Things I’ve Outgrown 

I’m going to sound like a Buzzfeed article for a second here, but I’m going to say it anyways: the best thing about being in my 30s is allowing myself to outgrow the things I no longer like.

From wearing uncomfortable shoes to staying up late to RSVPing yes to social engagements that simply don’t interest me, the list of things I’ve (largely) freed myself of since coming into my own has been lengthy and rewarding.

Much like my future flight to visit this Hawaiian baby will be. 

And now I think it comes time for me to outgrow something else that in my 20s I’d never have imagined: the New York Road Runners.

Don’t get me wrong: NYRR is an excellent running club with organized and professional racing events, well-priced membership fees and awe-inspiring charities intended to bring no- and low-cost fitness to at-risk students who might otherwise get zero access to athletics. NYRR is wonderful for so many reasons — they put on the unparalleled NYC marathon, they gave me my new half marathon PR at the excellent NYC half this past March, they have bagel distribution down to a science — but unfortunately their competence has become their downfall. 

Their races have gotten too damn big.

I know, I know, large races are inherently good, because they mean lots of people are able to register and train and compete, which is good for both the cohesion and the health of a community. But when a race is so big the runners have to spend the first half of a race inching along at almost twice their expected race pace, that’s congestion that’s gotten out of hand.

At least, that was my feeling at Saturday’s UAE Healthy Kidney 10K, a NYRR event in Central Park with more finishers (8,033) than citizens in some island nations. To be fair, I was coming off a tiny 10K the previous week with less than 250 participants, but still: the Central Park loop was so crowded Saturday that we might as well have been sardines (mmm, sardines, my delicious Whole30 discovery) making our way up the west side.

I had hoped to run another sub-50 10K coming off last week’s surprise 7:45/mile pace — or maybe even a PR? dare I be so optimistic? — but I instead found myself stuck at an average 10:30 pace all the way to Harlem. It was so crowded I wasn’t even able to get to two of the water stations, despite needing the hydration in Saturday’s surprise heat. I’m sure many of those runners around me were also annoyed; we had, after all, paced into one of the first corrals but instead found ourselves boxed in on all sides by walkers, joggers and a sheer sea of humanity collectively unable to pick up speed.

The race thinned out around the Harlem hills and I was able to regain some lost ground, but at that point, I knew a PR wasn’t even close to in the cards. I didn’t quit the race early and turn off for home at the Engineers Gate like I was tempted to do, but I never really dropped the hammer speedwise either, finishing at a perfectly decent but several-minutes-too-slow-for-a-personal-record 53:20 time, or an average 8:35 pace. Meh. At least NYRR co-president Peter Ciaccia was giving high-fives at the finish line.

So have I outgrown NYRR races, much like I’ve outgrown Bolt buses and ending every Saturday night with a slice of pizza? I’m not sure, but I’m certainly less interested these days in traveling to a far corner of Central Park at an inconvenient hour to pay money to run slowly in a mass of strangers.

Of course, maybe this whole “I’m so done with NYRR!” thing is just a defense mechanism, since I know I’ll be moving out of Manhattan in two short weeks and my ability to roll out of bed and make my way to a Central Park race start is going to be diminished indeed. I know I’m going to miss the ease of these races, even if I don’t miss the crowds, and you never really forget your first (running club) love.

Or maybe I haven’t outgrown NYRR at all; I’ve just outgrown crowded Central Park 10Ks. Which is why I’ve just signed up for a new NYRR race altogether — a June 5K … in Queens. Hello, new neighborhood. May your NYRR races be less populous but as bagel-filled as the Manhattan ones I’ve come to love, then hate, but mostly still love. 

How do you manage a crowded race course?

Barre-ing All

I may be teetotaling this month as I round out the final leg of Whole30, but being off the sauce didn’t dissuade me from going to the bar last night. Oh wait, I mean “the barre.” As in, I took my very first barre class. Sorry folks, you know homonym jokes are my favorites.

