Riled Up Runner

City Love

Yesterday I ran a little local New York City road race and came within 50 seconds of a new PR.

You came within 50 seconds of your 3:51:51 Marine Corps Marathon PR despite New York City’s infamously challenging hills and last week’s illness? That’s wonderful! You may be thinking. Even Meb had to walk!

Oh, um, no, I came within 50 seconds of my half marathon PR yesterday during the first half of the race. Which, in case you’d forgotten, was a full marathon.

Or, in other words, I exploded out of the gate, zoomed over the Verrazano Bridge, hightailed it through Brooklyn and crossed the 13.1-mile marker in Greenpoint at an impressive 1:50:52 chip time, or just seconds slower than my half marathon PR recorded earlier this fall in Central Park.

When I passed my friends and family at the base of the Pulaski Bridge, I was positively flying.

Unfortunately, Newton’s first law apparently does not apply to marathon runners, and this object in motion was unable to maintain the sub-8:30 pace during the second half of the race that had propelled me from Staten Island to Queens in the first. In all my excitement high-fiving strangers and tearing with emotion and WOOing at every spectator who yelled my name in those first three boroughs, pacing myself kind of went by the wayside. That is, until I hit the brutal ascent of the 59^th Street Bridge and realized there was nothing – and I mean nothing – left in the tank. Don’t believe me? Just check out this brutally telling graph of my race pace. Ouch.

Hello, I’m a textbook example of how not to run a road race. Nice to meet you.

But let’s backtrack a little. The morning started with a 5 a.m. alarm (or 6 a.m. alarm, thankyouverymuch daylight savings) and a train-ferry-bus ride to the starting villages at the base of the Verrazano Bridge. Donned in my coolest throw-away warm-up gear, I made friends with a fellow first-time NYC marathoner and we passed the pre-race hours waiting in porta-potty lines and admiring the veteran runners’ ingenuity. Runner using a pool float as a mattress, I salute you.

By 9:30, I was ushered into my corral, and at 10:05, my wave was making our way across the starting line as New York, New York blared over the PA system and the skyline herself towered in the distance. I’m not usually one to cry at sentimental things like when Simba realizes his father lives on in him or when Forrest sees Lt. Dan’s magic legs for the first time (cue waterworks), but I may have teared up as I stepped onto that bridge and knew I was on my way to completing an event that’s been at the top of my bucket list since 2011. I can’t wait to see MarathonFoto’s attractive snapshots of my frozen face contorted in happy sobs at Mile 1. That’s bound to be one for the scrapbook.

The bridge itself was uneventful save for a brutal side cramp, two circling helicopters and the most breathtaking views of the city you’ve ever seen (ok, fine, it was eventful), but the real fun started when we took those first steps onto solid land. “Welcome to Brooklyn!” the spectators’ banners cried. “Run like you stole something!”

If you’ve ever looked at an NYC subway map, you might think Brooklyn is a quaint little borough spanning about the same area as Central Park. Listen up, kids, it’s time someone told you the truth: the MTA lies. Brooklyn is vast, and the next 12 miles all took place within this wonderfully boisterous and diverse collection of neighborhoods. From the church ladies in Bay Ridge to the Park Slope Yuppies, the streets of my favorite borough were packed several bodies deep and the excitement was palpable. I knew I should have been keeping myself at the 8:45 to 9:00 pace I’d been targeting for the first few miles, but as I high-fived hands and blew kisses like a celebrity, I was simply unable to rein in the energy. Miles 1 through 7 flew by, and before I knew it, I was in front of the 3:45 pace group. Whoops.

That should have been a sign to slow down, since I was targeting more of a 3:55 pace, but the roar of the crowds and the knowledge that my people were waiting at Brooklyn’s last corner propelled me forward at a dangerously unsustainable clip. I tore through Williamsburg, turned down Greenpoint Ave., spotted my crowd and barreled through like a rockstar.

Ten minutes and two bridge-climbs later, I hit a wall.

Previously when I’d pictured myself running the NYC marathon, I imagined I’d come off the 59^th St. Bridge into Manhattan and feel the swell of energy that would push me through to the end. But while I was excited to see a friendly face (and dog) around mile 17 and was doubly excited for the energy gels they were giving away at mile 18, I’d lost my exhilaration – and stamina – by the time I’d landed in my home borough. I realize the signs along the race course were true: “No one said it would be easy; they said it would be worth it” and “If a marathon was easy, they’d call it your mom,” but as I entered Manhattan, I couldn’t help feeling how HARD the whole thing suddenly seemed. One sign in particular rang true: “I bet this seemed like a good idea four months ago.”

