a rain cloud. Or that Angry sweats like a little girl. "Why don't you take your hat off?"
Take off my Sox cap?! No way! Anyway, I'd have horrible hat hair under there. "I have nowhere to put it, and I don't want to. There's a running store just a few blocks away, they might let you use the bathroom," I suggested, trying to change the subject. Really I just wanted an excuse to go in and buy a 26.2 bumper sticker for my new car.
"Good, then maybe I can buy you a headband so you can take that hat off." I don't think they sell Red Sox stuff at Marathon Sports. So made our way up Mass Ave to the world's greatest running store with the world's worst parking. On the way Angry started moaning like a bitch about his foot. "Oooooow! It huuuuuurts." I tried to walk to give him a break, but since I was drenched it was really cold. Angry was going to have to suck it up. I started running.

Luckily there were no headbands, and I got away with keeping my Sox cap. Angry got his reward for the half-mile detour to the running store, too. One of the guys that worked there came up to him, "Why are you wearing Underarmour? Is it any good?" Asking Angry if Underarmour is any good is like asking the Pope if the Bible is a good book. After talking to Angry, Marathon Sports is now thinking of carrying Underarmour brand clothing.

I managed to lose the river for a bit as we ran back towards MIT where the hotel was, but I don't think that Angry noticed the ugly industrial part of town we were running through as he alternated between telling me the history of the Under Armour corporation and bitching about his foot. As we ran the final few hundred meters to the hotel we joked about jumping in the frozen river. "Wanna go ice skating?" I asked.
"Sure."
"Okay, give me my camera, you go first." (Caption to imaginary photo) "Angry, up to his neck in the Charles," I said.
(Caption to imaginary photo) "Shortly after this Angry was rushed to the hospital. He is expected to recover fully," said Angry.
By the time we got back to the hotel, 10.2 miles and 1:37 (running) minutes later we were both in high spirits. I pulled off my cap for the first time since we'd left. "It looks like someone dumped a bucket of water on your head!" Angry cried. "We've gotta get you a headband!"
"I LIKE my Sox hat!!!" I insisted.

After lunch we went back into the city to do a little shopping. Ironically, I wound up with a headband, and Angry wound up with a boatload of Red Sox stuff. Hopefully this one last run wasn't too hard on Princess Angry and his delicate feet only a week out from the marathon. Be sure to watch his page next week to find out how it went.

See You at the Races / This Week's Poll

I don't know if it was fear, inspiration, or insanity, but I went on a race sign-up spree yesterday. I am now signed up for 5 races that are 10 miles or more in the next 3 months. Many of the events were chosen expressly to stalk random New England readers (and you thought nobody read your sidebars), so I am desperately hoping to round up some more troops to keep me company.

On January 27 I'll be doing the Boston Prep 16 Miler in Derry, New Hampshire. My participation in this race is due almost entirely to Gadfly Thom (formerly New-Friend-Thom) and his e-nagging (which is not nearly as bad as I make it out to be, don't worry). Cranky, this means I was lying about coming down to do the half in Manhattan. Do you have any better suggestions for races worth making the trip down for?

On February 2 I will be going up to Portland to run the Maine Running Company's 10-Mile Mid-Winter Classic. The original plan was to meet Nitsirk there, but now she says she might chicken out. So, be sure to click on the link and heckle/coax her out. Maine is a mighty cold place to go to run 10 miles all by yourself.

Then I have a couple of weeks off before the Hyannis Half Marathon on February 24. I picked this race specifically for two reasons: 1. because I'm stalking Mindy, who had this up on her sidebar, and 2. because Hyannis always sounds to me like High Anus and the 8-year-old in me (which is about 95% of me) thinks that's really funny. I want a t-shirt that says High Anus.

Next up is Stu's 30k on March 2, an 18.64 mile romp through Clinton, MA which has apple picking about one month out of the year, and god knows what they do the other 11. On March 2nd I'll find out.

Finally, on March 30 I'll be rocking up for the Eastern States 20 Miler from Kittery, Maine through New Hampshire, and back into the Commonwealth in Salisbury (hooray for small states, we don't have to run 100 miles to cover 3 states up here, thank god). I don't know where I came up with this idea, I'm sure I got it from somewhere. If it was from your sidebar, I hope to see you there... ummm, whoever you are.

So, come out and join me. Please?