For those of you who — like me — have been avoiding this fitness trend, barre is a ballet-inspired workout intended to lengthen muscles and tone bodies with small, isometric movements. I haven’t been itching to sign up, mostly because classes at this specific studio cost nearly $40 a pop (or you can book a year’s worth for the low-low price of $4,000 plus tax!) but also because I was afraid it would be everything I hate in this world wrapped into one, excruciating gym glass.

And guess what? It was everything I hate in this world wrapped into one, excruciating gym glass.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The studio, Physique 57, is a tiny, modern facility in a Midtown high-rise covered in glossy magazine testimonials from hotties-with-bodies ranging from Zooey Deschanel to Kelly Ripa. Other bloggers I follow rave about the workouts, and I wanted to see for myself just how effective barre can be.

After signing a waiver (should that have been a sign it was about to get real tough?), I left my shoes in a very fancy locker room full of free Q-tips, met my friends and made my way into the carpeted and compact main studio where we’d be taking advantage of a “first-class free” limited time promotion. (You didn’t think I actually paid for this, did you? Me, who had to fight the urge to pocket all the aforementioned free Q-tips and start a life for myself in the free Q-tip distribution business, paying $36 for a workout? I think not.)

The class, performed in our socks, started easy enough, with 5-pound free weights and some modified pushups. “My strength training must really be paying off!” I thought as I banged out some triceps dips without breaking a sweat. “And who said barre was hard?”

And then, my God, barre got hard. Much of this class involved pulsing in a squat position and balancing on my tip toes, two major challenges for this clumsy runner. As we moved from the barre to the mat to the floor, the exercises got harder and harder, and my quivering thighs barely got out of there alive. But that’s not what I hated most. This was:

  • The energetic instructor with a microphone learned my name and then proceeded to correct me at full volume (albeit nicely) when I wasn’t doing it right, which was 100 percent of the time.
  • Once she saw I physically couldn’t move like the other girls, she started saying encouraging things like “Looking great, Anne!” when we ALL knew it was a blatant lie.
  • She’d also say things like “10 more reps!” and then proceed to count to 12. That’s the meanest thing you can do in fitness.
  • Socks on carpet. Very slippery. I swear I CAN do a plank, but not when my feet are flying out behind me at a million miles an hour. They sold grippy socks at the front desk but that kind of commercialization of workouts makes me cringe. 
  • Everyone around me looked like a hot ballet dancer, and in the end-of-class stretching, several literally did a full split. COME ON NOW. Was that necessary? I’ve run four marathons, and I still felt like everyone could run sock-footed circles around me in that room.

In all seriousness, the class was a great workout, the instructor meant well, and the hour flew by, despite how miserable I was. And the misery was only compounded when I realized that all the things that were hurting me — my hip flexors, primarily — could have been avoided if I would just do the stretches and strengthening exercises I already know I should be doing. The most painful minutes of the class were donkey kicks and clamshells, two movements I know fully well would strengthen my hips and keep me from getting injured during future training cycles. If only I’d take my own good advice.

Going forward, am I going to try Physique 57 again? Only if they offer another free promotion — and if next time I tell the instructor a fake name.

Have you ever taken a barre class? Was it as painful as my experience?

Whole30: A Runner’s Review

Whole30 is supposed to be good for a whole host of things — curbing your cravings, breaking your bloat, advancing your alliteration (apparently) — but it’s not particularly known for enhancing one’s athletic abilities.
 
That shouldn’t come as a surprise — runners primarily fuel their training with carbs, and Whole30 is at its core a low-carb diet. As such, most of my runs since starting this program have felt like a slog: heavy legs, no pick-up, and even some weakness and shaking around mile 2 that I can only imagine is my bloodstream begging for glucose. Considering I usually spend the better part of a marathon thinking exclusively about when I get to eat my next pack of gummies, it seems logical this sugar-free diet is not exactly ideal for the competitive circuit.

In fact, my few-and-far-between runs have been so unpleasant since starting this challenge that I was tempted to take the whole month off racing altogether. But then local running club NYCRuns made me a Godfather-like offer I couldn’t refuse — small race, $30 entry fee, gender-cut tech shirts, a flat course, flowers at the finish line — and I did what I’ve done so many times before: I put my better judgment beside me and signed up anyways.