I never doubted I’d finish the race, especially after doing some self-inventorying and deciding that none of my foot pain or soreness was debilitating, but I knew 3:50 to 3:55 was probably off the table (and the 3:45 pace group was well out of sight). However, I thought a sub-4:00 might still be in the cards, especially given all the time I’d (foolishly) banked at the beginning. So I hunkered down, ate anything I could get my hands on, guzzled Gatorade and pushed myself through the Bronx, up that brutal Fifth Avenue climb and into Central Park.

Where – surprise! – my spectators had popped up for an unexpected hello!

photo (85) — I wonder if I would have ran faster with my eyes open.

At this point, I had only two miles to go and I was back on my home turf – the park loop – so I knew I had it in the bag. I plowed ahead, sprinted down 59^th Street, turned back into the park and crossed the finish line as the clock struck 3:58:34. I was then ushered down a finishers’ shoot, wrapped in a heat sheet, adorned with a medal, given a bag of food and forced to walk a full mile north before being allowed to exit the park. Great planning, ING. Marathoners love walking the full length of the city after a four-hour jog.

I finally maneuvered my way out of the park, collected my sweet post-race cape and located my parents, roommate and boyfriend in Columbus Circle, where they all kindly hugged me before pointing out how gross my salt-streaked face was. One BLT, two poptarts and a bagel later, I was passed out before 8 p.m. in the city that never sleeps.

Everyone’s been texting and e-mailing to find out about the race, so here’s the recap: When it comes to NYC 2013, I went out too fast, positive split, broke all the rules of a successful run and didn’t even come close to recording a new PR. And if that’s not enough, today I feel like I was hit by a freight train.

So was it worth it?

This bad boy says hell yes.

New Yorkers, how was your race day? Spectators, thanks so much for coming out. Runners, I feel your pain. Literally. And Meb, I love you more than ever, man. 2014’s your year. And maybe mine.

On Your Mark

I’ve never doubted the caliber of my friends, but in case I needed some sort of reaffirmation, the outflowing of support following my Thursday night blog post undoubtedly sealed the proverbial deal.

“Just reading your blog,” one texted me later that night. “Haven’t gotten to the end (is there a happy ending?) but I am very worried about your head. Darling, are you ok? Anything I can do?”

“I’ve been thinking about you all week – sending positive thoughts your way,” e-mailed another. “I hope you are feeling better, or maybe took the day off work to rest. Wishing you lots of good luck and energy.”

“The thought of you not racing Sunday breaks my furry heart,” said a third. “On a side note, do you think your constant anthropomorphism of me is borderline unhealthy? No? Ok then. As you were.”

photo 2 (27) — “Am I a man, or am I muppet?”

From my grandmother to my godmother to three best friends and – separately – their wonderful mothers, friends and family coast to coast have been checking in continuously on my status these last few days, and it’s left me feeling all warm and fuzzy and loved inside.

But that’s not all I’m feeling. In addition to feeling cared for and supported, I also woke up this morning feeling something else.

Better.

For the past 48 hours, I’ve been gorging on carbs, sleep and vitamin C, and I woke up this morning after 10 glorious hours with a renewed bounce in my step. It could just be excitement that my parents are en route to the city or the knowledge that I’m allowed to start wearing all my obnoxious marathon finisher gear in 27 short hours, but I really, truly feel like I’m on the mend.

I intend to become a Never-Nude in these awesome shorts.

And you know what that means. Tomorrow, we race!

I may not be as fast or as healthy as I want to be, but I’m going to be brushing elbows with the elites, honoring Boston and competing in one of the greatest marathons of all time in the city I love, and, heck, that sounds like a pretty good time to me regardless of what that clock says.

Of course, PR or no PR, the clock will still play an important role for me tomorrow, and that’s knowing what time I can expect to see my personal spectators along the course. New York Road Runners recommends downloading the free 2013 ING New York City Marathon Mobile App and tracking me that way (Bib No. 21-701), but I’ve also put together this little cheat sheet to help you out. The three columns represent my estimated time at each mile marker if I ran my goal pace (left), my medium pace (middle) or my likely pace (right). May I recommend downloading it, making a paper airplane and throwing it at me as I hobble past?

