CrankyRunner

While I Was Away

2009-04-13T15:20:00.000-04:00

Let’s see, in January, a death in the family and all that comes with that; February saw just about all the money I had ever put into every conceivable retirement plan finally evaporate; in March I watched friends lose their jobs while the lucky ones got salary cuts. Meanwhile, the soundtrack was a howling, cold wind whipping through New York City streets. And that part is still not over, even though it’s April.

Things aren’t hopeless. Anyone who has the wherewithal to type ‘hopeless’ and post it on a blog, isn’t.

So over the last few weeks I wrote several confessional blog posts in my head and got nauseous at the thought of sharing them. It’s a running blog, not a diary. In a sense, I spared us all from that. If you really want narcissism, go on Facebook.

But in running news…. I did train for the Boston Marathon. And if the race turns horribly wrong, I’ll chalk it up to the bad karma of ’09, and think of it as a party moving along at 7 or 8 miles an hour.

Still Alive, Remarkably

2009-04-07T17:00:00.002-04:00

2:48 in. And yes, more soon. I mean it.

FL Bound

2009-01-08T06:30:00.002-05:00

Well, I checked my watch, it's A.F.T. I wrote something.

December was National Lack of Running Motivation Month, and Poor Blog Posting Month, apparently. And I got a head cold for Christmas. Thanks, Santa.

So I'm flying south for some Rest and Running, to one of several 'magical' places where children and their obese parents like to spend the winter.

I'll see some of you there!

Returning Soon

2008-12-18T07:08:00.003-05:00

Just taking some time off from writing about being sore from workouts. And the weather. Monday it was 65 degrees and Tuesday it snowed. Wonderful.

Not ready for Disney, and just signed up for Boston. And my quads and glutes are not happy.

Well, here's a nice picture (above) of Beethoven (the dog) lifting a leg on the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. A New Yorker at heart.

(Sort of) Race Report: Philadelphia Marathon

2008-11-25T19:56:00.002-05:00

Nope, didn’t run it this year, three times was enough. Nothing against the marathon in Philly, it’s just I know the course too well having lived there long enough to memorize every hill and turn.

So last Sunday it was held again, one of the last fall marathons in the area. And sometimes it turns cold on that last weekend before Thanksgiving.

This year was positively freezing, and from what I read on the Runner’s World forum, it was cold, cold, cold. I don’t like running long in that, and I’m glad I had no last-minute plans to jump in the car and head down there for another trip up and down the Schuylkill River. So God bless anybody who had freezing toes during the race. One of my friends ran a 3:03, so at least a PR wasn’t impossible.

And I also heard the race organization was not so hot, such as running out of mylar blankets at the finish line, and walkers in the half marathon clogging the course right before the full marathon started (and thus making marathoners weave around them in the first mile), etc. Makes me appreciate the take-no-prisoners, operation desert storm quality of the NYC Marathon management.

But every year I hear about Students Run Philly Style, a fine organization that an old friend of mine started up a few years ago. Heather and her team of runners help city kids train for races, and ultimately the marathon, and this year had 65 of them out there. I’m not one for sentimentality and ‘triumph of the human spirit’ cheerleading, but I have to say that Students Run Philly Style kind of puts a lump in my throat when I read about them. I mean, I take for granted just showing up for races and finishing, and then there are these kids who get out there and train for something they probably once thought they could never achieve. Here’s a link from the Philadelphia Inquirer about one of these marathoners:

Philadelphia Inquirer: A Very Special Philadelphia Marathon Competitor

So running hats off again this year to Heather. And she’s the one that turned to me one spring day about ten years ago at the Roxborough HS track and said: ‘Anybody interested in training for a marathon this fall?’ And I said, ‘Well, OK, I guess so.’

And that was that. I then trained for my first marathon, so I guess Heather can get anybody out there if she helped to get me going in this crazy sport.

Anyway, nice job last Sunday, Heather…

Race Report: Knickerbocker 60K

2008-11-20T17:06:00.005-05:00

Oh yes, I ran this last Saturday. It went well under the circumstances, generic as that sounds.

If you really want to know how it went, just imagine running 37.2 miles, semi-continuously, on the same asphalt loop, nine times. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it? I know five runners (pictured above) who must've thought so.

This was my fourth year in a row running this race. After running the NYC Marathon no less, which always turns into something of a training run for this. So I knew what I was in for. Plus, I knew of several friends who had expressed interest in running this particular race. Especially after the old ‘come on out and join me’-isms I threw out over the last year. Which completely explains how I got the nickname Satan.

So the weather forecast leading up to Saturday had been ‘warm with showers’, and I’d decided that if buckets were going to come down all day I wasn’t going to stay out there and run for hour after hour. I’ve never DNF’d, but there’s no honor in slogging through ponds for anything longer than a half marathon in Central Park. I can be tough, but I’d rather not be stupid.

Saturday morning arrived, with no rain, so it was going to happen. I picked up my number and t-shirt and headed back home to drop stuff off (I live two blocks from the NYRR, and the start of the race, which makes it too easy to do this crap). I returned fifteen minutes ahead of the start and immediately found running friends from the NY Front Runners and Asphalt Green. Before we knew it, we were off and running. That’s how a race should start, fast and quick with no time for second thoughts, kind of like a prostate exam. Sorry ladies, I’m sure you have a more interesting metaphor of your own, so just talk amongst yourselves.

I ran two of the first 4-mile loops with fellow runner I.J., who can normally kick my ass in just about any distance. One of those 3-hour marathon types, he held back a bit and ran a strong pace as I yakked the miles away. After that second loop, another runner friend, Carmine, showed up to run another loop and continue the welcome companionship. Like everybody else I knew out there, he’d run the NYC Marathon two weeks before. Once again, I yakked and got through the loop quickly, and then Carmine was gone because real life called and his running was done for the day. Good call, Carmine.

After that point, I was pretty much alone, i.J. had long ago gone ahead of me. At the end of every 4-mile loop was the aid-station/start/finish line, and I began to take 30 seconds each time I went by to drink something and take an electrolyte tablet the size of a bowling ball. So off I went on Lap #4. And as I took off, the rain started. And then the drops got bigger. And then the hills of asphalt have little rivers of black rainwater heading toward me. And then buckets of water coming down. You know how it is, first you kind of avoid it, then you realize there’s not much you can do, then you just say ‘screw it’ and start diving into puddles and lakes of water. By the time I got to the west side of the park my shoes were touching down in lakes, filled with water and 5 pounds heavier. At least it was 60 degrees out there, one degree for every damned kilometer.

And every time I headed back up the west side there was the one water station that made the difference. Every year it’s been manned by two older guys who would come out with their two folding card tables and cups of water, but this year there were at least two dozen overly-cheerful volunteers clapping and cheering us on. Because this year the NYRR has made volunteering at a race one of the requirements for automatic entry in the next NYC Marathon in ’09. And the upshot of this is that this race, which usually only gets a handful of volunteers, got tons of volunteers this year. So I was rather happy to see more folks out there, it gets kind of lonely if you want to know the truth.

Mercifully the rain stopped and I began to get slightly, well, less wet. After the end of that loop, I stopped at my bag and changed into a dry shirt. Smart, if I do say so myself. I went on my getting-less-merry-by-the-minute way, and started my 5th loop. I’ll be halfway done soon, I said to myself. A couple of minutes later I found myself running toward some guy looking past me as he approached, it was everybody’s favorite Disgraced John of the Year Elliot Spitzer. I started thinking about if he’d only gone on a 5K run instead of a $5K booty call earlier this year he might still have a political career. That thought ended though, I soon started the ‘this hurts’ part of our program.

‘This Hurts’ is an old show. You can see the reruns any time you’ve been watching the pavement underneath you go by for longer than an hour or two. I keep hoping it ends better or until I change the channel. But neither seems to happen. So this time I really sucked it up. I mean really, really sucked it up. And pain starting at mile 15 of a 37.2-mile ‘race’ is not a good sign. I knew that, but what are you going to do? Did the torrential rain stop me? No. Did I stop during the last three years I ran this race? No. So suck it up. Because This Hurts.

And so I proceeded to suck it up. And the walking stops got more frequent, 20 seconds every couple of miles. And at the end of every loop was another walk/stop that felt like a real vacation relative to the preceding loop. Still no sign of any of my teammates or friends, are they behind me or in front? Well, they can’t be in front, I didn’t see them pass me. Then again, I’d been obsessing about Elliot Spitzer’s goofball running form. Hey, I know, let’s change into another crisp, dry singlet! Because This Hurts.

So I finished yet another eternal loop, #7. My glutes and quads are getting rock-like. I’m getting less ‘funny’ talking to folks at the water stations. Only two more to go, I’d been out there about four and a half hours. The winner of the race arrives and finishes just as I’m throwing down Gatorade at Loop 7’s finish. Asshole.

One of my comrades, Eric, arrived about that time and we commiserated about the hell our legs were going through. Thank you, Eric. I needed independent confirmation how much this sucks. And It Hurts. And none of that is sarcasm. Something about seeing someone I know always makes me feel a little better, so I took off. Oh, not the ‘took off’ you might be thinking. It was some form of forward motion, I’m not sure yet if I’d call it running.

And I got rid of $%&*@ Lap 8. One more to go, and I let everyone know it. I got lots of positive ‘you-can-do-it’ feedback. It all seemed so obvious in the first third, annoying in the second, and now that I was finally going to run this course one last fucking time it was rather appropriate. I finished the 8th lap at clock time 5:15 and right then (and perhaps a bit before) I knew I wasn’t beating my 5:35 time from last year. I felt bad and just wanted to finish, and my legs were starting to go into that pre-charley horse feeling. You know, lock and load, and not the NRA type.

Yes, I had slowed down, what a surprise. I must’ve dropped from 8-minute miles to 8:30s to 9’s in the last bit. And then 9:30’s because my legs were starting to go on strike. Add the 30-45 second stops at every water station, and I was starting to think I couldn’t finish in under six hours. I thought to myself: that would really suck if I was going to finish slower than ever in this race. So I started clock-watching, and then… I gunned it. Well, not like in a 5K race, but about as close as you can get to gunning it in an ultramarathon. I headed into the last mile with ten minutes left to finish under six hours, and I was determined to meet my (admittedly spur-of-the-moment) goal. I was all alone, and so damned glad to be finishing I couldn’t stand myself. The last 400 meters was a straightaway, and the finish line was about three minutes away and I really poured it on. ‘This Hurts’ came back for one final encore.

And then I finished, with much-appreciated applause from the crowd. I didn’t know it, but about 20 to 25 people had finished the 60K already, including I.J. in his ultra debut. Soon after, other friends, Zander, Richard, Eric, and Barbara, not to mention Tim G., who offered up his own 21 miles of coaching-on-the-run. I.J. had been had crossed the finish about a half hour before I showed up, but most of us finished within 15 minutes of each other. ALL of us had run the NYC Marathon two weeks before. I was probably the loopiest of them all, but everybody seemed relatively fine. By then the sun had come out, appropriately enough.

So this year I didn’t finish as soon as I’d liked, but I did have lots of friends out there, at least in spirit, out on the course. Last year, running pal Tim, (aka ‘The German’) got me through all of it, that was a big plus. And I’d done a longer-than-usual run the Saturday before, a 21-miler. Obviously, I need some sort of 12-step program for runners. So next year: get Tim out there again, and run less the week before.

LATER I checked the results, and I’d come in 16th among the men, and first in my age group. That age group being the ‘Too Old to Pretend to Know This Won’t Hurt’ age group. It helps your statistics when there are only 78 people finishing in your race, but I’m still happy that I stuck it out through the rain and the mind-numbing laps like I do every year. And it was pretty terrific to see so many friends not only survive a 60K, but thrive during the experience.

So that’s it for my annual 3-marathons-in-the-fall trifecta, I survived them again. And did pretty well under the circumstances. Now that two of them were Boston qualifiers, the pressure is (sort of) on to show up for that fresh hell. But first I have to kick me 26.2 bitches through Cinderella’s Castle. Damn!

Pre-Race Report: Knickerbocker 60K

2008-11-15T19:27:00.003-05:00

Jesus, Joseph, Mary, and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

I ran this race yet again, today, and my legs are really very, very pissed off right now. Took me about ten minutes just to lower myself into the bathtub once I got home.

I'll write a proper wrap-up once my shoulders stop hurting from typing at the keyboard. Yeah, it's that bad.

But the race went relatively well, five hours and fifty-seven minutes of slap-slap-slap on the pavement of Central Park. A downpour during Lap Three was peachy, too.

So I'm NOT running tomorrow, I thought about a 4-mile race, and that's just a sign of mental illness. Like running a 60K isn't?

Deleted Post from Last Friday

2008-11-11T10:20:00.000-05:00

I have no pretensions that this is a music blog. But Blogger and the record labels are under the impression that my posting of a Kool Moe Dee track from 1988 is going to send the music industry into a tailspin. Well, guess what guys, you started that tailspin around 1995, and done nothing to make it better ever since. Y’know, it’s always someone else’s fault in the U.S. of A.

And for once, I actually know what I’m talking about; I spent many years in the music business and watched the whole house of cards cave in, in slow motion. Just like Circuit City.

So Blogger deleted my post and sent me the same form letter that other blogs have been getting for several weeks now. It’s not as if I just posted the new Beyoncé album, in it’s entirety, for free, but you wouldn’t know that from the tone of the threatening e-mail I got. Perhaps I’m splitting hairs about offering up any kind of music, but believe me, Kool Moe Dee isn’t getting a penny of royalties from anybody’s download, whether it’s from me or iTunes. Instead, Sony/BMG pockets all that money to buy Leona Lewis a mixed deli platter the next time she’s in the New York office.

Then again, I don’t think anybody was downloading music from my blog, I usually got about 6 listens or downloads per track, anyway. So it’s no great loss, my readership could probably fit comfortably into a Ford Escalade, and not even care about what’s missing. But honestly. Next somebody will be chasing me for posting a picture I took with my own fucking camera.

This Just In

2008-11-05T17:27:00.003-05:00

And you thought your last run sucked…

New York Times: Jogger Runs Mile…

I LIVE for headlines like that.

You're welcome.

Race Report: ING New York City Marathon

2008-11-03T17:58:00.008-05:00

Really, it was like all the other NYC Marathons before it. No rain (it hasn’t rained during the race since ’97), no major glitches, an overwhelming number of runners from abroad (over half of them), two million spectators. And Paula Radcliffe making it look way too easy.

I was assigned to a 5AM bus to the start on Staten Island. As usual, several thousand runners meet at the New York Public Library in midtown to catch one of the dozens and dozens of buses making the trip. This year, they decided to assign a specific bus time to each runner to avoid the problems of the past, such as late runners showing up at 7AM when the cut-off is 6:30, causing delays. Like Boston, they make you get out there hours in advance and wait and wait and wait for a 10AM start. I’m used to it, but it gets earlier and earlier each year, and you end up waiting outside for at least three or four hours.

And this year it was worse. Saturday night, it was almost 70 degrees outside; the weather forecasters predicted it would turn colder overnight, and they were right. The temperature dropped nearly 30 degrees in six hours, so when I was making it out the door at 4:45, the temperature in midtown was 40 degrees. Which is OK running weather, but what I didn’t realize was that there were bone-chilling gusts of wind out there, and Staten Island was right then at about 37 degrees with even worse wind chills.

So of course, the bus ride is fast, and it just about set a record getting there. I arrived by 6AM, and with 3 hours and 40 minutes to go before the start of the race I had nothing to do but hit port-a-johns and stop myself from nervously drinking too much water, or worse, coffee. It was FREEZING, and I had two singlets, two long sleeve cotton shirts, a running jacket, and two pairs of long running pants on. Around 7AM, I lost the feeling in my toes and heard my teeth chatter, that’s how bad it was. When the sun came out, it got a little better, but we were all (and I can speak for 40,000 runners) ready to get on the road.

I bumped into friends, chatted and threw out pre-race good wishes without being some cheery asshole. Met up with running pal Susie, and we spent about an hour and a half commenting on this year’s marathon model. Soon, we were off to the foot of the Verrazano Bridge where we stood for about a half hour before the starting gun went off, longer than usual.

I was on the bottom level of the bridge (they always just show the top level on TV coverage, try to imagine thousands of runners one floor below that, too). And once we got there, the icy wind gusts were brutal. I was wearing a hat, and had to take it off for fear of losing it off the side, because the wind was just that bad. You just wanted to get the hell over the bridge and get out of there, especially after spending hours shivering in the cold. I think a lot of people started out too fast just because of this, but I think everybody starts out too fast here because they just want to get the damn thing done.

So we make it across the bridge into Brooklyn, and guess what, nature calls. So I jumped over a three-foot concrete barrier and joined the official-looking firing squad of gentlemen who had the same idea. I lost exactly one minute in time, but at least the good news was that nature would not be placing any more calls or leaving voice mails again during the race.

Speaking of, you’d be right to ask how I was planning to approach this race. Racing for a PR? Running for a reasonable, easy time? Sightseeing? Well, it was a little of all that, but I had gotten it in my head that I wouldn’t mind trying to run this particular course a little faster than normal, and close to my faster finish times, around 3:20. So my plan was to run the first 10 miles at about a 7:50 minute/mile pace, the second ten at 7:30, and the final 6.2 at a little slower than that, perhaps 7:40 if possible. Since they had chip mats and markers at all the 5K splits, I had figured out my goal times at each 5K split, in advance.

And I have to say, I hit the first 5K split about ten seconds behind schedule, and that included the unplanned, outdoor bathroom break. And then at the 10K mark, I hit that 20 seconds too soon, and so I knew to slow it down. And the 15K and 20K times were good, too, and by then I was picking up the pace and passing some of the other runners. I’d never paid much attention to kilometer markers in a marathon before, but it takes some of the pressure off when you don’t obsess about each and every mile marker. Plus the math skills that are needed to compute all the mile-based arithmetic… well, you know what I mean. If you’re running an 8 minute/mile, that’s a 5 minute/kilometer, and knowing that a 5K chunk at that pace equals 25 minutes makes it a little easier to wrap your head around, in my opinion.

So the crowds were wild, the course was jammed, the weather chilly, and the sticky Gatorade flowing. I felt reasonably good, and was still OK at mile 15 before arriving in Manhattan. Things were uneventful, despite ‘Runner Mark’, who wore his name, and thus generated seventy increasingly annoying ‘Go Mark!’ spectator yells-per-minute (I actually counted and timed them while running one stretch in Brooklyn, I stopped at a water station to let him get ahead, and away from me). I didn’t even get pushed or run over by the French or Italian running tour groups in matching outfits, as is usually the case. I kid the French and Italians! Gotta love them knocking people over at water stations, they’re just kooky kids from across the pond.

Once I got onto Third Avenue and the rumblings of the death march, I knew I only had about nine miles to go. And that’s when the fatigue begins to set in and then the self-doubt and then the desire to find and push that little red button on a nuclear warhead. But the 5K splits call, and I’m only a minute off of the schedule. I thought to myself, OK, this isn’t so bad, last year my quads were turning to granite right about now, like they’d seen Medusa screaming ‘Go Mark!’ at Mile 19.

And you know what happened then, it got harder. By the time I got to the one-mile hill on FFA (Fucking Fifth Avenue), I was getting pretty much over it. And my pace suffered, I knew I was running about 30 seconds per mile slower. I did the completely thinkable, and stopped to walk for 20 seconds. ‘This is stupid, and it hurts’, a quote from somebody, I can’t imagine who, came to mind. But I restarted and got myself into goddamn Central Park, where the course always enters around mile 23.5.

People I actually know started to pass me. Why can’t these people pass me earlier in the race when I’m not so pissed off? Yeah, I know, I’ve probably done it too, but really, you’d think out of 40,000 runners I’d get a break and just be surrounded by the Run Latvia Team.

SO. I kept going, and then felt much better after a little 20 second walk AT MILE 25.5. That’s right, I always point and laugh at people who can’t suck it up and finish the last half mile, but believe me, if you’ve been there, you know. Off I went again, slightly refreshed, and I realize I’d blown the 5K split schedule by several minutes, no special finish time for me today, it’s more P than PR.

But if I can make it to the finish line by 3:30, well, that will be just fine. So I practically sprinted the last 400 meters and… made it. The clock said 3:30:10, but the watch said 3:29:18. Stupid clock.

Amazingly, I felt OK after crossing the finish line and the 25-minute walk to my baggage truck. I bumped into an acquaintance who had finished right before me and had missed his PR too, and then more friends later, who finished with the same time as I did. And I realized (here comes the annoying half-glass full part of our story) that it was my fastest NYC Marathon time, and that I had qualified for Boston again. Now I feel like I almost have to run Boston next time; after many years of not qualifying, it’s starting to feel like an obligation out of respect for all the younger guys who can’t get in because of some insanely fast qualifying time. I’ve been there, and good luck shaving twenty or thirty minutes off of your fastest marathon time just to be allowed to run east into Boston in mid-April. Whatever, I’ll decide soon if Cranky Will Represent.

So today, Monday, I ran a nice five-miles and felt progressively better as I went along, and then hit the gym. On the way back, a runner wearing her marathon finisher’s medal saw me on the street, and I stopped to congratulate her. And she knew by the way I was dressed that I had finished, too, and told me in a nice way that it pissed her off that I wasn’t even limping.

My work was done.

Next up: another dumb race in two weeks.
May I have another, SIR!

NYC Marathon Pre-Race Report

2008-11-03T12:17:00.002-05:00

Before I get into what went right and what didn't, let's just say that for me, yesterday's marathon was good overall. I finished my 10th ING NYC in 3:29, not far off the last marathon I did recently. Today I'm feeling (and you can hate on me for this) just fine. A strong 5-miler this morning got the kinks out. My legs are feeling a bit stiff, but I'm not pissed off when I have to bend over to tie my shoes. I may feel differently tomorrow, but at least I know I had a better experience than last year's 'my legs just turned to rocks' hostage situation.

More later, and it won't be a three-hour tour this time.

Thursday, October 30th, 7:30PM

2008-10-31T16:18:00.007-04:00

At Tavern on the Green in Central Park, the New York City Marathon finish line at night, three days before the race.

The Asphalt Green Thursday night running crew stops to take it all in after training for this damn thing for week after week.

Hmmm….

2008-10-27T19:02:00.012-04:00

OK, here’s what happened. I started writing about the Hartford Marathon (now over two weeks ago) and it started to turn into a James Michener novel. Those of you not familiar with James Michener will be amused to hear that most of his output consisted of 1000-page-plus doorstops that began with fictional discussions on how pre-Cambrian cellular life started where all his 19th-century melodramas took place. So my discussion was going on WAY to long, it was taking me longer to write than a high school term paper with index cards, and for no good reason. Then it dawned on me that half my readership was probably at the damn race and ran it, too. This realization sunk in as I realized that sometimes alarming blog silence=injury, when that’s not the case. Despite some quad pain on my left side, I’m OK, I’m just obsessing about the next marathon, now less than a week away.

So it looks like I’m not going to post that saga-in-process, because it’s already old news. Too bad, the part about my stop in the port-a-john at mile 8 recalled the 5-minute post-thaw bathroom scene in the first Austin Powers.

But I will say this. The race went well for me, for two reasons. One is that I was generally prepared to run 26.2 miles, I did the right thing and trained a bit. The other reason is those other folks who joined me. Ms. Speedy did quite nicely despite the usual ‘I must be insane to keep doing this crap’ and other more strongly-worded observations. Angry went with the flow, listening to three people ramble on and run and be fairly annoying, all while chaperoning and driving and then pulling out a nice 5K time on the side. And Iron Bob helped me focus in the last few miles as I tried to keep up every time I stopped at a water vacation, uh, station. He did really, really well, as did sub-4 Claire and Mr. A for just racing and putting up with us. So thank you all.

So I showed up and ran my fastest marathon in seven years. I beat the 3:30 finish time plateau I’ve been hitting for several marathons. And I qualified for Boston, which is nice, though I’m not sure if I’ll be there again next April.

And another thing, it was rather nice to run a small-scale race instead of the behemoth New York/Chicago/Marine Corps/Boston-type races with thirty or forty thousand runners all required to arrive hours before the start. This weekend, I’ve been assigned to take the 5AM bus at the New York Public Library to get to the start line of the NYC Marathon that has a gun time of… 9:40. I love the race, but it’s just getting gigantic, and pretentious, and overproduced (sort of like all those Pirates of the Caribbean movies). The starting line area in Hartford was terribly unorganized, but beyond that, it was a fine race once it got going. Of course, if I’d hit the wall, my opinion may have been different. But I didn’t, and it was a fine day, thanks to my training, and friends who made a difference.

Last Saturday

2008-10-13T16:33:00.004-04:00

I’ll post my take on last Saturday morning soon, but before then I’d like to thank Team Hotford, you know who you are. As every hour goes by I think more and more about how ‘well’ it went for everybody. Of course, this means the pain and soreness is wearing off and the haze of fond memories is taking over, but that’s perfectly OK. If I can count on one hand all the things that went wrong on marathon race day, that’s very, very good.

We didn’t have the heat of yesterday’s Chicago (yet again this year) and got the damn thing over early in the weekend. Next marathon, we’ll spend more time lounging before and after. And make sure that Tina Fey is waiting at the finish line for Speedy.

I've spent about a half hour trying to upload an image of Team Hotford, but no such luck with Blogger. Since it's a holiday, thousands of part-time Walmart cashiers named 'Mary Lou' and 'Betty Jo' are busy uploading pictures of fuzzy kittens sitting in bowls of spaghetti onto their 'down home cookin' blogs, and slowing the system down. Maybe later...

Race Report: Grete’s Great Gallop/Norway Run

2008-10-08T15:54:00.004-04:00

Make that Grete Weitz’ Great Gallop, the half marathon held last Saturday in Central Park. I’ve done this one before, it’s every October during the marathon season when you want to run a half but shouldn’t. What’s always most memorable here is the finish line catering: smoked salmon and cream cheese on bagels, bottled water imported from Norway, and waffles. I’m not kidding, the food makes it.

And it’s another duo of 6-mile loops of the park plus another 1.1 in case you needed reminding. Every year the weather turns fall-ish right before the race, and it did just that this time around. The humidity was lower than last week (thank God) while the temperature was right about 60 degrees. Perfectly fine.

Starting at 9AM, about 3900 runners queued up into the corrals based on their previous, fastest race pace. I positioned myself near the back of the first corral so I wouldn’t get run over and wouldn’t end up standing on the chip mat at the start. One time this summer I lined up too close to the front and the second chip mat recognized me immediately and I had to wait an extra 5 seconds for the skinny kids in front to take off. Hey, five seconds can make you miss your PR, I’d rather have a ‘running’ start… and yes, I don’t want to add dumb, extra time to my finish time if I can help it.

Off we went, and the first mile was zippy, at least for me. And crowded, but it’s better with the corrals than it was without them. I heard the usual sound effects, the runner who lands flat on his feet, which makes it sound like cinderblocks hitting the pavement, and the guy who carries jangling keys and $17 in change in his fanny pack. And of course, the runner who has to weave in and out of everybody because he only has an hour and a half to make up the time.

I passed the first mile marker around 6:50 and realized with the traffic jam at the beginning it was more like 6:40. Slow down, Tarzan, said the inner narrator.

Which I did, a little. And the first loop was about 42 minutes. Much faster than a marathon, somewhat slower than a 10K. OK, let’s see if we can do this second loop in the same time, I said to myself. At this point, I realize I’m having strange play-by-play commentary on my race performance. And I do this a lot lately, like I’m having some out-of-body experience, watching the action (or inaction, sometimes) as it unfolds. And then I’m retooling as I go along, rethinking my race ‘strategy’, whatever the hell that is. I should probably just admit it all involves me wanting to slow down and avoid pain while my brain says ‘suck it up’. Anyway, next time you’re on a tiring run, schedule a meeting with the legs and feet committee every couple of miles and have a discussion about hitting corporate goals. That sounds a lot more amusing and entertaining than just whining ‘I want to stop’.

‘Cause I’m a Meeaverrrick, doggone it!

Yeah, well, enough of that. So I start feeling the fatigue, and it’s totally predictable. And people I actually know start to pass me, and though I wish them well, my goals start to turn to dust, so thanks a lot, folks. But I keep up the fight. And math is not so hard for once, I figure I’m keeping a 7 minute/mile. Especially when I hit the 10-mile mark. Because, wait a minute, wait a minute, I’d have to run that in, I got it, um…. 70 minutes in order to keep that pace. I think.

And at the 10-mile marker my watch says 1:10:05. Don’t tell me! That means a… wait, I’m slowing down. The Race Narrator began to piss me off.

Then at mile 12 I know I’m not going to average under a 7-minute mile. How do these things get into your head? Who said I had to run a set pace? Who said I had to race at all? Can’t I just run a nice, leisurely half marathon for a change?

The answers: I Don't Know, Nobody, Nobody, and No. My old friends.

And yes, I just sucked it up instead of just… sucking. And raced the final mile. I thought I wasn’t going to make it without flying off the road, but I crossed the finish line in 1:31:36. Since at the time my brain couldn’t handle the math of that extra .1 mile, I didn’t know until after the results were posted that I’d run a 6:59 pace. I’d finished that last mile with only six seconds to spare. But I did it. With the help of corporate.

Y’know, I need to find some slower races out there for a change, because last Saturday I was still getting passed big time. These NYC events in Central Park are hyper-competitive. Not that they shouldn’t be, but people, it’s not safe out there. I felt so slow I was amazed anybody I knew finished behind me, including the guy from my running club that’s a contestant on Survivor this season (he finished right behind me). I’d still rather run a half marathon than eat bugs for lunch and dinner, but Jeez…

And I understand another fun race is coming up, so my ‘race every weekend’ schedule continues...

Race Report: ING NYC Marathon Tune-Up (18 Miles)

2008-10-07T15:54:00.001-04:00

Since I’ve run two races over the last couple of weekends it was time to say something about them before I completely forgot all about them. I’ve run enough races that my mind has a way of turning recent events into vague and fuzzy stream-of-unconsciousness memories that crop up again only when I’m feeling some ankle or leg pain two days afterwards.

