Math Class, 10.09

I’ve never thrown up a post like this, but for some reason I feel like looking at my numbers for October. Maybe this will become a habit. Is this boring?

RUNNING
Total Mileage: 77.7
Total number of workouts: 14
Average distance per workout: 5.55 miles

BLOGGING
Total Posts: 15
Total number of views: 3,622
Average daily views: 117ish

TOP PAGES
*the triumvirate
*this oldie but goodie got lots of multiple hits from google searches every day
*turns out, people are curious about… ME!

JJ: Kicked in the Head

After perhaps the laziest two days of my entire adult life,* the guilt was more than I could bear. I knew I had to run, to flee the inertia that was threatening to permanently affix me to the couch. I’d read New York City Marathon race reports on some blogs over the weekend which sort of dissed the miles in Queens and on Queensboro Bridge, and I was feeling defensive and protective on behalf of my borough and my bridge. So I was motivated not only to run, but to feel my bridge under my feet. I’d run home from work.

There wasn’t even the hint of a chill in the air when I left my office around 6:30, but even so it was hard for me to muster my enthusiasm for this commute. I just wanted to get into bed and pull the covers over my head hoping someone would miss me enough to come dig me out. Strange. Strange indeed.

I do this–this retreat, this feigning of disinterest–when I’m scared. Twice-injured, twice-forced to defer my marathon plan in one year. It occurred to me as I trotted home that I’m dragging my feet when it comes time to run because I don’t want to feel good, build up mileage, endurance and speed only to get injured and crushed once again. Hell, even Little G is reluctant, as he took nearly 10 minutes to pick a satellite that would watch over us as we headed home.

It was a fine example of NYC serendipity when, on the way to find Brother in the runners’ reunion area after the New York City Marathon, I caught a glimpse of a strong woman dressed in blue tech clothes and a mylar cape. Sarah! Ohmygoodness, there she was, my blogging buddy and Green Mountain Relay teammate.

Tomorrow morning, I’m meeting two other women I know through blogging and Twitter for an early-morning run. Not sure I realize exactly how early I’ll need to get up to arrive on the west side of Central Park before 6:30.

DT, my Ironwoman and marathon girl, emailed me the other day that she needed to train for something, with someone [me], quick, before she “lost her mind.”

I don’t know how I did it, but I averaged 8:33’s for my run home from work. Not sure where my mind was exactly (in the office, in the kitchen, in bed) because I don’t even remember running up the steep western shoulder of the 59th Street Bridge. I wondered, as I peeked at the solitary drivers at the wheel, at the sullen passengers on the bus, Who takes care of you? And to whom to you tend?

Songs I ran to: “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin, “Keep Coming Back” by Edie Brickell & New Bohemians, “Keep Fishin’” by Weezer, “Keep the Car Running” by Arcade Fire, “Keepin’ the Faith” by De La Soul, “Kicked Out the House” by De La Soul (Song I should have run to: “I Kicked a Boy” by The Sundays)

*Husband and I spent the weekend at the Pennsylvania house. I neither ran, nor showered. I set down my Sony eReader only long enough to get a beer or prepare dinner. To understand the depths of my apathy, I tell you this: on Sunday afternoon I watched first “The Prince and Me 2: The Royal Wedding” and then “The Prince and Me 3: Holiday Honeymoon.”

ING New York City Marathon from the Curb

It began in the dark. At 5:30 AM, Lil Brother slipped out to Queens Boulevard to hail a cab which would take him to the bus which would take him to the runners’ village in Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island. I gave him a hug and a kiss and sent him off with one final reminder to keep hydrating. Then I went back to bed for another three hours.

At 9:15 I was out the door myself–it was time to make my way to Vernon Boulevard to catch the elites just before the Mile 14 mark. I was carrying by BlackBerry, a cowbell, my camera, the course map, house keys, my credit card, MetroCard, and about $15 in cash. All these things fit in the pockets of the snazzy lime green running jacket EN got me for my birthday last year. I was happy; I was heading off to cheer for my people. Mom and Dad were set to meet me at a predetermined corner in Queens around noon, a little before we expected to see IK come trundling by, but until then it was just me and the early runners. Communion.

