Time The Hell Out

A few nights ago, I uploaded a bunch of photos from our trip to Santa Fe that I fully intended to post tonight. But then, I started thinking, and I thought - you know, why the hell not, I'm going to go ahead and blog about Boston. 

As a runner who has completed three half marathons and dozens of shorter-distance races, the whole thing is unthinkable to me. I have run races in Baltimore and Washington DC with 10, 20, 30,000 participants, and I understand something of the sheer logistics of roping off city streets, setting up medical tents, making sure that portable toilets/food/water are placed safely along the routes, and prepping hundreds of volunteers. Everyone is prepared for things like dehydration, sprained ankles, torn ligaments, falls, heat stroke, exhaustion, and rando pirates who try to ghost-run races without a number. Everyone is prepared for crowd control because, lemme tell you, marathons draw crowds. If every runner has only one person there, cheering him/her on, that's still 10, 20, 30,000 people that are just standing off to the side, watching. And that's a conservative estimate. Oh, and also, this is taking place in a very centralized and urban part of a major metropolitan city. This, too, requires some serious planning.

Further upping the important anxiety of a big race is the fact that you have 10, 20, 30,000 people who have been working for months (perhaps years, in some instances) for this day. They are nervous as hell, double-knotting the laces of their sneakers and tightening their waist packs with mini-bottles of water and packets of sports gel. They are wearing their lucky shorts/shirts/socks/hats, and flexing tense muscles all the way up to the starting line. They've carbo-loaded the night before, drank just-enough-but-not-too-much water, tucked their IDs and cell phones safely about their person so that, when they finish, they can Tweet and Facebook and Instagram their triumph. These runners are dedicated, they're running for personal achievement or in memory of someone they love or as a dare or for the sheer hell of saying you've qualified for and run the Boston marathon. These are people for whom the slightest uneven pavement can wreak havoc, for whom a "bad day" can feel like utter defeat after months and months of early mornings, sore muscles, and lost toenails. These are people who have worked so f*ing hard.

And the people that come to cheer them on - perhaps they are runners as well, who didn't or couldn't or wouldn't qualify for the marathon. Perhaps they are family members, husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, best friends, bosses, Book Club members who just came to watch So-And-So run the m*ther f*ing Boston Marathon. They're there, they're cheering, and they are genuinely excited. It's rare that you have the opportunity to watch someone's triumph live and in person. It's like sitting and watching the Arrivals Gate at the airport. All is forgiven, everyone is just so damn happy to see one another after a long journey.

The luckiest fans and supporters - the ones who get there super early, and brought coffee to warm their hands and innards, granola bars, cameras with extra batteries, waters and who cheer when the initial gun goes off and settle in for that 3-4 hour wait - are the ones who cluster at the Finish Line. Everyone wants to see the first Kenyan person cross the finish line because they're watching human history in the making. And, unlike most sporting events, this sh*t is free. All you have to do is show up. Super early. 

So you take this giant equation - the logistics, the safety measures, a historic and beautiful metropolis, the anxiety of high-strung runners, the excitement of the crowd - and it all adds up into a giant, beautiful, crazy hullaballoo that gets televised and warrants Today show interviews. This thing is big, it's exciting, and damn if it isn't a major triumph of human spirit.

Oh, and also, don't forget that the last mile of the Boston marathon was dedicated to those who were murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary school. Not only are you crossing a finish line, you're doing so on hallowed ground. 

So, everyone is cheering, everyone is excited, everyone is tired and possibly a little bit cold and (if you're running) it's probable that you're suffering from some sort of gastro-intestinal distress and/or severe exhaustion. But it's good distress, and well-earned exhaustion. The runners see the finish line, and they get that final last burst of energy, that one that propels one towards things like Gatorade, bananas, and a silvery papery jacket that you can wrap around your tired shoulders. The faces light up, the exhausted get their swagger back a little bit. Everyone runs a little faster down that last ten or so yards towards the Finish Line. The crowd is encouraging - YOU HAVE COME SO FAR, JUST A LITTLE BIT FURTHER, AND THEN YOU'VE DONE IT; YOU'VE RUN THE BOSTON F*ING MARATHON.

Now, tell me. Tell me who. In the hell. Would put bombs at the Finish Line of the Boston Marathon. 

You can't tell me. Because, if you're like me, you can't even fathom it. It's difficult enough to think about random acts of violence that involve guns and children, or airplanes and landmark buildings. It's difficult to imagine countries where car bombs go off as regularly as chiming clocks. It's difficult to wrap your head around acid attacks, pipe bombs, disgruntled teenagers taking an entire school hostage. All of that is horrific and there's no rhyme or reason for it. 