So there we have it. Thanks for all your warm wishes and support, and next time you hear from me, I expect to be a two-time marathon finisher! I also expect to be eating a cheeseburger. I don’t know which excites me more.

Good luck to all the other runners out there! How are managing these final hours?

Ill-Timing

I woke up this morning prepared to tell you how – despite all my training hiccups and anxieties and fears – I was finally excited for the marathon.

I was going to tell you how I ran eight well-rested miles Monday and felt like I was flying.

I was going to tell you how I entered the park this morning along the marathon route and saw the Conservatory had hung a giant “Welcome to Central Park!” banner, making my heart skip and my eyes tear up with emotion.

I was going to tell you how I received the most amazing brunch invitation in my inbox, which – despite not being able to attend but for a brief run by – makes me feel all warm and special and pancake-filled inside.

I was going to tell you all these things in what I expected to be an upbeat and optimistic and golden-doodle-filled post.

And then 10 a.m. hit, and I was suddenly harboring the most excruciating headache of my young adult life. A headache that hasn’t yet gone away. A headache accompanied with chills. A headache that brought me to my knees, or more accurately, to my company’s in-house nurse’s office, where they gave me a double-dose of Excedrin but no lollypop. And here I was thinking Obamacare meant more free lollypops. No wonder Ted Cruz was angry.

As the work day progressed and I felt worse and worse, this blog post started to evolve in my mind.

Instead of telling you how excited I was, I was going to tell you how I am afraid I’m getting sick, since I only get headaches from hangovers and colds, and this goal-oriented body hasn’t touched a drink all week.

And then instead of telling you how excited I was, I was going to tell you that a handful of coworkers went home sick this week, and that someone sneezed on me on the 4/5 train, and that my sick-looking boyfriend last night told me he “wasn’t sick,” he was just exhausted “from staying up coughing all night.” End quote.

And then instead of telling you how excited I was, I was going to tell you how my four months of training feel like a big waste and I should probably throw in the towel and give up now and not even pick up my bib number after work at the marathon expo.

I somehow managed to relegate that last thought to the back burner for about 30 seconds, or just long enough to hail a cab to the Javits Center, where I was funneled into a security line and then instructed to show ID and then pushed to the number check in before I even had time to think.

There, a lady gave me my bib number, four safety pins and the four words I’d apparently been needing to hear all day: “You’ve got this, Anne.”

And just in case I wasn’t going to take some stranger’s word for it, I came home to my mailbox 30 minutes later to find the most appropriately timed motivational card of my life from a very special friend whose favorite smell happens to be skunk and whose name both begins and ends with the letter Z.

So there we have it. I’m still feeling sick, and might be sicker tomorrow, and could feel even worse come race day. But you know what? I can also be excited. These two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

What will be will be, but for tonight at least — I’m excited.

How are you managing these last few days? With less neuroticism than me? No? Oh good. That makes me feel so much better.

A Time to Every Purpose Under Heaven

I imagine autumn used to be considered a season of hard work and preparation, but with the onset of the industrial revolution and the invention of pumpkin-spiced coffee, it seems all that has changed.

Once a time for reaping the harvest, canning vegetables and chopping firewood in anticipation of the impending snowfall, fall has evolved into a much more sedentary season, full of rigorous, heart-racing activities like tailgating at football games and watching leaves die.

I think we can all agree New England is hideous in the fall.

Don’t get me wrong – I love fall and the romanticism and lethargy it has simultaneously come to evoke in recent generations.

I love taste-testing two dozen pumpkin beers with a handful of friends and using such insightful descriptors as “has a slight pumpkin flavor” and “tasted wet.”

something — It’s funny how an afternoon of drinking sounds significantly less alcoholic when you call it taste-testing. Experience the power of words.

I love visiting a pumpkin patch and apple orchard with my handsome boyfriend and buying only a family-pack of donuts to share.

sdf — Fact: Ben closes one eye faster when he’s excited.

I love knifing produce.

dfs — “Make me a pie, woman. Literally.”