So on this last Sunday in September the New York Road Runners held their annual 18-mile marathon ‘tune-up’ race. You’ll probably never do an 18-mile race, either, unless you’re in New York City and you decide to wear a bib number and a chip on some long run. I’ve done this race about six times before over the last ten years, and it’s OK if you like catered food and drinks and a white t-shirt for the trouble of a training run. At least it takes some of the mindbending boredom out of the typical weekend long run schedule. Problem is, some of us end up racing this distance when we’re not used to racing for 18 miles.

AND it’s three hilly loops of Central Park, one after the other, obviously. It gets a bit old after a while.

So about 4000 runners took off at 7AM on a blisteringly humid morning, it was 93% humidity and about 60 degrees. Nice and cool, but the foggy air just hit in waves, and I am not so good in Jurassic humidity. This summer I was reminded that high humidity adds 10-15 seconds per mile to my pace. And as for this race, well, summer was not over.

So I planned on running the 6-mile loops at around 45 minutes each. I’ve finished this race between 2:11 and 2:25 in the past, some years I take it easier than others. This time I figured I’d finish somewhere in between… since all of my race times over the last few months have hit right in the middle anyway. Solid ‘B’ grades. No ‘A’s, no ‘C’s, just ‘B’s.

Which is fine.

I tell myself.

Anyway, after the end of the first loop I looked at my watch and saw 44 minutes and change. OK, that’s nice, but there’s twelve miles of the exact same course to go. And then the hills started getting tougher. And at the end of the second loop my watch starts closing in on 1:31 or so, and I realized I was slowing down a little. And then on the third &%*(#)@ loop the hills are pissing me off, and other runners began to pass me. I knew I was slowing, but it sure felt like I was running the same pace. I admitted to myself a 45-minute 6-miler was not going to happen, I just wanted to get across the damn finish line. And I did, at 2:18:54. As predicted, right in the middle of my previous race finish times. And I had had plenty of time to talk to myself and over-analyze pace strategy, so I guess that meant there weren’t as many runners ticking me off like there normally are.

However, I did try something new during the race. When I had a downhill, I would kick my feet back a bit higher than normal, similar to the ‘butt-kicks’ during strength training. And I would run faster. And you guessed it, my quads were sore later. My quads never get sore, so I get what I deserve, probably.

In the end, it was a good ‘long run’ so to speak, but I don’t recommend racing long runs. I knew I could not keep that pace and run another 8 miles, if you know what I mean. Speaking of, marathon racing strategy is a whole different scene. More on that later.

Back Home

2008-09-23T18:48:00.000-04:00

Got back last night, I hope to write some semi-amusing posts about what went down while I was away. The highlight was a fairly long training run that included a good old falling flat on the face after stubbing my toe on a rock on the course. You know, the type of wonderful midair ‘oh shit’ feeling you get right before you land on sharp gravel, followed by ‘I hope no one saw that’, even though there’s already more blood than at a Vlad the Impaler Tupperware party. Such a blast.

Than some stomach virus hit Sunday night, and all those historical statistics make sense, especially in the bathroom, such as: more people died in the flu epidemic of 1918 than did in all of World War I. I’m not that bad off, but it makes running (as in, with running shoes, outside) impossible. I’ve got a sweet little 18-mile race this Sunday, better be ready for that silliness, pronto.

So I survived another long stint away from the blogga-whirl. Now that fall has begun, how about we all throw a Ducathalon and raise money for our hapless investment banks? You know, the Fed’s Run On the Banks… Um, not a good name, maybe Run For The Banks is slightly better…

Ten Days Away from NYC

2008-09-11T13:21:00.000-04:00

Love the city, but it gets tiresome, so I’ll be away it all for a week or so. I’ll have stories when I get back, though. Leaning toward the ING Hotford on 10/11, by the way.

Y’all have a good week…

R

P.S. Airplane/artwork at The Pompidou Center, Paris, above. Made out of scissors confiscated by airport security guards. Very funny.

Race Report: fitness® Mind, Body, Spirit Games (4M)

2008-09-10T15:18:00.002-04:00

Held last Saturday morning, this little race was a real delight. Yes, sarcasm already.

Well, there’s not much to say, but I’ll say it anyway. Your typical Central Park 4-miler, the men’s race was at 8:30AM, the women’s an hour later. I believe Fitness magazine is geared to women, so they decided to segregate the ladies so they didn’t have to deal with all the skinny white boys throwing rock star attitude at the start line. That’s my own opinion, of course, but even I get tired of getting elbowed by all those SWBs as they push their way to the front. Apparently, ‘Excuse me’ is too complex a sentence structure for these guys. At least they’re all easy to find in the race results, you just need to search in the names under ‘Dude’. I heard ‘Dude!’ about three dozen times while standing in the corral before the start.

And here’s the best part: the humidity felt about the same as it does in the shower right after you turn the water off. Tropical storm Hanna was making its way to the northeast, and right before its arrival we were treated to some really, really Jurassic weather. The temperature was OK, about 70 degrees, but the humidity felt like 150%. It was just unbelievable. The race director warned us to watch our pace, and I thought to myself, ‘yeah, yeah, we got it’, and then I realized sweat was already dripping down my back while I'm standing there.

The gun went off and out we went, and up the first hill, and I’m holding back my pace. My first mile was a bit fast, but not insanely so, and by the time I got to mile three I knew that no PR was ‘a-happenin’ today. Life goes on. Meanwhile, I notice runners passing me and it starts to piss me off a little, but I know that hurling breakfast would really piss me off, so I re-check my pace. Not bad, but slowing. And pretty soon everybody is slowing down a little, including two friends who stuck with my pace right behind me. They finished behind me too, but thanks to the chip system, finished a few seconds ahead.

I finished the race very happy to be done, with an uncharacteristic mini-sprint. Not a bad effort, but I realized long ago that a humid day adds 10-15 seconds per mile to my pace, so that’s life, and anyway, I figured that I’d actually done better than my last 4-miler in July. Once I got home I looked up my finish time for both races and discovered I’d done both races in the exact same time, 26:18. Weird. A lot of good all that speedwork training has done, I thought. Then again, at least I didn’t run slower, and the weather was a bit worse during this last race.

I will say that everybody thought the weather was just abominable, and wanted to crawl off and die once it was over. I was not alone. I hate it when there’s lousy race weather and other runners make cheery comments on how ‘great the weather was’ just to prove how tough they are. Yeah, you’re tough alright, especially for a goddamned idiot. Folks, if you finish a race and feel fine, don’t approach other runners and tell them how great you feel. Just shut up and go get them some water or something.

And I kind of did that, I went back out to the course and cheered on the unlucky guys still left out on the course. After a while, I saw coming through my Tuesday morning/Thursday evening running coach, formerly known as swimming coach. He had hit a wall at mile 2 and struggled all the way to the end. After he crossed the finish line, I got him some water and we traded comments about the stupid weather and crap non-runners look bored listening to. And I headed back out on the course to watch and clap for the ladies struggling through their own 4-miles of ungodly sweating and chafing. Fun.

So it looks like that’s it for short races for the time being. Got an 18-mile race in a few weeks, and then marathon mania begins. Oh, and despite the sweaty race on Saturday, I managed to get a nice long run in on Sunday, running around Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan. Over three hours of clomp, clomp, clomping asphalt. By then the humidity had left, thank you Jesus.

iPod Friday 33: Ladies with an Attitude

2008-09-05T17:34:00.008-04:00

Annie - I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me

Madonna - She's Not Me (DJ Dvir Halevi Remix)

The Ting Tings - That's Not My Name

Lily Allen - Guess Who Batman (warning: f-bombs)

Infernal - I Won't Be Crying (Extended Mix)

Onetwo - Home (Tonight)

Lady GaGa – Just Dance

Shakespeare For Runners, Part 1

2008-08-28T07:31:00.018-04:00

If you weren’t an English major, you probably just groaned at the title above. But stick with me, if only because it’s another of my hair-brained ideas out for all to see.

Every year I get a running log either from Runner’s World magazine or at the bookstore. And every time I open it up I read those inspirational quotes and sayings thrown into the calendar that are supposed to motivate you to achieve your goals and dreams and other crap. Funny thing is, those quotations never make it any easier for me to get out the door for a tough training run nor do they help me cross the finish line. I’m thinking other thoughts then, like ‘this hurts’ and ‘who came up with this stupid course’ and my favorite of all, ‘thank God that’s over’. But never something so dumb and puerile as ‘the first step is the most important on the road of life’ and other Hallmark card sentiments they throw at you, quoting some track coach who never ran a day in his life.

I decided I had to find my own quotations. And from less-obvious personalities than marathoners of the 1970s. So off I went in search of quotes from poets and writers and real people who weren’t afraid to say or write things along the lines of ‘this hurts’. I quickly realized I could spend years cataloguing identical missives in modern Russian literature, just for starters.

And back to the basics I went, only to settle on the greatest playwright in the English language, and possibly in any language. Shakespeare had it all, even if he’s not your cup of tea, so to speak. His dialogue may not always be easy for modern ears to follow, and it takes some getting used to, but he sure knew how to create a character or two. And scene, and situation, and everything else.

Well, I don’t have the time nor the expertise to go into why we should all at least know something about Shakespeare and his work, so I’ll get into the quotation that I found that I, and hopefully you, may relate to.

Richard II was one of his early historical dramas, and like many of them, does not have what we’d call a happy ending. Richard II (1367-1400) was not well-liked, he suffered continual bouts of assholism, and really, really enjoyed being in charge of everyone else. Historically, his enemies tried to overthrow him twice and finally succeeded; they hated him so much that when they threw him into prison they just let him rot there, as if he wasn’t worth the trouble of execution. Shakespeare makes him out to be a bit indecisive, and kind of, well, a downer. And a bit of a prissy miss thang, letting a ‘snap’ fly when making a point now and then. Oh, yes, she did!

So today’s quote is from Richard II, Act 3, Scene II. The Que-, uh, King, realizes that everything is over, he’s lost the battle against Bolingbroke over his crown, and it’s a bad day all around. It’s no pep talk; he tells his friends that it’s too late to even save themselves and they might as well just give up and go to Denny’s. ‘Cause that bitch Tyra ain’t never gonna let them walk the runway.

(Here’s the excerpt, you may skim like many a freshman lit class student has done before you:)

KING RICHARD II:  
No matter where; of comfort no man speak:  
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;  
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes  
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,  
Let's choose executors and talk of wills:  
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath  
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?  
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke's,  
And nothing can we call our own but death  
And that small model of the barren earth  
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.  
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground  
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;  
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,  
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;  
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;  
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown  
That rounds the mortal temples of a king  
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,  
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,  
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,  
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,  
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,  
As if this flesh which walls about our life,  
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus  
Comes at the last and with a little pin  
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!  
Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood  
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,  
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,  
For you have but mistook me all this while:  
I live with bread like you, feel want,  
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,  
How can you say to me, I am a king?

Now wasn’t that delightful? Who wouldn’t invite this guy to happy hour? OK, OK, you got it, he’s not being particularly uplifting (for good reason, he wasn’t around for much longer), but sometimes life is not so uplifting, either.

And here’s what I think we can take away from this little, albeit beautifully written tirade. Obviously, at some point in our lives we feel like this and can relate on some level. Of course, we may not relate to this situation, but to the emotion in the text (which is one reason why Shakespeare is a genius). Here, all is lost, but Richard, after all, is a human being, and he at least understands that and admits it (finally) at the very end, right when it’s too late to find out. And besides, being king is so ten minutes ago.

When do I feel (sort of) like this? For starters, when I’m hating the world and everyone who ever lived, at mile marker 20 and beyond. No, I don’t get this dramatic, but in my own mind it’s not a happy place. I definitely ‘kill with looks’ and ‘write sorrow on the bosom of the earth’. See? I’m quoting Shakespeare already, and you can, too.

And my favorite line of all, the one you can quote all you want because after all it’s Shakespeare, give it up:

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground  
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;  

That is the famous quote here anyway, but my favorite part:

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground

So if you made it this far today, that’s the famous line you can at least throw down during your final marathon death march. Amaze and amuse your friends (that is, if you have any left) with this little gem and others and be sure to mention Richard II Act 3, Scene II. Now, isn’t that better than:

‘A wish is a dream your heart makes.’ – A. Funicello

P.S. For the sake of full disclosure, I am not entirely impartial about Richard II. You see, last year I researched my own genealogy and discovered that I’m a descendant of King Edward III (1312-1377), he’s a great-(add seventeen more ‘great-’s) grandfather. And Richard II is a grandson of his. Which means this Richard has a cousin Richard, too. Funny enough, I’m also descended from an Ann Shakespeare; not sure if she’s related to you-know-who, but I’ll have to find out more on that.

Training to Get Faster

2008-08-27T11:28:00.010-04:00

Some might call me a fast runner, I don’t. I’m moderately fast. To me, fast is running under a 6:30 minute/mile, moderately fast is between that and an 8 minute/mile. A moderate pace is between 8 and 9:30, and any pace that takes longer than a 9:30 minute/mile is slow. Those are just my benchmarks, yours may be different, that’s perfectly fine. Speed is relative. And not everyone wants to get faster.

The key to much of my training is based on these different paces. Speedwork can be anywhere from 6-7 minute miles, tempo runs between 7 and 8, and long, easy runs clock in at an 8-8:30 pace. My recovery runs can be even slower, and that’s fine with me.

So my training, usually for marathons, involves two speed or tempo workouts per week, one long run on the weekend, and easy runs or cross-training during the week. I am not reinventing the wheel, as you probably can tell, almost all marathon training plans are similar to this.

This summer I’ve been meeting with two different coaches/running-triathlon teams for workouts and on Sunday mornings running long, 15-20 miles. I haven’t had a schedule per se, but since the workouts kick my ass I figure something must be going right.

Anyway, one point I’d like to make is that knowing what your fast, moderate and slow paces are is useful when training. I run with too many folks who take off like bats out of hell on easy runs, only to poop out on the first hill. You need to know your paces and know how they feel so you can keep them on any given run. You need to know the difference between 85% effort and 70% effort if you want to get faster. If it makes it easier, find out how fast 90-95% effort (ready to throw up) is for you and work down. Go to a track or measured course and time yourself on it at various speeds and efforts. On the other end of the scale, use your training log or past times to find out what ‘easy’ is for you.

Over the last few years I’ve used coach Jack Daniels’ (as apposed to Jack Daniel’s, that’s helpful a bit later) running charts to help me know which paces I should be using in training to get faster. Using previous race times and a VDOT (a coefficient that correlates to maximum training intensity) chart that gives you training paces depending on distance, you can come up with a general idea of what each particular pace should be, and use that information when setting up a training plan.

For instance, say you’ve run a recent 10K at a 7:30 minute/mile, or 46:30. At that intensity, Daniels says you are running at a training intensity (VDOT) of 43 (this value gets higher at faster speeds). And using Daniels’ table on ‘Training Intensities Based on Current VDOT’:

Easy pace: 9:37 minute/mile
Marathon pace: 8:15 minute/mile
Tempo pace: 7:42 minute/mile
Speedwork: 4:26 minute/1000 meters (because you can’t and shouldn’t be doing ‘miles’ of real speedwork)
Sprints: 49 seconds/200 meters

Here’s an easy Daniels training calculator, by the way.

I’ve used these tables to determine training intensity before, and I got faster. Over the winter I used the treadmill at my gym to keep correct pace, and I thought I’d kill myself on occasion, but it’s not a bad idea to at least try out a pace on a treadmill to get the feel of it. However, I do not run a speedwork pace on treadmills, it’s too fast for me, running all out on a treadmill is not something I recommend. Go to a track or measured course for real speedwork, or all-out run-til-you-puke pace.

However, I don’t enslave myself to any particular training intensity. In this example, if I wanted to do a long easy run I might end up running 9:30 minute/miles instead of 9:37. However, the point is to slow down on those long runs, and keep that general pace. And if I finish a 200 meter speedwork course in 47 seconds (instead of 49), then I’m not losing sleep over that, either. Sometimes it’s like weight training, if you’ve got one more rep in you on a heavy day then go for it.

One caveat, though, the longer the course, the more your pace can change. I’ve trained for marathons that I should’ve finished in 3:15 but finished in 3:30, and it’s the luck of the draw on race day. You know anything can happen, you can start walking and just add extra time to your total even though you kept your pace when running. Or just feel lousy and slow down starting at mile 20, which happens to everybody in some races. So I take these predicted marathon times with some reservation, the point I’m making is I train at a certain intensity to train myself to keep that marathon pace, and whatever else that happens that day is going to happen.

Also, those of you who swim two miles followed by a 100+ mile bike ride, and then run, well, you’ve got to adjust your expectations. My training does not assume hours of other exercise before a run, so, for example, if you want to go from a 7:30 minute/mile to a 6:30 minute/mile marathon (which is a tall order for any race event), then good luck. The faster you get, the harder you’re going to be able to whittle away at that race pace ceiling, we all plateau at some point. Face it: we’re not going to be passing Kenyans in the last mile. And the longer you’re out there running, the more that can go wrong (or right, I’ll try to be positive for once).

All that said, I still recommend determining a set of challenging paces that are comparable or a little faster than your paces now, and then devising a plan of action. And one other thing, in that sample pace list above is a marathon training pace, that’s good to know. At the very least, you should know that so you can try it out on a moderately long run once a week or every couple of weeks. It’s faster than a long, easy run pace, but slow enough that you can run that for a few hours (somewhat) comfortably.

Sorry if I didn’t go into the science of all this, and didn’t get too detailed, but after reading several books and articles on the subject, I’ve discovered that most training programs give the same general advice: two training-specific runs a week, a long run on the weekend, recovery/easy runs in-between. You’re weekly mileage is yours alone, it should be a function of when that marathon is and how much you plan to run long in the months leading up to it.

Anyway, here’s the book I use: Daniels’ Running Formula (Second Edition), it gives you concrete workouts based on these paces... I’m not going to say you have to use this method because other methods are similar. I’ve used it in the past simply because I like using tables and numbers that tell me exactly what I should be doing and it helps to not think about it when you’re stuck on a treadmill during the dead of winter.

And my training paces, in case you’re wondering: Easy: 8:32; Marathon: 7:17; Tempo: 6:51; Speedwork: 3:55/1000 meters; Sprints: 43 seconds/200 meters. All based on my recent 41-minute 10K time and 1:31 half marathon time. And yes, some of these paces are too fast for me on particular days, but I do the best I can. I cut myself some slack on some days, and other days I’m faster. But I stay in the neighborhood, it all works out, and my experience has been that I got faster. And that slow pace? Learn it, you need to know how to take it easy, I see so many runners who just have to ‘run-fast-all-the-time’ who wouldn’t know a recovery run pace if it bit them on the glutes. Save the competitive spirit for race day and your own goals. Be smart. Teach yourself how to run really, really fast on certain days and learn how to recover from it.

Upcoming Races

2008-08-25T18:02:00.000-04:00

While I mentally write a script treatment for my latest long run/crazy idea, the first living dead/marathon running movie, 26 Miles Later, I decided to mention my race schedule. More on training soon. In the meantime, mirth and mayhem, dead ahead.

9/6 fitness® Mind, Body, Spirit Games (4M) – Central Park
10/4 Norwegian Festival Half Marathon – Central Park
10/12 Staten Island Half Marathon (tentative)
10/? Marathon TBD (suggestions?)
11/2 New York City Marathon
11/15 Knickerbocker 60K – Central Park
12/7 Joe Kleinerman 10K – Central Park
1/11 Walt Disney World Marathon (which will be frickin’ magical, of course)

iPod Friday 32: Dance Rock Summer ‘08

2008-08-22T18:09:00.007-04:00

On heavy rotation on my iPod right now, tempo run ready…

Coldplay - Viva la Vida (Grant's Uplifting Club Mix)

B-52's - FunPlex (Mad Shopper Mix)

Metronomy - Heartbreaker (Kris Menace Remix)

The Ting Tings - Shut Up And Let Me Go

Midnight Juggernauts - Dystopia (Turkish Prison Remix)

The Library - Doctor

DJ Paul V - Jesus Kissed A Girl

Race Report: Club Championships (5-Miler)

2008-08-19T18:27:00.003-04:00

Sure haven’t written a race report in a while. Not because of the reason you’d guess (hadn’t run any races), but because my experience was much the same throughout each one. Had I PR’d in one of them, I probably would’ve said something at least, but believe me, I didn’t PR. But no real regrets here other than that I probably should’ve come back from Boston in April and started speedwork immediately and kept at it through June and beyond. But I didn’t, I didn’t even show up for tempo runs until the end of June, and so my race times were slower than they were in spring. Guess what? I got over it.

So my race experiences became very predictable. I would show up, start out with a slower first mile than normal, by about 10-20 seconds, then I’d try to make it up with a faster pace. Then the heat and/or humidity would strike and with 1-2 miles to go in each race I knew I wasn’t going to break any records. Crossing the finish line was never particularly easy, but I knew if I gave it 90% or more I’d end up with a professional photo of my breakfast crossing the finish line before I did. So I kept my effort just a little on the down low, and thus never really got very close to my best finish times.

Last Saturday was the Team Championships race in NYC, and a faster bunch of skinny mofos you could not find anywhere, except maybe right now in Beijing. The men had their own race at 8AM, and as it was, fewer than 800 finished the race. We were put in rather tightly-controlled pace corrals, and I was in the third one, when I’m usually in the first. I wasn’t complaining, I did not want shoe tread marks on my back from speedsters running 5:30 minute/miles, so I was happy right where I was. Surrounded by several friends from my running club, we all looked like we would’ve been just as happy bagging the race and hitting the International House of Pancakes. In other words, my kind of people.

Before taking off I noticed a guy not far in front of me with way too much swag and flair going on. Expensive sunglasses, headphones, iPod, etc. People, you don’t need to pack for a five mile race. A marathon in Death Valley, yes, but not a 5-miler in New York City. So I commented on this sad state of affairs to someone behind me, who half-agreed with me. Oh well. Swag Boy is so cool, though he would just have to listen that much harder for all the rest of us out on the course.

So we took off and I realize at the 1-mile marker that even with the 10-second delay to get to the chip mats at the start I would have to make up about 20 seconds on the next mile just to be at PR pace. And then during the second mile I realized that with the 90% humidity it wasn’t too likely; the temperature was great, right about 70, but the humidity was way too high for me. Damn, it’s happening, I’m breathing too heavily in this soggy atmosphere. Again.

So I pass some runners, some I know, and some runners pass me. You know how it is. Same old story. And the hills of Central Park, which I know every inch of, are still not easy to do at a faster-than-normal pace.

Before we arrive at Cat Hill, one of two steep hills on the course, I see Swag Boy and his headphones and assorted paraphernalia pass me. I keep his pace, running about ten feet behind him, and then on the hill he hits the wall. Did I mention I’m rather good at keeping my pace on hills? Well, Swag Boy found out, and I passed him with not much problem, and never saw him again. Folks, if you’re going to be running a hilly race course sometime soon, train on one.

After all that hubris, I was soon repaid with the nasty urge to reexamine recent food choices. Since it wasn’t the longest race, I sucked up the nausea and finished up. Not before two idiots decided to cut me off with about 15 feet of room on the course. It wasn’t crowded at all, really, but they just had to pass me (which is fine, go right ahead), and then had to take an immediate left into my lane so they could run about a foot and a half right in front of me. What is this, the New Jersey Turnpike? Ever been driving on an empty 3-lane highway and then out of nowhere, somebody drives past and then gets in front of you in your lane, only to slow down? So of course, both times I let out a sarcasm-laced ‘Thanks’. The first guy who cut me off either didn’t hear me or just ignored me. The second heard me and mumbled something like ‘sorry’ that didn’t sound overly convincing. I know, I should probably take a Zoloft or something and move on, but living in a world of Me First and The Gimme Gimmes (an actual rock band name I didn’t make up) just pisses me off.

So I finished up, just in time to see my race time was about 30 seconds slower than my PR. A loud sigh followed, but I’m relieved I didn’t end up puking and crawling all over the chip mats. Five miles in 32:31 is perfectly OK for me, blazingly fast for many and embarrassingly slow for others as well. I see some friends and everybody talks about how nice the weather was and I smile weakly and quietly disagree.

To be fair, there were some fast finish times out there. The top twelve finishers ran a pace of less than 5 minute/miles, and there were so many speedy guys ahead of me that my race stats sucked out loud. I came in about the middle of the pack, and I never do that, but I knew going in what I was up against. So what, I wasn’t that far off my best time.

Well, as I’ve said, all my race experiences this summer have been just like last Saturday’s, with comparable finish times.

6/28 Pride Run (5 miles) - 34:03
7/13 Park to Park (10K) – 41:20
7/19 Run for Central Park (4 miles) – 26:18
and then this race, where at least I ran my fastest pace this summer.

Sure, it’s been hot, but not too brutal, like ‘close the course’ brutal. I know I’ll soldier on, and we’ll all survive to race another day. But in case you wanted to know, at least for me, it’s been an imperfect race season in an imperfect world. If you have had the same season, you are not alone.

In The Pool with Cranky

2008-08-14T07:30:00.006-04:00

So in my effort to one day rock the triathlon world (like Speedy Speed Racer did very recently), I have been learning to swim. This began in January with lessons which quickly established I had issues with the water. I like to think that the issues are fewer now since I have no problem hitting the pool three times a week, all the while looking like I know what the hell I’m doing while I’m there. I’m no way near ready for completing any measured distance, but I can sure do my time at a good pool facility (good enough for you-know-who to train there when he visits NYC) on the upper east side of Manhattan. And I’m not as good a swimmer as I’d like to be, but like the grownups say, it’s important to have goals.

I have a day membership (only) at the pool, which for me means no early morning or evening swimming with the Olympians and other wannabes. Instead, the folks I encounter are either senior citizens or kids, so I’m often the sole representative of the demographic in between. This makes for some odd looks from the other swimmers and an occasional lifeguard, usually bored out of his mind and silently contemplating murder/suicide by paddle board.

To get to the reality of all this, it’s like a senior citizen party, à la Cocoon, every single day. The old men amble down the pool lanes, and a handful of elderly women crawl on top of the water with full scuba-diving outfits. On most occasions, I’m passing these folks, and I’m no speed demon, either. And I really don’t think I’m ready for the cover of GQ anytime soon, but when I’m in the locker room the wrinkles and back hair and rolls of skin that everybody else seems to have makes me look like Crank E. Adonis just in from Marathon. Believe me, I don’t try to look, but, either way, it just ain’t pretty in there. I’m just glad the kids have their own locker room, we don’t have enough money in the health care system to cover that kind of therapy.

Anyway, on this particular day I get in the pool and am surrounded by members of the AARP since 1942. And then there’s the kids; if you’re under ten years old, you must, must, scream at the top of your lungs like Mariah Carey finishing an encore, or calling her dog, or both. Kids are LOUD. And they get in the water and do the splashy-splashy and scream like they’re recreating scenes from The Old Testament. Pharoah probably had a public pool outside his bedroom window, and one day, just snapped. Like the whole Moses thing was an afterthought.

The kids over age 10 are more serious about swimming, so they get in the marked lanes. My pool facility has a ‘Summer Day Camp’ program with what seems like 7000 schools in New York City, so every day for the last month or so orange school buses line up in front of the facility and push out scores of kids ready to work off all that bodyfat the news media keeps going on about. And so crowds of chubby pre-teens ring the pool waiting for their time to get in while I and several 70- and 80-year-olds slap at the water. By 10AM you’re out, because Charles Manson Middle School is ready to get in and work off last night’s KFC. I’d like to write a letter to somebody to complain, but I know I’d get some ‘kids are our future’ and a ‘precious resource’-type answer, and I’d be fighting a long, losing battle in child-centric New York.

So one day I show up at the pool right after 9AM, giving myself about an hour to swim before eviction. I notice two gray-haired guys in the widest lane on the left, and it looks like they’re wearing scuba gear. I get in the lane next to them, between them and the younger kids’ pool, a veritable toddler soup of high-pitched ultrasonic screams probably driving some german shepherd in the neighborhood completely insane.

As I make my way down the lane, with reasonably good form I’ll have you know, I see that one of the divers is CNN’s Anderson Cooper. He’s learning to use a tank, and dive, and all that, while wearing black, rubber flippers that would even look too big on Bozo the Clown. I overlook my flipper envy and return back down the lane like the rat in water I am. This routine goes on for a while, and every time my head is down in the water (most of the time) I can hear the hissing of oxygen tanks alternating with what sounds like the slaughter of the innocents. So the soundtrack of my day goes something like this:

(dive, swim, blow out)
Blurgggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh….
Hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…
(come up for air, right ear hears children screaming)
Shrieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek….
(head back down, four strokes)
Blurgggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh….
Hissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…
(come back up for air, hear more screaming, etc…..)

And on and on it goes. And I look down at the bottom of the pool, and AC of CNN looks up and sees Monsieur Le Crank with his locker room beauty pageant Burger King paper crown passing overhead.

And now it’s nearing 10AM, and it’s attack of the pre-teens. They arrive like the Mongol hordes, and sit at the ends of the pool with their stubby legs in the water, six to a lane. And they watch. The elderly swimmers start to get skeeved, they’ve seen Village of the Damned already, and they’re out of there. And it’s just me on the surface, and Anderson and his trainer lounging on the pool floor. And I’m NO good at being watched by strangers, especially feral ones, so I have to pull out all the stops on correct swimming form for the kids. ‘Do it for The Children!’… And they watch, though I get the feeling they’d much rather see a Rihanna or Jonas Brothers video on YouTube than my speedo-busting butt bobbing down the lane, back and forth. At this point, you probably can figure out that there’s not going to be much of a punch line to this story, all I can say is that it was a rather new experience. Me in a chlorine thunderdome, complete with news media representative in case things got really scary. But it already had gotten scary, in the men’s locker room.