I stood here for two and a half hours, but it felt like 10 minutes.  I was so excited to see Paula, Magda, Ludmila Petrova and Salina Kosgei I thought I’d jump out of my skin. I knew that as soon as they were here they’d be gone; I had my cheers prepared ahead of time. The lead vehicles came by, first Mayor Mike, then Mary with (I learned later) Sammy Wanjiru, Shalane Flanagan (who later said on national TV she’d be running NYC in 2010) and Amy Yoder Begley. And then here was the lead pack of women and all my cheers flew out of my head as I stood there in awe, shouting something like “oh my god” or somesuch starstruck nonsense. Paula is just. so. tall. Then here was Magdalena Lewy Boulet pulling up about 10 seconds behind in very cool orangey arm warmers. I pulled myself together enough to shout, “We love you Magda!” (The people around me had begun to back away by this point, clearly thinking, “Speak for yourself, lady.”) Then I cheered for the locally-ranked runners, those zooming by in Central Park Track Club, WXC, New York Athletic Club, etc singlets.

Before I knew it, the media truck for the elite men was coming around the corner from Pulaski Bridge and I was freaking out again. Abdi Abderahman was leading when I saw them, but they were all so closely strung I couldn’t read their singlets. Whoosh they were gone–wait there’s Ryan, eesh he’s lagging!–and then here came Brian Sell, oh Brian I love you for dreaming (2008 Olympics) and then for turning to practical matters (dental school). They were gone before I could think where was Torres, where was Meb, where was Cheruiyot, where was Gharib? Thank goodness for Twitter; all my faithful tweople (@runblogrun being the most reliable) were tweeting the proceedings so I could keep up with the action from the curb.

I beckon thee, oh mass of citizenry, run to me! Run through Brooklyn, run through Queens! Be the rushing river of humanity through the streets of this great city. Be greater than Manhattan, be swifter than a crosstown bus, be stronger than the Chrysler Building, be tougher than the Bronx, be your own legend. I promise I will stand here and tell you want you need to hear to get the job done. I will shout and cheer because what you are doing is amazing, it’s crazy and mythical. For a few hours the entire population of New York City hovers a millimeter above the earth as we are caught up in your tailwind. When you cross that finish line with a grunt and a cry, with a raised arm or a hung head, we will marvel, and bow.

The locally-ranked guys came by in loose bunches, I cheered for the clubs as I recognized their singlets.  They mesmerize me, these powerful yet light men, barreling forwards. Some looked so young; most looked “my age,” which very generously indicates anyone within a ten-year window on either side of 36. I love how it plays out; next come the speediest “regular” women, the ones who are used to running shoulder-to-shoulder with the dudes. Before I knew it, Vernon Blvd was a mass of people running for the hills; specifically, the hills of the Queensboro Bridge and First Avenue. Mom and Dad showed up, and we began scanning the crowd for my brother. Dad’s a great guy to have on the curb as he is so tall he’s easy to spot, and around 12:19 IK came trotting up. He didn’t see us at first, I saw him first and started screaming his name and waving my arms like mad. He saw us and came over, we all hugged him, I knocked him in the chin with my shoulder because I couldn’t stop jumping up and down. Then he ran off and that’s when I saw he was wearing compression shorts–essentially, tights that stop at the knees. Oooh I couldn’t resist, he’s my brother of course I’m going to embarrass him, so I shouted after him as loud as I could, “NICE ASS!”

[50 tense minutes ensue as we get the subway to 117th Street and First Avenue hoping not to miss him.] I sent Mom and Dad ahead to the corner as I stripped off my jeans–I was going to jump in and pace Lil Bro from Mile 19 to 22, and had on running shorts beneath my jeans & jacket. Here he came, a bit later than I’d anticipated (he was slowing down from the 10-minute miles I’d counted earlier), but glad to see us. And we were off. I drilled him with questions (his stomach was queasy and his legs were tired–oh no!) and chattered on to distract him. As we ran, I roused the spectators to cheer for him, and tried to keep the patter up but eventually he just wanted me to hush. As we came around Marcus Garvey Park, I told him that once I left him at Mile 22, it was going to start to feel like he was running up a hill. That’s because it is a hill, I said, but don’t worry because you will pass a lot of people on it. He snorted. Mom and Dad were waiting for us just past the water station, and I nearly hip-checked Lil Bro into the sidewalk as I craned around looking for him. Oh yeah I got some shit for that! So then he was off and we cheered him away. I was still excited for him, but I was a little worried. He looked tired, and I just didn’t want him to hurt; I wanted him to whoop it up through the streets of New York City.

The three of us had a long time to wait for him now–indeed, longer than we thought. I was texting with friends at home on their computers and found out that Brother definitely crossed the finish line in 4:44:16, so we knew it would take him a while more before he trudged through baggage check, etc. But as soon as we caught up with Husband in the runner’s reunion area on Central Park West, we got a call from IK that he got very dehydrated and went to the medical tent right at the finish line. Oh the poor kid! What a trooper. We all waited him out in a diner on Broadway, and then finally finally got him home to Sunnyside (taking advantage of his “runners ride free” subway discount, of course!) around 6 PM. Our newly-minted marathon stretched and showered after he cutely admitted he wanted Chinese for dinner. It was a long day for him, layered with anticipation, struggle, pain, inspiration and  ultimate success. I am so proud of him for taking on the 26.2-mile challenge, for completing the training, for persevering through the last 10k when he was debilitated from the aftereffects of his cold.