The race — a Mother’s Day-themed 10K on Roosevelt Island — was undoubtedly going to be painful for me: I’ve been running less than 10 miles a week, I haven’t done any speed training, I’m off the carbs and, of course, I awoke Sunday morning to find it was pouring. Still, I made my way to the bus and then to the gondola and arrived at a misty starting line prepared for an embarrassing 10K performance of epic proportions.
 

 
The rain fortunately subsided right as I checked my bag, and when the horn sounded at the start of the race, I blasted off with more energy than I’d expected to feel. “It’s just last night’s banana and the carby sweet potatoes I ate for breakfast fueling me” I thought as I rounded the first mile marker. “As soon as I burn through those, I’ll be running on empty again.”
 
I made it to mile 3 at a surprisingly rapid 7:40 pace, faster than I’ve been in recent races by a landslide. And that’s where I saw it: a volunteer-manned table covered in cups of delicious, syrupy, carb-laden Gatorade. Should I grab a cup and reload my legs, which were surely about to use up the last ounces of stored carbohydrates? Or should I stick to water, power through and remain true to the 30-day challenge I set out to complete?
 
I opted for the latter, so I mentally prepared myself for the inevitable slowdown that I expected to hit any second. But then I didn’t slow down at mile 3. And I didn’t slow down at mile 4. And I didn’t slow down — more than normal at least — at mile 5, at which point I decided I wasn’t going to let any more women pass me between there and the finish line, in the far-fetched but slightly entertainable idea that I might actually be in the running for one of the age group awards. I rounded the last corner, barreled toward the finish line, and made my way directly to the generous post-race food spread, which was full of Whole30 compliant fresh fruit in addition to the token and forbidden bagels.
 

 
At most NYC races, I head for home immediately after crossing the finish line, since with the typical New York Road Runner’s event featuring thousands of people, the chance of placing is quite literally zero. But with just 236 people running this 10K — just 44 of whom were 30-39 year-old women — I thought I might have a chance. So I optimistically waited for the awards ceremony, and what do you know?


 
My 7:45 pace was just enough to eek me out an age group second place win! It wasn’t my fastest 10K ever — that honor goes to the June 2012 New York Mini at a 7:40 pace — but it was my second fastest, and that’s pretty impressive considering my lack of carbohydrates.
 
So impressive, in fact, that I started to do some reading after the race. What I found was that there’s an increasing amount of research suggesting a low-carb diet can teach your body to run on fat, a nutrient in which my curvy body is in no short supply! I’m not sure whether that process actually took place Sunday in a short 48-minute event — and I’m neither a doctor nor play one on TV — but it’s certainly some food for thought.
 
Phoning a friend: How have you performed when on a low-carb diet?

 
 

Spaghetti Squash: The Final Frontier

My sister has taught me a lot of useful things in life: how to paper mache, where to hide Girl Scout cookies bought on the sly, which flavors of Lip Smackers taste good enough to eat (spoiler alert: all of them.)

Two and a half years my senior, she went before me in all walks of life — first to preschool, first to summer camp, first (fine, and only) to live in Mongolia — and passed on loads of wisdom and first-hand experience along the way as older sisters are wont to do.

1001796_661926422027_418407223_n
Like how to get a stubborn niece to participate in a Fourth of July photo shoot.

At the ripe at of 30, I thought I had completed my sister-led education, but then I visited her in the Midwest last month and she introduced me to something totally new once more: the spaghetti squash.

Don’t get me wrong — I’ve HEARD of spaghetti squash — but due to some combination of fear and skepticism, I’d never actually bought or cooked one. Some of that is because it’s hard to trust something mascaraing as something else — is it spaghetti? is it squash? is it Keyser Soze?— but mostly because I simply didn’t know how to cook it.

I realize the internet is full of directions for how to prepare unfamiliar ingredients, but the masses were telling me all sorts of conflicting information: “Cook it whole!” “Slice it and roast face up!” “Slice it and roast it face down!” “Toss the squash in the trash and buy some pasta!” So I kept putting off familiarizing myself with this ingredient, much like I’ve put off watching The West Wing and other recommendations people say would be good for me.