Mr. Cooper (or Vanderbilt, I should say, I imagine he doesn’t need the money) made his way nonchalantly out of the water. After finishing my last loop in seemingly perfect form, I exited the pool as distractedly as the kids went in. Back I went to the locker room for the awards ceremony, where I would win in my age group. Because I was the only person IN my frickin’ age group.

And so this is how I practice swimming. Not with wetsuits and colored swim caps and lake bacteria, but with chlorine and Old Spice consumers and celebrities and hovering city kids. How funky/New York City of me. At this rate I’ll be ready for my first tri by spring, 2010.

A Word from NBC & The Olympics

2008-08-11T08:37:00.005-04:00

Dear America,

We are happy to report to you some late-breaking news from Beijing, not just the capital of The People’s Republic of China, but the place where America shows how humbly victorious it is during our coverage of the greatest sporting event of your or anybody else’s lifetime.

Michael Phelps loves Chinese food!

Can you believe it? What? YOU like Chinese food, TOO? Get out of here! Wait, don’t, Michael Phelps just said something!

Michael Phelps, you are SO funny! You’re mining comedy gold now, Dude! Wait, wait, what’s on your iPod? Whatcha listening to? Huh?

Damn, you rock.

We saw you win another gold medal with some other guys. I hope they’re American! Not like those mean jerks from… France. You showed them! We could teach them a thing or two about freedom, right? You tell them to come to New York City, U.S.A. and kiss Lady Liberty’s ass! What, they sent that to us? Uh, but we paid them for it, right? Uh, well, uh…. Shut up!

So Michael Phelps, whatcha doin’? You are just awe-… wait, somebody else just got into the pool. Hey, get out, Michael Phelps might want to swim, did you think about THAT?

And then there’s 41-year-old Dara Torres. She’s ANCIENT. Not like you, Michael Phelps. But she’s inspirational, that 41-year-old Dara Torres. So maybe we’ll talk to her in a minute…

But wait! Michael Phelps, did you just say something? Six more to go! You can do math, too?

Damn, Michael Phelps!

Hey Michael, did we mention you better not screw it up?

Specifications for Domination

2008-08-08T14:02:00.005-04:00

This summer I’ve been shopping around and reading way too many product descriptions of bikes. They’re pretty much all the same: a mixture of bike geek jargon, ridiculous marketing prose, and the lure of unbelievable coolness. It’s hucksterism, BS, cliché, and science fiction, all in one.

Since I became more confused the more I read (sort of like reading Proust, without the madeleines and espresso), I decided I could probably write something equally obtuse and grand. So now I give you my very own bike description, it’s Institionalized’s BitchSlappa F-Yawl-2…

Institionalized’s BitchSlappa F-Yawl-2

From the folks who brought you the iconic BitchSlappa F-Yawl comes the F-Yawl-2! New and improved, Institutionalized has done it again! Biking will never be the same. In fact we’re not going to call it biking anymore, we’re just going to call it ‘slappin’!

Your friends will have no choice but to worship and build postmodern edifices to your omniscient greatness as you crush their dreams on our space-age construction of hardon, titanic, carpathium, and inanium. The fork itself is a wonder of science, bringing together NASA-developed technology and Cold War-era erector sets into the 21st century. The front derailleur is manufactured in Estonia using Tupper Laboratories ‘Burp-Less’ vacuum-packing, while the rear derailleur is, well, we can’t even tell you because it’s top-secret and we just won’t let the terrorists win. Let’s just say: “Fission Accomplished”!

The seat rests atop a post created from state-of-the-art anti-matter, making for a smooth-ass ride and providing sub-molecular derriere travel. And 71 cogs (a prime number!) will have you smoking the competition on those hills. Hey, what hills? What you talkin’ ‘bout? And the rims on the wheels? Damn, you’ll be on board faster than you can say ‘Vitamin Water stock split’!

Drive your enemies from their homes!

Watch them die slow, painful deaths from envy!

Hear the lamentation of their women!

Handelbar tassles optional.

.....................
The audio portion of today’s program is provided by Macy Gray. I’ve never been a big fan of husky-voiced Amazon messes (well, RuPaul may be an exception), but Macy lets it all hang out on this one. I laughed at first, then I realized she’s probably being serious. Then I laughed some more.

Macy Gray – Slap a Bitch

And now the video portion of today’s post. I don’t advocate the taking of drugs, but if you have any, you might think about doing it during this rapturous, Slavic presentation.

Sunday, the 20th; New York City Triathlon

2008-08-05T15:01:00.005-04:00

Quite a day. Yes, I’ll start putting verbs in sentences.

Backstory: Last November 1st, registration for the NYC Triathon opened up at midnight. Since I like to have a goal race on the schedule before finishing the current one, I thought it would be interesting (to put it one way) to register for a triathlon before doing the NYC marathon, then several days off. I’d watched the ’07 triathlon that year and run with running pal Tim during the final 10K. It looked like ‘fun’. So the morning of the 1st, I went on-line to register and got through. Just as I was about to get my confirmation I received notification that my credit card number had not been approved, which is weird since I didn’t have credit card debt. I shrugged it off and decided to call Mastercard after a while. And that was my mistake, for by the time I cleared up the problem, whatever it was, triathlon registration had closed. Never mind I had registered for over two dozen marathons on-line with a credit card, Mastercard thought someone had stolen my card and registered in a triathlon. At that point, I decided that anybody who actually stole a credit card number to register for a triathlon deserved to be in one. And fate had decided I wasn’t doing this one in July, so that’s how it goes.

Moving forward to July of ’08… I had decided to join the spectators along the course, which in this case, meant crowds of spouses with children and a parent or two, all wondering out loud why their beloved so-and-so is crazy enough to swim, bike and run all in one day. But still holding up homemade signs that tell Megan or Matthew that ‘you’re the best’ and to ‘go’ as if that was some late-breaking race strategy.

I set my clock for 5AM and run two miles to the start on Manhattan’s west side and the Hudson River. I bring a dozen tiny water bottles in a back pack for anyone along the course who might need it, only to find out that water bottles are really heavy. By the time I get to the start, the elites have already gone into the water, as well as the over-60 men and the first few groups of women. Fortunately, I run into running pals Tim and Bryce, fresh from the Patriot Half two weeks before. They’re ready to go, and feeling good.

So they get into their assigned groups and wait to head onto the pontoon jutting out in the river. The weather is warm, but not as bad as it’s been. I head back near T1 along the water and watch swimmers complete the 1500-meter course. After spending most of the year working on my swimming technique (as in ‘not sinking’ and ‘learning to love it’) I discover that as for swimming style, anything goes. Really? All that work on swimming and all I see are triathletes doing backstrokes and doggie paddling and flailing? ‘What’s up with that?’ is the only creative question floating around in my brain. What I didn’t know, and would find out later, was that the hapless swimmers were getting a full Japanese horror movie-style attack from stinging jellyfish. The jellyfish moved in as the swimmers waited to enter the river, and when it was time to dive into the water it was already alive with prehistoric creatures racing humans to T1.

Now, I’m fairly intrepid and well, can tough out a few things, but stinging things in the water? I would not have been happy. Especially since I’m allergic to bee stings. And as a child, watched many, many stinging jellyfish pass by while staring over the side of a boat in the Chesapeake Bay. And once in a while you’d see one with a red blob in the middle, fondly referred to as ‘bloodsuckers’. I could go to a Herschell Gordon Lewis film festival and not bat an eye, but show me a bloodsucking jellyfish and I’d lose my recent breakfast, lunch and dinner, in that order.

So I imagine some swimmers were creating new freestyle strokes to escape the nasty little things waiting for them in the water. I know of one swimmer who had a jellyfish go down the back of her wetsuit, and stay there. Nice.

Well, in the end, everybody I spoke to said they got stung repeatedly, but ‘the stings went away after a while’. Well, that’s peachy, but I still wouldn’t have been particularly thrilled to be greeted by Jurassic organisms at the start of my first triathlon.

I went to T1 and managed to see Bryce go by on his bike, and realized I’d probably missed Tim. So I headed closer to where the swimmers were coming out of the water, on another pontoon. They would crawl out on a ramp, and head back up another ramp to the shore and an asphalt bike path and a somewhat longer trip to their bikes.

By this time it’s 8AM or so, and I realize I’ve probably missed seeing Tim, since his swim had started about 7:35. And then there is a commotion. A volunteer on the pontoon is screaming at people to get out of the way. More volunteers arrive on the pontoon, and I can see they’re working hard to get someone out of the water. A few minutes to by, and I see a gurney hurtling down the ramp to the pontoon, and swimmers going up are almost knocked back into the water. Things start to get really quiet.

And after another minute or two, the gurney moves back up the ramp to the shore, and again, departing swimmers are almost tossed back into the river. Volunteers start screaming at people, mostly spectators, to move back.

All of us standing there didn’t say a word, but we were all thinking the same thing: whatever this is, this is serious. And we want to look, but then again we don’t want to, and we shouldn’t be in the way, whatever is going on. But you still feel helpless. So we keep looking for friends and loved ones, and it’s difficult. Because you know there’s a swirl of activity next to you with at least a dozen volunteers and aid workers trying to revive someone, someone that somebody else could be looking for along the course. And all I can see is a tall man, towering over this prone body, giving the most intense CPR and chest massage I‘ve ever seen. And one other volunteer holding the swimmer’s right arm at the wrist, desperately searching for a pulse. And this goes on. And on. For fifteen minutes.

Meanwhile, swimmers come out of the water, and if they can see what’s happening, they don’t let on. Finally, with no actual road for cars to get to the location, two ambulances roll into the area along the footpaths. Whoever has been getting CPR is taken up to one of the vehicles and taken away.

I slowly head back to Central Park and begin to wait on the running course for my friends to get there. And they do, about an hour or so later. I get to cheer on anyone who is willing to hear me. And that’s quite a few, since the temperature and humidity rise enough to make the run really, really unpleasant. At this point the only pleasant thought I have concerns writing a congratulatory letter to Mastercard for it’s diligence against credit card theft. Today, after all, I am happy to not be competing in this event.

In the end, my friends finished and finished well. Some people complained that the officials made no mention of the jellyfish situation (officials explained that they did not want to ‘alarm the swimmers’). Later that day, when I checked the triathlon website there was no mention of any casualties on the course. I figured, or at least hoped, things had turned out OK for the swimmer I saw getting CPR.

And as some of you may know, that was not the case. The swimmer was a 32-year old guy from Argentina, and he had gone into cardiac arrest while in the water. And he was probably gone by the time they got him on dry land. But I’ll never forget two things about watching this: first, how long it took for the ambulances to arrive. And secondly, this guy’s right arm hanging limply off the side of the gurney. It was so white, it looked like chalk. I’ll never get that out of my head. I must’ve known then it was probably too late.

I’d like to write more, but I don’t think I’m able to properly discuss what all this means. Of course, I wouldn’t offer cautionary observations on why human beings should, or shouldn’t push their bodies to physical limits. I do that myself on occasion, and I have no real regrets. Then again, I’m uncomfortable with the ‘he died doing what he loved’ argument, true as it may be. So I guess I know what I wouldn’t say or write, which is indicative of something.

I do know that human tragedy can occur at the office, in a hospital room, on the street, or anywhere. And ‘anywhere’ just might include ‘at a race’. Unfortunately, that’s been all too true this summer.

Above is a picture I took as the swimmers left the water. Notice the crowd of people on the right. Even the silhouettes of the trees look dark and ominous.

P.S. In lighter news, thanks for checking on me, those of you who do. The summer has not been so great, and I didn’t want to whine or complain about it because it’s pointless to do so, so I clam up. But I’m OK. I do wish the year would stop flying by so fast, though. I’ll promise to write more about the drama and comedy of the last couple of months… not that it’s all that interesting, but you know, you know what it's all about...

Hot in Herre for Cranky/Sexy

2008-07-17T17:29:00.000-04:00

Brilliant observation about the weather, I know. But really people, it’s been hot. I went out for a nice, easy 5-miler at 3PM yesterday and began to get hallucinations around the three-mile mark. It was 90 degrees and 80% humidity, and I kept wondering why I didn’t see any other runners in Central Park. It’s because it’s damned hot outside, you idiot.

So the day before I was running along FDR Drive, the four-lane highway on the east side waterfront of Manhattan. It was hot then, too, and I was out there wearing only my new, bright yellow Mizunos and a moisture-wicking pair of running shorts, that’s it. I do not pretend to be anyone’s idea of a fine physical specimen, but at least I’m not too overly embarrassed when the heat forces me to run around like some topless, drunk 19-year-old in a ‘Girl’s Gone Wild’ video. Anyway, I’m running along the FDR, and the traffic is backed up for miles as it is sometimes, and soon I discover I’m eye candy for several drivers and scrubs stuck in gridlock. And then I get a major shout-out of whoops and hollers from one vehicle. And then another. So without missing a beat, I throw over my right shoulder a look that can only say: ‘You want some? Well, baby, sweetie, honey, you better be moving at 7:45 minute/miles on land or sea if you want some of THIS’. And then I fly off like a half- or fully-naked Will Ferrell, which he always seems to do in just about every movie he’s in.

I told you the heat is affecting my brain.

I’ve got more crap like that to post, so watch out. Next up is a post about yesterday’s trip to the pool, where I cranked (or is that crunked?) my customary laps while CNN’s Anderson Cooper, learning to scuba dive, sits at the bottom of the pool looking up as I exhibit PERFECT FORM for the children and old folks and at least one TV journalist. I was Cranky/Sexy (pronounced ‘Thek-thy'), alright.

Back to the heat. Sing it, James.

James Brown – Too Funky in Here (remix).

Bikers vs. Everybody

2008-07-07T16:19:00.001-04:00

Here’s an interesting little article from New York Magazine making the e-mail rounds in NYC.

Who Owns Central Park?

It’s about the congestion of runners, cyclists, walkers et al, in Central Park. While the current situation in the park is probably not something any non-New Yorker would be interested in, this article does address some of the personality conflicts between those who hit the pavement on two feet versus two wheels (or four, if you count dogs). By the end of the article I got the impression that there are a lot of asshole cyclists using the park, but nobody’s perfect.

As for myself, I’ve never had a run-in with an athlete/cyclist. I stay on my side of the road, they stay on theirs, and that seems to work fine. But if you go into the park in the early morning, you do indeed hear the swoosh of cyclists, in packs, flying at top speed through red lights. Generally, they are not a relaxed group. And I’ve indeed heard them screaming at perceived idiots as they flew by. To be fair, there are a lot of idiots in the park. Some of them wear running shoes, and some of them ride bikes. And why any dog owner is dumb enough to take their pet off-leash in heavy road traffic is beyond me. Just because something is legal doesn’t make it the right thing to do. Of course, being a larval triathlete, I understand each side, and I’m happy at least swimmers aren’t affected. Then again, I’ve had a few poolside glaring matches with fast swimmers in lanes marked ‘slow’, so I guess hate lives everywhere.

But about sharing the park. For me, the problem is there’s too many narcissistic ‘type-A’s’ (I hate that description, remind me not to use it again) getting exercise in the park, and it’s gotten out of control. Adrian Benepe, the NYC park commissioner, put it well: “People need to behave more like members of a shared society and less narcissistically”.

THAT’s an understatement. Anyway, enjoy the article, and be glad you don't have to deal with this...

I Will Post Again

2008-07-01T17:57:00.002-04:00

That sure sounds like a Celine Dion song title.

SO I haven’t written much, read much; been gone far too long, thought about hitting the ‘Delete Blog’ button since I had nothing much to say since training for whatever has been on hold for almost a month. I’d give all the reasons, but they’re boring and tiresome and anybody who still has the patience to stop by here again has probably heard it before and understands, too.

Now that it’s another month, and fall marathon training has to start soon, I guess I’ll be writing more. Or at least about the last month of travel, which included one four-day period when I ran in Vienna, New York City, and Palm Beach, Florida. Quite a contrast.

So I’ll post some ‘what I did on my summer vacation’-type pictures just to prove to you I wasn’t sitting at home and watching reality shows in my underwear. Wait a minute, I don’t think there are any reality shows going on there, better rephrase that better next time…

July 4th is around the corner, so I hope you all have nice plans. I won’t be at the Patriot Half on the 5th, it’s disappointing to say the least (which is one reason I haven’t written much since I don’t want to expose anyone to my whining). I did one of those pros vs. cons lists, and the cons won hands down. When the time comes that I can actually swim a mile, I’ll be ready, though I have to say when I’m in the pool now I’m so relaxed I have to be careful not to get distracted and sink. Plus three weeks of ‘no triathlon training’ didn’t help, either. But someday baby’s first triathlon will happen, I’m just not going to rush the training like I did this year.

As usual, thanks for listening. Good luck in the summer heat. More later!

Off Again

2008-06-21T05:52:00.002-04:00

I'm off again (in case you missed the text above). No sooner than I get back to NYC, there's a death in the family and I'm off to Florida, in two hours. Not unexpected, so off I go.

Thanks for checking in on me, I had a great time, I have lots of pictures to bore you with later. Not much running went on, but considering I've been having slight achilles tendon pain and some shoulder pain lately, it was probably a good thing. Didn't see a pool for two weeks, either, I'm kind of jonesing for that, so I guess I'll actually have to do a triathlon someday.

Anyway, I'll be back next week with stories and the usual crap. Again, thanks for the shout-outs (reneemc!), and hopefully Bob-O heard me yelling out when I got back.

- R

P.S. Did you know Europeans love soccer? I had no idea!

See, bland sarcasm is back.

Away Again

2008-06-03T10:10:00.002-04:00

So I'm off for another trip, I'll be back the week after next. I'd planned this one since last year, before I signed up for any races, etc... which is one of the unspoken reasons I probably won't be ready for the Partriot Half, since two weeks plus of not much training won't help matters.

But the running maps are printed, and I'm heading out today to the same neighborhood in Paris, 75006. No races there, I checked. I thought about a marathon in Caen, France and one in Lichtenstein, but I think not. My legs are not ready for that crap so soon.

One other thing, the NYC Half (July 27th) lottery results arrived, I did NOT get in. Kind of ticks me off, I've run it every year, and missed qualifying for it by around 30 seconds, too. I'll get over it, but it's disappointing. As running pal Susie pointed out to me, at least I won't get charged the $80 entry fee now.

Au revoir...

Still Here (with iPod selection #31)

2008-05-30T14:34:00.000-04:00

It’s been a quiet time here lately. I haven’t felt like I could add much to the canon of Western literature, and haven’t felt like discussing about whether or not I ran today (for example). Anybody out there who has a blog knows every once in a while you hit a dry patch and you’re not into writing about what you did, thought, or felt. You just go out and do something, and you’re not up for discussing it later. Those of you who write, write, write for school or work… well, I don’t know how you do it and still write blog posts.

So I’ll try to keep this brief and not write a book, which would undermine the argument I just made.

As I mentioned in a post last week, I had a 5K, a week ago Tuesday. It was a benefit walk/run for the American Heart Association, and it was held in lower Manhattan around the Wall Street and WTC area. What ticked many of us off (here I go) was that it was oversold; 18,000 participants is a lot of folks for a little 5K in the small, winding streets down there, and to make matters worse, the course was under-measured. So the race was a 3-miler, not 3.1, so those of us, like me, who wanted to possibly PR in a 5K, were presented with a last-minute non-5K. On top of that, it was one of those unseasonably cold, rainy days that we’ve had a lot of in May. I jammed myself into the start and ran a too-fast first mile and struggled for the final two. Like all 5Ks, well, make that 3-milers, it was over before I knew it. My 19:28 finish time meant I really slowed down in the second half and I wouldn’t have had a PR had it been a 5K anyway. They did give us sandwiches when we finished, at least (Subway was a sponsor). Guess I’ll have to find a flat 5K somewhere, someday, and run that one fast enough to almost throw up.

Otherwise, it’s been ‘run a lot, hit the pool, get back on the bike, run some more, hit the pool again; repeat’. The Patriot Half in July is looking unlikely since I can’t swim a half a mile right now, so I’m not feeling like 1.1 miles is going to be achievable. Then again, never say never. As for running, my one and only true love, I’ve been doing two speed and strength runs a week, and that’s leaving my legs tired for the weekend long runs. I have no idea what I’m running long for, but marathon training habits just don’t want to go away.

There was another mugging in Central Park the other night, someone hit a walker over the head with a rock to steal their iPod. Another example that last year’s rise in crime was due to the demand for Apple products. I’m not making that up, the police say iPod theft has made crime ‘cool’ again. That’s great, now I have to be careful when I’m in the park, of all places.

So that’s the not-so-exciting news, I’m still here and running around and such.

Well, I’m partly wrong, there was some excitement this morning. I’m on my way to my gym (Edge) on 91st and 1st Avenue. It may not have made the news where you are, but another construction crane collapsed in New York today, and it was at… 91st and 1st. I’ve been going to this gym for over a year and a half, and I’ve watched a large building demolished, a huge hole dug into the ground, and six floors built on a site a half a block away (and a block from the pool). Every day I walk past the construction workers and a gigantic crane used to build this new, 34-story building on 91st St. It’s gone up fast, and today the crane came crashing down into the street and the apartment building next door. So by the time I got there, the streets were closed and hundreds of firemen and policemen were on the scene, along with the mayor and the governor and every official that could get there. I detoured around the site to my gym, but found the police blocking the street and businesses. They were worried that the rest of the crane would come down on top of us. Good reason to close the streets around there, so since my gym was closed, I hit the still-open pool instead. In light of the tragedy (at least one construction worker was killed), my inconvenience means nothing. But I’m relieved I didn’t head out early for the gym today and end up a statistic. And moreover, it reminds me that something, including your own life, can be taken away from you in an instant. I know that a huge chunk of life sucks a lot of the time, and it’s not all sunshine and rainbows and all that crap, but it can be much, much worse.

And so, with that, that thought made me snap out of my ‘dry patch’.

(new, melancholic tune from Cyndi Lauper:)

Cyndi Lauper – Rain on Me.

Race Report(s): Mother’s Day 4-Miler & 10-Miler; Healthy Kidney 10K

2008-05-19T17:50:00.003-04:00

Not much newsworthy from 87th and Fifth, a.k.a. Cranky HQ. No real excitement beyond two speed and strength workouts a week, and regular trips to the pool. Haven’t bought anything bike-related yet. I have to get my act together on that, admittedly.

Well, I did get to watch a race or two on May 11th, a ‘Mother’s Day’ 4-miler, and a women-only 10-miler. So I stood near the start and cheered runners on, and then went to the other side of Central Park and, all alone, cheered on those making the return trip down the other side of the loop. I wore my t-shirt with ‘Cranky’ emblazoned on the front, and received a few amusing shout-outs. I’m starting to get a little bolder when I’m spectating, saying things like ‘pick it up, use the downhill’, ‘I hate this hill, too!’, ‘that was my evil twin on the other side of the park’ and crap like that. You get tired screaming ‘nice job’ all the time. The slower runners laugh at my dumb jokes, which makes me like them even more.

So after a couple of hours of spotting friends and yelling out dumb stuff, I headed home relieved I hadn’t raced that tiresome course again. My last 4-miler was a PR, and I’d already decided I’d let that stand for a few more weeks before I ended the 4-miler winning streak.

Tuesday night I completed a progressive speed workout that left me, guess what, tired, and then followed that on Thursday with a 5K time trial on the Central Park reservoir. Actually, it was about a 5.3K, so my finish time (20:40) was pretty good for me. That night’s running trainer (who happens to be my swimming trainer from a few weeks back) timed several of us, all running at about 90% effort. Want to get faster? Want to kick your own ass? Try a ‘run-as-fast-as-you-can’ trial once in a while just to get used to running at that pace.

And then Saturday was another monster 10K in the park. And my legs had not recuperated from Thursday. Kids, don’t do a hard workout 36 hours before a race.

So my finish time was OK (42:10) but not very near my PR from several weeks ago. No real regrets, though. I knew about 2 miles in that a personal record wasn’t happening. As for the race, we were put into pace corrals that kind of worked and kind of didn’t since slower guys wearing heavy, polyester basketball shorts still try to sneak into the faster corrals so they can impress their friends. But overall, it was evenly paced, if a bit of a slow start. Over 7000 runners were there, and that’s a lot for a two-lane asphalt road. The race, the Healthy Kidney 10K for kidney research, was sponsored by the United Arab Emirates (not your typical sponsor); that meant a little more money put into it than usual, which translated to each runner receiving a technical tee. Oh, and some guy flew here from Nigeria or Kenya to run it in 28 minutes or so, it was his first trip to the U.S. Yeah, it was a fast crowd.

After that race, I was spent, but not enough that I couldn’t run long for a couple of hours with pals Susie and Denise down to and across the Brooklyn Bridge Sunday morning. I am happy to report I took today (Monday) off. Mainly because I have a 5K tomorrow.

If anyone is aware of a 12-step program for runners, let me know.

R. Rauschenberg. 1925-2008

2008-05-13T16:55:00.006-04:00

I didn't like all his stuff, especially the goat with the tire wrapped around it, one of his 'combines'. But this work does a pretty good job of evoking the neighborhood. He'll be missed.

Training for Whatever

2008-05-12T16:53:00.006-04:00

The picture above has nothing to do with anything other than it makes me laugh, and it somehow echoes ‘three’, as in ‘tri’. A stretch, I know, but I’ll write anything to justify posting a ridiculous image. By the way, that’s a disco group from the ‘80s (Company B), as if you couldn’t figure that out on your own. Love the uni-wig. And the color scheme that uncannily matches the colors of this blog/window.

So here’s a funny, odd article in last week’s New York Times about triathletes and training and how often it doesn’t quite come together at one time:

For Peak Performance, 3 Is Not Better Than 1

As for my training, it’s been affected by an overall post-race malaise (which you can discern from my lack of posts and blog comments). This usually hits me right after a marathon. Sort of like, ‘well, that’s done with, so now let’s train for another one of these stupid things all over again’. Not that I’ve been sitting around with Ben and Jerry (much), I’ve had a few strength-building workouts over the last week, including a 30-minute swim, one-hour bike and 9-mile run last Thursday. Here’s where I’m at, I’ll try to keep it brief:

Running: Going OK, though my quads usually hurt the next day in the pool (see article, above). There was a 4-miler in the park yesterday, and I’m proud to say I didn’t even consider entering. My last 4-miler was a PR, and I’d like to rest on that a while before I start getting competitive on my own ass again.

Swimming: I do the time, I do the drills, 4 times a week or more, at least, and I’m getting better. But not anywhere near ready for competition, unfortunately. Not that I want or expect to be a competitive swimmer, when I say ‘competitive’ I mean ‘not drop out’. I spend a half hour or more in the pool each trip, and I long ago made a deal with myself: when the moment comes that I’ve gotten halfway down the pool lane and think to myself ‘I really, really despise doing this’, then it’s time to get out of the water. That way, the next day, I’m ready to return to try again.

Biking: After Boston, I returned to the spinning that I’d grown tired of (along with screaming quads, part 2). That’s fine, but I’ve discovered that the bike I’m borrowing is not up to anyone’s standards, and probably a road hazard at that. So I have to buy a bike, and spend money on more bike stuff, and I could say something sarcastic, but I chose this life, so I’ll shut up now. But if somebody creates a new event and calls it The Money Pit Triathlon, I, for one, would get the joke. I believe some of you, would, too.

So now I am at a training crossroads. I’m reasonably sure that I will be doing two speed and strength workouts each week this summer. I will continue hitting the pool in an effort to become a machine in the water, before my pool membership ends months from now. All that said, I am not sure how I can afford a few grand on bike-related purchases, that remains to be seen. With all this taken together, it’s not looking very likely that I will be ready for any sort of triathlon this summer, as in, a few weeks from now. Not to say I won’t be, but I have to be honest with myself. I will try not to internalize all this crap, too, which is difficult for me. Despite being a novice in the water and my dwindling bank account, I’m still a fairly decent runner, I have to hold onto that. And remember to watch the news, because there are several billion people on the planet with problems a thousand times worse than any triathlon training bullshit I can inflict upon myself.

P.S. I’ve been meaning to write about ‘the world of triathletes’, since I joined a triathlon team several months ago and have had a fair amount of exposure to ‘those people’. I’ll write about that sometime soon.

Race Report: Brooklyn Half Marathon

2008-05-05T17:32:00.000-04:00

Not much to say, it was another race. Same as last year’s, started at the Coney Island boardwalk, then inland, going up Ocean Parkway to Prospect Park and three hills you’d never want to see at the end of a race. Lots of folks call it a flat, easy course on which to hit a PR, but they’re full of crap. I don’t mind hills, I’d just rather not have all of them pop up in the last three miles of a half marathon.

Facts n’ Stats:

Saturday, May 3rd, 9AM
Brooklyn, NY
48 degrees + overcast = depressingly familiar
5832 runners, grouped into corrals by pace
My finish time: 1:30:33
My 39th half marathon, and third fastest

So I had a pretty good finish time considering it was a post-marathon ‘show up and see how it goes’ race. Four seconds slower than last year’s NYC Half finish time, which was also surprisingly fast for me. So it looks like I may try to actually train for the NYC Half this year, at the end of July. That is, if I get in through the lottery, because I missed qualifying by 29 seconds. Anyway, I see the goal already, shaving 10 seconds per mile off, for a sub-1:29.

Speedwork starts tomorrow.

Boston Marathon ‘08

2008-05-01T19:18:00.019-04:00

On a chilly, overcast morning, I get myself out of bed 20 minutes before the alarms went off. It was good to be in a reasonably nice hotel in Cambridge, only four stops away by subway to the buses that would take some of the 25,000 runners to Hopkinton.

So I fuss with the variety of things I’d be bringing (gels, body glide, extra clothing, more extra clothing, extra clothing I might need in case the bus broke down in the woods and we were kidnapped by chainsaw-wielding rednecks, not that there’s anything wrong with that, etc.). I have everything in individual plastic bags, I sure am organized. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and chew on a strange protein bar I’d gotten during my afternoon spent as an expo sample whore. Since the race wasn’t starting for another 5 hours, I could take a chance on some plastic protein slab straight out of the DuPont Laboratories.