And that’s not all. I love lazy Saturday afternoons when the Notre Dame game is on. I love curling up in front of the fireplace on a crisp autumn evening. I love that I no longer sweat off my make-up at 7 a.m. waiting for the 4/5 train. See you in June, attractive upper lip sweat. (Eat your heart out, boys.)

But while for many city residents, fall has come to mean slowing down and resting up and taking some crucial me-time time after the whirlwind of summer, there’s at least one group of people who don’t get to sit back and relax all autumn long.

And that’s the marathoners. And political candidates in election years. And the apple orchard migrant workers, come to think of it.

Ok, so there are at least three groups of people who don’t get to sit back and relax all autumn long. But seeing as I only fall into one of those categories, we’re going to focus on that one.

Although a handful of the world’s most famous marathons land outside of the traditional fall racing season, like Tokyo in February and Boston and London in April, nearly every elite world event takes place during the September-November time period. From Chicago and Berlin to the Nike Women’s Marathon in SanFran and the Marine Corps in DC, nearly every major race is crammed into the autumn months, and New York City is no exception.

Source: http://nutritionsuccess.org/, which is silly, since I could walk three blocks and take this identical picture myself.

The fall racing schedule makes sense — the weather should be cool and dry, athletes have been able to train during the long summer days, it lets me justify the three servings of stuffing I’m already planning to eat at Thanksgiving — but it also means that for millions of runners, fall simply can’t be a season of indolence. Even once the tapering begins, a marathoner’s October days are still filled with workouts and stretching and nutrition and goals. Until we cross the finish line, fall remains a period of discipline and preparation, structure and hard work. In that sense, I guess marathoners are actually still a lot like our forefathers, working hard throughout the fall to reach a goal. In fact, I guess you could call our fall behavior vintage. Marathoners = the original hipsters.

Luckily, I only have seven more days of this necessary single-mindedness, and as of 2:00 p.m. next Sunday, I’ll finally be free to begin my season of idleness, better late than never. And I’m fully prepared to make up for lost time. I’ll be putting away my running shoes for at least a week after crossing that Central Park finish line. I’ll be taking off Monday following the race to lay prone in front of the TV. I’ll be buttering up my very nice boyfriend in an attempt to crash at his ground-level apartment instead of my fifth floor walk up for possibly forever.

But just in case that’s not enough indolence, I’ll also be flying to New Orleans in mid-November for a birthday weekend in the Big Easy. And if that’s not the place for leisure, I don’t know what is.

Seasonal lethargy is just around the corner. To quote the terrifying little girl from The Ring: SEVEN DAYS.

How are you making the most of your fall?

Off the Record

My definition of a successful race has changed dramatically in the past 27 years.

When I was forced to run the timed mile in elementary school, I deemed the event successful if I could finish before gym ended without scuffing up my Keds.

When I ran the occasional charity 5K in high school, I declared an event successful if I completed all 3.1 miles without walking and took home a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt.

After losing 30 pounds and discovering my latent passion for the sport, I called a race successful if I high-fived spectators, thanked a volunteer and stockpiled a dozen free bagels after crossing the finish line.

That feel-good criteria of a successful performance remained unchanged through my first 10 miler, my first half marathon and my first 10K. And then something changed.

I ran my second 10K.

And suddenly, I didn’t just want to finish with a pocket o’ bagels and an ear-to-ear grin. The second time I ran a 10K, I wanted to finish faster than I had the last time I’d tackled that distance. And I did, thus transforming my definition of a successful race to that infamous runner-wide goal: record a new PR.

I throw the phrase “PR” around a lot on this blog like the LOA (lover of acronyms) that I am, but for all you non-runners who have yet to google it, PR stands for “personal record,” or the best time you as an individual have ever run a specific distance. (On this blog, PR may also reference an epic 2008 spring break trip to Puerto Rico; the only remaining NBC show of quality Parks and Rec; or the initials of my very first goldfish, Pipper Riley, may your memory live in infamy. Brits call it a PB, or personal best, but considering this blog’s frequent references to peanut butter, pirate booty and the Princess Bride, best I stick to the U.S. version.)

PRs are a good measure of success for an amateur runner because while you might never be the first to cross a finish line, you can usually count on your PR improving with each subsequent race as you put in more time, more effort and more miles. Following that second 10K, I redefined my definition of success to include a new PR, and for a glorious 18 months, every single race for me could be deemed a victory as a result.