Four days later, after the Yankees won the World Series, I was finally able to sit and watch the elite race.  (Missing the coverage on TV last year is what convinced me to get us a DVR cable box). Even though I already knew the outcome, I was on pins and needles watching the moves and progress of the runners through the miles. I loved seeing them rush through my city’s streets, streets I know so well as a resident and as a marathoner. I shouted when Kosgei took a terrible tumble, I mourned when Magda, then Salina, then Paula all dropped off the lead pack. I exulted for Tulu, I felt Petrova’s bitter disappointment, and I could feel Dauney’s joy at third radiating off her. And Meb! Meb! I cried as he ran through Central Park, shivering with the excitement of an American champion, with the elation of his comeback–what an amazing career he’s already had and now this. Look at Robert Cheruiyot, crushed; and Gharib, also laid low despite his podium finish. It was wonderful the way Ryan Hall crossed the finish line, clutching his back (oh no!) but happy for his teammate’s glory; six male Americans in the top ten! What an amazing day for American distance running–with tens of thousands of epic performances, starting with Meb and scrolling all the way down, flitting upon IK and continuing past, a ribbon of effort and culmination and triumph over the competition and over ourselves.

ING New York City Marathon: Kid Brother’s Race Report

Lil Bro, aka IK, ran the New York City Marathon on Sunday, November 1st, 2009.  Without further ado, I pass the mike to him, as he tells you about his first experience tackling the distance. This is IK’s report of his New York City marathon………

The 2009 ING New York Marathon Official Program includes an article titled, “Final Thoughts: Last-minute marathon tips to get you to the finish line.”  There is a section that reads: “Do not run if you are ill.  If you’re feeling ill during race week and particularly on race morning, do not imperil your health. Running a marathon taxes your immune system…”  

Yeah, well, fuck that.  I’m just about better, I thought.  Saturday’s 2-miler around Sunnyside was OK, one of those post-sick runs that tastes like snot.  I was ignoring the cold that still made my head slow and the sore throat that prevented me from swallowing easily, but my body, the running parts of me, felt strong. 

The race started out as I’d expected it would.  The waiting around in the cold sucked.  The music, cannon blast, and tears all showed up as I’d thought they would.  I’m a social runner; I enjoy talking to friends to pass time.  I met Steve and Alex from LA in the corrals and we talked and ran together for 10 miles.  Somewhere along Brooklyn’s Fourth Avenue, I heard someone screaming my name over and over again and looked to see Christmas bells and long brown hair thrashing about, framing a big, beautiful smile. My cousin DC came out to cheer, hoping to see me, not even sure when I’d show, just shouting my name, confident I’d hear her before I saw her (I did). A quick kiss, pat on the back and I was off, again in tears.  

At about mile 10.5 I took stock and realized that I was too tired for mile 10.5, and that I was going to be hurting by the end of this thing.  I wondered, not for the last time, how I was going to finish this.  The doubts were beginning to creep in.  Going through a gentle left hand turn, there was a woman with a microphone who called out, “Go Illya.  You can do it!”  Smiling, I thought, She believes in me.  I should believe in me too. Running up the Pulaski Bridge and through the halfway point, I was hurting but feeling happier.  As I came down the bridge and entered Long Island City, I heard it again – my name being screamed by familiar voices.  This time it was mom and dad shouting and clapping and Big Sister (you know her as TK) pogo-sticking up and down with glee.  I left them bolstered for another stretch. 

Going up and down the interminable 59th Street Bridge was when the nausea started—a slight knot in the top of my stomach.  It sat there right below my throat, letting me know that I was taking in too many calories – so I thought.  I slowed down my fueling as I ran up First Avenue. This was easy to do, as First Avenue is one of the most joyous and distracting places I have ever been in my life. Fifty blocks of cheering people five and six deep. The layers of encouragement and support were spectacular, almost unbelievable.  There were so many reasons for me to get all teary.  Every time I got choked up I checked my heart rate to see if it was spiking.  I thought that it was overwhelming, that I couldn’t take it all in, but my senses were beginning to shut down. 