On the way out of the hotel, I find a free coffee station in the lobby, and thank the almighty for His timely bestowing of the caffeine. I also see running nerds loitering and not looking too concerned about much of anything, and it felt good to be on my way knowing I had given myself plenty of time.

And before long I was in the ‘T’ subway station at Harvard, and soon after that, the train arrives. Along with non-running passengers wearing dumb stares. Like in New York, or DC, or Chicago, or Paris, or any other city I’ve run a marathon in, you always get those early morning commuters with the blank looks that say ‘you people are crazy’, or ‘good luck with all THAT’. And I always think to myself, ‘yes, if I hadn’t sent the entry fee in six months ago, I’d probably be saying the same thing’.

We arrive at the Park Street station, and the sun had just come up. I’d read on that infallible source of information, the internet, that it was a good idea to make a port-a-john pit stop before boarding the buses, so I decide to take that advice, especially since the lines weren’t very long at all. Soon after, I board a typical public school bus, one of about ten in this fleet (because sets of buses were arriving every ten minutes).

And then we take off, and the bus zooms out of the city onto unknown highways. And it goes on, and on, and we’re not going that slowly, it’s more like 50 miles an hour, and after 30 minutes I can’t believe we’re still not in Hopkinton. And the ride goes on and on and on, and we’re still not there. The first sarcastic comments of the day pop into my head as I start saying things like, ‘where’s the starting line, Montana?’ and ‘are you sure this isn’t a 100-miler?’ and other equally creative things. And then the guy (another running nerd) sitting in front of me on the bus decides he’s going to explain ‘how this race works’ to his hapless seatmate, offering advice and commentary on this, the only marathon that matters. And his voice carries really, really well, and I can’t help but hear about every race experience he’s ever had or even thought of having. He’s an expert, and laughs at his own jokes, too, and I want to say something snappy like ‘do I have to tip the waitress too, after the show is over?’ or some other clever-clever comment that would be lost on him and everybody else because we’re going to ‘have a great day out there, YAY!’ as one runner put it. Well, at least I’m not crossing my legs from bladder discomfort like some of those around me, I began to notice a certain marked pained silence as several runners endured the never ending, bumpy ride. ‘Mrs. Partridge, Lori’s gotta go!’ There’s an idea, the David Cassidy 10K.

Relieved (poor choice of words, I know) that runners aren’t usually psychics reading my mind, I discovered the bus pulling into the high school parking lot in Hopkinton. We still had to wait for the buses to unload one at a time, for some inexplicable reason, but we finally made it off. So after nearly an hour of fun on the bus, we made it to the ‘Athletes’ Village’. And a fine staging area it was. Big tents with long stretches of water bottles stacked as far as I could see. Scores of port-a-johns lined in formation, only one or two people in each line. Hundreds of bagels in several flavors, stacked in crisp, clean boxes. The weather was still overcast and chilly and in the upper 40s, but I had packed enough for a run to Alaska and there was enough here for the return trip. Life is good, I thought. At least for now.

The only remaining thing on my pre-race to-do list was to meet up with rock n’ roll legend Speedy Speed Racer and The Wetsuits. So before 8AM I left the Athlete’s Village and made my way to our pre-arranged rendezvous on Hopkinton’s Pleasant Street. I like to think I could make that street name up in a state of artistic license, but in this case, it’s true. I see many a runner walking through to the waiting area, and finally, there she is. Funny, before you run a race like that, you have several ‘must-do’ things that are always a relief when they’re accomplished. And meeting a running comrade is a load off your mind. Happy that we found each other, we head back to the staging area for a little grass-sitting and pre-race jitters. Since Claire (in lounge mode, below) isn’t checking a bag, she’s traveling lightly, which I admire. Though if they run out of food, my overpacked bag means at least I won’t be joining the Donner party at the finish.

So we talk, and I fuss around with my stuff, and we know there’s not a lot of time, and that’s a good thing. So we slowly make our way to my baggage check/bus on the way to the starting line three quarters of a mile away. Sure, there are lots of runners and officials out there, but not as many as I see in the New York City Marathon. And that’s fine with me, smaller is better when you’re getting nervous about running for several hours.

We arrive at the start area and I leave Claire in one of many, many lines for port-a-johns. I find my corral with about a half hour to go. It’s thinly populated, so I wait around and nervously eat last-minute ‘fuel’ and sightsee around the start. The heart of the town is a T-intersection; we arrive from the bottom of the ‘T’ and the start line is on the upper right. My corral is on the other end, and I stand there, barriers around us, ringed with officials checking numbers before we enter our corral.

So I get in and realize immediately there are two types of people in my corral. Older, middle-aged men and young, fresh-faced college girls. And that’s it. Graying hair on the men, and blond ponytails on the women. And everybody looks ready, there’s none of that ‘race for medical research/cure’ crowd or even first-timers (obviously) here. The runners who got in by running for charity are in the second wave at 10:30. Here, are runners who qualified, and you know it.

So we’re ready, we move up, fighter jets fly over, we’re set. I resist the urge to think out loud, which means expressing a request for the fighter jets to bomb the course so we can all go home early. A minute before the starting gun goes off, the sun comes out for the first time. Extra layers come off, and bags of clothing (for charitable donation) become filled up and down the course. And the volunteers are smiling and happy and encouraging and trying not to let on that they’re happy they aren’t us. But we can see it in their eyes.

The gun goes off, and the runners just stand there, the crowd is so packed. And then five minutes later, we start to move forward, and people are jogging and I’m thinking ‘I don’t want to run if I haven’t crossed the start line yet’, but there’s no use. Finally, we cross the start seven minutes after the gun went off.

The start line is at the top of a hill, and the whole crowd takes off and descends down. It’s quite a crowd, and it’s moving fast. Too fast.

At this point in the story, I should probably tell you how I had planned to approach this race. I’ve run marathons slowly, quickly, moderately, as a tourist, and as someone who wanted to collapse and die. So on this day, I decided I would average a moderate pace, because I know that if I run too fast I will pay for it later. Having never run the Boston course, and after having heard more than one horror story about the hills in the second half, I had decided that I would not run the course at a pace that would leave me hating life or throwing up along the way. In other words, not 85% effort… but not 70% either, somewhere in-between. My swim trainer had recommended running the first ten miles at 10-15 seconds slower than my goal marathon pace, the second half at 10-15 seconds faster, and the final stretch at whatever felt right. I wanted to finish between 3:30 and 4 hours, the closer to three and a half, the better. So if the hills were going to try to kick my ass, I was at least going to be prepared by having fresher legs and more energy by running slower in the beginning. So I slow down.

And people are flying. I overhear one runner at the 1 Mile marker tell a friend that the first mile was ‘too fast’ and to cool it. He’s right, but boy, is it hard. I’m raring to go. And by Mile 2, I find a friend from New York, Zander. He’s a marathon machine, he travels the world and runs about one marathon a month. He tells me his next marathon is in Rwanda (though later he would decide to run a trail marathon in New Jersey a week after Boston). His pace is about mine, and it’s steady. He’s wearing his name, and I hear spectators yell out his name as I pull ahead; somehow it’s always comforting to hear the name of someone you know, and it’s good to know they aren’t far. They’re always looking for witnesses on ‘Law and Order’, and this is no different.

By Mile 3, I start to get Nervous Urinary Tract Syndrome, or N.U.T.S. I often get a little N.U.T.S either before or right at the start of a race. Yeah, I’m a card, but it’s no lie to say I had to go. So I see an informally arranged line of gentlemen runners in the woods on the right. I pull over (no jokes, please, I already know ‘em all) and join the festivities. While I’m standing there I realize about 700 runners have passed by, including Zander. But I’m not running 23 miles with N.U.T.S. Well, you know what I mean.

Back in the action, I run at a slower pace, and it’s killing me. People are really passing me, and I’m plotting revenge. But revenge isn’t coming for another hour or so, not soon enough. Gotta keep the slower pace. The hills await, and I refuse to run them and end up hitting a wall.

So relax, I said. And I did. I started taking in the sights, old gas stations, cute towns, local stores, anything. And runners pass me. Even on the rolling hills, though most of the time we’re running flat or downhill. Everyone is running the same pace or faster, and that’s a curse and a blessing. The crowd can sweep you along without you knowing it. And yet you know you’re all running about the same (because we all qualifed at the same pace), and it’s quite a group effort. If you ever want to feel like you’re part of a ‘running community’ in a race, this is it.

The crowds of spectators get larger and larger, and louder and louder. EVERYBODY who lives along the route is out today, cheering and handing out orange slices and water. One retirement home has its elderly residents sitting in a line of chairs along the course, and you just know they’ll be out there all day. And the sun shines, and we’re all feeling good, because it’s still relatively downhill.

Finally, I see the 10 Mile marker up ahead. It’s at the bottom of a small hill, and I’ve had it with runners passing me on all sides. The second I pass the marker, the chip in my head gets activated, and I shave at least 20 seconds off my pace. I pass every single runner that passed me in the last five minutes. The sun is out, the air is cool. It feels good.

Wellesley is up ahead, and as I’d been told by course veterans, you hear the screaming crowds of students from a quarter mile away. And it gets louder, and as we get closer, we see them behind barricades on the right, hundreds of young women screaming their heads off. I was on the left, so after five minutes of hearing the commotion, I headed over to the right to see, not just hear, the screamfest. And I always manage to ham it up a little in situations like this, so I get a very nice ovation. It helps that it’s still flat, and just getting past the halfway point, and I’m still feeling fine. The sun is bright, and here’s another cute-as-hell town in Massachusetts on a nice spring day. The halfway marker comes and goes, and I realize that if I double the 1:44 time I just logged, I can qualify for next year’s Boston in Boston. That would be nice.

And then a couple of miles later… the hills start. And since we’d been running hills off and on all day, they don’t seem so bad. But they’re there, though I have no problems going up any of them. And the story is the same, short hill, flat for a few minutes, another hill, flat or downhill for a few minutes. Screaming crowds, more and more as the miles go on. Not as many as the two million that line the streets of New York City, but what they lack in size they make up for in volume. Just incredible. And I manage a ‘thank you’ or a thumbs up every so often, and I get a response every time.

By the twentieth mile, I’m starting to feel it. And guess what, this is another frickin’ marathon, so what else is new? But I’m still tooling right up the hills, stopping for water and Gatorade, and keeping my faster pace. Just past Mile 20 I find a hill that’s a little harder to go up, but not so bad. Well, it does go on a little longer than the last one, and I notice the crowds of spectators are bigger and louder than they’ve been so far. The hill goes on, but I see the top, and that’s always fine with me; as long as I can see the end, I know I’m going to be OK. And a nice-looking lady standing on the right sees me approaching and cheers, and as I pass I slow down to ask: ‘Is this Heartbreak Hill?’ And she screams ‘YES!’ And I’m already near the top. I’m done with the hills. Next!

And of course, I make a comment to a couple of spectators as I pass them, something like ‘what was that all about?’ I also realize I better roll up the hubris, I have another six miles to go, and they aren’t usually called ‘easy’.

So on I go. And I see students from Boston College, and they must’ve heard the Wellesley women screaming like banshees and decided to top it, ‘cause they’re waking the dead, too. The course is mostly downhill from here despite a couple of wake-up call inclines that pop out of nowhere, but really don’t last longer than a minute or so. But I’m starting to slow down a little, and making more stops for sickening cups of yellow-green Gatorade. I’m OK, but I’m starting to watch, and search for, and expect mile markers to arrive sooner than normal. I begin to think I’ve missed them when I haven’t; those of you who’ve run a marathon know exactly what I’m talking about.

We get closer to Boston, because I can see parts of the skyline a couple of miles ahead. It looks very far away, but not impossible. We dodge railroad tracks, and I still manage to throw out a smile or a cheer or two to the crowds, and they go crazy, again. Meanwhile, one of the runners is wearing her name, it’s Julie, and I hear ‘Julie’ screamed with the word ‘Go’ about 7,000 times.

Finally, we cross the river on one of the bridges into downtown (yes, a hill, but not a killer). And I hear my name, and it’s another running friend from New York, standing on right side of the bridge. I lift up my arms and let out a ‘YAHHHHHHHH!’ that would make Howard Dean proud, and was arguably my best Angry Runner moment of the day. Out of my way, bitches!

I know I’ve been slowing down, and runners are back to passing me. We hit the 40K marker and I begin to understand with all the stops at water stations and my slowing pace, I won’t qualify for… well, this race, next year. My watch is telling me I won’t finish before 3:30. So where is that damn 25 Mile marker anyway? Translation: I got over it. Suck it up, keep the pace, finish strong.

And I did. We rounded through the final left hand turn, and there’s the finish line 700 meters ahead. It looks like 700 miles, but I tell myself it’s not. And runners are FLYING like somebody just set fire to their running shorts and the only way to put out the flames is to run faster. Well, you bitches can call the fire department, ‘cause I ain’t that crazy, I take it home like a machine. I remember to look up and smile for the cameras instead of stare blankly at my watch. If I can remember to do all that multi-tasking, I must be feeling OK. And feeling OK at the end of a marathon is high on my list today. And the 3:32:23 on my watch is OK, too.

Scores of runners are arriving across the finish line. I say to Julie, ‘nice job, JULIE, I heard your name a lot!’ And she says something to the effect, ‘that makes two of us’ which translates to ‘I got sick of hearing it, too’. We laugh, knowing we’ve passed the threshold of mental illness, again.

Unfortunately, I start to get lightheaded as I walk the half a mile to the bus with my checked baggage. Soon I was feeling better, but I’ve noticed lately that I have developed a tendency to lightheadedness after certain races. I chalk it up to over-hydrating, and sugar in my bloodstream flowing right from my legs to my head, etc. I finally get to my bus, stand in the informal line to ask for it, where two Italian men walk up and, well basically cut in line. They’re oblivious, and I’m too weak to complain; anyway, I get my bag after a few minutes. Soon I will begin the slow-motion activity of rummaging for dry, warm clothes and juggling the post-race snacks that I just put in the bag two minutes ago. It’s not a pretty sight, someone sauntering around like the living dead, stopping to get something out of the bag, getting it, going ten feet, stopping again to start the process over. Cheery volunteers ask me if I’m OK, and I answer yes and give them a funny, faraway look, like I’m peering into their souls.

I begin to remember how my cell phone works, and there’s already a voice mail message from old marathon pal Running Bitch. ‘You did it!’ she says, and she’s been tracking my progress all morning. At this point, a picture of a kitten in a bowl of linguini would put me over the edge, and I start to tear up. Yeah, Cranky gets all soft and shit, who would’ve thought. I pull it together, but not before another volunteer asks me if I’m OK. I mumble a ‘yes’, and make it out of the finish area before I get booked on Oprah.

Unfortunately, the meeting area that Claire and I had chosen was not conducive to finding anyone unless you were in a helicopter. I wasn’t sure how far she was behind me (though, as it turns out, not so far at that point, 2PM), but I waited and ate and drank everything I could get my hands on, and that was quite a lot already.

In the end, we sure looked for each other, but missed each other. Through the magic of cell phones, we set up a rendez-vous in Cambridge. She had her post-race provisions and clothing at her office, and so just headed on over. I listened to another congratulatory voice mail, this one from partner-in-crankiness Susie and walked to Boston Commons and the good old Park Street station.

I took the subway, and was not happy to find the cars packed with baseball fans returning from an afternoon game. Nothing against baseball, but with marathon mania news coverage gripping the city, I was surprised to see some of the blank stares I got. Oh, and nobody was giving up their seats for marathoners. I didn’t have to sit, but I was surprised that a whole row of males sat like deaf mutes on the train while an older, female runner had to stand and strap-hang. In the last two years, elderly travelers twice tried to give me their seats on the bus after I ran the New York City Marathon, a nice gesture at least. I guess that doesn’t happen much here in Boston, but maybe I was on the wrong train.

Well, Speed Racer and I met up and walked around and did the food hunter/gatherer thing. And talked about our experiences. We agreed that the hills weren’t ‘all that’, and that the day was good for both of us despite the predictable challenges of the last few miles. Her finish time was faster than ever, and I had a ‘run smart, and not too fast’ kind of day. We began to discuss our next races, so Boston ’08 must not have been such a bad experience after all.

So class, what did I learn in Boston? The course did have hills, but they weren’t as bad as expected. Friends I’ve spoken with since, who ran it at the same time I did, feel the same way. Then again, all the stories of past misery helped to prepare us. Better to be underwhelmed than be overwhelmed.

Pacing yourself slower in the first half can make a big difference in how you feel later, and ultimately, finish. Could I have run faster and finished sooner? Yes. But any increase in pace, or effort in the first half would’ve subtracted from any effort in the second half. I felt ‘good’ in the second half, and that qualification would have decreased had I run those beginning hills as fast as possible.

The expo sucked, but the race organization was top-notch. Water stations, food, volunteers, medical tents were EVERYWHERE.

My fellow runners were fast. That figures, but just sayin’.

And not that we had any say in it, but the weather was perfect, at least it was for me. Based on past Boston Marathons, we were very, very lucky.

Bottom line, and I can’t believe I’m saying this so soon, but… I’d do it again. In the days following the race, I had second thoughts about my race approach, maybe I took it too slowly. But I came away with a positive experience, and believe me (I know you do), they’re not all positive experiences.

From the Desk of Cranky

2008-04-30T16:55:00.004-04:00

For those of you kind enough to check on this space, sorry for the lack of posts. Soon after I got back from Boston, the tree pollen of Central Park bitchslapped me bigtime, and I was down for the count for a couple of days. So right as spring arrived, I found myself with worse-than-usual allergies. Waited all that time for warm weather, and once it was here I had to stay indoors so I didn’t sneeze and cough mid-air during a run. Later, I ended up on the %&#*@ treadmill, right where I spent enough time already this year, thank you.

I’ll post about Boston soon, I started to write a short story and it got out of hand, editing is rather necessary. And I’ve been too mentally exhausted to think about planning a training program for the next marathon (or triathlon), so I haven’t had the energy to look at my own blog, much else anyone else’s. I have had the energy to go for runs and swims and crap like that, I just got too tired thinking about it (and reading and writing about it, actually). So I’ve had a little ‘mental’ time out. Sometimes you just have to go out and exercise and not think about it as part of a grand ‘training program’. I’ll get over that, I’m just tired of the workout schedule life for the time being.

Anyway, more later… enjoy the weather for me…

Boston Marathon '08: The Days Before

2008-04-24T07:31:00.005-04:00

Last Saturday was a beautiful day in New York City, and I probably ran a little too much that day; though I ran an easy pace for under an hour, I only had 48 hours to rest up before the race. And overpack. Since I was driving up to Cambridge, I could bring six running outfits based on whatever weather was about to happen. Which is ridiculous, but I’m so used to packing lightly for air travel that it felt liberating to throw a ton of stuff in the suitcase just for the hell of it.

And the drive up on Sunday was glorious. Let me tell you, if you want to get anywhere in the northeastern U.S. quickly and with little hassle, go early on a Sunday morning. Even with stops, the trip took three and a half hours. And the hills of Hotford and Angry Town looked great along the way.

Arriving at the hotel, I quickly called Speed Racer and we set up a rendezvous downtown. After some kibbles and bits and an early check-in, I made it over to the convenient T stop on Boston Commons and met up with SR. What followed was lots of walking, lots of talking, and general nervousness about the next day. We weren’t so sure, but we were ready. The whole ‘this is going to hurt’ bit got played, and we got over it, resigned to our fate.

So Claire and I hit the marathon expo, and got to walk through the finish line a couple of times along the way. Once we got in, the lines, well, there were no lines at number pickup. That’s Expo 101, and I’ve never had to wait long to get in to get the important stuff. But the technical tees left to give out came in only one size, large. So obviously when you check off ‘medium’ on the $120+ application, you’re not necessarily going to get one. Thanks, organizers, you ran out of mediums hours before the expo is over. Now I have a large, blue tent with super-long sleeves and that strange unicorn BAA logo on the front. Yeah, male runners are such big people, better order up more larges.

We get into the expo, and guess what, no men’s size medium of any of the official Adidas merchandise. Just large and small. Great. I don’t usually buy tons of overpriced stuff, but something, anything would be nice. Later we find another official merchandise stand, and I find their medium-sized jacket doesn’t fit me in the sleeve holes, my arms are too big. Yeah, I know, this is all very fascinating, but while this was going down I started to wonder: if they can’t order enough running merchandise for the expo and what they do have doesn’t fit, what’s the actual race organization going to be like?

And in this windowless, concrete-floored convention center, it’s gridlock. Somebody decided that aisles six feet wide would adequately accommodate a race of 25,000 people, plus their friends and families. It reminded me of a Filene’s Basement I hit once in downtown Boston. On Black Friday, that dreadful day after Thanksgiving. I usually don’t compare the NYC Marathon expo/convention center to anyone else’s, but at least ours has windows, wide open spaces, and carpeting.

Well, Claire and I were doing just fine, we were glad to see each other and know that we would have all this behind us in 24 hours. We fled the expo and sat and talked about everything we could get out of our heads, our antsiness from tapering had to find an outlet. And it did, and we could have sat there and chatted for days, but whoops, there’s a race tomorrow, maybe resting up is a good idea. Before I forget… as much as she says she hated doing another marathon, she was ready, and more willing than she lets on. Ms. Claire can finish this race, let me tell you, she’s no slouch. She may just show up for races, but she follows through. The funny stories are true, but she takes care of business along the way.

So we parted ways and she headed back home. And I headed back to my hotel for some meager, bland dinner (that’s not a complaint, that’s how I like it the night before a marathon). I hit the hay around 10, and set my alarm clock(s) for 5AM. Yes, clocks, plural, I saw that Seinfeld episode about the marathon, too….

Coming up: Running through sweet little towns where they ‘pahk the cah’. Yeah, I know, that’s been played out. Doesn’t mean it’s not true, though.

And by the way, if you want to read the usual patented, mirthful, slice of truth from Speedy Speed Racer, head on over here. She has the details down.

AND an interesting article from today’s New York Times about somebody putting their bib/race spot up for sale on eBay, and the fallout: Cheating Starts Before the Race Does.

3:32:23 says Thank You.

2008-04-22T17:36:00.002-04:00

All you folks out there, who tracked my progress in Boston, or left comments, all positive… well, I thank you. Glad I didn’t hit the wall!

And I didn’t. I’ll write a race report in the next day or two, but let’s just say I had a fine time (well, as good a time as you can have with progressively tired legs while running 26.2 miles). I ran a slower-than-normal pace in the first ten miles, picked it up strong in the next ten, and then just ran a good, moderately steady pace in the final 6.2. No P.R. for me, but that wasn’t on the agenda anyway. With the hills along the course on my first Boston Marathon, I didn’t know how I’d feel, so I saved up my energy and concentration for when they hit. And I was ready, and you can’t ask for more than that.

And Speed Racer had a fine day out there, too. We were both surprised how easy Heartbreak Hill was to climb, so we must’ve both been doing something right out there. Plus, she finished a few minutes faster than she had predicted, so she was happy, too.

So thanks again to all of you out there nice enough to check on me and make sure I didn’t end up on the ‘straggler bus’. I didn’t see Lance or the winners, they were all showered and eating lunch by the time I finished. But I don’t care, because I finished respectably (for me), and I had a nice spring day touring the suburbs of Boston on foot.

Thanks again…

Race Coming Up

2008-04-19T17:44:00.004-04:00

Hopefully, that will be all that’s ‘coming up’ on Monday. No ‘unplanned examination of recent food choices’ for me, thank you.

So tomorrow I’m off to Boston, driving up, using the gravitational pull of ‘Hotford’ to swing on over to Cambridge. Those slosh pipes do come in handy. And then an afternoon trip to L’Expo Officiel Frantique with our own Speed Racer. If we don’t get arrested for disturbing the peace along the way, well, then it’s an off day.

And Ms. S.R. will be out there running on Monday, too, her first marathon of MMVIII as well. Come to think of it, a marathon that uses just roman numerals sounds rather entertaining. I’ll have to ponder that instead of the usual world destruction around mile marker XXII. AND I’m looking to finish under IV hours. Rather appropriate, somehow…

So with that, # 12042 bids adieu. Happy weekend; I’ll be back with stories to scare the grandkids.

At The Race Expo

2008-04-17T08:26:00.000-04:00

No, I’m not in Boston yet. But since I’ve been meaning to write about the types of people I see in the gym or at races, I decided it was just as fun to write about the types of people I see at every race expo. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, next time you’re at an expo look around and you’ll see these folks coming toward you. It’s scary.

And I have to send out a real Sarcasm Alert on this one. I’ll probably alienate the rest of the people I haven’t alienated yet, but that’s what happens when you’re suffering from Marathon Taper Disorder. In the meantime, laugh with me (or at me, I don’t care) while I discuss the archetypes I notice at every race expo.

SuperDad
SuperDad is running another marathon, and he’s trained for it with expert precision. He’s wearing a clean Gap t-shirt and jeans, and a pair of spotlessly white trainers, and probably a backpack tied snugly in the front. His baseball cap from some Hawaiian marathon shows you he means business. Two steps behind him is Long-Suffering Wife, pushing a toddler in a stroller, followed by two more children white-knuckling it bigtime. Long-Suffering Wife has been to expos before, and she’s not going to complain to SuperDad about how fast he’s racing through the expo. She will stick with him through thick and thin, and will support and care for him if he gets injured, but she’ll sneak off to the ladies’ room to laugh quietly, if he does. Meanwhile, SuperDad is calculating the impact of running .03 seconds faster per mile and how it will affect his VO2 max threshold. There’s a vaguely frightening, steely glean in his eyes as he’s checking out the competition around him.

The Eurorunners
Jean-Luc and Ulrike flew in a few days ago for the marathon. They’ve been visiting every avant-garde museum in town, and regrettably, been exposed to American food. Jean-Luc is thin and bald and dresses in black Yamamoto knock-offs. He wears heavy, rectangular eyeglasses that only architects would know about. Ulrike is thin and small, and wearing black, too, but is a little more funky; she likes rectangular, black eyeglass frames as well. Her hair is short and dyed scarlet red, which you’d notice more were it not for the conspicuous navel piercing peaking out of her midsection, complemented by her sole accessory, a child’s purse from EuroDisney. Jean-Luc and Ulrike’s favorite race is the Berlin Marathon, despite what their grandparents said about the war. Oh, and they’d really like some techno, and a cigarette, right about now.

These Eurorunners love America, but not so much Americans. They think Americans are loud and pushy; ironically, at the expo Jean-Luc and Ulrike will loudly knock down a little old lady for a Clif Bar sample that will be quickly discarded once they get back to the hotel.

The Sample Whores
Speaking of samples, get out of the way! The Sample Whores are here, and today, and on no other day, will prisoners be taken. Though they come in many shapes and sizes, they will make their presence known through quiet body slams. Yes, the Sample Whores will commit crimes against humanity, all for a 1-inch slice of Powerbar or an unknown red liquid in a plastic shot cup. To them, the expo is a Thunderdome of Free Things, and woe be onto those unlucky enough to feel the sting of the elbow or the slam of the shoulder. Later, you’ll see them walking out, carrying plastic shopping bags laden with samples, like zombies in a glassy-eyed, hypnotic state.

The Codgers
The Codgers are a nice, retired couple, and they’ve done races in every state of the union. They’re pleasant people, and not in a hurry… because they’ve got race stories. LOTS of race stories, and if you’re willing to listen, you’re their best new friend. And their grandkids are all in school, and if you’ve got, say, three or four hours, they’d love to tell you all about the time their grandkids made a funny sign to hold up during the Bay to Breakers Race, ‘When was that Edna, ’94 or ’95?, ’94, I think. No wait, it was ’96, that was the year we had that funny cruise to the Juneau Marathon, I had to laugh. No wait, it was ’92, don’t you remember?’ And unbelievably, they’re carrying several hundred photos of all this with them.

The Codgers are wearing slightly out-of-date ‘official merchandise’ outfits from races they did in the late ‘80s. They like free samples, too, but before they mosey on over for the free stuff, they’ll converse with the very nice lady giving out the numbers with questions about… ‘how long ‘this’ marathon is, HA!’ And about the last race they did last month. And you’ll be behind them, forever waiting to get your number, too, as the stories of mirth go on and on and on.

Flip-Flop Dude
Just released from fraternity life, Flip-Flop Dude agreed on a dare made by a drunken frat brother at a mixer last year that he could ‘run 26 miles without hurling’. So now he’s running his first, and ‘this whole race thing sucks titties, and not in the good way’.

Flip-Flop Dude is wearing the standard uniform: flip-flops, XXXL cargo shorts, t-shirt with vaguely ironic logo, and baseball hat, brim scientifically calibrated to be parallel to the surface of the Earth. His girlfriend thinks he’s nuts to be even attending the expo, but now that he’s here, it’s ‘frickin’ awesome’. ‘Oh SHIT, their serving some beer, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, DUDE!’

The Track Team
Bored with conquering the state intramurals, The Track Team is here and ready to score gold against all these old people. The Track Team averages 130 pounds a runner, and thinks upper body weight is for loser football players, which come to think of it, is redundant. They say they run as a team, but quietly hide seething contempt for their teammates. These runners roam in packs and make sarcastic asides about the expo and the old guys, especially the SuperDads. They’re NEVER going to be like that.

Pony-Tail Girl
She’s thin, she’s blonde, she’s single, she’s a career girl! Not long out of college, she’s spent months on that treadmill in the gym, getting ready for the marathon. She’s Pony-Tail Girl, and not a hair is out of place. Of course, she’d run outside, but the weather is not good for that trace of makeup she applies before mounting the treadmill every day at 5:45AM. She’s single-minded, and showing no fear. And she’s immaculate but… not quite perfect. But she’d LOVE to be just like the robot girl in that third Terminator movie. Those girls with fiancés, you know, the ones she sees in the locker room every morning, are going to hate her when she tells them about how easy the marathon was. It won’t actually be easy, but she’ll never admit it.