You take a huge event like the Boston marathon, you trim it with all of this excitement and anxiety, and then someone comes along and blows the whole thing up. Because even though the bomb "only" killed 3 people and "only" injured less than 200 people, every single runner in that race was heartbroken, every single on-looker was shocked and terrified, and an entire nation stopped to watch with shock and sadness. That whole thing went to hell in a handbasket in the span of 20 seconds.

I feel multiple things simultaneously: rage, fear, anxiety, sadness, guilt, and hope.

Rage - because WHO. WHY. HOW COULD ANYONE EVEN. 

Fear - because, as the paranoia in this country reaches new heights, you start hearing that "you just never know" mantra. I hate that mantra. It forces terrible laws into passage, it solidifies stereotypes, it isolates us from each other, and it perpetuates displaced hatred.

Anxiety - because incidents like these put everyone on high alert, and honestly, I'm more fearful of what angry, afraid populations do than I am of some crazy asshole copycat.

Sadness - It's consuming. It's huge. It's overwhelming. It makes me want to lie down in my bed and never come out.

Guilt - because this shizz happens every single day in other parts of the world. In the US, we feel that we are safe and immune from random violence to a certain extent. This isn't Pakistan or Yemen. This is the US of A, we take our shoes off to get on planes and go through metal detectors to enter elementary schools forchrissake. We aren't used to this level of shock, and when it happens, we feel such a toxic cocktail of the four aforementioned emotions that we're forced to think...Wow...some people feel like this everyday. 

And finally - hope. Hope, because I see so many people signing up for marathons, so many people wearing Boston T-shirts and hats, so many people urging the public to see the good, the redemption. Hope because runners will always run, and because we have a President who diplomatically refused to use the word "terrrorism" when referring to the incidents until proven otherwise. Hope because everyone is all up into these triumphs of human spirit stories, hope because we have a new crop of "my cousin's sister-in-law's daughter's third grade teacher was four blocks away from the blasts, but she's ok" stories to tell. 

This Saturday, I'm running a 10k here in Baltimore. And you bet your ass I'm going to toss up a RunForBoston hashtag. I might even write it on my bib. 

And you know what else? All this makes me want to do is run a marathon.

Oh Right, That Race Thing....

I will tell you, when it comes down to running your third half marathon, you get pret-ty damn lazy. 

Oh right - I guess I'm running a half-marathon tomorrow. Oops.

That's not to say I haven't been training, because I have. Just possibly not as rigorously as I have in the past. And also, I've been incorporating some new workout routines, just to shake things up a bit.

For the past six months or so, I've been doing a HIIT class at my gym once a week. HIT is "High Intensity Interval Training," and it's 45 minutes of very fast-paced strength and cardio exercises. It's kinda sorta like all those P90x programs that are floating around, and it's totally fun and even thought I've been doing it for awhile, I still almost always experience some sort of soreness the next day. 

Also, thanks to the power of Groupon and much prodding from my friend, I purchased some bikram yoga passes. I've always liked yoga, and have been wanting to try bikram, but I just needed someone to motivate me to do it. So I tried it, and it's pretty fantastic. I sweat A LOT when I run (which, I learned from my former trainer/workout buddy over at ithinkillmakeit is actually a sign of fitness), but I simply had no idea how much you could possibly sweat in a bikram yoga class. I found it difficult to hold some of the poses because I kept slipping against my own sweaty skin. So gross. And so awesome. 

(We celebrated my first yoga class with some delicious Mediterranean food and frozen yogurt. This was necessary.)

So I've gotta run this half marathon tomorrow, and part of me is excited because running a race is always exciting, and part of me is kind of like "meh." Which communicates very strongly to me that perhaps I am ready to start thinking about training for a full marathon. We'll see how I feel tomorrow, though...

And I'll probably puke. I think, at this point, I should just accept the fact that some people are pukers, and that I am one of those people. I will probably pack a nice little plastic bag with my checked stuff so that I'll be prepared for the inevitable moment when I unload in front of friends and family. It's not a very fun moment.

In other news - 19 days until Abu Dhabi. That is less than 20 days, you know. This is very exciting.

Also - someone get on Lee and Hot Curry for their blatantly lazy approach to blogging. Man, someone needs to tell those guys that blogger should be posting riveting and engaging content EVERY SINGLE DAY. I mean, really. Call yourself a writer. 

While you're at it, go ahead and hit me up and say something clever like, "Hello, Pot? Yeah, this is Kettle...."

Off to eat some pasta and go to bed early so I can lie awake and stress about getting to the race on time tomorrow.