I kept drinking water at every water station.  I wasn’t winded, but my legs were tired.  At 95th Street I checked the list of places my family was going to be.  I needed something to look forward to.  This time, at 117th street, TK was going to jump in and run with me.  Oh the delight of that, to have someone there to talk to.  I saw them again: my parents and sister, jumping up and down, waving, urging me on.  By the time Big Sister joined me, I needed to be distracted from it all, and who better to do that than a marathon-crazed woman who knows and loves every inch of these next 3.5 miles.  She did things like tell me about the New Yorker’s typical response when tripped up by another at Mile 19: “Come back here and I’ll slap you in the face!” She prepping me for the upcoming carpeted bridge, described  the best sign she saw (“The 2800 calories you’re burning equals 17 beers”),  started chanting, “Let’s go Phillies” as soon as we crossed the bridge into the Bronx and yelled at the crowd to “Cheer for Illya!”  Being my older sister, she reminded me that running with her was an exercise in humiliation.  I honestly told her that I was too tired to be humiliated, too tired to even find myself on the 20-foot video screen they had in the Bronx.  By the time we made it back into the city, I was all but shot.  I ran to Marcus Garvey Park, noticing but not really hearing the gospel singers, and had to start walking.  I put my arm around TK and she started to gush again about how proud she was of me and all that.  I couldn’t look at her because a new round of tears came up, so I cleared my throat and started running again.  As we approached my parents for the last time, TK gave me a course reminder: the false flat and the long climb towards the park.  She said that there were going to be a lot of people walking and that I was going to eat them up.  Those last few words, combined with my dad’s slap on my back were all I needed to make it all the way up to the park.  Tons of people were calling my name, telling me I looked great.  I felt great, too. I was almost done.  

Though, as I ran into the park, things started to deteriorate quickly.  I had to walk twice during mile 24 and just as I arrived at mile 25 my body told me to stop running altogether. As I came to a halt, a spectator to my left called out, “Go Illya, you look…OK…”  OK. Not good, strong, great, or fast. OK. Yeah, I fucking know. Thank you.  I started walking and looked down at the curb.  I honestly thought, That looks really comfortable.  I could lay down right there and go to sleep and that would be wonderful.  I wanted to stop. I really wanted to stop. 

My first race was a triathlon.  Four laps into a ten-lap swim I was panicked, hyperventilating, and seeing DNF in my mind.  Had I trained for six weeks so it could end in five minutes?  I pushed off from the wall, reverting to a feeble elementary backstroke, and saw my 18 month-old daughter, Miss T, standing on the deck, smiling and blowing me a huge kiss.  I started crying, pulled it together and finished the swim and subsequent race.  That’s where I go now when it gets really hard.  I’ve found inspiration through lots of stories: Harriet Anderson, Rudy Garcia-Tolson, Team Hoyt, my swim coach’s resilience through disaster at Kona this year, that woman with the microphone, my training friends, my kids, my wife.  I wanted to honor all of that, to not give up.  I kept playing those scenes back through my mind and I said to myself, I’ll be god-damned if I’m not gonna finish this. 

So I kept walking.  I had to look straight ahead to keep from losing balance.  My fingertips were starting to get tingly.  Turning right at The Plaza Hotel, I knew there was only one more right turn to go, but I couldn’t see it.  There were a few medical personnel lining the road, and I was afraid they would pull me off the course because I looked so bad.  They asked if I was OK, and when I told them I was fighting a cold, they let me go on.  At one point on Central Park South I kicked a barrier and almost fell over.  Then the right turn, the 26-mile marker and the finish line.  I did run through the finish line with my arms overhead.  I was not going to walk across the line.  Before the medal and mylar, I walked up to he first person I saw in a medical vest and said, I need help.

Medical tent, pretzels, doctor, blood pressure 100/70. Dehydrated–two liters low! Six glasses of Gatorade. Five minutes later I was back to normal.  

Except for the fact that I would never be back to “normal.”  Because you see, I’m a marathoner now.

My Kid Brother’s Running the Marathon!

Nearly three years ago when I ran the marathon in Phoenix, my brother was there to cheer me on. He flew all the way from Boulder, CO to drive around in a car all day with our parents and Husband. The idea of the marathon was still eccentric to all four of them; they considered my endeavor a flukey one-off (indeed, so did I when I first started training). I remember him there, at Mile 20, jumping in and running a few miles with me and KM–he made all the difference and transformed what could have been twenty dreadful minutes into one of the most unforgettable moments of the day.

A couple of years ago IK sent me an email in which he told me I was his inspiration to begin training for triathlons. Nuttiness! Me, the family clutz who until a few years ago thought the only activity worth sweating for was sex–how could I possibly be an inspiration for someone to set athletic goals? And yet, there it was. And this year, he had his most challenging year, competing in multiple triathlons which culimated in a strong performance at the Boulder Peak Triathlon this July.