Now, back to the poll. I'm sorry I've been a bit lax on keeping up with it. It's been a busy few weeks, and I've had a lot to talk about. Anyway, here are the results for the most baddest assest blogger out there:
Our runner up, with 3 votes, was Leana, our crazy Cannuck (spelling?) who ran three ten-mile runs in a 19-hour period.
In a tie for first, with 5 votes each were Bree Wee for being an all-around rockstar, and Rocketpants for having the coolest blogger nickname and profile photo there is.
And finally, there were 2 votes for "someone else": Bill, who nominated himself (I don't care how badass you think you are, that's pretty lame, Bill), and Spence, nominated by Rocketpants.
I got NO votes. You guys stink.

This week the question is obvious. We all have New Year's resolutions. What was yours?
A) To lose weight, FINALLY. Whether your plan includes running lots, 1-800-Jenny-20 or both, you are going to trim down this year... just as soon as all those Christmas cookies are finally gone.
B) To give something up, be it smoking, drinking, processed foods, yelling at your kids, kicking pigeons, peeing in the shower, biting your nails, your significant other... no more in 2008. Well, by the END of 2008 you will have given it up anyway.
C) An event. Whether it's earning the right to toe the line at Kona or Boston, or winning a medal at the Podunkville 5k and Doughnut Chomp your finisher's metal or trophy is going to say 2008 and have your name on it.
D) Take better care of your teeth. You wouldn't think this is a big one, but every year I meet someone who has high expectations for their dental routine in the coming year.
E) I had a resolution, but I already broke it, so who cares?

(Remember, you can vote more than once)

No Wetsuit Girl is at it again!

Too much has happened these past 2 days to let go by without telling you, so this post will be broken into 3 chapters.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 ............. Picking Up Where Santa Left Off
Chapter 2 ............. I've Had Bad Dreams Like This
Chapter 3 ............. The Triumphant Return of No Wetsuit Girl

Chapter 1 Picking Up Where Santa Left Off

I had a very nice Christmas, but there were still a couple of things that I hadn't asked Saint Nick for. So this weekend I went on a shopping spree. First, I got me a set of these:

They go to one of those:
Which meant that I could get one of these:

Which means I can do this again:
But since my old (and beloved) ones had started to get moldy waiting for me, I had to get new ones of these:

and a sleek new

And also I got a new one of these (my old one stayed in Spain):

... And I was ready to rock and roll.

Chapter 2 I Think I've Had Nightmares Like This

If you're not going to drink, and are not willing to be a designated driver, there isn't really much to do on New Year's Eve. Mom and Dad had left to go to a nice 7-course dinner and dancing, my ass hole brother had slithered off to do whatever it was that he did last night, and I was just settling down for a long night of CSI reruns and writing during the commercial breaks when the phone rang. It was Chang Cheng, my best friend's (and neighbor) 17-year-old foster brother from China. He's only been here for about 2 years, and he's a ESL kid in high school, so he didn't have anyone to hang out with either. "Do you want to come over and play some games with us?" he asked. Sure, why not, I'll be over in an hour.

I don't know about in China, but in the US, usually you tell someone if there's going to be a party. By the time I realized what was going on it was too late. All the mothers and fathers of all the people I haven't seen since high school (nor have I wanted to see) were all sitting around the table drinking old people liqueurs till they were just the other side of tipsy. And they'd spotted me! It was too late to get out now. I thought there would be nothing worse than being the only sober one at a party, but there are several things worse. You could be the only sober one, and the only one under 60 (except Chang Cheng, who was hiding in his room). That room could be filled with the parents of all the people who you hated in high school, and haven't wanted to see since, and now you have to ask about them and say, "Tell her I said hi". Then, all those tipsy AARP members could go home and say to their awful offspring, "You'll never guess who I saw last night... Claire! I don't know what she was doing there, she must not have had anyone to hang out with... No, no, she wasn't drunk... I was surprised too... She asked for nonalcoholic champagne, it looks like she's actually cleaned up..."

Mortifying. Positively mortifying.