And with so many other vegetables in my life, it hasn’t been a problem avoiding this specific one for three decades. But then I started Whole30 and I suddenly found myself needing a new vehicle for my tomato sauce. Flash forward to my visit with my sister, where she taught me to cook my very first spaghetti squash. And you know what?

I failed miserably! (And you thought I was going to say it was easy, didn’t you?) I didn’t realize you had to scrape seeds out of both sides, since I was afraid of losing the flesh that I knew eventually became the eponymous noodles. Still, once we picked all the baked seeds out of the piping hot squash halves, it was easier and more satisfying than I’d ever imagined to flake the squash into strands. We topped it with sauce and — more importantly — meatballs, and now I’m a convert.

For those of you like me avoiding this surprisingly delicious pasta substitute that doesn’t require a spiralizer, here’s how to do it:

  1. Buy a spaghetti squash. They are giant and yellow, and every local grocery store seems to have them.
  2. Wash it, cut it in half lengthwise, and scrape out the seeds while leaving the majority of the flesh. (I guess this is also the step where I should tell you to preheat the oven to 450 degrees.)
  3. Bake face down in a 450 degree oven for 30-40 minutes.
  4. Remove, let cook enough to handle, and then use fork to break up remaining flesh into noodles. It’s easier and more fun than it sounds.
    IMG_1606
  5. Top with sauce! In this case, Whole30 approved turkey marinara, but I imagine I’ll be doing this again with parmesan-filled pesto in 15 short days.
    IMG_1608
  6. Enjoy in front of a movie with your fiance (step 6 is not optional and is key to the success of the dish, I swear.)
    IMG_1609

What’s your favorite spaghetti squash preparation?

Whole30: It Gets Hard

I’ve said a lot of 10-word phrases in my life I’ve lived to regret.

  • I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll try this Yankee Stadium ballpark sushi.
  • I’ll wait and see Mitch Hedberg next time he visits.
  • I don’t think wedding planning’s going to be that hard.

Here’s a new one to add to my list:
The Whole30 diet? I could do that in my sleep.

Ok, so I probably didn’t mutter those exact words, mostly because my sleep is too precious to even make jokes about, but you get the gist: I honestly didn’t think giving up all dairy, sugar, grains and alcohol for 30 days would be that hard.

Why, you ask, did I think something so restrictive wouldn’t be that hard? Well, because I already eat a heck of a lot of vegetables. And because I like to cook. And because I’m a planner, organizer, and — let’s be honest — I’m stubborn as a mule. I knew Whole30 wouldn’t be easy peasy, but I really didn’t think it would be that hard.

And the truth is, it wasn’t — at first. Instead of starting my restrictions on a workday, I began during a weekend visit to my sister instead, and I don’t think it hampered our lifestyle one bit (though the local ice cream salesman may think differently). I hit up the farmers market, cooked us delicious meals — meatballs, roasted sweet potatoes, breakfast sausage, a whole chicken — and even enjoyed a steak out at a restaurant without asking SO many questions on preparation that I sounded like Meg Ryan ordering pie a la mode. My meals were filling and delicious, and I didn’t get any of the pounding headaches other eaters leaving their carbs behind tend to report. Life was good.

And it stayed good — through Monday, through Tuesday, through Wednesday. I fried eggs before work. I worked new produce into my diet. I survived a Mets game without beer and a pretzel.  

But then I woke up today and everything suddenly sucked. Maybe because I had watched The Great British Baking Show the night before and saw all the cakes. Maybe because I had read a delicious recipe in Cooking Light that included Whole30-excluded-but-otherwise healthy items like chickpeas and corn. Maybe because I haven’t had time to work out given all the extra time I’m spending on food prep (oh right, and a new job) these days. Whatever it was, I didn’t go into today particularly enthused about this voluntary challenge I’ve taken on.