And in all fairness, there’s one more:

CrankyRunner
This punishment glutton has been to lots of expos, and thinks he’s seen it all. While scoping out the crowd, he makes silent, sarcastic comments to himself and the habits of others. And while perusing the booths representing foreign races, he makes a mental note about running marathons in far-off places, which he never does. He chides the Sample Whores and then wonders where the samples are, and then balks at the high prices of official merchandise. Later, he is kicked in the back of the leg by SuperDad on the way to a seminar, and waits in line for ten minutes to buy a power gel while The Codgers relate some funny story to an exhausted temp cashier about the port-a-johns in Kona. Later, The Track Team run him over as he leaves the expo. But CrankyRunner is too busy to notice, he’s getting nervous about actually having to run yet another 26.2-mile race. ‘Why does he keep doing this to himself?’ he asks. Too late to ask now, obviously.

Boston Marathon ’08: Stats

2008-04-15T21:08:00.000-04:00

112th Boston Marathon.
Monday, April 21st.
Buses leave for Hopkinton 6AM-7:30
Start times: 9AM through 10:30AM.
First (open) wave: 10AM
Second (open) wave: 10:30
Number of times the organizers will remind us it’s ‘The Greatest Marathon in the World’: 1,247

My Stats

Training (since 1/1/08, 16 weeks):
95 runs, 87 hours total
40 miles per week
650.65 total miles
6 Races, including 2 half marathons, a 10-miler, and three PRs, in a 15K, a 10k and a 4-miler
15 Tempo Runs at 6:45 pace

Crosstraining:
44 Swim Sessions
33 Spinning Workouts
47 Weight Training Workouts

The Race:
Bib Number 12042 (blue bib/10AM start)
6-6:45AM bus to start
Line up in corral at 9:20
Estimated arrival at halfway point: 11:48AM
Estimated finish time: (WHAT? I’m crazy, but not crazy enough to make that prediction. How about ‘when I’m damn good and ready’?)

(The preceding was neither posted for evaluation purposes nor for gloating-style ‘look at me, I’m raising my heart rate!’ purposes. I’m suffering mildly from the M.T.D.s (Marathon Taper Disorder) and I need to battle last-minute did-I-train-enough thoughts with hard, cold numbers. Thank you for indulging me.)

Race Report: Run As One/TGL Classic (4-Miler)

2008-04-13T15:35:00.004-04:00

Sometimes it feels like all I do is just run in races and write or talk about it. At least lately what I’m writing about is fairly positive.

At 9 this morning there was another overly well-attended race in Central Park. It was a 4-miler, and I knew I could approach it in one of two ways. After two recent consecutive race P.R.s in a row, I could race the 4-miler fast until I puked. Or with the Boston Marathon just over a week away, I could glide through slowly and enjoy the scenery. So which approach do you think I used? If you’ve read anything here before and retained it, you know it’s not approach #2.

Bring on the barf bags.

Aware of my previous 4-mile P.R. of 25:47 from ’03, I lined up. The New York Road Runners have an elite runner corral at the front of their races, and your pal Cranky qualified for that recently with an age-graded (don’t ask me what 'age-graded' means, I’m not sure myself) time of 72% or better. So I’m allowed to hang with the 5:40 minute/mile skinny kids in the front of the pack, roped off from the hapless folks who run just a little slower than I do. Today the elite runners were packed like sardines, myself included, but it was nice to not be stuck behind the few walkers who rudely position themselves up front in every race. And I know there were a lot of them and runners, too, over 6000 were behind me.

The starting gun sounded, and off we went up Cat Hill, and I don’t know which I hate more, immediately running up a steep hill in a race or hearing myself complain about the same damn hill, race after race. And on that hill I got passed like crazy, runners unable to make it to the elite corral were making up for lost time and losing their minds flying up, up, up. I kept a good pace, but soon discovered I was breathing a little too rapidly and also realized it was not going to get any easier until I got on the other side of the finish line.

I passed the first mile marker at about 6:22 and vowed to at least try to keep the same pace. And runners were still passing me like the apocalypse was coming right behind us. It started to get harder for me, but I made a conscious effort to tune out the other runners and to relax and ease into the pace I’d set. Nobody wearing headphones in this crowd; these runners meant business.

So I rounded the loop and started heading south to the finish with two miles to go. Rolling hills made it tough, and I’m relieved that on one of them I find myself with about six other runners at the same, all of us with a slowing pace, struggling to make it. I’d done this loop a million times, so I knew I hadn’t much time left. I started to think ‘there’s no shame in stopping for water, if a P.R. is not happening, that’s fine, don’t injure yourself’ followed by ‘as much as you want to stop, don’t blow a P.R. on a 10-second trip to the side of the road’. Of course, I didn’t stop, because today’s headline is ‘Cranky The Schizo Runner Races Again’.

Finally, finally, finally, I rounded the left hand turn towards the finish line. And through the brain fog I see 25 minutes and change on the clock. And I HAULED it. Once I crossed the line my watch said… 25:25. Later that afternoon the on-line results would list 25:33, but that clock can bite the big one ‘cause I still beat my previous time. Though I felt like I was getting run over by 5- and 6-minute milers most of the way, I still managed a P.R., the third race in a row. For a brief moment in time, I allowed myself the distinction of being Mr. All That. I forgot to mention it was an NYC team ‘points race’ that brought out all the city’s race fiends wearing their organization’s uniforms. So I was up against speed demons, though considering I’ve been called, and sometimes go by, Satan, I was right at home. Plenty of runners finished before I did (about 300), but I was so happy to be finished with my own personal speedwork of the day I didn’t care.

One more thing. Several women right before the race kept smiling at me and saying hello, and I couldn’t figure out why. Then it dawned on me; some had seen me cheerleading at last week’s More Marathon and had remembered me along the way. Good karma, people. Give it back, and it comes back to you. And if that kind of karma can help shave off 3 seconds per mile like it did for me today, I’ll take it.

Since I was too busy keeping breakfast down on the course, I didn’t take any pictures. Suffice it to say it was another cold, gray day out there. Spring tried to arrive yesterday, but it keeps getting beat back. Which mans less seasonal tranistion time to 'hot as hell'.

So it was, in the end, a good day. Since I am psychologically unable to bask in too much self-inflicted glory for very long, by Wednesday I’ll be back to worrying about and obsessing over Boston weather forecasts…

(Postscript, or 'Prescript', perhaps: the week started off with a nice swim workout followed by an encouraging e-mail from my swim trainer about my continued improvement in the pool. To me, it's not nearly as much improvement as I’d like, but it’s better than none at all. I also made a comment to him in passing about the importance of me ‘rewiring my brain’ in order to become a swimmer, and he agreed a bit too quickly. It’s not my breathing in the water as much as it is about my learning a process that my brain does not want to accept. Armed with that thought, my mid-week workouts were not as easy as I thought they’d be, but I’m still making trips to the pool. Anyway, it was nice to receive encouragement, I’ll take it. And it was a little birthday present, yes, my inner odometer clicked over a new digit on Monday. The digits are gettin’ high, but I’m still feeling as young as most of you mofos out there, let me tell you.)

Race Report: More Marathon and Half Marathon

2008-04-08T18:33:00.011-04:00

On a cold and gray Sunday morning, I headed out to watch and support this year’s runners in the More Marathon. The race is for women over 40, and it’s held entirely in Central Park. Happy that I possessed the wrong chromosomes as well as the incorrect plumbing for the job, I could only watch. So I finished my weekend long run on Saturday with the intention of taking it easy on Sunday. And in this case, It meant just watching other runners going around the fun park loop again and again, sometimes a real joy when you’re not doing it.

Earlier this year, the New York Road Runners announced that next year’s ’09 NYC Marathon guaranteed entry rules includes volunteering for at least one ’08 race (plus completing the usual nine races). So the volunteers were out in force, including Cranky running pal Susie, stationed at the Loeb Boathouse.

Long story short, I got to run from one mile marker to the next, and cheer on the ladies who were either marathoners or half marathoners (the vast majority). It was chilly, but clapping and yelling ‘good job’ for a couple of hours does warm you up. And those runners who were able to express their appreciation to me, did. Later, I spent some time at the finish line at the half, and it was about as inclusive an event as I’ve ever seen. Tears of joy, camaraderie, pain, it was all there, and if there had been a group hug, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Quite a change from the shark-infested 5-milers I’ve been in over the last year. I’m not saying I want Oprah and Dr. Phil showing up to sponsor races anytime soon, I just got the feeling it was a different vibe out there, and kind of refreshing to see.

So I cheered the runners on, ran around myself, took pictures, got to hang out with Susie, made one Starbucks run, and watched more runners struggle through. It’s different on the spectator side of a marathon, and certainly not as hard as participating, but I do recommend the experience. Because you know what they’re going through, and they know you know it, too. Even when they don’t say it.

Pictures, pictures:

iPod Friday 30 vs. Endorphins

2008-04-04T08:46:00.001-04:00

One minute they exist, the next minute they don’t, now they do again. Just like those studies that conclude ‘coffee is bad for you’, then it’s not (thank God). And now the ‘eight glasses of water a day’ has been debunked. I should commission a scientific study that concludes scientific studies make you angry.

Anyway, here’s a recent article from the New York Times about endorphins. In case you missed the study published in ‘Cerebral Cortex’. I sure did.

The New York Times: Yes, Running Can Make You High

And I’d prefer this track instead while on a runner’s high, if you’re going to bring in Rachmaninoff. Especially in the last minute and a half.

Rachmaninoff - Piano Concerto #2 - Adagio (Vladimir Ashkenazy)

Training Update 4/3

2008-04-03T17:33:00.001-04:00

Not too much going on, actually. Starting to get a little excited and nervous about running in Boston on the 21st. Managed to read the race booklet and packet they sent out last week, I found out there are two start times, 10AM for those with numbers from 1-13,000 and 10:30 for those with numbers above. I’m in the 10AM crowd, and I’m happy about that because when it comes to marathons, the earlier I'm starting and I'm finishing, the better. So I’m hoping to finish sometime between 1:30 and 2, and that’s that. I’ll write more about all this later once I start getting antsy during the taper and have extra energy to obsess over race minutiae.

As for other stuff, it’a about the same. The 10K race last Sunday left me somewhat tired and a little sore, no huge surprise there. So I managed a tempo run Wednesday, and it kicked my ass; 20 minutes easy, 20 minutes tempo pace, 20 minutes easy, 20 minutes tempo pace, 2 miles easy. Easy is easy, right, but the tempo pace just about did me in. It was like running a fast 5K, twice, in the middle of a 13-mile run. After running three miles in 20 minutes, and later doing it again, I was cursing life. I forget to leave out the best part, it was all on The Treadmill of E-vil. Oddly enough, but when I do these workouts on a treadmill there’s something about it that keeps me on the program despite all the crushing boredom. When it comes to pace, treadmills don’t lie, and I can’t be distracted by nature and crap like I am when I’m outside. Anyway, this workout was courtesy of running coach Jack Daniels, appropriately enough.

I have yet to bike outside due to the small but important detail that I have to use a borrowed bike and can’t get to it yet. And have to buy a real one if I intend to be able to show my face at a triathlon. But I’ve been doing the hyper-sweaty, quad-burning spinning thing indoors for 30-60 minutes a few times a week, and that at least gives me the illusion of training. The tri-team I joined has serious workouts in the park; once I’ve pushed up Visa’s second quarter profits through bike-related purchases, I’ll entertain the thought of showing up and getting my butt kicked by some kids with Australian accents named Jason or Caitlyn, all discussing the best hotels in Kona.

As for swimming, my daily pilgrimage to the swanky pool facility has been uneventful. And uneventful to the point that it hasn’t been something I particularly look forward to. With the help of one good swimming lesson once a week, I’ve gotten better, but in a one lap forward, two laps back kind of way. I’m far more comfortable in the pool, I regulate my breathing, but 25 yards is about all I can accomplish before I start swallowing air and water and the oil light comes on. I know what to do, I know how to do it, I even think my stroke and kick is passable. It’s just getting the oxygen to the muscles barely comes together. I had a lung capacity test and chest X-ray last summer, and everything checked out OK, but I feel like my lungs just don’t have enough room for the air I need after about twelve swim strokes. Could be just leftover insecurity over the collapsed lung I suffered a while back, but I’ve gotten comfortable enough in the water that I don’t think that’s an issue anymore.

I will say that each day I approach the pool like it’s a new day, and I have an disturbingly cheery ‘let’s try this again’ attitude, and that at least helps me get there, ready and willing. I arrive when the pool is jammed by extremely elderly swimmers making their way at a snail’s pace, through lap after lap, without even stopping. Which must be nice. Yesterday I felt good after a half hour of laps punctuated by mid-pool emergency rest stops, but today was just more of the ‘keeping-my-face-down-in-the-water-and-counting-seconds-while-running-out-of-air’ when it should be ‘this-is-so-much-fun-I’m-going-to-explode’. It’s been over ten weeks of training now, and I’d like to stop being frustrated, which is just about every day. I stopped pressuring myself to make a breakthrough, that wasn’t helping morale. However, I do wish something would help morale, though my swimming trainer lets me know when I’ve done well or when I’m being too hard on myself (also, I must admit, just about every day). Next Monday is my last training session because the current set of three is over, and quite frankly, I can’t afford any more of the sessions. I’ll continue to hit the pool and keep at it, but I know that my expectations have to be lowered to a level that matches my ability. I realize that most of you reading this have been swimming all your lives and are probably scratching your collective heads as to why I or anyone would have any problems in the water, and that I all I need is to hang in there with a ‘can-do’ attitude. Which is an attitude I have already. And you’d be right, I’d give the same advice, too.

SO, how’s my running? Fine. I’m looking forward to Boston, it’s going to be a running experience, not a race for a PR. Biking? Not much going on, but I sweat my ass off in the gym, so I at least feel like I’m doing something before incurring more frightening credit card debt. Swimming? I plug away, five times a week, producing frustration along with depressingly familiar results. Almost forgot, weight training has hit a plateau bigtime, but there’s so much effort spent on the other three sports that it’s no wonder I can’t lift as much weight as I used to.

Angry advised a while back that I should take a week off, and that’s not a bad idea. Maybe some week after Boston. I have a half marathon two weeks after that, and as they say in the old country, a week off is not ‘bloody likely’, but I’ll think about it.

Race Report: March Madness Biathlon… & Scotland Run 10K

2008-03-31T15:58:00.010-04:00

Sunday morning I spent a lot of time in Central Park. Too bad it was still cold, and though the temperature was right about 27 degrees it still felt pretty chilly even with multiple layers on. No, I did not do the biathlon, though if I had my bike act together it would’ve been a nice event to enter. It involved two miles of running followed by two bike loops of the park, or 12 miles, plus another 2 mile run. The finish deadline for the 800 competitors was two hours, so it wasn’t a real killer, or at least didn’t seem like it to me (though I kept my mouth shut about the perceived easiness of the course while cheering on the racers). I did get to watch the transitions, see what gear people were throwing around, and watch some folks struggle on the final 2-mile run. The event was finished up by 9:30 so that the New York Road Runners could start the Scotland Run at 10. The Scotland Run caps off Scotland Week in New York, a celebration of bagpipes and shortbread and red plaid outfits and shit.

So onto the observations. One problem I noticed in the biathlon was with such a short time spent on the run before folks started hitting their bikes, the bike transition area was soon jammed, and it quickly became survival of the fittest. I saw one guy stop, sit down and block a whole aisle while he leisurely put on his bike shoes, and I was amazed angry racers weren’t pelting him with CO2 canisters. Granted, this was no hot shit Ironman competition, but it seemed a bit cramped and haphazard. I also noticed that the quality of the bikes slowly descended from ‘Terminator’ to ‘Big Wheel’ as the T1 time elapsed. Serious folks have serious rides, while the daytrippers are on bikes with banana seats and plastic tassles on the handlebars. Sure, I exaggerate, but not much. And I’m not criticizing anybody, but I didn’t see many speed records hit while people were running. I thought I’d at least see one 5:30 minute/mile runner, but not in this event, not even close. Those 5:30 folks were just waking up to run a 10K somewhere else.

As the event went on, I made it to the west side to cheer people on, part of my ‘pay it back’ campaign that helps competitors and engenders good karma for my later races. I saw a couple of guys I knew, which is always good when it’s 27 degrees and your standing on the side of the road and clapping like a wind-up monkey toy. Before it got old, the whole thing was over, and everybody was back at the start at the Loeb Boathouse. I had a half hour to get over to Tavern on the Green, near where the 10K was to start.

And unlike the small family feel I had experienced at the biathlon, the race start was pandemonium. Nearly 7000 runners had come out and were jamming the drives, and the starting gun/booty call made it even more insane. It was still cold, but warmer now in the sun, and I positioned myself not too far from the front of the line. After what I believed to be a bagpipe version of the National Anthem and some muffled, fast-food drive-through remarks from officials, we took off heading north to complete one loop of the park.

And of course, there’s the usual 15-minute per mile runners with headphones, walkers, etc., who get right up front at every race so the rest of us nearly kill ourselves when we nearly run them over in the first few minutes. Later this month, the NYRR will be instituting pace corrals based on previous finish times in short races to combat this problem. This time I was lucky, I was not far from the front; running pal Susie was behind me, and it took her 5 minutes to get to the start line. Which is ridiculous.

Anyway, off we went. And before the race I had looked up my best 10K time. And wouldn’t you know I got it in my head that I could beat that 42 minutes with a little more effort and determination than I usually give in a short race. So no water stops for me, and this time I’m paying strict attention to pace. After a fast start, I discover my first mile was under 6:45; funny though, it didn’t feel so good.

It got worse. Halfway through I realized I was running a 10K at a 5K pace. I started getting nauseous every time I was speeding up a hill. Not good. You’ve heard the voices: ‘I really can stop if I want to, it’s not worth getting sick over’ followed by ‘but you made it this far’ and ‘only a few miles to go’. Only to have this inner conversation repeating in a sickening loop every time it gets horribly uncomfortable. And of course, f-bombs start popping up between the nouns and verbs.

I knew I had to slow down going up the small hills, and I NEVER do that, but it was better than having some bagpiper along the course watch me hurl. Bagpiper along the course, you say? The Scottish shit was hardcore out there, I’m tellin’ ya.

‘I’m not doing this again’, I announced as I got all Nietszchean and ‘that-what-does-not-kill-me-only-makes-me-stronger’ on my own sorry ass. Then I hit the 5-mile mark between 32 and 33 minutes and I STILL cannot do the proper math to figure out whether I’m running fast enough or not. All I know is I’m slowing down and people are passing me and I don’t care, which says something right there about my state of mental health at mile 5.

We finally, finally start to see the finish line coming into view ahead, it’s the same finish line as the marathon, and isn’t that fucking cute. There’s a damn incline right here, screw the New York Road Runners for not picking a flat finish to this race and all the other goddamn races we’ve run, too. Yes, your pal Cranky sure got testy, because it was A.F.T that the G.D. race was over.

And the clock says 40:26. Holy Shit! How did that happen? Well, you ran your ass off to the point of almost throwing up, you idiot. What did you expect? …I was still having private, internal ‘discussions’, obviously. Later on I found out I was 13th in my age group of 358 male runners, which is about as good as I can get. Had I gotten a sex change on Saturday, I would’ve been the 13th woman overall. See what happens to your brain on race day? You think up crazy shit.

So after racing twenty 10K races over the last decade, I cut a minute and a half off the old P.R. from ’04, the same Scotland Run at that. Nice. But what wasn’t nice was feeling morbidly ill during the race, and getting to the finish on sheer willpower. So let this be a cautionary tale: race, and I mean at or above a 90% effort, at your own peril. I have no regrets (not now, of course, I’m sitting at a keyboard eating double chocolate chip cookies and opining about something that happened yesterday). But as I tell myself and you as well, be careful what you do out there and what you wish for. All that ‘racing’ crap can get you into trouble.

One more thing, NO WAY I’m racing in Boston, three weeks from today. If I have to stop at Wellesley along the way for coffee and donuts, so be it. Screw Heartbreak Hill, I’m taking my time.

(Here are some biathlon photos just so you know it’s the same crap going on everywhere. The final photo is of the 10K start only; as you might imagine, I was cursing and swearing too much to create cuddly Kodak moments.)

iPod Friday 29 – I’m Rick James, Bitch.

2008-03-28T13:45:00.004-04:00

In an effort to get me to calm down and stop racing in the pool, and therefore discourage drowning, my swimming trainer advised me to come up with a mantra or something to play in my head to help me relax during the 8-10 seconds at a time when I’m face down in the water. ‘Ever try yoga?’ he asked, and I responded ‘no’, an answer that left neither of us surprised. ‘How about a song, or something like that?’ I asked, and trainer said ‘sure, if that does it for you’.

So the first thing that popped in my head worked somehow, and here’s how it went:

(diving, hands crossed, pointed forward; feet kicking)
She's a very kinky girl…
The kind you don't take home to mother
(head facing down; steadily blowing bubbles)
She will never let your spirits down
Once you get her off the street,
(move right arm down, start to bring up)

I had the rest of the lyrics, along with corresponding swimming ‘moves’ all ready to transcribe, but I figure you’ve heard this tune before anyway... Thus my swimming became ‘super freaky… yow.’

Soon I tired of ‘the kind of girl you read about in Newsweek magazine’, and got a little more current. So last week I started mentally broadcasting the tic-toc’s and doomsday riff off of Mrs. Ritchie’s new song out of Timber-Land.

I leave you with these songs, both have catchy hooks that can drive you crazy. Or get you to the end of the pool, which for me is pretty much the same thing.

Rick James – Super Freak (12”)

Madonna featuring Justin Timberlake and Timbaland – 4 Minutes

Tales From The Pool, Part 1

2008-03-25T18:34:00.000-04:00

Last Friday was Good Friday, and I made my way to the pool for the fifth day in a row. Since it was a holiday for many local schools, the pool facility did not have its usual gaggle of screaming, larval New Yorkers in the shallow, blocked off, end. However, the AARP members who hit around mid-morning were in full force, with no Lisa Lisa in sight (an obscure and poor ‘80s cultural reference, I know). So I found myself in the shorter lanes, just doing the time to fit the crime. And I picked a lane right next to a sweet-looking 10-year-old little lady who had the day off from school while daddy (who worked at the pool) kept an eye on her.

Like me, she was doing 1-2 laps and stopping at the pool ends each time to assess her progress. More accurately, I was stopping to get some air, she was stopping to sigh heavily about the burdensome weight of life in the fourth grade and a ‘this-is-so-ten-minutes-ago’ completion of another lap. Then her sighs started getting more anxious, more like ‘I’m bored out of my mind, and I’d kill anybody here for a Hannah Montana download’. But soon I realized her boredom was getting converted into a desire to beat me, Grandpa Simpson, to the end of the pool.

I picked up on this as soon as I arrived at the end and looked over to see her looking benignly in my direction. ‘Oh, is that what’s going on here?’, I thought. And I looked back. She turned and dived. Then I knew it was ON.

So I made my way back, and Little Miss Sunshine decides to stop mid-pool to, well, just stop to check her goggles, and screw with my head. Hmmmm. I thought to myself: ‘that little swimming cap is hiding three 6’s, or maybe just a ‘665’, cause you ain’t all THAT, half a Miss Thang’. Underwater, a ‘snap’ could be heard.

I stopped the Tyler Perry show then and there and decided to get a little more focused. We took off down the pool. I’m counting my strokes, I can hear ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ on an 8-track in my head, with program clicks, and I make it. And Abigail Breslin, or that bee girl in the Blind Melon video, or whatever the hell she is, is already taking off. Dive! Dive!

We make it back about the same time, and I act like I have NO IDEA she is there. And she acts like she can barely float her ass in the pool, she’s so bored. But she sees me, and I see her, and our sweet looks at each other say it all: next time, you are toast.

I exit the pool (I don’t need a ladder, missy). I shoot her another look that says: ‘I’ll see you later in these pool lanes, little girl. And that’s when you’re going down.’

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, this is how a grown man trains for a triathlon. I swear it’s from the lack of oxygen in the pool.

Yeah, right.

Mugging in the Park

2008-03-21T17:10:00.000-04:00

Sorry to be a posting fool these days, but this is kind of newsworthy…

Last night a jogger was mugged and stabbed in Central Park about 8:45, two robbers made off with his iPod; the jogger went to the hospital, but I believe he’s OK. This is kind of rare, but it’s the type of thing the news media jump on.

I don’t like running at night anyway, and I just happened to run this afternoon. And got pulled over by a reporter from WCBS mid-run. After an hour in the pool this morning, I was happy for the break.

Here’s WCBS’ website, and the story.

And here’s the brief audio. As you can tell, I was out of breath and full of brilliant observations.

And Runners, Too.

2008-03-21T08:10:00.001-04:00

March 20th

2008-03-20T17:38:00.005-04:00

Back in January, I wrote: “Training better start coming together before spring, because I’m not going to want to be throwing money at the three-sport lifestyle for months if I don’t enjoy it on some level, be it through better health or through satisfying some personal masochistic tendencies.”

Now it’s spring, at least on the calendar, and it’s time to assess. I have indeed thrown money at triathlon training, and continue to. But as Bob-O suggested, and several others as well, just work on the swimming and get ready for Boston. Well. I’ve been doing just that.

As for running, I PR’d in a 15K a couple of weeks ago, I’ve kept a reasonably OK weekly mileage of 40 miles or more, and finished a 3:15/22-mile run last Sunday that actually left me feeling good enough that I could’ve done a few extra miles. I have found that in light of all the biking (spinning) and swimming I’ve been doing I enjoy running more than ever, and in winter weather, at that. I wish my mileage was higher, but I just don’t have it in me to do more after swimming and weight-training and biking most days.

Biking is the remaining wild card, only because I’m not looking forward to the expense. I attended a workshop on how to change a tire on Tuesday night, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been sponsored by MasterCard. Of course, it wasn’t, my tri-team set it up, and it was certainly educational, but I could just see my compulsiveness to be overly prepared with high-tech gear winning out over fiscal responsibility. I can’t say much more than that, though I think once warmer weather arrives and I can enjoy the outdoors I’ll get into it and the bike money pit as well and feel better about it. Another thing, spinning makes my quads burn every time, but ‘whatever doesn’t kill you…’

As for swimming, tomorrow will be my tenth trip to the pool in the last twelve days. And I have indeed gotten better in two months of training. My breathing is rather improved. My swimming instructor agreed with my recent poolside statement that I am my own worst critic, so as much as I want to I will not make negative comments on what I can’t do. For weeks I was waiting for the breakthrough day when I would complete 50-100 yards without stopping, but I’ve decided that’s not the right approach. I’m just going to plug away at it, and if ‘it’ (whatever that is, perhaps a PR distance, perhaps a high level of confidence) happens in April or May or whenever, then so be it. Unlike running, when it comes to swimming I can’t be moderately competitive with my past race times or set up goals, I just have to get in the pool and keep at it and get better. And that I have.

Overall I’m not as far along in tri-training as I wish I were, but I’m not going to worry about it. Frankly, I’m a little bored thinking about it all, and if it happens that I later decide I’m not ready to finish the triathlon I signed up for in July, I won’t do it. Right now, I can’t say I won’t be ready, because I’m keeping with the training. And getting ready for Boston, I’ll assess where I’m at after that, too. But that’s where I’m at, and every time I have a bad training day or I’m unhappy with a workout, I’ll think about all the people half my age (warning: he’s using the age card!) who could not physically do what I’m doing and then I’ll S-T-F-U.

And you thought I’d just written a rational assessment without getting a little snarky. That, my friends, will probably never change… Then again, the cloying image of the kitten at the ‘peep buffet’ was probably a tip-off…

A Time For Healing

2008-03-18T18:01:00.002-04:00

I come to you today to discuss something that has recently come to light. I do this because I feel the people need to know that I am honest with them. I speak to you today with the conviction that we must all work together, and to clear the air, so that we may move forward with the necessary determination to get the job done.

Running has always been important to me; what you don’t know is that at one time I was not faithful to running. During the late nineties, I strayed, and at one point I almost gave up entirely. But for the sake of my race times, I went for coaching, and decided to work through my problems; in hindsight, I had no one but myself to blame. And now I am faced with even bigger challenges. For now, two other sporting endeavors have threatened the peacefulness I've derived from running for so long. Rest assured, I will never turn away from my running career, and never turn away from those who made it possible. I now leave you to begin anew the monumental task of balancing the budget in the face of tri-ing expenditures. Thank you for your support and best wishes, and thank you to the state of New York.

(Ed. note: OK, there was only one bad pun in there, get over it. And if I have to hear about one more politician’s sex life (like our new governor’s) I’m going to lose my mind. Or go running instead.)

Ready for Spring

2008-03-17T16:23:00.000-04:00

It’s been a nice, sunny day in New York City. Too bad it was freezing, especially this morning when I headed out at about 6:30. I know, I’ll miss this weather in July.

Here’s Lewis Black from a few years ago, It pretty much sums up how I feel.

Race Report: USA 8K Championships

2008-03-16T17:45:00.015-04:00

Here’s something rare, a race report about some event I didn’t even run in. I could’ve signed up for the ‘normal person’ 8K held before the championships, but since I had a long run on the schedule for today, I decided racing the day before was not a great idea. Plus sometimes it’s better to just sit one out and watch other people run hard enough to vomit all over themselves. Good times!

I had no excuse to not lug around the camera, so I showed up at sunup on a chilly, misty Saturday morning to take some pictures. The race for everyday folks started at 7:30, so right as it started I managed to dash off to the west side of Central Park to cheer on the folks at the 1-mile mark. I was the only one there, and since it was at the top of a hill, the runners were generally happy to see anybody with a pulse telling them they’re doing well and everything will be OK, because ‘at least it’s not a marathon’. I made it back to the east side in time to see all the runners, again, rounding back up near the 4-mile mark. A participant asked me if he was ‘almost there’ and I told him in the nicest way possible that I don’t announce that information unless I’m staring at the finish line. Another runner laughed, they knew what I meant.