Chapter 3 The Triumphant Return of No Wetsuit Girl

I had planned on doing an indoor triathlon at my new gym to celebrate the new year, but after the humiliation of last night, I really wanted to do something crazy that no one else would do to make myself feel better. I wanted to know that while all those people with friends were sleeping off their hangovers, I was actually doing something to celebrate the new year. So I went on Cooll Runnings, and found a fun run called the "2nd Annual Old Silver Beach Run and Dunk", a 6-mile fun run followed by... a Surprise (have you guessed it already?). I hopped into my snazzy new ride and inhaled the sweet new car smell the whole 1 1/2 hour ride down to Cape Cod. It was a toasty 42* when I got out of the car at the beach in North Falmouth, but what I hadn't counted on was the 20 mile per hour winds. That would really suck when it came time for the Surprise (do you know what it is NOW?). There were about a dozen people in the parking lot waiting to start the run, most of whom where huddled in their cars for warmth. Then, ever so slightly, it started to rain. Cold, blustery winds, and rain: fantastic running weather. Fantastic beach weather.

brrrrrrrrrrr

At the strike of noon (or something like it), a group of about 8 of us took off to run the full 6 miles. People would meet us along the way to do shorter versions of the run, and some had already left to have time to complete the course. The idea was for everyone to finish by 1:00 for the big Surprise (you can use one of your guesses now). Our little group was off like a shot over the rolling hills of Falmouth (which I think I've complained about before). In the small group there were about 5 men, 2 other women, and a 12-year-old boy who were off like a shot. I was keeping up, but I was huffing and puffing pretty badly. By the halfway point almost everyone had pulled ahead of me, even the 12-year-old. I was running like my pants were on fire, wheezing and wondering if I could find my way back on my own. Then I heard one of the two guys I was desperately hanging on to say to the other, "That's half way, and it's only been 24 minutes. We're making pretty good time." Twenty-four minutes for 3 hilly miles?! No wonder I was gasping like an asthmatic fat kid in gym class. After that I gave myself permission to let off ever so slightly. My pants were driving me nuts, they kept slipping down over something slippery and d lycra under my running tights. Why wasn't I wearing regular underwear? It's all part of the Surprise.
I came back in to the parking lot, a not-too-too-distant last behind everyone else (including the 12-year-old) after a mere 51 minutes and 25 seconds. I had a side stitch and my stomach didn't feel so good. I might have been delirious too. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, the parking lot that had been nearly deserted when I left was PACKED full of cars and people. Most of the people were shorter than me and didn't look like they'd lost all their baby teeth yet, and I couldn't believe so many people had come for the Surprise. I couldn't believe that so many parents would let their little kids participate in the Surprise (Okay, last guess, do you know what the Surprise is? For a hit look at the arrow in the picture).

At 12:56 everyone filed down to the beach and took some pictures. At 12:58 someone blew a whistle and we all started stripping. I was wearing my long-sleeve surfing top that Mom thought was a running top (see, it was good for something), and a bikini bottom (which was what my pants kept slipping on while I was running). And at 1:00 they blew another whistle and about 100 people let out war cries and dashed into the water!

I ran in until the water was up past my belly button, dunked up to my neck, let out a blood-curdling scream, and dashed back out of the water, up the beach, and to my car. And to tell you the truth, it really wasn't all that cold. The water was about 41*, and since no one was in for very long, it didn't have time to lower your core body temperature. And then all the blood rushes back to your skin and you feel warm. I know you won't believe me, but I swear, I didn't even shiver. Given, I was back in my car in a flash. Let me tell you, changing your underwear while trying to keep a towel on your lap is hard enough, but with a steering wheel in the way, it's a whole new league. I also got sand all over my brand new car. Oops.

Now that I was dry and warm in my super-un-sexy-but-wicked-comfy flannel-lined jeans and about 4 layers, it was time to move on to the next step of my New Year's Triathlon. I drove directly to the gym and swam 1500m. As I was getting out a man with one leg came up to me, "You getting ready for those triathlons?"
"I am, actually," I said. It turns out that One-Legged-New-Friend-Mike is a serial Boston Marathoner, has attempted several ironmans, and is an ultra-endurance open water swimmer. With one leg. We talked for about 10 minutes about training and he threattened to make me do some sets of 50s on a minute. Speed, yuck. I hope I get to talk to One-Legged-New-Friend-Mike more often in the future.

Finally, I came home for the last leg of my improvised New Year's Triathlon. I biked an uneventful 2 hours. Actually, that's a lie. It wasn't uneventful because A) I got to try my new HR monitor (confusing), and B) I figured out why my bike kept wabbling and coming loose and fixed it.

I believe that however you spend the first day of the year sets the patten for the rest of the year. Let's hope that 2008 is full of: lots of fixing my mistakes, making new friends, doing crazy $hit that no one else would want to do, playing with new toys, and of course, lots of fun racing and training.

Happy New Year, folks.