Runnin' on (Too Much) Empty

So, apparently I have a little problem with running.

First off - I am happy to report that I took six minutes off of my half-marathon time. Somewhere on my #dirtythirtylist that I started (and never finished, because I realized it was rather unrealistic to imagine that I would somehow learn lion taming and Mandarin Chinese between now and May 31) I wrote "run a half marathon in under 2 hours." I can scratch that off the list. I came in at 1:56, which is entirely awesome. Go me.

The problem - I celebrated my victory with another round of public vomiting. Not so awesome.

I know that gastrointestinal problems plague runners. And I keep experimenting with different means of trying to combat the issue. Eat less, eat further in advance, drink more water before and after, drink Gatorade, wait longer after running before eating anything. This time I waited too long and nearly passed out in a Wendy's on New York Avenue in DC.

Which is an interesting story in itself:

We were standing in line at the Wendy's on Saturday afternoon, a good four hours after we'd crossed the finish line. Somehow in that time, I had managed to only eat half a banana and some dried fruit. I just wasn't hungry after the race, and rather than force myself to eat, I chose instead to drink water and Gatorade. Stupid. (I also blame the incredibly packed Metro bringing scads of runners from the Armory back into the city, I blame Switchfoot for playing some awesome cover songs in the beer garden at the post-race celebration, and I blame Catalano for creepily finding me in a crowd of 30,000 and hanging out with us after the race. Side note: at any event of considerable size, Catalano has a very lucky and/or creepy habit of somehow finding me. She says it's due to the height of The Gentleman, because not many in a large crowd are 6'4", and he is usually to be found following me around. But it's downright freaky. I turn around - and THERE SHE IS. It's like she planted a homing device on me at some point. I wouldn't doubt this. I blame Vegas. I digress.)

If you've ever passed out from low blood sugar, you know how it feels: you suddenly get really, really hot. Your legs become rubber. The tunnel vision sets in, and you feel yourself start to sway. Every part of you is covered with a slick of sweat, and then you feel the floor begin to move uncomfortably close to the rest of you. I don't really remember everything that happened except that I ducked out of line at the Wendy's right after I informed The Gentleman I wanted a #1 with cheese and a DIET COKE (for health) and collapsed into a chair with my arms sprawled across a sticky table. And then the uncontrollable heaving began, and the next thing I knew, I was draped over a trash can next to the ketchup station, wretching nothing but Gatorade and banana bits.

You're welcome for that.

The interesting part - no one batted an eye. 

The Gentleman was desperately trying to get me something to eat and drink (he is not so great with the puking, but he is certainly a man of action when it comes to emergencies - when I got sick in the Middle East he went on a pilgrimage for Pepto on Christmas morning, and when I puked at the Baltimore half marathon he went out to hunt and gather as much Gatorade and water as he could find). I lay there, draped over the can, and dry heaving absolutely nothing. After what seemed like an eternity, an off-duty nurse who was enjoying lunch with her boyfriend came over to me and tore open a salt packet, shook some into my hand and instructed me to put it on my tongue. She gave me a cup of ice water and told me to drink as much as I could. By that time, The Gentleman had our food and a small Frosty for me. 

That Frosty was the best fricking thing I have ever tasted. I was exhausted, still sort of dry heaving, and still on the verge of passing out. The freezing ice creamy deliciousness was impossible to swallow at first, but after a minute or so of sitting there and sipping it, I became absolutely ravenous. I immediately housed a cheeseburger and an order of fries and promptly felt like a million bucks. 

Half an hour later, I was doubled over with cramps and I spent the next three hours in bed wondering if this was what it felt like to die.

Miraculously - by 7pm that night, I was completely healed. I scarfed a plate of nachos, some sweet potato fries, and the better part of a pizza that night. You know, because after months of training and eating right the best way to celebrate an athletic accomplishment is to stuff your face.

And, lest ye judge, I'll just go ahead and tell you that I spent the entire next day on the couch with The Gentleman eating Easter cookies and Pirate's Booty, drinking mimosas, and watching horror movies. It was pretty much the best day ever.

So, I've consulted a nurse/runner friend of mine who sent me some incredibly helpful advice about eating/training. I am going to attempt to either isolate the problem or figure out a way around it, whether that means eliminating foods from my diet pre-race, working out an eating plan ahead of time post-race, or something crazy I haven't even thought of yet.