And then the inevitable happened: I stopped getting faster. It’s easy to see incremental improvement as you bump up your weekly mileage from 0 to 20 to 40, but once you don’t have the time to put in any more hours on the asphalt, after awhile, those personal course records stop budging. Sure, you can do more honed training − speed work and intervals and strength training and steroids (what up, ARod?) − but even then, your race times are destined to plateau as your training routine flatlines.

A year ago this month, I ran the first non-PR of my career and told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I’m training for my first marathon! I said at the time. I didn’t want to push myself too hard anyways. Besides, I’m dressed as a cat. It may have been a Halloween 10K, but I’ll never tell.

I meant it at the time, but after 12 subsequent months of fewer and fewer PRs, I started to wonder whether my definition of success was no longer an accurate one. Sure, I wasn’t beating my course records, but I was doing all sorts of other fun and important things: inspiring friends to run their first races, enjoying the fall sunshine in Riverside Park, keeping the tutu industry employed.

Were those races unsuccessful simply because I hadn’t PRed? Consequently, could I really qualify a miserable race successful just because I happened to record a new personal best?

That second question went from hypothetical to reality on Sunday when I raced the Grete’s Gallop half marathon in Central Park in what was undeniably the most excruciating hour and 49 minutes of my life − and I’ve seen Gigli. From the moment I crossed the starting line, everything felt wrong: heavy legs, GI distress, a quarter-sized blood blister from my new shoes and a terrifying half mile when my lungs strangely stopped taking in air. My eternally patient running partner Adam coached me through it − despite my repeated declarations that if he asked me to run faster one more time, he and his lovely wife would be swimming with the fishies − and I miraculously hobbled across the finish line at a surprising seven-second PR with just enough energy left to force this pained half smile.

Yes, it was a new personal half marathon record, but was it really a success? When I someday think back on 2013 as a year of running, will I remember that morning I logged a new speed achievement and hated every minute of it − or the day I tie dyed my bathtub trying to scrub off the morning’s running festivities?

I might eat my words come Nov. 3 if that elusive marathon PR stays out of reach, but I think it’s time to redefine race success one more. Reaching new goals is a good motivator, sure, but I’ve come to realize life is about more than just PRs − unless you’re talking about poodle relatives. In which case, we all know that’s the only thing that matters.

How do you define a successful race?

The Final Countdown

A lot can change in a month.

One month is enough time for the moon to orbit the entire Earth, or so my advanced degree in astrophysics has led me to believe.

One month is enough time for — count ’em — eleven magazines to pile up next to my bed in the vain hope I’ll read more than the Approval Matrix this time around.

One month is enough time to refill your prescriptions, mail your rent check, visit your parole officer and check in with all your werewolf friends.

Heck, just one month ago, the sun was setting at 7:30 p.m., the Orioles still had a shot at the playoffs and this heartbreaker was begging me to relocate her to New York City post-beach trip.

Really! You won't even notice me! I'll be waiting in your suitcase! — Really! You won’t even notice me! I’ll be waiting in your suitcase!

This picture was taken one month ago exactly. One month from today will be a completely different story.

One month from today, I’ll have completed the ING New York City Marathon.

When I first signed up for the race on April 24th, November 3rd was an elusive goal in the far-off future. With the marathon two seasons away, I knew I had all the time in the world to prepare for a record-breaking PR. I’ll get caught up on sleep closer to the race, I told myself all summer long. I’ll do speedwork come autumn. I promise to start strength training and do yoga and eat quinoa and save orphans — but not yet. There’s still plenty of time.

And now I’m 30 days away, and — my god — I feel woefully unprepared.

I haven’t said these numbers outloud yet because I didn’t want to jinx myself, but what do I have to lose? I’d originally hoped to cross the finish line at 3:45 this year, shaving a challenging but achievable six minutes off my previous PR. As the summer progressed but my fitness did not, I revised that goal to matching — not exceeding — my 3:51 personal best. But as I struggled to hold even a 9:00 pace during last night’s 8-mile tempo run, I wondered whether I need to temper my November 3rd expectations further still. Maybe I should be targeting a more realistic 4:00 time. Maybe I should be aiming only to finish. Maybe I should forgo the race altogether and attend the mid-marathon brunch that’s being held in my honor instead. Mimosa race, anyone? Bloody Mary-thon?