I had prepared a healthy breakfast and lunch (which, obviously, I still ate — at 6:55 a.m. and 10:43 a.m., respectively), but I still found myself wandering through Whole Foods at 2:30 p.m. looking for something satisfying to eat. But everything I picked up — jerky, soup, protein bars — had some kind of sugar it in. I ultimately bought $8 of grilled eggplant from the salad bar (delicious but exorbitant) and a container of lemon olives, but as I checked out, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself: There was so much bread inside, and I wasn’t eating any of it.  

A part of me simply wants to throw in the towel — I’m going to another baseball game this weekend! Oh, the humanity! — but part of me also knows far too many people start this food plan and give up before they’re even half way through, just in time to suffer all the unhappy side effects of changing your diet (bloating, exhaustion, depression) and before any of the good side effects (weight loss, boosted energy, better sleep) supposedly kick in. The people at Whole30 say most of the quitting happens around Day 10/11, but I’m not going to lie: This body is tempted to pull the plug on Day 7.

But I’m not going to. Even though I for sure haven’t seen any good side effects yet, I know I’d be selling myself short if I don’t at least TRY to see it through to the end. And if I’m honest, I actually have seen at least one good side effect: I’m not tempted to dive into the peanut MMs every afternoon in the office anymore. Knowing it’s unnegotiably off limits has somehow removed the temptation, and if that’s a habit I can break once and for all, all this suffering will have been worth it.

Also worth it: tonight’s steak dinner, even if replacing the truffle fries with broccoli rabe was an insult to my soul. 

Anyone who’s done this, please send all motivational thoughts (and satisfying food tips) my way! One week down.

Whole30: It Begins

My fiancé told a funny joke the other day:

How do you know someone is doing Whole30? They tell you.

Heh heh heh.


It’s true though: since deciding I’m going to start this sugar-free adventure for a month, I’ve both intentionally and inadvertently told everyone I know — my family, my friends, the woman I sat next to at a charity luncheon yesterday, the turkey farm guy at the NYC green market. And the question they’ve all had for me is the exact same one: Why?

I need to work on my elevator pitch, but it goes a little something like this: For as healthy as I imagine I am, I still consume a lot of junk, and that junk leaves me feeling pretty rubbish. Could I just stop hitting up the peanut MMs every afternoon at work instead of going whole turkey with this program? Maybe, but the strictness is actually most of the appeal to me. As my best friend in California put it: “I honestly think the biggest thing (for me, and I imagine you since we’re really similar) with this and any other diet/cleanse/etc is that you no longer have the free will to make bad choices.” Amen.

(Don’t worry, Mere, I won’t post any other e-mail excerpts here. Maybe this recent photo of us from a non-whole30-compliant wine- and cheese-filled day in wine country, but that’s it.)


I had said I would be starting this challenge on Monday, April 25, but a wise friend (fine, it was the same friend. I only have one friend) suggested starting on a weekend instead, since the first few days of Whole30 are known for sapping your energy. As your body relearns a how to fuel itself on fat, not carbs, most people report a major — but temporary — slowdown. I was tempted to start this on Monday, but I am also starting a new job Monday, and I’m not a complete massochist. So instead, I’m starting today. First challenge: fly to the Midwest to visit my sister for her birthday. Bring it on, Indiana!
I may not be totally ready, but I think I am as prepped as I can be. Here’s how I got ready:

  • I stocked up on compliant food at Whole Foods and the farmers market. Did you know most canned tuna fish contains soy?! The things I’ve already learned are amazing. And probably annoying: I’ll try to keep them to myself.

  • I prepped. The trick to sticking to a plan like this is having ready-made food on hand. I prepared this week by making two giant batches of soup: butternut squash and parsnip leek. I froze them in muffin tins and have partitioned them out for easy, veggie-filled lunches on the go. Success.

  • And of course, the final step of preparation: I binged on carbs. Yesterday, I had a white bagel for breakfast. I had a tennis ball of burrata for lunch. I drank a Bellini, downed some candy and enjoyed my last squirt of sriracha until May 22. They say the degree of your “carb hangover” those first few days on Whole30 is completely proportionate to how badly you ate leading into the plan. Brace yourself, body. This is going to be rough. (But oh-so-worth it.)