I think a big problem is the post-race high. The adrenaline rush and the incredible feeling of accomplishment that floods through you when you cross the finish line sort of puts you in a stupor, and you forget about your immediate bodily needs. Blisters might bleed, your knee might be swollen, your head pounding, but you don't feel any of it with that amount of seratonin (or something) coursing through your veins. And, for me, it translates into not feeling hunger or the onset of cramping, and it's not until I am on the verge of passing out that I do something about it, which is too late.

Long story short - I am new to this game. My body is still getting used to the incredible things I am forcing it to do. To put all of this in perspective - two and a half years ago, I had a broken foot. The cast came off, and I probably couldn't have run a mile. And now? I know I can peel another five minutes off of my half-marathon time, and my dream is to do so without puking in a fast food establishment. Or anywhere, really.

But seriously- go me. And go Catalano, and Catalano's husband, and The Gentleman. We all ran hard, worked hard, and played hard afterwards. And some of us (me) puked afterwards. We are awesome.

Maybe next time, no puking. Live the dream!

Do Yo Thang

Another half-marathon training session is nearly done.

Since January 1...I mean, January 2...I mean...well, sometime around the beginning of January after I got over the epic sinus infection, we started up training again. This time for the DC Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon  coming up on March 17. Switchfoot is headlining. I'm not a huge Switchfoot fan. I just like live music.

This eleven-week training course was a little different than last time. First off, because training in winter is far different than training in summer. We were lucky this year and blessed with a freak El Nina (El Nino? Global Warming? 2012 Mayan-Calendar End?) stream that kept temperatures well above freezing most of the time. I think I wore my Arctic Under Armour compression shirt that I got for Christmas (thanks, family!) less than a handful of times. Don't worry - I'm sure next year we'll be back to regularly-scheduled frigidness and it will get much more use. 

Secondly, and this was a shocking moment for me, I realized that my body is now used to 8+ mile runs. Even 10+ miles. While I slacked off a bit in the intensity training for short runs, I still got the scheduled long runs in and, for the most part, was surprised to find that muscle memory is a very real thing. I felt like I did far less this time around then last time, but I'm still getting in the long runs without too much fatigue. It makes me think that I might finally be ready for the dedication of training for a full marathon. Because, after you've run 13.1 miles, what's 13.1 more? Ask me again after the race, and we'll see. Especially if I puke again. No toenails lost this time so far, however, which sort of makes me feel like a slacker, to be honest. But then I think about where I was a couple of years ago when thirty minutes on an elliptical a few times a week constituted a "workout routine." How very far we have come.

The basics:

Eatin'

An important thing I've learned in training for a half marathon is that you don't really need to do anything too drastically different in terms of eating. A common mistake is to think that you need to "carbo-load" or take in more calories. Mistake.

I'm hungry all the time, but I'm hungry all the time anyway. The difference now is that if I don't eat regularly, I get dizzy and irritable and am subsequently likely to eat too much because I feel famished. I eat every couple of hours. Small meals. And you really don't need to consume too many more calories in training than normal. You just need to eat, and often. Breaking up three meals a day into six smaller ones worked well for me. As for carbs, everything in moderation: I find that I do much better, energy-wise, if I stick to primarily lean proteins and fiber and try to keep the carbs to a moderate amount. This doesn't mean I eschew carbs, just that I don't eat extra. I do tend to eat more protein, because it keeps you fuller longer, and because women tend to not get enough protein as it is. 

Things I consume regularly: tuna (canned and ahi), salads with oil + vinegar, turkey burgers in whole wheat pitas, brown rice, chicken, lots and lots and lots of eggs (yolks included - but I try to do 1 yolk for every 2 eggs), Kind bars (possibly my favorite post-run treat), Muscle Milk light (the 100-calorie chocolate kind), spinach, tomatoes, hummus, carrots, oatmeal, white fish, blueberries, Wasa crackers, black beans, Vitamin Water Zero, Power Bar energy gel chews, Gu, garbanzo beans, and dark chocolate whenever I can get my hands on it. The last one because it's awesome. I also like to combine food groups whenever possible - fiber with protein, carbs with protein, etc. And sushi is and forever shall be a wonder food to me.

Sleepin'

My sleep. I am no longer of any use to anyone after 10pm. But I wake up around 6:15 like clockwork every morning. This habit is disruptive only on weekends, when I want to be a functioning human being past midnight and sleep past 9am the next morning. All of these healthy habits are wreaking havoc on my party life. Bummer.

Energizin'

As long as I'm eating and sleeping the way my body wants me to, I've got energy to spare. Unfortunately, my schedule rarely allows me to eat and sleep the way I'd like to, so I do feel like I get tired out more easily. But those days when I magically hit the hay early after a full day of healthy eating - there is nothing in this world that feels better. During training last time, I cut my caffeine intake by half. I'm no longer on that bandwagon, but I am much more conscious of it and try to limit it to before 2pm. And no more lattes or large coffees. Smalls or mediums only, and medium has to have at least a few fingers of decaf in it.