So last year I persuaded him to put his name in the lottery for the ING New York City Marathon and wouldn’t you know it he got in! (Shocker, since he’s from out of state and all.) Due to various yadda-yaddas he decided to defer his registration until this year, which ultimately worked out just perfectly since it meant I would be able to cheer him on. He flew in Friday night. On my way to the airport to pick him up, I got all teary and choked up thinking about how hard he’d trained, what he was about to undertake, and about all that I’d forsaken this year to my injuries. It was a scratchy combination of excitement, joy and pain; I couldn’t wait to just hug my little brother so hard and make it all even out. (NB: I say “little” brother but you know he’s six inches taller than I am with these nice broad shoulders. He’s 19 months younger than I am, that’s the thing.)

I tended my brother as best I could, doling out pasta dinners and pre-race bromides like some strange mother/coach hybrid. He had a touch of a cold which had been brought on by the sudden dry, cold weather in Lafayette, CO the week leading into his big race. On Saturday I left him to sleep in while I went for my marathon weekend run, a 10k over the 59thStreet Bridge and back during which, for sentimental reasons, I paced myself for the speed I ran in the 2008 NYC Marathon (8:59).  Soon enough IK and I were headed into the city to the Expo (I drove him in because there was too much walking involved with the subways). During the drive, we’d spot the occasional group of people dressed as vampires, naughty nurses, or Michael Meyers–funny reminders that the rest of the city would be partying while 40,000 marathoners would be doing their best to sleep up good. Finally we were queued up to get Lil Bro his bib and race packet. As perky as I sometimes am is as mellow as my brother is (if you can imagine such a thing), so he just stood there grinning down at me as I alternated between hugging him and ping-ponging around like Tigger; I was so excited for him! Soon enough he had his packet and we were strolling the floor of Jacob Javits. Talk about mood swings! Disappointment hit me like a hammer, and as I stood with the Asics store in sight I felt my face get hot and tears well up. I remembered the perfection of last year; I cursed my adductor brevis and my hamstrings. I imagined 2010, I summoned up my brother’s race, I thought of all the elites in the field, and my excitement for my favorite day of the year (well, after my birthday) returned.

Back home, I whipped us up a tasty lunch (arugula salad with turkey breast, dried cranberries, sliced fennel, chopped tomato, slivered almonds and with a big hunk of French bread on the side) . He went out for an easy two-miler around my Sunnyside Loop; he watched Kill Bill and Napoleon Dynamite. I hovered over Lil Bro, urging him to drink more water, helping him pin on his number, ink his name on his shirt, pack his bag for the morning.  How he didn’t strangle me I have no idea; he and Husband both were laughing at me as I kept blurting out bits of advice. I gave him the list of the three points where I’d be with Mom and Dad to cheer him on–he could memorize them while he waited to go to his corral.

I can tell you what he was feeling–nervous, tired, a little concerned that he was still feeling sick from that cold, and crazy-curious about what exactly 26.2 miles would be like. But I saw none of that. I just saw my kid brother (appropriately, a little skinnier than usual), who in my eyes had already won the race. I was so proud of him and he hadn’t even run the damn thing! I knew he could do it; I fell asleep hoping he believed it too.

Grete, Joanie, Deena!! (And Lance??)

I’ve been looking forward to this event for weeks–the TimesTalk with Grete Waitz, Joan Benoit Samuelson and Deena Kastor. I bought my ticket nearly a month ago, always with the intent of this being my date night with myself. (Am I the only social misfit who loves the solo date? I even got spiffed up and put on extra make-up! I wore my red high heels!) I didn’t want anyone interfering with my unabashed adoration of and riveted attention for these world-class marathoners.

They took the stage about 15 minutes late, which I blamed on Lance. Surely he was being a prince and arrived in his own sweet time. Regular readers will know I’m no fan–I get indignant about all the special treatment and media he got the few times he ran marathons; and at how lightly he took his preparation the first time out (so disrespectful and arrogant); and how the organizers of the Boston Marathon let him break a tape when he crossed the finish line.  That he shoehorned his way on to the panel, tainting which was otherwise a celebration of female marathon greats, totally annoyed me!  He got the most enthusiastic applause when the panelists were introduced–boy did that really piss me off. Runners are always competing for a bigger piece of the sports media pie, so to have their panel usurped by Schmance Warmstrong, on the eve of one of our sport’s greatest events (our one big chance to have full attention on running), was nearly enough for me to show up with a bag of rotten tomatoes. (If only I didn’t throw like a girl…)

I’d decided to ignore everything he had to say. Fingers on ears. Low humming. Noo Schmance, I can’t hear yoooouuu!