After the 1,780 ‘normal’ runners finished, the super-fast men’s invitational was held at 9AM. These guys are faster than I’ll ever be, but I was also reminded that most of them look like they stopped growing at 16 (even though some of them are well into their 20s and even 30s), and have that short, lean, bony, sinewy body type. Which sometimes makes their heads look huge. Oh, I ain’t hatin’ on the playas, it’s just there’s a body type going on, and we all know it. They could kick my ass in any race, and that’s all there is to that, and if 6% bodyfat is what it takes, so be it. Same goes for the women, although there’s even less bodyfat going on there, those ladies have upper arms that look like sticks.

And after Jorge Torres won the 8K in 22:41, the ladies turned out for their race, and Shalane Flanigan won that in a time of 25:40. With both events taking about a half hour for everyone to finish, there wasn’t a lot of standing around and waiting for it to be over, that was a nice change for the average spectator standing out in the cold.

As for me, my running mileage for the day was a lowly 3-4 miles accumulated as I shuttled around the park to snap pictures. Like I said, I saved most of my energy for today’s long run, which turned into a trip through four boroughs (with running pals Susie and Denise in the first half, and later a trip past the site of yesterday’s crane accident in midtown) and two times across the Queensborough Bridge. Amazingly, I had 22-23 miles in me, or 3 hours plus. I’ll take it, my long runs haven’t been so long lately, I think I broke out of that today. Hopefully, I’ll have enough leg strength for tomorrow morning’s swim training session and won’t look like I’ve forgotten everything.

So below are some chronological images of the three 8Ks I watched, and award pictures of the top ten runners in the men’s and women’s races. At least you get the idea of what it looks like to run in Central Park in the winter.

Lies vs. iPod Friday 28

2008-03-14T20:50:00.006-04:00

It hasn’t been a very good week for Silda Spitzer. I live about ten blocks away from the governor’s apartment in Manhattan, and Thursday morning I could hear the helicopters circling as everyone waited for Client-9 to come out and tell reporters he was leaving his job. When the news conference came, there Silda was, standing by her husband, and frankly she looked like hell on a ritz cracker. Well, if anybody had a right to, she did.

Now the news media is all over the young woman who met with the governor in that D.C. hotel room, and she’s cashing in big.

Not much more to say, the media will say it all as they rummage through the Spitzer’s trash and dissect ‘Kristen’s credit card bills. Keeping with the theme, here’s a new tune by Moby, it’s not as annoyingly easy-listening as his last few efforts, but he’s back to sampling gospel singers; it’s not ‘I Will Survive’ (thank God), but close, and would probably make a good Silda Spitzer theme song.

Moby – Disco Lies

Feb. Vacation ’08, Pt 3: Running In Rio

2008-03-12T22:06:00.012-04:00

I’ve been putting off this long-winded saga, so I better get it in before I forget all about it. Then again, some of what happened I’ll never forget…

So on a Friday afternoon, I took a flight from São Paulo to Rio de Janiero. Before I get caught up in forgettable details, I’ll mention a few things about Portuguese. It’s a language that reads like most European languages, especially Spanish, but isn’t pronounced like anything you’ve heard before. So the word for ‘no’ is nao, but it’s not pronounced NOW, but NOWN. Interesting sounds spring up out of nowhere. When the hotel concierge discussed fights to Rio, she said something about ‘heeyio’, and I first thought of something sun-related, like helium. No, that’s how ‘Rio’ is pronounced, no hard R sound going on there. So it’s pronounced 'HEE-oh day zhah-NAY-ro'. And ‘Janeiro’ translates to ‘January’; when the city was founded by the Portuguese, they mistook the lake near the coast as the beginning of a big river. And since January is the beginning of the calendar, it was the ‘river at the beginning’ so to speak. See, you’re learning shit here all the time at Cranky’s place.

Off to ‘Hio’ I went, and the one-hour flight was quite nice, especially after the combined eleven hours of flight time it took to get the hell down there. Though most of the taxi drivers don’t speak a word of English (you establish your destination and the cost before you get in the cab), the trip to the hotel was quick, unlike other trips by car in unrelenting all-day gridlock.

Pretty soon it becomes obvious that Rio is a beach resort town with a very, very large city tacked on. It’s Brazil’s version of Ocean City, Fort Lauderdale, Venice Beach, and every other summertime destination all rolled into one. There are two main beaches: Copacabana and Ipanema, names that remind me of specific tunes I’d often heard played in elevators. But that’s where the similarity ends, because the beaches are pretty and yet somewhat grungy at the same time. First thing I notice is the dress code: not much. For men, shirts are optional and the usual choice is none at all, while the women are a little more modest. So I didn’t see any fashion awards handed out, it’s too damn hot. The temperature all day and all night is between 26 and 30 degrees Celsius, or 78-86 degrees Fahrenheit. With tropical humidity that probably violates the Geneva Convention.

And now it’s time for another Portuguese lesson. The phrase for ‘thank you’ is 'obrigado', pronounced oh-bree-GAH-do. I spent the entire time there just dying to say ‘Domo obrigado, Mr. Roboto’, but I figured a dumb-ass MTV-related reference from the ‘80s would get me nowhere fast.

I won’t talk much about the touristy stuff I did, it wasn’t all that exciting, even to me. But it was oddly funny going to the H. Stern headquarters and getting a tour of the facilities. H. Stern is a Cartier/Tiffany-style jeweler that has it’s main office in Ipanema, and they offer free transportation to and from your hotel, the only cost to you is the time you spend privately with a sales associate as they try to hard sell you some high-priced jewelry. I ended up looking at watches with crystal faces and Swiss movements, the cheapest ran about $3000. The whole time I was trying on watches I kept thinking about what $3-5K would buy me at the Tri bike shop, so that put a damper and reality check on the visit. Anyway, I didn’t buy a watch or anything else, I’m no jewelry freak, far from it. Nobody wears a decent watch around town anyway, for fear of it getting stolen.

And I didn’t make it to that Japanese-monster-sized statue of Christ the Redeemer on a mountaintop that you see in all the guidebooks. Apparently, no self-respecting local goes to this gigantic concrete statue, it’s the Rio equivalent of The Statue of Liberty. As you probably know, only tourists go to The Statue of Liberty, New Yorkers have to practically give up their driver’s licenses if they set foot in the thing. And so it is for Cariocas (residents of Rio) at ‘Christ Redentor’, except for the religious hardcore. However, I do like that Jesus is portrayed with his hands outstretched as if he’s about to clap and yell out ‘you’re almost there!’ We all hate hearing that, but if anybody’s going to say it and mean it, it’s good ole’ J.C.

Dude!

I digress. About the running. I mentioned before that Rio is a great running town; it’s flat along the beaches, of course, but they built a special running/biking lane between the road and the promenade along the beach, and it’s pretty wonderful. And non-running pedestrians respect it and don’t use it like the local idiots do here on the Central Park drives. AND I was surprised to find users stuck to the right. No head-on collisions like in some places I know. So I decided to head out on a little 40-minute run the first morning I was there. And this recreation lane always has people on it, Cariocas love them some exercise.

Before heading out, I was mindful of personal security. Brazil, and Rio especially, has a very, very bad reputation for petty crime; I’d heard of someone who had their Swatch watch stolen at knifepoint on the beach, during the day, so I packed lightly. A Xerox of my passport, a little bit of money, and… my iPod. I was ambivalent about bringing it, people apparently get held up all the time for iPods, but I saw so many runners with headphones I decided to take a chance. I turned it on, and the first track to play was ‘Girl From Ipanema’. I’m not making this up.

Off I go, and I’m passing runners while keeping a moderate pace. I pass more runners, and I get to about the 20-minute mark, and suddenly it hits me: it’s HOT. And the humidity is like what you feel when you first walk into a florist’s shop. A wave of steamy, stagnant, damp air overtakes you, and then you realize that delightful local smells (sewage, coconut oil, fried meat stands) are just hanging in the air waiting for you to come along. That was when I realized why I was passing so many runners; it’s too damned stifling to run fast in Rio. So I cooled the pace, even though I noticed my tongue started to hang out like a big black dog’s towards the end of the run.

The next day I ran earlier, but since the temperature doesn’t drop overnight, it didn’t matter. Sauna running time again. I could only manage about five miles, and it wasn’t even sunny. In fact, it wasn’t sunny for very much of the time I was there, and one day I hit the beach mid-afternoon for about an hour or so. It looked like it was going to rain any minute, so I just hung out for a little while. I had a little suntan lotion, that was OK, but I soon discovered I didn’t need SPF 45. I needed SPF 45,000. And so I got cooked like Nazis at the end of that first Indiana Jones movie. Christ the Redeemer, I got burned, and burned badly.

And when I went on my next run under cloudy skies, my shoulders were singed. It was unbelievable, the damned place is a carnival of melanoma.

SO, later that weekend it was time for my Sunday long run. Two hours plus of good times (sarcasm alert)… cause these-are-the-good-times... I made my way along the recreation lane, and off to a route I found through the Copacabana Runner website the week before. There’s a lake (lagoon) inland about a mile from the beach, and since I knew the circumference was about 7.5 kilometers, I decided to run that twice on top of the 15K or so it would take to get me there and back. And around the lake is a fine running and biking and walking path, asphalt on rolling hills. Off I went, exploring new neighborhoods of Rio/Hio. I felt pretty good keeping an easy pace (or die) and passed a few runners. I passed one running group of four, they seemed like they knew what they were doing without being dicks about it (my definition of a good runner; after all this time reading all these dumb posts you just got my definition). Later I slowed down, they passed me and I was behind them. At one point I noticed that some lady walking her dog had gotten caught up with this running group ahead of me, and her dog was dragging her along, by the leash, with the runners. Two of the runners started to point and laugh about the ‘gato’, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t a dog, but a cat on a leash that had joined us. So here I am, in Rio in the blistering summertime, running along a lake with hyperactive exercise-obsessed Brazilians and a goddamn cat dragging some lady yelling in the highest-pitched Klingon-inflected Portuguese accent she could belt out. This was one of those ‘no one will believe this’ moments that only show on the widescreen plasma TV of your life, and you know it when it’s happening.

After the heat caught up with the cat, the cat stopped and quietly collapsed, and then the heat started in on me. And I began to feel my shoulders burn again, and the sky is STILL completely overcast. I finish the second stupid loop of the lake and headed home, slower than ever. Are there water fountains anywhere? No. Little convenience stores? No. Supermarkets? Are you kidding? You’re supposed to buy tiny, little bottles of mineral water, and that’s if you can find them, because Sunday is a holy day of rest, right? Right. The water bottle I brought on the run was a distant memory, and I later ended up, in a dehydrated trance, having to hit the hotel room minibar where everything is $15 a pop. As Joni once said, you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone. Oh, and another thing, you can’t drink the tap water, ANYWHERE. They even tell you to brush your teeth with bottled water. At this point I’m about ready to go home. Nice place, but the personal security paranoia thing gets tiring, and the only tourist activity is to go outside and get skin cancer in ten minutes or less.

One other observation. While in the middle of my heat-induced delirium moving at 5 minute/kilometers, I kept seeing runners with technical shirts emblazoned with the word ‘PETROBRAS’ on the back. It seemed that PETROBRAS is a major race sponsor like ING, and I kept trying to figure out what the hell that PETROBRAS was. Then it hit me: frilly, petroleum-based lingerie, black of course. And then I kept imagining salespeople at the Brazilian version of Victoria’s Secret having to re-price inventory all day long as the price of oil fluctuated. Yes, this is the crap I think of when heat has addled my brain, and regrettably, sometimes not. Anyway, later it occurred to me that it stood for ‘Petroleum Brasil’ and I suddenly realized my junior-high stand-up routine was over.

Fast forward to my late-night redeye flight back to the land of safe tap water. The international airport in Rio reminded me of JFK circa 1985, and that is no compliment. It looked like the kind of place you’d be stuck in during a third-world coup, where you couldn’t get out and would end up having to spend the night under dim, dirty neon lights. It was so bad I was reasonably sure one of the set designers for Saw II had been there for inspiration. And while I’m standing in line to tell nice, nice lady I’m not carrying cuticle scissors, the biggest, fattest American to cut a swathe through Brazil this decade is in line in front of me. Six and a half feet tall, two and a half feet wide, he could only be a football player with an eating problem. And you can see this coming, can’t you? Oh yes, you can.

I get on the plane after the craziest South American cattle call the airline could organize, get seated, and sure enough, Mountain Fiji shows up and is sitting right behind me. Of course, he doesn’t fit in the seat, so his legs stick out into the aisle and all the way under my seat and sticking out. I can’t blame him for being big (though he might’ve at least tried to send dessert back once in his life)… but damn, he’s large. And my seat never once reclines because his knees completely stop it. And every seat is taken on this 8-hour, overnight flight of sardines arriving in Miami at 4AM. And my shoulders and back are on fire thanks to that sunburned run with the gato. Obrigado, Hio.

When I arrive, I have another flight back home to that other dimension called New York City. After 14 hours of traveling, I spend an hour looking for parking in Manhattan; though my skin is already peeling, I’m home.

OK, OK, I’m glad I went. I learned about a world outside my own, a world most New Yorkers can’t imagine exists. I can now say I’ve been to South America. I have new respect for Brazilians’ dedication to running, which is more than I can say for folks at most tourist destinations elsewhere. And I love finding new places to run, even if it means later looking for malignant skin tumors on my shoulders, in the middle of the night, in an airplane toilet.

Should you go someday? Probably. The people of Brazil are cheerful, and welcoming. Bring your running shoes, some SPF 45,000, a gallon of bottled water, a slower running pace and you’ll be OK.

Great.

2008-03-10T17:06:00.000-04:00

Just when I thought we were going to get a little break from politics on the nightly news… our governor admits to hiring prostitutes. The next ‘turning point’ primary (Pennsylvania) isn’t until the end of April, so until then we get to hear ALL about Mr. Spitzer’s sex life. Thanks, Eliot.

I don’t give a damn what public people do in their homes or hotel rooms, as long as it isn’t hypocritical. But now laughing boy has gone and done it, and now the only thing the media will cover for the foreseeable future is what or who he ordered from room service.

About a year and a half ago, I was walking out of Central Park on a sunny afternoon, and found this goofy-looking runner waddling past me on the path. He wasn’t moving very fast (nothing wrong with that), but I remember thinking to myself ‘this guy needs to get himself to running camp pronto for some emergency help on that running form’. And yes, once he got closer, I realized that it was Mr. Spitzer. Nice to see our public leaders getting out for a little jog, but they, like the rest of us, could use some coaching.

And now, Governor Spitzer needs a lot more than coaching, he needs to learn how to keep it in his pants.

So bring it on, networks, CNN, major cable outlets, the morning shows, late-night comedians, we know what to expect, you never disappoint. I can see it like a truck coming down the highway, inexorable and boring at the same time. For now, real news won’t get reported, only seamy conversations and teary-eyed apologies. If only Mr. Spitzer had just gone out on some goofball run instead of calling Dial-A-Ho.

With that, I will offer one piece of advice for myself or anyone else out there who’s sick of what passes for news these days. Next time you turn on the TV and hear wall-to-wall coverage of this kind of crap, turn the TV off, and go out for a run. And dream of better days.

Race Report: Colon Cancer Challenge (4M and 15K)

2008-03-10T12:04:00.001-04:00

It’s behind me now, the 15K I finished along with about 3200 other runners Sunday morning. Over an hour before, a 4-miler was held also, and I got to stand on the course and cheer on the early runners. It’s a win/win for everybody, and I’ll take any good karma I can get, especially before a race. And it’s a pretty good way to kill some time before you have to go on…

So my strategy was to run the same pace I ran in a 10-miler three weeks ago, over a shorter distance. How hard is that? I found out soon enough. After a Saturday of torrential rain and high winds, the temperature dropped 30 degrees, while we kept some of those nasty winds. So another wintertime race in clear, cold, blustery weather. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to move on to races that do not include ice on the course and getting thrown around while mid-air.

The Central Park hills I know so well kicked my ass, so keeping the pace was a lot harder than I expected. And when people start passing you in the last three miles, you know you’re slowing down. But I didn’t slow down too much. I generally kept the pace, and tried to do the math, you know, distance remaining, pace per mile, etc., and failed miserably at that. I wanted to beat my previous 15K time of 1:06:50, and I just couldn’t get the arithmetic going right in the brain. Someday I’ll write about ‘Runner’s Brain’ (or lack thereof), the relationship between increased running distance and decreased ability to compute simple, 3rd grade math formulas.

Anyway, I reached the finish line at 1:03:33. Not as fast a pace as three weeks ago in the 10-miler (any faster would’ve made the pace barfworthy)… but it’s the PR I’d hoped for. And happily, a nice improvement over the previous record. It helps to not run in many 15K races anyway, but I’ve averaged one every year for the last ten years, so I’ll take what I can get. And I’ve been doing tempo runs at 6:48 m/m for a while now, I guess training helps after all. I’ll put a little sticky note reminder about that on the brain hard drive the next time I start to whine about tempo/interval runs…

Update/iPod Friday 27

2008-03-07T17:52:00.001-05:00

Haven’t posted in a few days, too busy, but I just wanted to acknowledge some of the comments and encouragement I’ve received over the last week. Thank you. And for a bunch of people who type at each other more than anything else, we know what’s going on, even when it’s not being expressed.

So I won’t yet continue my account of the National Lampoon Brazilian Vacation, but instead mention a couple of things about training and races and all that stuff. I’ve got a 15K race on Sunday, and in a rare move, I’ll discuss it in advance (usually I just over-discuss marathons in advance). I’m actually looking to do a PR; if I can keep the pace I ran during the 10-miler three weeks ago, I’ll finish pretty well. I found out a few days after that last race that I finished third in my age group, and even though there were only 300 runners in that race, I’ll take it.

And I need the boost in confidence. As Bob-O commented, I need to cool it (my words, not his) and save the bricks for later. In January I trained like gangbusters, and discovered I had no swimming ability, and also discovered pedaling on a bike was dead-boring. So February rolled around and I was in burned out. I spent a week away; maintaining running mileage helped a little, though. For now, I’m in the middle of my second round of swimming lessons. I feel like I improve about 2% every time I hit the pool and it’s not fast enough for me. But I am still learning how to breathe in the pool, and learning I can’t swim as fast as I run (!)… even my swimming instructor has made that observation, and told me to calm down. For now, I’m doing headstands at the bottom of the pool with the kids, and getting blisters from blue rubber flippers.

Last night I went to an awards ‘gala’ that was put on by the Tri team at the swimming fitness center I use. I’ll write about that later, but in the meantime, I was looking to be inspired by a hundred triathletes together in one room. I heard a few comforting stories (‘it took me so long to learn how to swim’, ‘you’ll be fine’, etc.), but most of the night was spent hearing and watching people get awards for 9-hour Ironmans and the like. Awards are fine, and I’m sure people deserve them, but watching the same total strangers win award after award gets tiring in itself. Well, like I said more on that later.

And now for something unrelated… I have to answer a few comments about my trip. I didn’t exactly ask anyone on the street in Brazil, nor did I personally check this out, but… I did NOT get the impression that everyone is bisexual in Brazil. Outside of Rio, it’s a fairly Catholic country. Sorry, Claire. And AR, I did not notice that Brazilian women were the most beautiful in the world (paraphrasing, here). Not to say that beautiful Brazilians don’t exist, nor that Brazilians as a people are unattractive. I just didn’t notice drop-dead gorgeousness everywhere, female, male, or otherwise. I will say that I didn’t see the level of obesity we have here in the States. Brazilians appear to be a bit more up on exercise and physical health than we are, that’s for sure...

Oh, and Mindy, we’ll talk later about that future Ironman. I’d like to see the gear we'd invent for THAT.

More later, but for now I’ll lay on you the new Hot Chip video that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but makes me laugh, and we probably all need that anyway. Because after all the training I’ve been doing, I really do feel like I’m ‘Ready For The Floor’.

Hot Chip – Ready For The Floor

Running Vacation February ’08, Part 2

2008-03-03T17:48:00.002-05:00

(São Paulo, from the 23rd floor of my hotel.)

I arrived in São Paulo after an eight hour plane ride, and airport customs was not so bad and actually easier to get through than it is back home. It shouldn’t have been bad anyway, because the damn visa to get in the country had already cost $130 along with two days spent at the Brazilian consulate in New York. The weather was warm (it’s still summer), but not horrible, and rain was imminent. Later I was told by a local that it rains all day, every day, in March. Nice.

Well, the next day included some business outside of town… though you wouldn’t know it was outside of town, because the city is gigantic and sprawling in a Southern California kind of way. Recently I heard São Paulo described as what you’d get ‘if New York threw up on L.A.’, and that’s not far from the truth. Twenty-story high rises are clumped by the dozen far off into the horizon, while every so often you see some random green space. And the traffic is, I am told, worse than in L.A.

Luckily, the fitness center in the hotel was one of the best I’ve ever seen, as in more than one machine left over from the 80’s… there were at least eight treadmills, ten bikes, every weight machine they could get in there, and most exciting of all, the room had huge windows. These people take fitness seriously. Now, I’m usually intrepid when it comes to running on city streets, but this time I had to reconsider. First off, there were NO pedestrian walk signs on 95% of the intersections. The guide book I brought explained that driving is a hazardous sport in Brazil, and quite often drivers feel that obeying red lights is, well… optional. Plus, scooters and motorcycles constantly cut in and out of sitting traffic, so they are the main cause of pedestrian death. Great. So after walking around the city, I observed all this mayhem on the streets, along with the gridlock, and decided the (I can’t believe I’m saying this) treadmill was the way to go. At least I got to watch American sitcoms with Portuguese subtitles.

A day and a half later, it was off to Rio, an hour away by plane. But before I forget, I’ll lay on you some facts and figures and odd info about Brazil; having never been there, I decided I’d at least learn something about the place:

Population of Brazil: 185 million. Judging by the bathing suits I saw in Rio, that’s about 30 meters of cloth divided amongst the entire population. But interestingly, women going topless at the beach is a real no-no. Apparently, going topless is only for heathen Europeans.

Geographically, Brazil is larger than the continental U.S. You find that out fast when you’re flying over the country for hours and hours and still haven’t gotten to where you want to go.

With 18 million people, São Paulo is the most populous city in South America. That’s bigger than my hometown. And that’s pretty big.

You knew this already, but they speak Portuguese. The recipe: two cups Spanish, a tablespoon of Italian, an teaspoon of Arabic, and a dash of Klingon. Hmmm… I just moved this blog up four million notches on the Google search result list for ‘klingon’. Anyway, half the language rhymes with ‘Nike Swoosh’. Since they are foaming-at-the-mouth soccer fans, that’s rather appropriate.

São Paulo has the largest Japanese population in the world, outside of Japan. Which means there are Japanese/Brazilian fusion restaurants. OK…

Brazilians LOVE pork. The national dish is a bean stew with every imaginable part of a pig thrown in. Like in Europe, I don’t know how vegetarians handle going out to dinner.

And yes, there’s a level of poverty unlike anything you can imagine. It’s very strange, on one block you’ll see an expensive office building or ritzy high-rise (both with armed guards standing in front, glaring at passers-by) and a few blocks away you’ll see shacks and slums, and empty, one- and two-story windowless buildings. And shoeless kids, sleeping on the sidewalks. And we think OUR social safety net sucks…

On that happy note… more later…

Bob-O is an Ironman.

2008-03-02T14:00:00.007-05:00

(A still image taken from the live feed at the finish line. Mr. D had just 'rolled' under the tape.)

Running Vacation February ‘08

2008-02-29T21:05:00.004-05:00

While I’m sitting on my butt on a Friday night watching live internet coverage of the Bonita New Zealand Ironman and looking for Bob-O, I thought I’d type some drivel about what I did on my winter vacation. Incidentally, as I type, Iron Bob just finished biking after 6 hours and 19 minutes and change. In drizzly rain, which is not what he wanted, but at least he made it to T2. And now as he runs a frickin’ marathon, I’ll continue to tap at the keyboard, waiting for still more snow to hit the northeast tonight. And hear ‘Come On Eileen’ for the 73rd time on the live feed.

Anyway, this post’s title is misleading, it wasn’t really a ‘running vacation’ I went on. Actually, it was a vacation with some running thrown into it. And a little swimming that wasn’t much to write home about, but you know I will.

So I headed down to Palm Beach, and that was peachy. As I mentioned before, the weather was mostly rainy with scattered sun that arrived right about when you gave up expecting any nice weather at the end of the day. So I was at the mercy of the typical hotel gym with rickety Cybex machines and an evil treadmill that had a 20-second lag between the time you pressed the ‘increase speed’ button and it actually happening. The first time I got on the treadmill I inadvertently increased the speed to a 6:20 mile; now maybe I can do that on dry land, but not on some George Jetson-inspired Curse-of-J.W. -Marriott treadmill. So after nearly flying off the back end, I managed to get the speed down a bit and continue yet another mind-numbing run in another windowless room in another chain hotel, a room with more mirrors than the Playboy Mansion.

Well, there’s not much to say about Palm Beach other than it helps to be white, elderly and have lots of money to live there. Oh, and I already discussed the weather, that’s perfectly OK. I was informed at one point that there’s a new ordinance banning male runners from running shirtless (not so sure about female runners), which doesn’t get me hot and bothered, but makes me glad I don’t live there year-round. I don’t care one way or another about that law, but if it hits 90 degrees and 90% humidity on a July day I’d like the option to remove that one piece of clothing to avoid death by chafing.

Oh, I forgot to complain about the flight down to FL. Three hours with the screamingest toddler ever conceived, in the seat behind me. It was so bad the mother was apologizing to the entire passenger list every five minutes. And of course, the child belonged to one of the most dysfunctional couples ever to come out of Long Island, who argued loudly with each other in an unbelievably ‘fuggedaboutit’-inflected accent about how best to shut the kid up. I thought to myself: if they were my parents, I’d be screaming, too.

So I earnestly prayed to every deity I could think of before the eight hour flight to São Paulo that it would not be another hellish experience. The cards are always stacked against you (rude people, obese people who can’t fit in the seats and spill over into yours, uncontrollable kids, surly airline employees, non-existent legroom, surgery/mealtime), but surprisingly, and happily, the trip turned out OK. Thank you, Ahura Mazda.

Brazil’s Atlantic coast is so far east that it’s two hours ahead of the U.S. east coast, believe it or not, so the noon departure meant landing at 10PM local time. And to start things off on a freaky note, as soon as I got to the hotel in downtown São Paulo, it was under a lunar eclipse.

All the guide books tell you Brazil is dangerous, in a benign sort of way; so keep all doors locked, don’t show anyone a laptop, keep your jewelry at home, copy your passport, AND get a tetanus and/or yellow fever shot. Well, I didn’t have time to get my shots, but I was ready for any potential man-made crime. I’ll just let you know now that I would not become the victim of any crime other than getting a frightening eyeful of thong abuse later at the beach.

Well, more later, including Brazil fun facts, and why Rio is runner heaven (except for the heat). Gotta listen to ‘Come On Eileen’ again, and make sure Iron Bob gets through that final 42K distance.

(Update: the deities heard my prayers again, no more Dexy's Midnight Runners on the live feed from NZ. NOW it's Nelly F. and Timba and Gwen as the winners come through... oh well)

Back Home

2008-02-27T17:28:00.001-05:00

Got back late yesterday from a long trip; lots, and I mean LOTS more on that later. So I’ve been missing out on races and other folks’ races, and obsessing about marathons/triathlons and general training in the place the Lenape Indians once called Manna-hata, or ‘Island of Many Hills’. Really? I hadn’t noticed.

Glad to be home, though I understand snow hit here and the rest of the Northeast last Friday. Sorry to gloat, but I was in warm Florida, at least for the first part of the trip. Even though it rained most of the time, it was still between 60 and 80 degrees. I just missed the state’s power outage yesterday on my way back, by the way.

The other destination was, well, three times hotter than FL. Of all places, I, Cranky ended up in South America’s summer season… and Brazil. Never been, had the opportunity, and took it. Just remember the worst, coldest temperatures you’ve experienced this winter, and go to the damp heat equivalent at the other end of the thermometer and that’s what I experienced for a few days, on the lower half of the planet at that. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, holla at your boy… it was HOT. I wish old JC had been around to turn water into Gatorade, let me tell you.

So pictures and crap are coming soon. No races, I just did training runs among the thousands and thousands of people who run in Rio. Who would’ve thought Brazil would have so many runners? Who run mid-day in sweltering heat? People crazy down there. But at least they’re running.

Checking In

2008-02-19T13:17:00.002-05:00

So I sit here typing on some Playskool keyboard in a Marriott in Palm Beach, FL. You'd think the weather would be wonderful, but of course, it's raining off and on all day. I'll probably return to NYC the same shade of off-white as I was when I left.

By the way, Florida is like many other vacation spots, a buffet on just about every corner. What is it with bread pudding down here? It's on every frickin' menu.

So today I ran (alone, who runs in Palm Beach?) in the rain, which was OK considering it was 65 degrees. But I'm hoping my clothes dry out before I have to take a hair dryer to them.

So that's all I got for now. Its all so very, very interesting. I'll hit one of the three hotel faux-fitness club treadmills later, and will have to push off the walkers who spend hours on them getting up to their daily 1.5 mile quota.

More from Margaritaville, or whatever you call this place, later...

Race Report: Cherry Tree 10-Miler

2008-02-16T21:55:00.002-05:00

Made it over to the borough of Brooklyn this morning for a 10-mile race, three loops of Prospect Park. The weather was clear and sunny, but it sure was cold. Anyway, without going on and on about anything not worth discussing, I did it, along with a few hundred other folks (some doing a three-person relay), and survived pretty well despite the sneaky hills. In the end I managed to finish a little over 1:07:20, and had I known that was going to be just 5 seconds off a 6-year-old PR I’d have really pushed my ass a little faster across the finish line. It was nice to finish reasonably well in a race and still feel OK, especially after a week of feeling tired and bored with the whole swim/bike/run routine I’ve been slogging through. As for that, I’ve come to the realization that maybe I should start splitting up my workouts (as in two a day) instead of doing everything in the morning and getting wiped out after two hours. The ‘swimming’ I’m doing (quotes intentional) alone tires me out before I get to weight training and biking and running. I’m hoping that approaching warmer weather will help me get over all that a little bit, ‘cause I hate late-day workouts.