That, my friends, was a RiledUpRunner original. RiledUp … Punner original? And I’m done.

The truth is, it shouldn’t matter what time I cross the finish line in one month’s time. But I’ve been training for this specific event so long that the extended build-up has allowed me to put entirely too much importance on this single race’s outcome. I officially started marathon training July 1, but I preceded that with eight weeks of base-building triathlon training, an April half and ten thousand climbs to my fifth-floor apartment. I feel like I’ve been in training mode since the day I left India.

Fact: This elephant also asked to come home in my suitcase.

That means for all intents and purposes I’ve been training for this goddamn race for six+ entire months. That’s six+ months of missed happy hours, six+ months of Saturday morning alarm clocks, six+ months of steady complaining (sorry, Ben.) As a result, I’ll feel like those six+ months of sacrifice will have been wasted if I don’t perform to the best of my abilities come race day, especially because I’m not wholly sure if I have it in me to do it all again.

Yes, I love running, but do I love running enough to dedicate a third straight summer to marathon training? At this very second, I’d say no.

But who knows how I’ll feel come November 3^rd? A lot can change in a month.

And just in case it turns out I do, in fact, want to compete in a third marathon, I’ve just taken my girl Meredith’s suggestion and entered the highly unlikely lottery for the Berlin 2014 marathon. Because while it’s true a lot can change in a month, something tells me even more can change in a year. Twelve times more, to be precise, which I, as an astrophysicist, always am.

What are your fall race goals and how optimistic are you you’ll meet them?

The Great Outdoors

It took years to admit it to myself, but I’m what you might classify as an “indoors kid.”

I know what you’re thinking. (Unless you’re Congress, in which case, what are you thinking!? Also, stop reading my blog, Mr. Speaker, and fix this mess.)

Indoorsy? But you spent three young-adult summers working at an overnight camp on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay!

Yes, but we spent every minute outside counting down the seconds until our next break in the air-conditioned staff lounge.

Indoorsy? But you did your undergrad in the wilderness of Maine!

Yes, but 80% of my college career was spent consuming dining hall lobster, rather than hiking the Appalachian Trail.

Indoorsy? But your entire extended family just went on a week-long camping trip to the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore at the upper tip of the Michigan mitten!

Yes, but my favorite cousin and I stayed behind in New York City and attended an afternoon 1920s jazz fest instead.

photo 1 (18) — Why yes, Ray Bans WERE in during the Depression Era.

Which, come to think of it, was held outside. So maybe I’m not 100% indoorsy. Let me rephrase:

For years, I pretended I wasn’t an indoors kid, going so far as to join my college’s outing club, an unused $300 membership that would have made better Carlo Rossi seed money during my co-ed days. Everyone wants to be that girl next door who can hang with the boys for a weekend in the wilderness, but one centipede in my campsite toilet and I’m out of there. What’s that? There is no campsite toilet? This conversation is over.

With great reluctance, I finally began classifying myself as an indoors kid a few years ago, and for good reason: given the choice between a day on the slopes and an afternoon curled up in front of the fire with a good dog and a good book, I’ll choose the latter every time. Sure, I like riding waves and basking in the sun and eating s’mores as much as the next kid, but there’s a reason I moved to Manhattan — there’s no room in my walkup to store a tent.

But while I’ve been categorizing myself as the non-outdoors type for the better part of a decade, perhaps my self-designation was too rash. Sure, I love paved sidewalks more than wintry mix, but I’m also one of the only people I know who spends 10 hours every week in Central Park. While many of my friends spend their Saturday mornings in the comfort of their beds, I’m looping the reservoir and admiring the foliage and dodging rabid raccoons in the city’s many outdoor spaces. And last month, during a particularly beautiful 18-miler, I ran for three hours along a tree-lined trail from Maryland to Pennsylvania, crossing paths with only a handful of humans and twice as many deer. (Don’t look for them in this photo. They aren’t there, Mr. Boehner.)

Running has given me a lot of things — confidence, fitness, justification for my weekly Milano consumption — but it’s also given me this: the ability to correctly categorize myself as an outdoors kid for the first time ever. And that’s something worth celebrating — indoors.

What gets you outside? Running? Biking? A government furlough?