A word of warning: I’m going to use this space to share tips and recipes and to keep myself accountable for all 30 days. If the idea of reading about someone else’s food choices for a month makes you want to scratch your eyes out King Lear style, feel free to set an alarm and come back to this blog in late May. But if you find what I’m doing interested or, dare I say, motivating, please reach out! Misery loves company, and I could use your support. 🙂

Let’s do this!

Whole30: A Rule Lover’s Diet

I’ve been a rule follower all my life. I wait in lines. I RSVP. I send thank you notes, use my salad fork, and once called my fifth grade teacher in tears on a Saturday afraid I had used my “get out of one spelling test free card” incorrectly the day before. 

I’m sorry, Mrs. Totzauer, wherever you are. You deserved that Saturday morning free of my fifth grade anxieties. 

Sure, I’ve been known to jay walk from time to time, but use a fake ID? Sneak into a concert? Eat ice cream before finishing my vegetables? I can’t even fathom what such reckless rule breaking would feel like. 

In fact, I’m so good at following rules that when I suddenly don’t have a specific set of guidelines to live by, I can find myself feeling a little overwhelmed. Take, for instance, marathon training. For four months, I wake up every morning to see a workout on my calendar — 8 mile pace, 5 miles with hills, 20 mile tempo — and without fail, I do it. Why? Because I wrote in my calendar I would and I don’t break the rules. When the race is over, though, it’s nearly impossible to get myself out of bed for even a 2-mile jog, because the rules no longer dictate I have to.

The same holds true for food. In recent months, I’ve stopped calorie counting after years of using it as a crutch and told myself everything in moderation is fine. Sounds reasonable, except when there’s no specific rule stopping me from hitting up the bulk chocolate bin at work, it means I throw back two servings at 2 pm daily without fail. When I was recording my calorie count on myfitnesspal, I found I could walk away from wine or dessert, but now that everything’s fair game, I don’t seem to have an off button. The side effects aren’t fun: some minor weight gain but more importantly — headaches, sugar rushes, constantly feeling full or bloated, sometimes to the point I can’t fall asleep, and poor Ben hearing this phrase over and over like a broken record: “I think I ate too much.” It’s not a great feeling, and not just because I have to squeeze into a wedding dress in seven months’ time.
  

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what the solution is here — do I return to calorie counting, meaning I have to pull my phone out at every single meal to record my intake? Do I snap a rubber band around my wrist every time I reach for the bulk bin of chocolate banana chips? Do I forgo food altogether and subside solely on coder-approved Soylent for the rest of my days?

But maybe the solution doesn’t have to be so drastic. Maybe I don’t need a new life-long eating plan: just a temporary reset. With that idea in mind, I’ve been doing a lot of reading on Whole30, the 30-day lifestyle change it seems everyone on the Internet has completed at least once. 

  

The idea: cut out all processed foods, sugars, grains, dairy, legumes, additives and alcohol and for 30 days straight focus exclusively on vegetables, fruit and protein. The plan itself isn’t sustainable forever (I will sorely miss yogurt and wine) and it’s not supposed to be: it’s supposed to be 30 days of mindful eating intended to retrain your body to crave real, nutritious food, not the sugary stuff with the emotional pull. If you’ve ever said to yourself like I have: “I’m hungry … but not hungry for an apple,” then you know what I’m taking about. 

I read the book cover to cover this past week, while eating a Whole30 compliant meal of cabbage, bacon and tilapia … and white wine. Ok, so not completely complaint. 
  
As the authors claim: “It will change the way you think about food, it will change your tastes, it will change your habits and your cravings. It could, quite possibly, change the emotional relationship you have with food, and with your body. It has the potential to change the way you eat for the rest of your life.”

Most importantly, this plan comes with a specific set of rules — cans and cannots that make food choices black and white. While I wouldn’t want to restrict my food choices indefinitely, I am open to the idea of doing it for 30 days starting April 25 and seeing where it gets me. Maybe it helps me trim down for my dress fitting. Maybe it introduces me to some new vegetables. Maybe it simply slows down the amount of junk I put in my body without realizing it. I don’t think this meal plan is a cure-all, but I’m looking for some new rules to follow, so why not give it a try?