When Grete, Joanie, and Deena took the stage, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and tears welled up in my eyes. These women–they have done so much for the sport, and for women in the sport! Their stories, efforts and accomplishments have kept me running and pushing through long runs, speed workouts, and injury recovery. And there they were, on the stage, ready to dispense wisdom and humor, for me! Oh, this was going to be a very, very good date night.

Tara Parker-Pope (she blogs at NYTimes.com and has been training for NYC, her first marathon) did an excellent job as moderator. She really knew the stories of each athlete and of other professional runners–her expertise came through in her questions, responses, and commentary. So, um, I took notes. Perhaps one would even call them copious. I’m just going to type them up here for you. (Yes, I am blushing at my display of massive geekiness. I can only hope you find them charming, both the blushing and the geekiness.)

Grete: [she looks so young! wearing warm-up pants & jacket] Her hardest marathon was the one she ran with Fred Lebow.
Joanie: [also wearing warm-up pants & jacket] Finished every race she’s ever started.
Deena: [wearing a pretty black dress and jumper with floral embroidery across the right shoulder] Finished 6th in Chicago this year because she had to use the toilets.
Grete: she took a potty pause twice (once crouched between 2 cars; the other time she just peed on herself while running) but managed to win the NYC marathon each time
Lance: [wearing jeans and a cool gray windbreaker. suspiciously tan] Admitted he “weaseled” his way in when he saw the TimesTalk advertised in the paper a week or so ago.
Grete: Ran a negative split her first marathon (her longest training run had been 12 miles!) by 4 minutes. She was a miler (best Mile = 4:25; best 1500 meters = 4 flat) in her home country of Norway.
Joanie: The first time she ran Boston, she asked a guy on the course when they were going to pass the Heartbreak Hills only to be told she had already run over them.
Lance: When queried if he was looking at triathlons again, he replied, “I look at them… on TV.” But then said that in 2011 he may do “a couple of Ironmans.” Just a couple? Pussy!

Grete: After her cancer treatments, she became a couch potato. Lance sent her an email (they had never met before) which motivated herto begin training again.
Lance: “It was a simple note. I had to really think about what I was going to say. I mean, it was Grete Waitz!”

Grete: In your training, it’s okay to “hurry slowly” towards improvement.

On this buzzable New York Times piece about marathon plodders:

Grete: Running with fast-walk breaks is fine.
Joanie: As the marathon is getting slower, it is also getting faster. It’s about achieving the goals you set for yourself. [She didn't sound entirely convinced that she was OK with the plodders. Just my impression.]
Deena: Marathoners get to the starting line with mutual respect because everyone there has put in the work for the event.
Lance: The majority of the sport’s participants are slow. “Majority rules!” When Tara countered that the article posited that the plodders were removing the mystique of the sport, Lance replied “Well the marathon was very mystical for me.”

Deena: Mantra from her first Chicago Marathon, “Define Yourself.”
Joanie: Mantra from 1984 Olympics, “The Last Shall Come First, and the First Shall Come Last.”

When asked about how to overcome injuries and massive physical setbacks:

Grete: Move through recovery with a supportive circle of friends, family and coaches/teammates
Lance: Some people pump you up; other people drain you. Dump the drains and collect the pumps.
Deena: No matter your level of fitness or capability, it’s important for all runners to set goals for themselves, even if they seem like impossible goals, and to work towards them. Then look at how your life has changed and improved in pursuit of your goals, even if you fall short of them. [I nearly rushed the stage to fall at her feet in gratitude when she said this.]

Lance: On how he deals with the inevitable emotional vacuum after a race, “Drink!… Heavily.” [This may have been the point where I agreed to cut him a little bit of slack.]
Lance: Sports live and die (as far as spectator popularity and TV coverage) by the stories the athletes have to tell.
Grete: In a marathon, the first 20 miles is transportation.  Then start running.

Needless to say, I was entranced the entire panel, completely delighted by the women and ultimately willing to listen to Lance. He did beat the “humbled by the marathon” drum pretty loudly throughout the event. Grete was the biggest populist of them all, just very good-natured. Joanie had a bit of that New England no-nonsene sternness to her; she conserved her words. Deena seemed like a reflective, eloquent and positive California girl. Even though each of the four panelists told stories I’d read before, I will never forget what it was like to listen to my heros in person.