Rest for the Weary

There are a number of things in my life I arguably take too seriously — goldendoodle photo shoots, every article that deems chocolate a superfood, my firmly held belief that Rafael is, in fact, the true leader of the Ninja Turtles — but nothing more so than my strict adherence to a training schedule in the weeks leading up to a race.

A classic Type A personality, I thrive on the structure a formal training schedule provides me. It tells me to run five miles? Consider it done. It tells me to run the entire circumference of Manhattan? Count me in. It tells me to replace my normal skincare regimen with a daily slather of au jus and milk bones? Looks like someone’s been editing my schedule again on the sly.

When it comes to training, ticking off each scheduled run makes me feel accomplished and in control, and I love knowing that if I follow my plan to a T for 18 straight weeks, I’ll arrive at the starting line mentally and physically prepared to tackle those 26.2.

But if following a schedule makes me feel strong, missing a single workout can leave me feeling unfulfilled, unprepared and unsure of my abilities come race day. Multiply that feeling by five — as in the five scheduled runs I missed this week due to painful chest congestion — and today I’m feeling downright down.

Deep down, I know I was right sidelining my marathon training this week, especially that day I went to bed at 8 pm wearing two wool sweaters and a fur-lined cap. With the exception of two easy 20-minute jogs for the sake of sanity, I did little this week but go to work and watch the entire Molly Ringwald collection. I canceled all my social plans, remoted in on the worst day and subsided mostly on feel-good foods my wonderful boyfriend risked delivering into the hot zone.

Knowing I did the right thing deep down inside, however, doesn’t change the fact that my running log this week looks more like the Plains States than the peaks I’ve grown used to. It’s hard to look at those measly two bumps in the shadow of last week’s 18-miler and not feel like a bit of a fraud.

But maybe I’m wrong in looking at the glass half empty, even if my current glass is completely full of Alka-Seltzer Cold. Sure, last week’s 41-mile week was replaced by this week’s whopping 5.5. But according to my training calendar, this was supposed to be a pullback week — a somewhat reduced mileage stretch to help prepare me for the 19- and 20-mile long runs that are coming up soon. Sure, I wasn’t supposed to reduce my mileage so drastically — I was only scheduled to cut it down to about 35 miles before ramping back up stronger. But if the goal of this week was to relax my muscles before climbing the next peak, you could technically say I went above and beyond. Maybe instead of thinking of it as a terrible running week, I should try to see it as having had the best darn rest week Manhattan has ever seen.

A little perspective — like a little au jus perfume — can go a long way.

Were you more successful this week at running or resting?

Crazy Coincidence

I like to think I’m a pretty rational human being, but I’ve been called crazy more times this week than Amanda Bynes on a good day. Case in point:

When I told my boyfriend I ran 41 miles last week, he said I was insane.
When I told a friend I’ll be busing nine hours for a Third Eye Blind concert this Saturday, she said I was a lunatic.
When my brother skimmed my iPhone during my recent stopover in Baltimore, he said the copious still frames of his goldendoodle reminded him of Jack Torrance’s “all work and no play” manuscript in The Shining.

Touché, Thomas. Touché.

Normally, at the utterance of the word “crazy,” I launch into a spiel about the word’s blatantly sexist connotation and try to pass off well-constructed arguments about the “nasty tradition of pathologizing female emotion” from this wonderful Jezebel article as my own. But today, that won’t be happening because – to be honest – I am behaving crazily, at least if you’re going by Einstein’s designation.

“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Let me explain. On Sunday, I concluded my eleventh week of marathon training with an 18-mile run. It was tough, but the weather was gorgeous, the trail was practically vacant and I returned home prepared to recover on the hammock all afternoon long with my very best friend.

REᗡЯUM REᗡЯUM REᗡЯUM — RED RUM RED RUM RED RUM

Fast forward to the next morning, and I’m all-but-bedridden with the worst cold I’ve had all year. Stuffy nose, sore throat, sinus pain, anchovies: the works. On a side note, never order that on a pizza.

As I nursed a cup of soup during my lunch break, I started thinking about the blog post I would write tonight. Something along the lines of: “No matter how good running is for your overall health, run for three hours straight and your immune system starts to break down.” At least, that’s what I thought I was going to write tonight … until I happened to look up the blog post I published on the same date last year, in which I wrote EXACTLY that. Let me read you an excerpt. (Actually, you’re going to have to read it yourself, but feel free to imagine it in my voice.)