They say it’s easier with friends. Who’s with me?

Race Day Tips: The Ol’ Watering Hole

They say practice makes perfect, and in most cases, that’s true. Practicing your instrument makes you a better musician. Practicing your second language makes you a better world traveler. Practicing martini-fueled karaoke with your best friend on a Sunday night makes you a better Anchor Brewery tour guest the following morning.

IMG_1311
(Just kidding. We felt terrible.)

Sure, there’s talk of beginner’s luck and of first times being charms, but in nearly every situation, you actually get better with practice.

Which is why, after 56 timed running events, I feel like I know a thing or two about race days. For those of you just starting out on the running circuit, I wanted to share with you my tips for getting from the starting line to the finish line with a smile on your face. I’ve gathered these over the years from magazines and books and word of mouth, plus the good old fashioned way — making terrible mistakes and vowing never to make them again. This advice may not work for everyone, but here are the things I wish I’d known when I first started out.

This may or may not become a recurring feature, depending on 1. If I keep racing and 2. If I ever get a dog myself and this running blog quickly transforms into an adorable photo blog, a la Ali on the Run, my internet spirit animal. Assuming I do this again, I’ll just focus on one element of the race day in today’s post: the water stops.

Without further ado, my unsolicited advice on drinking on the go:

  • Water stops can get very crowded and slow you down. As you approach, scan several yards forward to see how long the table is. At many races, runners bunch up at the start of the water stop, leaving the second half of the table free and clear. In the NYC marathon, these stations can go on for the better part of a city block, so bide your time. The patient runner gets the drink without slowing down.
  • Another tip for smooth sailing at the refreshment stand — make eye contact with a volunteer handing out cups and (as rude as my fiancé will say this is) point at them (and smile at them) as you approach. They’ll know you’re coming straight to them, and the beverage handoff will be oh-so-much smoother.
  • On that note, thank the volunteers as you power through. This step is non-negotiable.
  • Plan to drink something at every stop, even if you don’t yet feel thirsty. The race gurus have positioned these water stops in the right increments; trust them. Alternate water and Gatorade at every other stop if they have it. The exception to the must-stop rule: if you only have a mile left to go, feel free to skip the final stop and really drop the hammer speedwise. The exception to that exception: if it’s a heatwave.
  • On particularly cold days, watch for fresh ice in front of the water stations. These are the days to slow down and walk, or risk a bruised tailbone.
  • Practice drinking water on the move out of a paper cup before the big day. I used to have to walk through all water stops because I always coughed when the water went down the wrong tube, but then my friend Leigh-Ann taught me a useful trick: pinch the paper water cup in half at the top, bring it to the side of your mouth, tilt the cup up and use one half almost like a straw. I realize this sounds crazy until you try it, but I can now run through a water stop and imbibe without spilling or choking. Win win.
IMG_1313
Like this, except with a water cup on a race course and not a coffee cup at work.

What are your tips for getting through a water stop on race day unscathed? Seasoned pros, share your tips!

Exorcising (Exercising?) My Demons

I’ve reached an age* where nearly everything can make me cry.

*Just kidding, I’ve always been like this.

Seriously though, it doesn’t matter whether the event is big or small, happy or sad. Practically any wave of emotion will turn on the waterworks, and the variety of experiences that can set me off is downright embarrassing. Saying goodbye to my brother and sister-in-law as they left for their deployment. Dropping my sandwich. Asking my best friends to be bridesmaids. That sappy Christmas commercial where a man ties an engagement ring to a puppy’s collar. Finishing a good book. The final scene of While You Were Sleeping. Every dog I’ve ever met that I can’t keep.

Aloha.
Aloha.