W Is for Wedding

Friday night Husband and I went to a wedding for one of my industry friends. It seems that the only chance I get to dance (apart from concerts, which is completely different than shaking a tailfeather on a dance floor to pop music) nowadays (translation: in my old age) is at weddings. I take extra pleasure in getting all foxed up for this reason. Months ago I’d bought a little blue dress that I saw in a shop window, ran by for a month on my way home from work, then finally surrendered in July (or maybe it was August) and dropped the plastic. It’s got cap sleeves, a v-neck, nips at my waist with a little bow at the back and curves along my hips just so. I was dying to wear this dress. I pulled out my gold brocade heels, my Furla clutch, and my Nana’s jewelry. I painted my eyelids bronze and my lips raspberry. I am sorry boys–I confirm that this is a blog about running but every now and then you must endure as I slip into a girly reminiscence about an outfit or an ex.

Since I reacquainted myself with red wine during the reception, I wasn’t quite up for a workout on Saturday, which was fine since outside it was stormy and chilled. But Sunday–oh glory be, it pulled out all the stops! If Sunday October 25th was a person on a speed date, it would call itself a Giver (not a Taker), a Pleaser and an Optimist, and would describe its dream date as a long run through the park with someone special. In short, this day was my perfect date–it didn’t even mind when I turned up unshowered for our run through New Calvary Cemetery, the closest thing to a grassy park I’ve got here in Sunnyside.

I ran south on 41st Street, then east along 51st Avenue until I reached the entrance of the cemetery. The sun shone with a diva’s pride at wresting the mike back from the clouds as the trees applauded daintily with their gold, amber and red leaves. It was so peaceful, just me and the gravestones. It’s a small cemetery, so I ran past two other joggers a few times each as we twisted our way through the alleys, trying to accumulate mileage. My steps carried me in and out of the shade cast by old maples and oaks. I thought about how being dead means no more. I thought about how when I am no more I hope they cremate me up and use my ashes to fertilize a dogwood, or an azalea, or a rhododendron.  Morbid thoughts for such a sunny day, but they didn’t upset me. I ran, and I ran–not  far, but placidly. I was grateful to abandon urgency for a change. I thought of my blue dress, and my gold heels and bracelets, and I was glad. (4.87 miles in 43:41.)

Songs I ran to: “Waitress in the Sky” by The Replacements, “Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles, “Walk Out” by Matthew Sweet, “Walter’s Theme” by R.E.M., “Wandering Child” by Gov’t Mule, “Wanted” by The Cranberries, “Warmer Days” by Blues Traveler, “Waterloo” by Abba, “Way Down in the Hole” by Steve Earle, “The Way You Found Me” by Ben Harper, “We’re Going to Be Friends” by The White Stripes, “We’re the Same” by Matthew Sweet, “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge and “The Weight of Her” by Butch Walker

Ellipses…

A former colleague of mine and friend, NT, just got a fabulous job. It is such a big deal that the New York Observer reported on it! Way to go Nicky!… LA is many things to me: friend, family member, and author )whose books I have sold and marketed). But now, she is also a fellow active blogger. Check out My Big Walk…  One of Husband’s friends has designed a line of politically incorrect, offensive and vulgar tee-shirts. If that’s your kind of thing, you’ll want to shop at EatMyNuggets.com… I signed up for this strength & flexibility class as part of my keep-my-chin-up approach to my chronic hamstring issues… Tonight I am going to see this band at the Bowery Ballroom not because I think I will like their music but because a boy from my past (he must be a man by now) manages them and it’s a chance to catch up with an old “friend”…  Speaking of music I do like: I’ve recently purchased Anjulie’s eponymous album. She’s a bit like Lily Allen crossed with Amy Winehouse… Totally, utterly, completely ready for the New York City Marathon! All I have to do is cheer and clap and make a poster or two. My hunkyLittle Bro is coming to town to run the race, so I’ll be leading Mom & Dad around to try and catch him two or three times along the course… I bought myself a ticket to go see Joanie, Deena and Grete give a NYTimes Talk on the 29th, which is why I can’t make this panel (pictured here) with Steve Jones. But maybe some of you want to go?…

Reservoir Pace

Every October, New York City gifts us with a few perfect days of crystal weather–clear skies, light breezes, and temperatures in the 60’s. These are the glory days for runners, and some of my best loops of the park have happened at this time of year. If you run after work, it’s dark but you can still see the changing leaves by the light of the streetlamps. Central Park is full of tapering marathoners–everyone is in beauteous shape, and they are nervously trotting their way through an easy 5-miler.