Sometime later I’ll tell this week's fun story about dropping a swim flipper in the 17 foot deep end of my pool, and being unable to retrieve it from the bottom by myself, asking for help and causing an international incident among the minimum-wage kids managing said pool. Soon enough, a fine young lady in my lane helped me out and got the flipper while the kids went on to make doodles on their clipboards. If it happens again, I may have to start using the age card (“I’m old, I didn’t know what I was doing!”) several decades before I have a right to.

The other news is that I’m going out of town tomorrow, way out of town, for a week or so, and won’t be back until the end of the month. I won’t go into details now, but I PROMISE you I will have some goofball story to relate at some point. Oh, I’m not going anywhere to do a race or something, either. So folks, in the meantime, stay warm, hang in there, because at least the days are getting longer...

Happy Valentine’s Day

2008-02-14T16:00:00.006-05:00

Amy Winehouse - Love Is A Losing Game

Amy Winehouse - Love Is A Losing Game (Kardinal Beats Remix)

Pictured above: ‘All You Need is Love’, by Damien Hirst
butterflies (yes, they're real) and household gloss paint on canvas
84 1/4 x 84 1/4 in.; 214 x 214 cm.
Estimate: $1,000,000-1,500,000
Up for auction at Sotheby’s New York, tonight.

Update, 2/15: The painting pictured sold for $2.42 million. Glad it was a charity auction!

Crazy Town, U.S.A.

2008-02-12T15:36:00.003-05:00

I know I’m not saying anything original, but this town is nuts. Sometimes good nuts, sometimes bad nuts. But nuts. Three good reasons, as if you need them:

1. This afternoon, after a particularly tiring ‘this sucks because my heart’s not in it’ swim/gym workout/spinning session, I headed home and cleaned up for a visit to the auction house down the block. Every year they have an auction entitled ‘Dogs in Art’, paintings and sculptures and whatever they can sell with a dog-related theme. It’s timed for the same week as the Westminster Dog Show going on now. Most of the artwork is cute and sentimental and not for me, but I wanted to see the star of the show, an original of the campy ‘Dogs Playing Poker’ by the original artist, C. M. Coolidge. That’s it pictured above.

The bidding started at $48,000. It soon passed $100,000. And in the end, it reached $160,000, somebody bidding over the phone got it. With the auction house fee, that’s $200,000, plus tax. I told you this city has lost its mind.

2. A friend of mine sent me a link to this video. It’s overly staged, but I like the concept. The main floor of Grand Central is always jammed with people walking scattershot, it reminds me of molecules hitting each other in some atomic reactor. I’m glad somebody was nutty enough to stop it for a few minutes.

3. And finally, below is a link to an article I came across at The New York Times. Some Brooklyn residents are up in arms because their local bars are banning them from bringing in their kids and strollers while they get sloshed. Maybe I’m just an old guy and not the one to ask, but when I was a kid I don’t seem to remember my parents wanting to drag me into bars to watch them drink. I don’t begrudge people from wanting to have a little fun, but honestly, don’t push your kids onto the rides at Amy Winehouse Land. The Baby Stroller Fascists (yes, always a new rock band name in every post) in my neighborhood already have my number, so I better keep quiet, or I’ll end up with a decapitated, bloody ‘My Little Pony’ head under my bedsheets.

The New York Times: Look Who’s Getting Rolled Out of the Bar

Race Report: Bronx Half Marathon

2008-02-11T18:15:00.000-05:00

Well, I did it. It was cold. Next!

I was just going to post that, but you know me, I can’t shut up sometimes. Sometimes? Yes, I even know what you’re going to say before you say it. It’s like we’re married, or something.

WELL. Sunday morning I met up with running pals Susie and Denise for a quick ride to a race in the Midwest, a.k.a. The Bronx. It was originally named after a family who lived there named the Broncks, I’m not making that up. Sometimes I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and bring in a family named the Funckes. Which means today we’d have a borough known as The Funx. And you probably thought I’d write something else.

I’m not hating on The Bronx, but for a little while yesterday I was hating on the NYC subway system, which is always easy to do on the weekends. Due to track maintenance (somebody spilled an espresso latte with skim milk on the track, or something), we had to switch trains at 125th St. and join hundreds of anxious runners waiting on the platform to get to the damn race. So at 7:15 we’re standing there, knowing that the race starts at 8 and it would be nice to check bags and go to the bathroom before the race, etc. The train finally came and we made it by then, but my running friends (and many more) found themselves still in port-a-john lines as the starting gun went off. And I was even late, since I had to hit baggage check, too. Oh well, it gave me a chance to see the walkers at the end of the pack, who are usually nicer than the get-out-of-my-way speed freaks wearing headphones up front.

So off I went, weaving and passing and trying not to be one of those assholes running over innocent people, and I wasn’t. The weather forecast was dire, temperatures were due to drop at 10AM, and then the high winds would kick in. Every TV weather forecaster in the tri-state area had predicted end-of-the-world style cold for Sunday, and since it was still a balmy 40 degrees, we were all dying because we were overdressed for arctic temperatures that hadn’t yet arrived.

And then the winds kicked in before 9 o’clock, providing the type of gale force that makes you feel like your moving forward in slow-motion. I swear, it felt like my legs were getting pushed to the side every time I was mid-air. Since the route had a little bit of out-and-back to it, I was comforted knowing the headwind would become a tailwind, but no such luck. Thus the middle finger of fate struck again.

About three miles in I knew it was not National PR Day, and I decided to just keep a reasonable pace and not embarrass myself. So I did, and finished the damn thing. I was three minutes slower than the half I ran two weeks ago, but I’m over it already. The weather did get just a tad colder as predicted, so I got home (after changing trains again, thank you very much) and stayed there and watched the Hammy Awards later.

Speaking of, can we take Alicia Keys, John Legend, and John Mayer and put them on some reality C-list celebrity show and vote them off before they have a chance to open their mouths? Honestly, those camera whores would probably show up to play a Denny’s, all for a $10 buffalo wing gift certificate, f’Chrissakes. And I’m surprised Kanye’s ego could get squeezed into that auditorium, he’s out of control; these people actually make you want to root for Amy Winehouse, and that’s saying something. And while I’m being catty, I think Beyoncé needs to join me on some spinning workouts, her legs are bigger than Godzilla’s.

Now that that’s over, I can get back to discussing myself. Today….

I TOOK THE DAY OFF.

From being mean and sarcastic, no. But from EXERCISE, yes. Normally, I would’ve packed up the gym bag and hit the pool. But I’m still nursing a big old blister caused by the blue flippers I wear while playing junior aquaman amongst the little old ladies (who, incidentally, can kick my ass) in the water. But more importantly, my legs, and quads in particular, are just beat-down tired after a killer spinning workout and then a tempo run and then a wind tunnel half marathon, all in three days. I just didn’t have it in me this morning, and it was time to give my legs a day off for the first time since Christmas. Maybe it was eyeballing Beyoncé’s hams of steel on the HD plasma screen that made me decide on a one-day vacation, since hers seem to get LOTS of vacations. Anyway, today I just sit here and type and eat potato chips straight out of the bag. Nice.

Rest is important, people!

iPod Update 26, Friday Again

2008-02-08T18:22:00.000-05:00

If anyone’s checked here lately, there hasn’t been much going on. No post-Super Bowl wrap-ups, no race reports, no snarky comments about somebody else’s bad running habits.

I’ll post more as soon as two things begin to happen: I get a little less busy and start to enjoy training my ass off. It’s swimming/biking/running and running more every day, and often about two hours plus of all that on Monday, Wednesday and Friday (other days have slacker workouts of just an hour and a half). And then a long run or race on the weekend, and now I’m tired just thinking about it, much less writing about it.

So bottom line, no news is good news, it’s just mid-winter fatigue. However, I will make a couple of points that might not be considered news by those who also train their asses off.

Swimming – I have progressed, if you may call it that, from pre-school to kindergarten. And I no longer thrash like a school of piranhas, I just gasp for air at all the wrong times. My comfort level is much higher, though, and I’m making it to the pool three times a week. I’m trying. Anyway, as soon as I get the breathing part down, I’ll feel much better. And stop trying to swim like I’m running, which is way too fast under the circumstances.

Biking – I’m doing 2-3 hour-long spinning workouts a week, and my quads would like to say hello to all of you and ask you to please tell Cranky to stop all this crap. Also, the lake of sweat I generate around the bike is getting embarrassing, but once again, at least I’m trying. And I went to a seminar and workshop on getting the right bike fit, and although I learned a lot, I’ve come to the conclusion I’ll probably have to sell my now-old car just to afford a reasonably good tri-bike with all the fixins. I’m half-joking about that, which implies I’m half-serious, and you guessed it, that part’s not funny.

Running – In preparation for Boston, I’m doing two tempo runs a week on the dreaded treadmill, in addition to the usual ‘easy’ runs, whatever the hell they are. The weather hasn’t been bad here, it’s just I can’t keep an exact tempo pace outdoors, and then I feel like I’m slacking or something. So (today) I start out with two miles easy, followed by four sets of one mile at tempo pace (for me, 6:48) with one-minute rests in between. I had another three miles at tempo pace on the schedule today, but I was still tired from yesterday’s session at Lake Spinning, and had to just keep it at four. Plus, more than an hour on the treadmill makes me quietly insane. As opposed to loudly insane, which describes half the population of New York City.

Add to all this the Bronx Half Marathon this Sunday, and I’m ready for Athletes Anonymous. I bet they serve Gatorade and bagels and gel at THOSE meetings. No coffee and cake? I’d be outta there.

The other day I read about an alarming statistic: 30% of the population of Mississippi is obese. While that’s indeed alarming, whenever I am experiencing self-doubt (as in halfway down the 25-meter pool lane), I compile a brief list of all the folks who probably couldn’t do what I’m doing right then. So that includes a third of Mississippi, half the tourists at Epcot Center right now, and let’s just throw in Britney, too.

More later…

Brit and The O’Jays – Backstab Me One More Time

Go Home Productions… Great Mash-Ups, Cranky-Approved…

iPod Friday 25: Dance Like It’s 1989

2008-02-01T18:09:00.001-05:00

So the Super Bowl is Sunday. And Super Tuesday arrives a couple of days later. Some media folks are calling our national primary day ‘Super Duper Tuesday’. Gee whiz, that sounds important!

Paraphrasing something someone once said, ‘we deserve the government we get’.

Getting back to the four hours of marketing on Sunday evening, I have no favorite team, though it would be nice for the hometown to come out on top. Mr. Manning and Mr. Brady seem like nice enough fellows, the type of goofy jocks who sat a couple of rows behind you in 8th grade study hall. Mr. Plaxico Burruss fascinates me only because I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone named Plaxico. Not trying to be mean, but Plaxico sounds like a multinational corporation that sells petroleum-based mouthwash. Anyway, he’s been in the news over the last few days for predicting a rather low-scoring Giants win on Sunday.

And another thing… about New York City sports fans... when their team wins they don’t jump in the car and ride up and down the streets, maniacally honking and screaming like they do in places like Philly. It’s nice to win, but not nice to lose a parking space in New York City. Here, team spirit has its limits, and I like that.

I’m not sure who’s performing at half time, but do I know that Ms. Paula Abdul is threatening to ‘sing’ at some point. Since Miss J. Jackson debuted a single (ahem, cough) once at the Super Bowl, ex-Jackson choreographer Paula will be on her best behavior. And as a way of getting us in the mood, here’s HER new single:

Paula Abdul – Dance Like There’s No Tomorrow

And now an open letter to P.A.:

Dear Ms. Abdul,

Just heard your single. And you know what? It’s not 1989 anymore.

All the Best,

The People of Earth.

Thinking Too Much, Probably

2008-01-31T18:32:00.000-05:00

I’m not in the habit of explaining and endorsing somebody’s viewpoints, but I’ll throw this out there and see if it sticks. To be honest, I’m naturally cynical (surprise!) about people who act like they have all the answers, such as self-help writers and motivational speakers. Maybe that works for some of you, but I think anybody who asks me for, say, a donation or something like that is motivated by more than just making me ‘feel’ better. And isn’t taking charge of my life the first step in making me feel better? If so, for me taking charge means not listening to somebody’s tapes or reading somebody’s books on how I should approach life, because I already took charge of all that.

To begin with, I have a weakness for PBS documentaries and educational shows. Not the crowd-pleasers, necessarily, such as what you always see on Nature (‘Lions of the Serengeti at Dinnertime’ or at the other extreme ‘Science Isolates the Canine Gene That Makes Puppies So Damned Cute’), but the stuff you see in the middle of the night before all the pre-school alphabet-shoving programs begin. So lately I’ve been setting my DVR for the tried-and-true, such as The Western Tradition and now, the questionably-titled Philosophy, A Guide to Happiness, a series from a few years back. ‘Philosophy’ is based on a book by British writer Alain de Botton, 'The Consolations of Philosophy'. It’s a half hour series that only runs three total, and that half hour chunk is about all my brain can handle at one time. Anyway, Mr. de Botton identifies and explains particular viewpoints on emotions ranging from anger to happiness and much in-between, all in an easy-going, soothing British accent that makes everything seem painfully obvious (I’m not sure if it’s on most local PBS stations, but you can always check, like I said, it’s been on a while).

So for example, during one of his programs he examined Nietzsche’s philosophy that ‘only through pain, suffering, and hard work do you achieve happiness’. I completed a 10-mile tempo run on a goddamn treadmill this morning, does that count? By the way, that’s a picture of Friederich, a.k.a. Laughing Boy, above.

And there was one question from Schopenhauer: Why is everyone so angry about things they can’t control? What if we approached life more pessimistically, and by assuming that the worst would happen every day, wouldn’t we be better prepared to deal with life’s setbacks since there would be no nasty surprises?

Well, I can’t say that my outlook on optimism or pessimism has been changed by a TV show (or a book I haven’t read yet), but at the same time I’ll take what I can get from dead Western Philosophers. At least they’re not trying to sell me something. In the meantime, you might want to check out the show, or Alain de Botton’s website, or anything of his other written works, maybe they’re at the local library. Anything that gets the brain cells going in the direction of self-awareness may not be such a bad thing. In the meantime, I will someday soon approach a 20-mile training run armed with a Nietzschean outlook. At least that sounds better than being armed with nasty-tasting vanilla-‘flavored’ gu.

Check Out:

Alain de Botton; Video – Nietzsche on Hardship

’The Consolations of Philosophy’ at Amazon

Race Report: Manhattan Half Marathon

2008-01-28T11:25:00.000-05:00

After all the fun I’ve been having in the pool and training for Boston, I almost forgot to get stressed out over the first NYC borough half marathon of the year. So yesterday was the Manhattan Half, two 6-mile loops of Central Park plus 1.1 in case you hadn’t had enough. I didn’t take any pictures because I forgot my camera and besides, pictures from races all start to look the same after a while anyway.

It was 31 degrees, cloudy, and crowded. Just under 5000 would finish, and that seemed about right considering the droves of pushy runners around. After finishing a moderately-difficult tempo run on Friday, and an overly-long (10 miles) easy run on Saturday, I went into the race too tired and I should’ve known better. But just having one sport to think about, or obsess about over the course of the day was a welcome change.

Funny thing was, and this used to never happen, I kept running into people I knew, before and after. I’d planned to meet up with running pal Susie before the race, and did, but it was just one acquaintance after another, on the course and past the finish line. Later on, a runner came up to me and said ‘Philly?’, and as it turned out it was someone I didn’t know who had seen me running in my old gym in Philadelphia three years ago, and had remembered me. Small running world.

Well, I could go on about the usual race stuff, people running too slowly who get right up front, nylon pants-wearers making that constant swish-swish noise, hearing ‘Born to be Wild’ blasted out of some runner’s headphones from ten feet away (I’m not trying to be funny, that actually happened)… but I won’t. But I will say the race was tiring, and I pushed myself to the 80-85% threshold, and that got real old on the rolling hills of CP. The last steep-and-unhappy hill was at mile 11, and I was cursing it even though I’ve run it a million times. And I had planned to race with running friend Tim, then I couldn’t get up to the marker where we were supposed to meet before the start, and I spent the whole race running just a little bit faster to find him up ahead. I never did, and later on we met up after the race and it was only then I discovered that he’d been stuck in a port-a-john line at the beginning, started late, and was running behind me the whole time. He still beat my finish/chip time, so I’m going to have to work in a little kick-ass rematch in the spring. He’s a roll-out-of-bed-and-run-a-PR kind of runner, and I just hate that, but then again, so am I sometimes, so I’ll shut the F up.

After finishing at an average pace I shouldn’t have done (7:04), I was definitely fatigued. And as it would turn out, soaking wet under the layers, and despite checking extra clothing and throwing it all on later I still managed to get the shivers and chills that left me more tired than before. I don’t live too far away from these races, but a 20-minute post-race walk in freezing temperatures when you’ve got wet layers on is both difficult and stupid, planning-wise. But I kept running into people, and yakking, and I’ll just have to save that crap for warmer races.

So I acquitted myself well in the race, though no PR, but that’s OK. There’s another half in The Bronx in two weeks, so we’ll see about that one. In the meantime, my swimming coach took pity on me this morning in my pre-dawn workout; my quads were feeling tired as I recreated the first ten minutes of the movie ‘Jaws’, and believe me, I wasn’t playing the shark.

Mad World

2008-01-25T18:10:00.001-05:00

Not as in ‘angry’, but ‘mad’ as in batshit crazy.

I’m sure nobody out there needs too much convincing that we live on a planet that’s gone nuts over the wrong things, but honestly…

So this morning I hit the pool, and just as I’m sinking to the bottom I realize that I should have left a note at the front desk asking that if something happens to me, please speed dial Mary-Kate Olsen immediately. If you don’t get what I’m joking about, you haven’t been watching the news much this week. Or rather, the tabloid news that Americans crave by the truckload.

It’s very sad that Mr. Ledger died this week, but this city has just lost all it’s remaining marbles among the five boroughs. I didn’t know the actor, but I saw him with his wife in the village last summer, and he looked like an everyday guy just walking down the street, and in interviews he seemed vaguely embarrassed about being a celebrity. He was his own worst critic, something we can all understand, and if he could see it he’d probably be appalled over the media circus surrounding his death.

And now the cameras are everywhere, all night, in ghoulish delight over the latest tidbit of this week’s edition of ‘too-young-to-die’ theater.

This afternoon it occurred to me that Mr. Ledger had been spending the last couple of nights down the street; since the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home is six blocks away from Cranky HQ, I decided I would head on down there to take some of my own pictures of celebrity media idiots taking their pictures of the arriving mourners for today's viewing. For those who don’t know, the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home is where everybody who is anybody in New York City stops before making that final road trip through eternity. Sort of a ‘Last Chance Saloon’ or ‘Last Starbucks Before Boarding Your Flight’ where you get one last stop to check in before the final check… out. I’ve been inside the place for a friend’s mother’s viewing, and it’s small in a New York City overpriced 2-bedroom apartment way. Tiny elevator, too, manned by a kindly, very soft-spoken, understanding guy that’s totally out-of-place in THIS town, let me tell you.

So off I go, and see limos pull up, and nerdy paparazzo with cameras that cost more than any of us will make in a month, and there are dozens of folks out there just waiting for somebody, anybody wearing black to show up. I didn't spend much time at the death watch, but I did get to take pictures of the on-camera bimbos and himbos discussing the early demise of a young actor like it was on par with the Kennedy assassination.

So what’s my point… I just think we need to get a grip on what’s more important, and what passes for news. Sure, the presidential campaign feels like it’s been going on since A.D. 79, but at least that’s news. Stocks taking a dive is news, too. The death of an actor teaches us nothing other than tragedy can happen anytime, even though that's worth remembering. But not worth flogging over and over, every single damn day. Well, at least we’re not hearing about Britney for the moment.

Of course, I will get my wish for the media to move on as a certain football game becomes the next New York City obsession. I can see the headlines now, ‘Eli Manning in Paper Cut Shocker’. So anybody out there want a city? I got one here, and it’s batshit crazy.

iPod Friday 24: Feedback

2008-01-25T08:23:00.000-05:00

Thanks to all of you who responded to all the teeth-gnashing and fist-shaking posts I’ve managed to throw out over the last week or so. The feedback is appreciated, I don’t say it often enough, so thank you. The tri-experts all know what I have to do, and know how to do it, and thanks go to them, especially. HOWEVER, Ms. Claire gonna get her ass kicked or hit up side the head with a big iron skillet into next Tuesday if she keeps THAT stuff up. I was going to get all up in a Tyler Perry/Martin Lawrence/Eddie Murphy career move on her and throw on a fat suit and play a large-and-in-charge, take-no-shit black woman stereotype and then get all clocky on her ass, ‘cause that’s what she’s asking for… but then I decided I’d be better off hitting the pool like she says. But Miss E. Girlfriend better watch out unless she want a throwdown! I see you in Boston, baby.

Love, Cranky.

Miss Jackson, If You’re Nasty - Feedback

What’s Goin’ On

2008-01-23T20:48:00.000-05:00

I haven’t written much in the last week because as some pain-in-the-ass once said a million times, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Not that I’m hating on myself for not becoming triathlete of the year after three weeks of training, I just got tired of listening to myself mentally discuss my ability, or lack thereof. I don’t even like it whenever somebody uses ‘lack thereof’, so I’ll just stop that discussion there.

So far this year I’ve been to two tri seminars (‘Scheduling a Training Plan’, ‘Heart Rate/VO2 Zone Training’), read two triathlon books, joined a gym with a fairly unbelievable pool (pictured above), joined a tri ‘team (I have my usual reservations about that, more later), hired a swimming coach for private lessons, started those sessions, done several hour-long 20-mile bike sessions, done a couple of 2.5 hour long runs in advance of Boston in April, all the while keeping my running mileage at 40-50 miles a week. And sticking to my usual weight training schedule that has made me gain weight and increase the likelihood of sinking to the bottom of the pool. Overall, I’m averaging two hours of ‘exercise’ a day and I feel like I’m just scratching the surface.

The credit card bills have arrived, and the debt is already in the four figures, no problem, And I’ve barely started spending on all the bike-related stuff. Training better start coming together before spring, because I’m not going to want to be throwing money at the three-sport lifestyle for months if I don’t enjoy it on some level, be it through better health or through satisfying some personal masochistic tendencies. We’ll see.

So right now swimming is akin to a root canal, but then again that’s giving root canals a bad rap. But as the coach put it, don’t think about what you can’t do or negatively judge what you just did, just assess your abilities, make a small goal and work on it. I have major issues with breathing underwater, more about that later when I’m in the mood for self-psychoanalysis. For now I’ll just say that the collapsed lung I suffered (along with major surgery) a dozen years ago has made me just a little nervous about putting myself in situations where breathing is restricted. So for the time being I’m just trying to improve my pool experience comfort zone from ‘root canal’ to ‘teeth cleaning’. Insert happy face emoticon HERE, motherfuckers.

More later.

BBBLLBBBBLLLLLUUUUUURRRRRRGGGGHHHHHH

2008-01-15T17:06:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday was my first swimming workout. The letters, as arranged above, accurately describe the sound of me exhaling underwater as I act like I have a cinder block tied around my neck.

I alluded to all this recently, so allow me to expand and discuss and talk about myself endlessly, which is what I always knew what blogging could be about, and now I get to achieve blog nirvana. If you’d like to skip the meandering prose and pathos and cloyingly self-deprecating humor, I’ll just get to the point, and that is, I SUCK AT SWIMMING. Otherwise, read on, oh intrepid readers and fellow punishment gluttons.

So my running club has a sister Tri organization composed of several reasonably well-grounded triathletes, and every couple of weeks they have a nice swim workout or bike ride that apparently engenders camaraderie devoid of the competitive BS I hate seeing whenever you get a bunch of hyper-athletic assholes together. So a handful of decent swimmers meet at a public pool on Roosevelt Island and do drills for an hour or so, and it’s only $5. So thanks to Tim, who is the same Tim who I ran with during his first triathlon last summer, and impetuously ran the 60K with me last November, I was encouraged to come on over for much-needed training. Too intimidated to jump into the pool facility I just signed up for, I decided fast friends would give me the icebreaker I needed to move forward.

I’ve run to Roosevelt Island before, but it’s a 5-6 mile distance, and I wasn’t in the mood to find construction stopping my run, so I took the tram to the island from mid-town. After all these years, I’d never been on the tram, it’s a cable car that crosses the east river, it’s the same one you see in the climax of the first Spiderman movie. It was already nighttime, and commuters were jamming the car. The scenery and skyline was just gorgeous, and I didn’t want to get off. Sometimes you really should listen to that inner voice.

So I get to the island and the facility, which is OK, one 25-meter pool with people looking like they know what the hell they’re doing out there. Soon Tim shows up, and then the rest of the nice-looking people who will later turn away when they catch sight of my swimming form. However, for now, the two coaches are very patient and want to see me head on down the lane so as to check out where I’m at. Well, as it turns out… have you ever seen a big, black dog dive into a lake to get a stick out? And seen them coming back slowly, stick in mouth, head out of the water? Well, that’s what I WISH I looked like. I was a sight to behold… flailing, head too far up out of the water, gasping for air, cramping almost immediately. Turn away! Turn away!

So Coach Claudia calls in Coach Les who gently asks me if I don’t mind doing a few drills and laps with a board under my arm, and I’m like, no, I don’t mind because I can’t breathe out there, and breathing is quite often important, and if it’s going to take the kiddie board, bring it on. So I try that, and look like Little Ricky getting his first swimming lesson. Things improve ever so slowly, but I am not happy. And I start to clockwatch, just like in 10th grade P.E. class. A half hour later Coach Claudia tells me that last lap was SO much better, and I’m ready to have her children, which would be quite a trick for both of us, I imagine.

By the end of the session, I’m happy to say nobody was pointing and laughing or anything like they would’ve in grade school, but all those bad ‘last-one-picked-for-the-team’ memories certainly returned. Plus both my calf muscles decided to turn to granite with charley-horse pain undoubtedly due to bad kicking form. And later that night I discovered a nice cut on the bottom of my right foot that made running the next day lots more interesting.

All I can say, or ‘assess’ as one of the tri coaches I know would put it, is that I did get better over the course of the hour. But what a demoralizing night. And I’m supposed to be able to do this for an hour or more in a triathlon?

I showered, dressed, packed and made my way to the subway stop with Tim. ‘Maybe next year an Ironman?’ he asks. WHAT? EXCUSE ME? Of course, I didn’t really say that out loud, but my face said it all. I immediately longed for the good old days of crisp, white cups filled with water on tilted card tables at mile markers, and I saw myself edging over, in slow-motion, to grab a cup, down it, and continue on to some wondrous finish line realization that I’d just PR’d. But I snapped back to reality, or at least my version of it. My calves were locked, so I shuffled onto the subway car and trudged home, head hanging low.

Now, now, I know, I know, shut up, cut the whining, get on out there again, and besides, you at least got a little better, all in just an hour. I know all this. So I made the decision to seek some swimming lessons beyond just showing up for a team workout and expecting instruction fueled by pity. And to get better so as to not scare the children in the pool. That’s right. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN! Because, as the bumper sticker says, ‘Children are our greatest natural resource’. I remembered this the next day when I put on new bike shorts that felt like a loaded diaper.

Now that I mention it, is training for a triathlon like returning to your youth? Does the swim part correspond to being in the womb? Is your birth just the ‘T1’ transition? What does that make biking and running? Do you think I have too much time on my hands to come up with this shit?

OK, OK. I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing in a pool. And I will. If I don’t, it won’t be because I didn’t try. As one coach ominously said to me last week after I asked him about training for Boston and training for a half ironman at the same time, ‘you’re not a runner anymore… you’re a triathlete.’

Well, la-di-frickin’-da.

Dizz Knee Land

2008-01-13T17:36:00.000-05:00

Posts will certainly be coming soon from Angry and RGL about their respective performances today in Orlando, but I am happy to report they’re both done with all THAT. It was 72 degrees and 96% humidity at 6AM, according to the NYT weather update… Hmm…

I was checking AR’s arrival at key points on-line this morning, and the results weren’t posted fast enough for my taste, but relief set in once the finish time arrived, hours after it had been achieved. AR's got a PR. Now he knows better than anybody else how it felt and how he feels now (he’ll probably have something to say about that), so I can’t put words into his mouth or thoughts in his head, but now he’s done it. A really long race, that is, and congratulations to him… he’s no longer a marathon virgin, ‘cause Brother Angry is all growed-up…

And Ms. RGL also finished up nicely, especially considering she ran the damn half marathon yesterday, too. Congratulations to her, I hope she got lots of pictures and had lots of fun along the way.

Whew! I wasn’t there, but I thought of you guys this morning while slogging through a particularly tiring long-ish run. I had to cut it short because I was failing to keep any energy level going, probably because just knowing that some folks had started running at 6 and were still going at 10 made me tired. Better you than me (this time), but then again, you got medals, and deserve them.

Congratulations!

iPod Friday 23 – Black is the New Black

2008-01-11T03:43:00.000-05:00

Why do people run in Central Park, or anywhere else for that matter, late at night? I realize not everyone has an easy work schedule, and getting a daily run in isn’t always convenient either, but is running at nine or ten o’clock that easy for so many runners?

The other night I was walking home and spotted more than a few runners coming from the direction of the park, and no, they weren’t coming from the gym, either. Plus, there were several guys wearing jogging outfits… that were entirely black. I know, ‘black is the new black’, but how dumb is that? New Yorkers know that taxi cab drivers don’t care whether they hit you or not, but don’t give them a good reason for doing it, f’Chrissakes.

Anyway. Late night running, I don’t get it. I know, not everybody is a ‘morning person’, but how anybody can finish a long day at work, deal with subway hell, eat dinner and then after all that hit pitch black darkness for a run is beyond me. Once or twice a year I’ll run late on a warm summer night in twilight, but it always leaves me wound up, making it hard to get to sleep. Whatever you’re used to, I guess. But people, don’t wear all black on a night run, that’s just idiotic. And dangerous.