In November, I experienced something new that could bring me to tears: an utterly disappointing performance at the New York City Marathon. I crossed that finish line on Nov. 1 in involuntary sobs after missing my goal time by more than 25 minutes, and vowed right then and there to never put myself in that situation again. I was never again going to put so much weight on the outcome of a single event that it left me shattered. I was never again going to let my emotions get the best of me on the race course. I was never again going to have a run leave me crying at the finish line.

Me. Crying. But also smiling. It's like when it rains and the sun's out.
Me crying post-marathon. (But also smiling. It’s like when it rains and the sun’s out.)

Turns out, that was a promise I couldn’t keep. Today, I ran the NYC Half Marathon – my first race since that god-forsaken marathon – and as I crossed the finish line, my face contorted into uncontrollable sobs once more. But this time it wasn’t due to disappointment.

It was because I FREAKING KNOCKED IT OUT OF THE PARK.

HEAT-SHEETED LIKE A CHAMPION!
HEAT-SHEETED LIKE A CHAMPION!

That’s right, folks: today, I shaved almost 2 minutes off my half marathon PR, felt strong all race long, smiled ear to ear for 13.1 miles straight and, most importantly, finally feel like the ghost of my 26.2 mile slog in November is behind me.

Why was it such a good race, freezing cold (but not snowy!) start and all? Lots of reasons: the first 6 miles were in my home park, so I knew exactly how to tackle those hills; miles 7-8 took us through the closed-down streets of Times Square, a neighborhood I’d never visit willingly but is pretty great when you’re barreling through it; miles 9-13 were straight down the wide, flat West Side Highway with a welcome tailwind at our backs, and, most importantly, I knew the sooner I finished, the sooner I could head home and warm up.

IMG_1178
And drink all the liquids my lovely fiance left for me. Swoon.

But above all, the best part of the day was approaching mile 11, doing the math, and realizing I could beat my previous PR of 1:49.12 if I could just maintain pace for two more miles without losing steam. During the last two miles of November’s marathon, I could hardly lift my legs, but today, maintaining didn’t seem so challenging. In fact, I felt so good, I actually picked up the pace.

Those last two miles of today’s race, I found myself getting faster and faster, with more fuel left in the tank than I’d ever expected. As I tore through the Battery Park Underpass, took the final corners and sprinted my way toward the finish line, I knew I made the right decision not throwing in the racing towel after the marathon like I was tempted to. I was reminded just how great a great race feels, and that’s a feeling I didn’t know if I’d ever feel again. And that level of emotion, well, brought tears to my eyes.

Thank you, New York City Half – I feel redeemed.

How did your race go?

The Game Plan

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: they said the one word that makes God laugh is “plans.”

(I think we can all agree the word “fjord” is also pretty funny — that is, unless you’re on the receiving end of it in a high-stakes Scrabble match. But I digress.)

I’m a natural-born planner, and for the most part, that serves me well. It means I’ve already found the venue, dress and photographer for our autumn wedding. It means I already know what healthy meals I’ll be eating an entire week out. It means I’ve already done hours of research on the best month to visit Hawaii to see my favorite hula girl and WHO AM I KIDDING I WOULD GLADLY GO DURING MONSOON SEASON IF IT MEANS SEEING THIS ISLAND-BOUND FACE AGAIN.  

“This deployment is HOW long?”
 

With planning and scheduling and list-making such a major part of my life, I felt prepared saying I was only running one distance race this year because I intended to do it right. I’ve been training diligently for the New York City half for literally months, including intervals and pace runs and weight training, forgoing many a happy hour (fine, or glass of wine alone on my room like the introvert I am) in order to wake up early and hit the gym. I felt confident planning to only do one real race this year because, well, I had planned it out so well. 

And then my plans got hit by this:

  
That, my friends, is a snowy Sunday forecast. I’ve been running in shorts for weeks, but of course race day looms and there’s a freaking nor’easter on the horizon!

But as annoyed as I am, there’s not much I can do about the weather. So I guess I’ll do what I’ll do best: plan. I’ll plan to dress warmly, I’ll plan to take it slow if there’s ice, and — if I totally bomb — I’ll plan to do another race this year for redemption. Probably another half, since I’m not planning to run a full marathon this year, but who knows? Plans change.