“I spent this week all-but-bedridden with a crippling sinus infection. It hit the day after I completed an 18-miler, my longest … workout to date.”

Apparently, “all-but-bedridden” is my favorite phrase two years running. More importantly, apparently my body is absolutely fine with 15 or 16 or 17 miles, but hit that magical No. 18 and suddenly, I’m spreading rhinovirus all over Manhattan for a second year in a row.

Normally, I’ll end a blog post with a plea for advice from the more seasoned runners who kindly read my ramblings and set me straight. Should I take off training until my nose stops running? – I might ask. – Is it true you can still work out if your disease is above the neck? How many grilled cheeses a day can a sick woman really justify? But really though. Four?

But this time, I can just refer to my September 16, 2012 self for the answers. If I trust my year-ago post, I discover that, in fact, three days off during recovery isn’t going to flat-line my fitness.

That is, assuming history continues to repeat itself. But hey, crazier things have happened.

I lied, fellow runners: I’m totally still going to ask for your input. Do you power through a cold or let your training take a breather until you’re well?

Fun Run

Close your eyes and picture yourself doing something fun.

What do you see?

I see myself picking crabs with seven of my favorite people on a screened porch on Labor Day. I see myself watching a Harlem youth choir back up the Lumineers while I’m knee-deep in mud at Governor’s Ball. I see myself drinking a cold beer with friends on a Brooklyn rooftop watching the sun set over Manhattan.

I see you opening your eyes and reading this text even thought I explicitly asked you to keep them closed. Cheater.

Now close your eyes and picture yourself doing something fun – as a nine-year-old. How does the line-up change?

I see myself barreling toward safety on the other side of the flagpole during a summer camp evening of capture the flag. I see myself racing up an alley during a neighborhood-wide game of tag in my Sunday best because my sister and I wanted to play more than we wanted to change. I see myself sprinting down a Delaware beach dragging a kite behind me that – just at the right moment – will catch the breeze and lift off.

There’s nothing wrong with either set of memories, but I can’t help but wonder: when did enjoying ourselves go from an active activity to a stationary one? When did lounging with friends surpass chasing them down in terms of entertainment? When did running stop being “fun?”

As a two-time-marathon hopeful, I can tell you I still enjoy running immensely and for a whole host of reasons. Take Friday’s 17-mile long run, for example. Taking me across a cool and breezy Central Park, down the West Side Highway at sunset, past the World Trade Center and Statue of Liberty, and back up the East Side, I returned to my neighborhood feeling accomplished and strong and refreshed and prepared, not to mention ready to eat a sandwich in bed.

But while my weekend run was a lot of things, would I call it “fun?” Was it “fun” to pace myself with a Garmin for three hours, especially once my legs grew tired? Was it “fun” running past all the outdoor happy hours and live music concerts without stopping? Was it “fun” having the same Barenaked Ladies song stuck in my head from mile 2 to mile 17?

Fortunately, Friday night’s long run wasn’t my only scheduled run this past weekend. I was also slated to run 3.1 miles on Saturday morning, and Saturday’s run wasn’t just any run: it was a color run.

Color runs – untimed events where volunteers throw powered color at you every kilometer, culminating in a tie-dyed 11 a.m. dance party – are a new addition to the racing scene and have garnered mixed responses from the running community, including more revulsion than I’d expected to find. “They aren’t real races,” runners post all over online forums. “They don’t time the race course. They let you bring dogs and strollers. Some people walk the entire thing.”

I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t treat Saturday’s 5K like a “real race.” In fact, I hardly followed any of my pre-race rituals.

Usually, I don anti-chaffing wicking gear to stay cool and enhance my performance. On Saturday, I raced in an all-cotton t-shirt – and a tutu.

Normally, I fuel before a race with a banana and peanut butter. On Saturday, I ate pre-race ice cream.

Traditionally, I keep moving through the water stations because I know stopping for even a second will derail my progress. On Saturday, I spent more time sitting on the race course than running on it.

And you know what? As my friends and I crossed the finish line holding hands, covered in paint and laughing our heads off, we turned to each other with the exact same observation on our lips: “My god, that was fun.”

The Color Run organizers are adamant that there are no medals at the end of their event, but reverting to a nine-year-old version of myself who revels in the sheer joy of running sure sounds like winning to me.

How do you keep running fun?

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