Last night, I met my running buddies/Twitter friends MJ and BW at 72nd and 5th Avenue for a run. The three of us running together truly is a case of Goldilocks–Brandon is Papa Bear, I am Mama Bear, and Michelle is Baby Bear. We range the gamut in height and speed, but managed to sort it out and find a Just Right pace. We started running up the East Side, introducing MJ to Cat Hill, and then we hopped up for a loop around the reservoir. I don’t take advantage of this loop enough–it was absolutely gorgeous. It felt like we were marooned in the city, that midtown had turned itself inside out for us and instead of viewing the skyline from across the East River, that we were seeing its soft, secret and less-exposed side. Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, and dozens of nameless office skyscrapers stood casually, and shining with that confidence that comes so naturally to New Yorkers.

Listening to BW and MJ, I could hear the cadence and personality in their voices that I recognize so well from their assorted and respective podcast, blogs, and tweets. It was both strange and familiar, and not at all unpleasant. Part of what pulled me through my injury this winter was the supportive caucophony of anonymous, chirpy runners I followed on Twitter; now I am glad that some of them have jumped off my computer and have come to land next to me, as I trace the our city’s inner circle with my running shoes.

Elate Me, chapitre deux

Live music? I say Amen, and the smaller the venue the better. But not just any band is going to be able to put out a performance that makes my face nearly crack from smiling, makes me laugh and cheer out loud, and leaves me sweating and panting from dancing as hard as I can. Galactic is one of those special bands, and last weekend they played two shows at the Brooklyn Bowl. 

A nice coincidence, since the Brooklyn Bowl is my new favorite venue. Owned and operated by the same guy who ran the Wetlands in Tribeca, Brooklyn Bowl replicates much of what made the Wetlands so special: you can stand right against the stage or watch the show easily from the bar; there are areas away from the stage where you can lounge with friends but still hear the music; and there’s a funky themed decor (bowling alley!) that is a little bit hokey but also just right. Yes, you can bowl at the Brooklyn Bowl. and you can get dinner in the restaurant, all while the band is playing. The Brooklyn Bowl is one of only two reasons I’ll ever go to Brooklyn (the other being visiting my best friend CB is the first). Funny, it’s only a few times I’ve seen shows there but I already feel so at home there, like it’s “my” joint. 

Galactic has got to be my all-time favorite band to see live. I love these guys. They jam, they funk, they rock, jazz and dance. The swirl it all together until it feels like Stanton Moore’s drumbeats are aimed directly at my chest and Robert Mercurio’s bass licks have possessed me by the hips and are shaking me left and right. Is the music within me, or without? Last Thursday night, they were barely three songs into their set and the lines were already blurred. I wiggled and jumped, I swayed and shimmied, I reached for the sky and closed my eyes. We–me, the band, the audience–did this for nearly three hours. Talk about an endurance event. I watched Stanton bang away, and the saxophonist wail away, and the trumpeter blow and rap and stage-dive (yes! twice!) and I thought–surely you guys are athletes like me. Stamina for elation. And look! Mercurio is performing in Nike running shoes! I checked him out all night long trying to sort out if he is an actual runner or not. (Could be–he’s trim and has a cute butt.) 

The first night’s show wasn’t sold out, so I was able to dance right next to the stage the whole show. Once I circled back to Husband and our friends and said, “This crowd is great! I don’t feel like punching anyone!” I wore my blue sequined tank top; this is my post-race celebration top. I only wear it right after a big race or the Green Mountain Relay. Saturday the Brooklyn Bowl was mobbed–I walked in and immediately felt the heat of a thousand bodies ready to groove. I wore jeans, an old pair of running shoes, and my little white tank top that says “La Petite Coquette.” (Get the joke?) Galactic’s first set was as energetic as ever, but I spent most of my time either swaying in the back next to where Husband had his mike stand and DAT recorder set up or waiting at the bar for a glass of wine. (No comments from the peanut gallery about how I am now officially an old woman for drinking wine at a rock concert.–PF) I couldn’t deal with the crowds up front, and was offended on behalf of the band that the venue was airing the Yankees vs Angels game, and everyone kept cheering for the team instead of the band. Manners, people! They aren’t a fucking wedding band! 

But once the game was over and the second set started up, inexplicably the crowd cleared out and I was able to elbow my way up all the way to the front, on Mercurio’s side of the stage, again. Oh yeah, it’s Jazzercise time! I danced so hard that it felt like I was in the middle of a long run or a race. I know you know that feeling–when everything else slips away and it’s just you, your heart, your lungs and the rhythm. That feeling is your body and your mind, conspiring to transport you and to elate you; to lift all your troubles until you cross the finish line, until the music stops, until you arrive home…