And when misfortune befalls a runner, non-runners (i.e., everybody else) start that smug ‘see, it’s bad for you after all’ crap we’ve been hearing ever since Jim Fixx died. No, running is not bad for you, there are just idiots dressed in black running around in the dark in traffic. Running doesn’t kill, idiocy kills.

P.S. This one’s been on my iPod for a few months. A new Duran Duran tune where Simon doesn’t actually whine on the vocals. And of course, it’s got Timbaland all over it, which in this case is not such a bad thing.

Duran Duran – Nite Runner

Random Thoughts. January 8th

2008-01-08T14:43:00.000-05:00

Bike Shorts

I know I was warned, but come on…

Anyway, yesterday I was on the stationary bike for an hour, doing part one of a little brick workout. I get obsessed about a lot of things, but the transition from biking to running has got me hot and bothered this week, at least. That twilight zone feeling you get when you start to run after biking is too weird to describe, and I’m a glutton for weird.

But before all that, the seat of the bike had been chafing and hurting for far too long. Somehow over the last week I misplaced the only pair of padded bike shorts I own, and I was, well, padless. The old shorts were leftovers from a few years back when I took a spinning class that left me sore, painful, and whiny. But the shorts I bought then were kind of wimpy and low-tech, they had padding that apparently had been made from potholder material. So it was time to buy some real, grown-up, padded shorts to replace the (literally) sorry-ass ones I still can’t find. So off I went to the local bike shop.

And as most of you would expect, the damn things are expensive. I was shocked that the first pair I picked up had a $79 price tag. ‘Tell me something I don’t know’ you’re saying, but bike tyro here wasn’t ready for the price check on aisle four. Sheesh. I found a pair for $50, and felt happy to have at least found something of a deal. On the way to the checkout, I noticed the bike shoes. $200 ?!?!? And I thought running shoes were expensive… No wonder all the beginner triathlon guides tell you to borrow a bike for your first event, if you bought a new one and all the crap that goes with it you’d be in debtor’s prison before the race even started…

Well, at least now I have my padded shorts. When I put them on, I feel like I’m wearing a loaded diaper, but that’s better than bike seat pain.

Busted and Outed

Funny thing happened at the end of last week. I had finished one of my indoor workouts at my gym, and I was in the locker room getting ready to head out when Shaun, one of the owners of the place, stopped in to ask me a question.

Shaun: Richard, are you….. Cranky Runner?

Well, ‘yeah’ I replied, and I somehow I knew right away how he’d found out. I’ve had a link here to ‘Edge’ gym since day one, and the management had somehow been notified. Hmmm. Well, I’m glad I didn’t write angry tirades about the gym. In fact, I rather like my gym, or else I wouldn’t have put a link on the right side of this page, nor would I have renewed my membership. Anyway, I explained a little bit about the blog, and we both had a small laugh over it. And Shaun, or Dennis, if you’re reading, thanks, uh, for noticing… at least you get the ‘cranky’ seal of approval, and that’s hard to get.

Goofy Marathon Vibes

Some folks are running the Walt Disney World Marathon this Sunday morning. You sure know who you are. If you’re not going to be there, make a mental note to send moderately pleasant, happy, supportive-but-not-embarrasingly-sentimental thoughts their way Sunday morning. The race starts at 6AM, with the runners starting to arrive at Epcot at 4. That’s pretty damn early, but at least most folks will be done by lunch time, and there’s a lot to be said for getting the race done and out of the way by noon. According to the website, the finisher’s medal is TOP SECRET (their caps, not mine), I can just imagine. Then again, ‘imagining’ is part of the magic of Disney! I just hope an exhausted runner at the finish line crotch-kicks some annoyingly cheerful Disney character and it gets videotaped so we can watch the mayhem over and over on YouTube.

Anyway, between 6 and 10AM (and beyond), think about your comrade(s) and how they’re feeling and what they’re going through, and let them know they’ll be fine. And don’t even say ‘you’re almost there’ out loud, it’s always a complete lie. ‘Your Trainer Can Kick Your Ass’, or ‘Go Team: Angry!’ will suffice.

Races I’d Like to See: The Chris Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon!

2008-01-04T15:32:00.000-05:00

(Ed. Note: While I’m figuring out what the hell I’m doing about marathon training and triathlon training at the same time, here, in the spirit of ‘The Race for The Cure’, is another fantasyland race I’d like to see happen someday… take it away, Chris.)

It’s The Chris Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon!

Everybody.

Loves.

The Chris Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon!

Shiiiiit!

So let me tell you something. I’m tired of seeing these crazy, broke-ass white boys running around the city every time I need to go somewhere. I even see some white women running with ‘em, but it’s mostly broke-ass white boys running up and down, up and down, like they on crack or something. And they tie up the streets, and nobody can get nowhere. So now I’m going to have my own fuckin’ race, tell you where to run, and now I know where to be on at least one day in New York. And that’s NOT IN THE CITY.

So now I’ll fix you, ‘cause it’s 26.2 miles of reality check the Chris Rock way! And ladies, you know you love it. You GOTS to have it. And just to get you crazy white boys in the mood, listen to THIS now.

Starting in Bed-Stuy, and ya gotta start in Bed-Stuy, ya gotta start in Bed-Stuy; and you run up and around the ‘hood and then get the hell outta there! ‘Cause those n-----s is CRAAAAA-ZY. HA!

WHY? Why?!? ‘CAUSE YA GOTTA START IN BED-STUY.

Right at Tompkins Park, that’s where it’s… AT!

Then you run yo’ ass on across the Brooklyn Bridge, heading up to mid-town to Rockefeller Center, right where I got my break sucking up to Late-Night Whitie. Head north to the homies, turn around, get the hell outta there and head back to… you guessed it, Bed-Stuy, where it all began!

And no surprise, at mile 17 on 1st Avenue is some tired DNA paternity test for all you male elites and masters. Pass that, and you’ve won without even crossing the finish line! Butcha know ya gotta have that finish line. Ya gotta.

HERE’S THE ROUTE, WHITIE!

And ya know what’s in the Goodie Bag? I know what’s in the Goodie Bag. Ain’t SHIT in the Goodie Bag! But we got some other stuff, TOO:

DVD of the director’s cut of ‘I’m Gonna Get You Sucka’!
Disposable home pregnancy test!
Nasty-ass bottle of Billy Dee Malt Likkah!
Big Daddy Kane cassette single!
Coupon at all NYC locations of BBQ!

Damn!

So come on out white boys and white girls who can kick their ass, and leave the rest of us the fuck alone for ONE DAY. Why? ‘Cause I’m tired of seeing yo’ ass runnin’ around the hood. ‘And because everybody loves Chris, damnit!

No, I’m scared of YOU!

(Cranky: Unfortunately, I missed Chris’ show at Madison Square Garden the other night. He puts on a fine show, by the way. Here’s Chris Rock’s Website.)

Bigmouth Strikes Again

2008-01-02T21:04:00.000-05:00

Me and my…

So I decided to do a triathlon, and it’s six months away. That gives me plenty of time to bitch and moan and discover new horrors that many folks out there already know. So bear with me as I discuss these and many more issues in the coming months.

Today I joined a local fitness center with a big-ass pool. I even joined their ‘triathlon team’, because I desperately need help so I don’t make a complete fool of myself in the aforementioned b.-a. pool. So I’ll get some form of coaching, sometime soon, before I sink rock-like in three feet of water.

Now I belong to two fitness facilities, which means I have two gym memberships at the same time, which is just insane, but that’s Manhattan for you. Workouts will mean lifting for 30-45 minutes in one gym (‘Edge’ Gym), running 5 miles or so (outside, or treadmill when there’s ice), and then some laps in the pool at the other gym (‘Asphalt Green’) a half block away OR 30 minutes on the stationary bike. Some days I’ll do some of that, some just a little of that. Whatever the day, I should be ready for a nap by lunchtime, which ain’t kosher.

The money I’ve spent is also kind of insane, so I’m not even thinking of looking at buying a new bike anytime in the next few days, Mastercard should put a lock on my card or something. I looked at bike gloves and swim goggles yesterday at NYC’s largest sports store, and that’s about all I can handle right now.

Oh yeah, did I mention I’ve got ANOTHER MARATHON IN APRIL, too? I HATE winter marathon training, but I’ll turn off the caps lock, you can all relax now. Sorry. But why can’t I just act my age? I should be sitting on the couch, eating tubs of Ben & Jerry’s, watching ‘The Biggest Loser’ and going to bed early. But no, I had to register for all this crap. And get ready for it, apparently.

I know, I know, I have no real regrets; but I sure have plenty of time to come up with a few.

As usual, thanks for listening.

P.S. I have another insane ‘goal’ for the year (believe me, it’s not an Ironman), but I’m not discussing it until I’m relatively sure I can ‘Git ‘Er Done’, to quote Larry the Cable Guy. Whoops, if I can quote him, I better get off that couch…

Link to Insanely Hyperactive Morrissey Mash-Up by DJ Payroll

Here’s to 2007

2007-12-31T15:50:00.000-05:00

I’m not one for resolutions (if you want to change yourself, go do it, you don’t have to wait until the calendar changes) and I’m not so much into year-end navel-gazing, either. I’d rather look at now and tomorrow, but whatever works for you is fine...

I think I had a pretty good year running my butt off, and from the sound of it, most of the running folks stopping and reading and surfing around and commenting did, too. I am my own worst critic, and that criticism carries over into the general population, as the title of this ole’ running blog tells you. Then again, you knew that. Anyway, many of you out there are like me and know well you’re strengths and weaknesses. And you try hard to do better, or just have fun, or both, and sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t. But I think it usually does work out because just being out there and finishing one more damned race is enough sometimes. Especially the older you get, though try telling me that at the finish line of my next ‘hit the wall’ race.

So, I guess I can look back (didn’t I just type out something saying I don’t do that?) and be happy with what I accomplished. 19 races, including 3 marathons in the fall, a surprise PR in the 5-mile, and a lot of training just to get through all of that crap. And my running log tells me I finished 2420 miles this year; apparently, that’s a one-way trip to the outskirts of San Diego from NYC…

Now that I have a pain in my left knee, a tired right Achilles tendon, and a full-blown dread of winter training, I’ll have to start all this up again tomorrow.

And today I signed up for the Patriot Half in July and checked out my local pool facility where they are all set to get me going on the path to chlorine ingestion. The usual suspects out there got me all hopped up on their stories of brick-training and shit, and now I’ve gone and done it.

WELL. I know many of you out there have your goals for ’08 already lined up, even some of them that are real soon, so here’s to your goals and may we all meet them somehow (whether it’s a first marathon, an ironman, an ironman on the other side of the world, new races, whatever). Thanks go out to all of you who shared your joy and pain and comments over the last year, I know it helped me and I hope some of my rants and obvious observations showed you that running and pain and aggravation and failure and triumph happens to us all. Of course, it doesn’t just happen, we make it happen, so all the best to everybody out there who keep at it in ‘08.

As the annoying trust-fund anti-Christ kids in my neighorhood often scream into their cell phones, ‘like, you guys are so awesome, except when you finish some stupid race, and then you’re all gross and stuff, and I’m like, so over it…. Shut up!’

Happy ’08!

I’m Baaa-ck….

2007-12-28T20:34:00.000-05:00

If anybody had checked this blog over the last week or two, and found nothing much going on, at least I can say that I was away from the old keypad most of the time. Last week I flew to southern VA, aka Crackerville, for a little family Yule-ishness. You know it’s C.R. writing this, not many others could come up with a dumb-ass phrase like that. But you’re welcome to try.

Anyway, I have nothing to report beyond that I got a head cold for Christmas, among other, far more rewarding things. I am just getting over it (I hope), and I’d write more about it but you’d end up reading a whiny tirade, and enough of that crap, right?

Now I’m finding myself sitting down and conversing with, well, me, about what races are coming up and damn training during winter. Which I hate, but if I map it out, it gives the illusion of being somehow official which in turn makes me feel like I know what the hell I’m doing.

Next up is the Manhattan Half Marathon at the end of January, then a few odd races probably, followed by Boston’s Heartbreak Hill on 4/21. And I am edging closer to the Patriot Half Marathon Which Includes Some Swimming and Biking, Too, on 7/5, a first for me. Before then I will at some point be discovered swimming in the Hudson River, NYC’s very own petri dish on the west side. And running over tourists in Central Park on some borrowed bike that’s been carbon-14 dated to 1986.

So pretty soon the complaints and snippy observations will begin anew. I have a feeling that ’08 Crankiness will a lot like the ’07 Crankiness, except with new features, like ‘Bike Seat Tokhes Pain Roundup’ and ‘Somebody Bitch-Slapped My Rotator Cuff’. I apologize, in advance…

P.S. Above is a picture of my niece Chelsea, in pre-nap mode, which adequately describes her entire life. If you have food, great, but if not, you’re wasting valuable time and interrupting canine REM sleep. I felt her facial expression also adequately described the after-holiday torpor that hits us all before the arrival of guilt-inducing ‘what have I done with my life this year?’ thoughts that arrive right at new year’s…

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2007-12-15T08:02:00.000-05:00

Today’s To-Do List:

1. Watch Video.
2. Go Into Trance.
3. Become Insane.
4. Find Someone You Love, Very, Very Much.
5. Kill Them.
6. Get Dressed for 5-Mile Run.
7. Finish Run. Nice Job!

Happy Day!

Race Report: Joe Kleinerman 10K

2007-12-10T19:38:00.000-05:00

Yesterday it was time to get out of the pre-holiday doldrums and get some layers of moisture-wicking material on, and run a little old race. And it wasn’t a marathon, thank you, Jesus. And Dude! Happy Birthday. Visa and MasterCard love you, too.

So I doled out the twenty bucks and got my bloody typical long-sleeve cotton tee-shirt for the Joe Kleinerman 10K, named after a running ‘legend’ in NYC. Race time was 9:30, and the temperature was 37 degrees. On the way to baggage check, I ran into a friend who wondered if there would be an elite corral, he hadn’t gotten the e-mail. Not being an elite runner myself, I’d never gotten one of 'those' e-mails; sounded like some kind of ‘secret society’-type of thing, along with a secret handshake that only sub-six minute mile runners know. Sure enough, he was looking to run about a 5:50. ‘Good luck with all THAT’ I thought. See you at the afterparty.

With no expectations other than low ones, I lined up with the nearly 5000 runners ready to circle Central Park once, and only once. The crowd was jammed with folks trying to meet their quota of nine races to qualify for next year’s marathon, and I wondered what the hell I was doing there among the cotton-clad novices. Oh yeah, trying to remember what it’s like to run a race under an hour. Whatever.

Off we go, blah, blah, blah, hills a-plenty, been there, done all of ‘em a million times. I pass a number of people, get passed by a few myself, and… actually feel OK. I realize I need to write a book about pacing, because I’m pacing at a machine-like 85% effort like I always do. Sometimes I feel like I’m not working hard enough, but I know I’ve got a few miles left and I’m not interested in hitting a wall during a measly 6.2 miles, that’s embarrassing. So I cool it.

And guess what? Yeah, you guessed it, all went well. In fact, I ended up with a nice finish time for me, my best 10K in years. I haven’t done speedwork or tempo runs in weeks and weeks, and here I go and pick it up in the last couple of miles, and finish respectably. A few seconds beyond 42 minutes, I’ll take it. They had hot chocolate waiting for us after the finish line water station, that was nice, too.

Well, I’ve written this before, but it’s worth repeating. Sometimes it’s just a good idea to show up for a race with low expectations, you end up surprising yourself. Even if you’re out there just to have fun, and how hard is it to achieve that? So don’t overthink, get out there, do it, and see what happens. If speed and clock-watching is your thing, fine, if only having fun on a course is your thing, then fine, too. I do a little bit of both, and it works for me. But you never really know how well it’s going to go until race day, so get your ass out there once in awhile, you may end up feeling better about yourself.

So for me, Sunday was like a very special ‘21 Jump Street’, I got to kick some ass and learn some life lessons, all in under an hour.

P.S. As for comments on my last, bleary post:

SR, you got it right, I have to get my butt in a pool, and perhaps the rest will follow. I’m currently looking at a local recreation center that has swimming instruction for dummies, which I need badly. I have been doing the stationary bike thing (though admittedly not the same as getting out on the road), and it’s been refreshing not pounding my knees and ankles into pavement for hours. Who knew? Oh yeah, triathletes.

Speaking of the dark side (Mindy), I’ll be sure to post whenever I make the dive into three-sport events, I’m still looking for ones that include running, bitching and moaning. Wait, that’s a marathon! Never mind.

And Angry, you know you’ll hang in there and be fine, so I won’t say it again. Just finish the damn race, that’s the best goal you can make for yourself at this point. Go to Epcot and point and laugh at everybody after it’s all over. Or go to faux-France and get a greasy croissant served up by surly French exchange students and yes, most of them are ‘pretty gals’.

S-Shine, thanks for commiserating, you know it’s true…

Bob-O, good luck in academia, I have no advice to offer there. I was busy with pseudo-allnighters way back when, cramming economic theory and international relations into my head, albeit temporarily. I think I’d rather run a marathon and get a root canal at the mile 22 marker than go through that again.

And finally, anybody out there facing the usual challenges we all encounter in the last month of the year… well, best of luck. It’ll be over soon!

ZZZZZZZZZZZ………

2007-12-05T12:33:00.000-05:00

I haven’t had much energy to post or discuss anything running-related over the last week or so, and haven’t even looked much at other folks’ blogs (sorry). It’s that time of the year for me when most of the races are over and I begin to consider and plan for winter and early spring crap that I don’t even want to think about right now. So I’m avoiding all that, and feeling vaguely guilty for not mapping out training for the next few months.

It got damned cold here, and it even snowed almost two inches in the park on Sunday, so that didn’t do much for the daily dedication, either. No, I won’t whine about the weather, it’s just the time of the year when freezing temperatures and annoying yuletide cheer slap you upside the head, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.

So I’m still running, but along with it comes the ‘here we go again with this crap’ feeling I get at the end of every year (and returning in February); guess I’ll just slog through it. At least I don’t have a marathon a month away like Angry. Head on over there and let him know he’s only a couple of weeks away from tapering, that should lift his spirits… Otherwise, I’ll post something soon that will try to lift mine and anyone else’s, for that matter. ‘Til then, stay warm…

No Wetsuit in Central Park

2007-11-26T10:48:00.000-05:00

… not because there was a triathlon, but because No Wetsuit Girl hit NYC over the weekend. And coming off of her fine performance in that Thanksgiving Day race in Salem and sporting a fresh technical shirt for all the trouble, she managed a nice Central Park five miles on a crisp Saturday morning.

Meeting between the Apple Store on 59th and 5th and The Plaza Hotel, we made our way into the park, which was quieter than usual. It was under 30 degrees out there, and before I could make the comment that there were goofy runners wearing shorts out there, she beat me to it. I knew it was her, right then and there.

Well, the hills aren’t always easy, but I, Cranky talked and talked while we ran over all those nasty little inclines. Later, C. & C. got to hang with the Saturday morning Front Runners over coffee as the running club discussed recent race performances, which is SO ten minutes ago. And got to see Tim-the-runner-who-just-ran-a-60K-because-he’s-crazy, too.

So thank you, Femme Sans Wetsuit, for joining me on a fine run in the park and letting me play tourguide, and yap the whole time. If I do indeed sign up for that Patriot Triathlon in July (I guess that’s a newsflash that I actually just used the T-word), you’ll know, and you'll be partly responsible for another one of my insane life decisions. But we are ALL enablers, and that’s NOT a newsflash.

I hope you had a good time in the city. Come on back whenever you’re ready, and that goes for anybody else out there who’d like to run circles in the park and listen to me describe the frickin’ hills ahead…

- R.

P.S. Good luck with the move, so to speak, see you at the new digs tomorrow…

iPod Friday 22

2007-11-23T18:27:00.000-05:00

Somehow I tripped over this rock band or something called ‘Baconflex’. They’re from Denmark, and of course, they have the obligatory MySpace page if you want to check them out, but they have this tune that’s all glam-rock synthpop, and called ‘Don’t Stop Running’. You could fill your hard drive up with tunes about or containing the word ‘run’ in it, but this one has lyrics that scream ‘ultramarathon’. Maybe it’s me, but all I hear is a fun little song about running for hours and hours. Oh well, you decide…

Baconflex – Don’t Stop Running

Thanksgiving in New York City

2007-11-22T14:19:00.001-05:00

Race Report: Knickerbocker 60K

2007-11-18T08:50:00.000-05:00

I ended my last post discussing race performance, disappointment, and understanding how lucky we are just to be able to even be part of a race. With all that in mind, this week I registered for the annual November 60k in Central Park.

Yes, it’s somewhat insane to run a marathon and then turn around and run even more, but my insanity has become a tradition. I’ve done this the last two years and come out alive despite risking high mileage burnout. If you’re going to run an ultramarathon, you better like running an awful lot, and like being a glutton for more punishment than most races have to offer. And as ultramarathoners know, it’s a different kind of race, different than even a marathon. In some ways an ultra can be a better experience.

So after taking a little longer than normal to get over the NYC Marathon, I waited until mid-week to decide whether or not to go for the 60K. It’s usually held on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but this year it was moved up a week, so I had only two weeks to get over the last race, not three like the last few years. Long story short, I went for it despite concerns over my leg cramps in the marathon, and decided that I could just go out and try to run the distance on the assumption that I could drop out if things got really scary (such as an injury). Of course, anyone who knows me also knows I don’t normally enter races and not finish, but I won’t bore you with my personal mind games, I’ll just ignore them, right? Do the best I can and still kick myself when it goes south seems to be the norm, but this time the norm will not be in the program.

The 60K course is on the asphalt drives of Central Park. Starting on the east side, it runs north for a 1.4-mile loop followed by the central 4-mile loop of the park. And then… eight more of them. You try not to think about how the kilometers translate to miles, but I’ll tell you it’s 37.2 miles. Ultramarathons generally start off at 50K (a bit more than 31 miles) and move up in some sort of crazy round numbers from there. So this is one of the shorter distances, and with nine mind-bending loops in the park, I was happy it wasn’t any longer.

After I was reasonably sure I would be participating (if that’s what it’s called), I had written running pal Susie with an invitation to run or cheer us on, and she would indeed show up on the first lap. I also wrote another running friend, Tim, and let him know if he wanted to join me on a lap or two and watch me drift into an entertaining and amusing physical breakdown, he was welcome. He said ‘sure’ (he had just finished his first marathon in NYC two weeks before), and we decided to meet Saturday morning for a festival of masochism.

I couldn’t sleep much on Friday night, so I went in with only a few hours of sleep. However, I had slept just fine two nights before, and they say that counts most, so I decided not to worry. Saturday morning I went to get my t-shirt and number; I live two blocks from the start, and you can’t beat that commute, especially post-race.

After finding Tim, we joined the hundred or so runners at the start. It was definitely a low-key affair, the race organizer had to shout instructions over early-morning traffic. Since the marathon had been anything but low-key, it was refreshing to be part of a race that wasn’t such a big deal. I don’t mind huge, adoring crowds, but it takes the pressure off when two million people aren’t watching you and screaming at you and expecting you to ‘do it’ for several hours. Then again, there were no real spectators on the course except other recreational runners giving us funny looks as we passed by. So off we went at 8:30. For a few hours….

Susie was cheering at mile 2.5, and provided the best laugh of the day. As a large group of racers (which in this case means about eight folks wearing a bib) passed by, she yelled out a heartfelt ‘you’re almost there!’, one of our favorite spectator comments. She got a nice response from the crowd, and that’s when you’re reminded that ultra racers seem to have a better, relaxed sense of humor than many runners do. They’re not obsessed with finish times or being overly competitive, or anything much beyond being part of the journey. And they compensate for the lack of crowd support by offering their own encouragement to fellow runners. At one point, I was lapped by one of the faster runners who still managed to be genuinely encouraging as he passed by. You don’t get that in a shorter race, that’s for sure.

So Tim and I begin the laps, one after another, hoping to run each at a bit over a half hour. It’s a lot easier to break a course into half-hour-plus chunks, so I remind him to do just that. The sun is out, but it’s a bit colder than normal (below forty degrees), so heat is not an issue. The laps start to tick off, but knowing there are plenty of them left is not always easy.

And Tim sticks with me, I fully expected him to peel off after a few laps, but his strong pace keeps me going, and I keep him going by talking him through hills and being mildly positive about what lays ahead. I suggest we break the run into three sets of three laps to make it slightly easier to wrap our heads around the distance.

Somehow it all seems to work. We have two water stations, two miles apart, and each water station becomes a goal in itself, and we reward ourselves with a brief stretch and break every so often. It works, because I feel slightly better after each walking stop. Of course, the legs start to get stiff about the halfway mark, but not like they did in the marathon two weeks ago. I suck it up, while Tim and I manage to keep each other’s mind off of the fatigue by chatting every so often.

And on the last couple of laps I realize I’m not substantially slowing down despite the leg pain. Tim is feeling the pain, too, but he’s a trooper, and I also realize that he may very well finish the distance, his first. Wow.

We pass people walking, but the crowd is very thin, and seeing people with numbers becomes even less frequent. But we’re on the last lap, and there’s nothing stopping us. An older guy not in the race starts running with us and chatting and asking lots of questions, which gets our mind off of the final few miles… and I just keep the slightly slower pace going and make it to the last water station for a final ‘victory walk’. As I finish the last two miles, I realize I’m doing a PR. Tim’s strong pace in the first half and my ability to keep a reasonable pace in the second has lopped off about 20 or 30 minutes from my last 60K time a year ago, and I finish at about 5:35. What a different experience from two weeks ago. See? Sometimes you just show up for a race and do it and end up finishing well anyway. Of course, my relatively high-mileage year has something to do with it, but I’m not complaining.

Not that I wasn’t finishing with some pain and discomfort, but it sure was nice to cross a finish line feeling positive and reasonably happy. And of course, I’m happy to be done with those damn laps. Three minutes later, Tim comes across the finish time, and I know we’ve done it. It’s a few minutes after 2PM and we’ve been running since 8:30. We’re REAL happy it’s done and finished.

We go to the New York Road Runners offices to pick up our finishers’ plaques (if I’m going to run 37 miles I better get a frickin’ trophy or plaque), and for a little post-race food. What a day. My fifth ultra, Tim’s first, and we do fine.

So, boys and girls, thus ended my fall marathon season. And for me, on a high note. Not just because you’d have to be high to run three marathons in six weeks, but because I managed to do it all and end well. As I’m typing this I’m feeling some mild knee and glute and quad pain, but if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be alive.

The stats go like this: 5 races (2 marathons, a half, a 5-miler and an ultra) in six weeks, along with a couple of long training runs that I probably shouldn’t have done. 107.7 miles of races. I’m going to take it easy, if you can believe it.

The NYC Marathon: What Went Wrong and Why, and Getting the Hell Over It.

2007-11-15T15:22:00.000-05:00

I apologize that my last post was a bit long, but I thought you folks who know all about self-induced pain and suffering might feel better being reminded it’s universal. As Michael Stipe once said, ‘Everybody Hurts’. It sure would be funny if someday they played that tune at a Mile 25 marathon marker.

So I got all cranky about my marathon experience. I realize that I had expectations that were rather high, but this year I’ve managed to meet a few of them from time to time, and why not on a crisp fall day? So rather than write long, exhausting paragraphs about me, me, me and how I sucked, sucked, sucked, I’ll tell you in inter-office memo businessese:

Why my performance and finish time sucked in the NYC Marathon:

- I ran on hills that kicked my ass, hills I didn’t plan for but knew well despite previous experience.

- I didn’t carbo-load and hydrate as much as I should have during the days before the race.

- I had finished several speedy, shorter races over the summer that gave me over-confidence.

- I ran and survived the now-infamous ’07 Chicago Marathon with a 3:30 finish time, and thought I could do better in ‘good’ weather. And by doing better, I mean 10-15 minutes faster because it wasn’t 87 degrees in NYC. Is that too much to ask?

- I trained hard in the three months leading up to NYC, harder than ever.

Why I should get THE HELL over it:

- I ran Chicago four weeks before, f’Chrissakes!

- I NEVER finish NYC fast. It’s not a PR course.

- I didn’t take a break in the four weeks between the two marathons. I just rewound my training schedule to ‘four weeks out’ and re-started the tempo runs and long runs like I’d never come near Chicago. I had only two days off from running the entire month between marathons.

- I kept at my weight training workouts without taking any sort of break, either.

- Finishing in 3:35? What the hell is wrong with that? Get over yourself!

- And I’ll say it again, I already ran a marathon the month before!

So now I’m indeed pretty much over it. I ran NYC about five minutes slower than Chicago with all the heat, and in the end my legs had had enough of all the shit I was making them go through. I tried, as has been said by another scholar of the streets, to ‘Superman That Ho’. Like anyone else, my legs don’t like hearing the H word, so they waited until Mile 22 to turn on their Running Pimp. Yes, I’ve reduced myself to a Running Pimp.

I must be feeling better, because now I’m fantasizing about a whole line of running outfits based on pimp and ho archetypes. Running pal Mindy and I once jokingly discussed getting a ‘marathong’ in a race goody bag, so that would certainly fit, uh… nicely.

So what’s next? Well, some of us are truly insane, and by us I mean me. I am seriously contemplating showing up (and there’s really no better way to describe it) for this. If it happens, or doesn’t, who cares, I tried, right? That’s what I should always remember after every race. Learn this, my friends: disappointment may come your way, but in the end… you have to get over yourself. We’re all damn lucky to just be able to show up…

- Cranky

P.S. On behalf of all the folks who were out there running the NYC Marathon, I’d like to thank Mr. Lance Armstrong and Ms. Katie Holmes Cruise for not shoving their faces in front of cameras, hogging the limelight and generally making spectacles of themselves before the race. Lance did that last year and paid the price for all his hubris and lack of training. This year was a different story, and I’m happy that he ran much better this time around without creating a media circus. Long training runs help, too, don’t they, Lance?