Overcomin'

When I feel overwhelmed, when I feel small, when I feel like my problems are insurmountable, it's a pretty freaking amazing thing to say to yourself: remember when you thought running a mile was an accomplishment? Now you regularly run more than five, and sometimes even more than ten. Your body can handle 13 miles. It just takes time, dedication, and passion. Don't forget the passion part: if running just ain't your thang, it ain't your thang. Personally, I can't think of anything worse than swimming long distances. I have no desire to do it, and the few times I've tried it has not felt good. It just ain't my thang. You gotta find your thang. Because when it hurts, when you're tired, when you're running out of steam, you're gonna need that drive. 

Now, excuse me while I do and do my thang....

So, That Was January

Taking a brief break from further documentation of the Jordan trip to discuss a few key points:

• My sinus infection is finally gone. I know you're excited for me. This was the worst affliction I think I have had in years, and my ears are still popping in ways that are mysterious. I have not yet braved the pool at the gym, fearing more liquid in my head. This excludes the jacuzzi. Did I mention I joined the Designer Gym? I felt like a betrayer and a sell-out for about a minute and a half until I discovered the sauna and the steam showers. New Gym is definitely an upgrade in New Neighborhood. Which, I suppose, isn't "new" anymore now that I've been living here for over four months. That was a lot of information for one bullet point.

• Now that Sinus Infection From Hell is finally gone, I am back in training for my next half marathon - the DC Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon on March 17. Yes, St. Patrick's Day. Yes, it will be awesome. The Gentleman and I, along with Catalano and Mr. Catalano, shall be heading to DC to kick some more 13.1 miles ass. Hopefully. If I can get my ass back in gear after too much vacation and gross sickness.

• I am officially weirded out by the weather. Last week I went running in shorts. In January. In Baltimore. Research tells me this is some freak of El Nino (is SPANISH for "THE NINO"). Everyone keeps pointing at global warming. I am a huge supporter of the global warming theory, but that happens a few degrees at a time. Not...suddenly 60 degrees in January in the Mid-Atlantic. This is something else. I should enjoy it, but mostly it makes me feel angry because I just really want a snow day and an excuse to wear my awesome new subzero Under Armour compression shirt for long outdoor runs. 

• I am so totally on board with Game of Thrones now, I can't wait to read the books. I watched the entire first season in less than a week. And by that, I mean I was forced to watch the entire first season in less than a week because The Gentleman and his roommate insisted that I would love it as much as they do. This turned out to be true. It's so awesome.

• Madonna's new song? No. Just...no.

• I really, really, really miss Lee and Hot Curry. Good thing I can blog stalk them as they begin the swift decline into total hippiedom out in the Salt Lakes. I am so psyched to see them at their wedding in April. And, you know, psyched that they're getting married and all.

Coming soon: back to your regularly scheduled Jordanian updates. We're almost through with the awesomeness, I promise. Just in time for me to start getting ready for our trip to the Dominican Republic in May. Because sitting still is boring.

Domesticity

So, after the whirlwind of the last couple of months, I finally woke up on Sunday and realized that I feel like I can breathe again.

Less than a week into New House, I came home from work one evening to discover that my closet had imploded. Both cats were hiding under the bed, and I suspect they are still in shock. It seems the entire bar came out of the wall, bringing with it the upper shelf, all of my clothes, and a good chunk of drywall. So, while the rest of my room is beginning to take on an orderly fashion with books put away, desk set up, and even a picture or two on the walls, my closet remains a cavernous hole filled with hangers poking every which way and clothing lumped up in piles.

So the closet situation is going to require some heavy-duty fixin' and DIY'ing. Which means a lot of Googling and YouTube'ing. How did anyone get anything done before the Internets?

At least there's no mold.

All of this has caused me to suddenly be Domestic. The other day, I installed a towel bar. By myself. Using power tools. (That I borrowed from my parents.) I met with the cable and internet providers when they wired the house. I fixed the garbage disposal that had a stuck wheel. I took apart and put back together multiple sets of IKEA furniture. (Meaning I helped my boyfriend identify the various plugs and screws and held particle board in place while he orchestrated the actual decon/con. Semantics.)

And then I ran a half-marathon. Thousands of people running, and just as many lining the streets of Baltimore, cheering and holding out hands for high-fives. The most glorious moment was just before the finish when the route takes you THROUGH Camden Yards, with everyone screaming and photos being taken, bands playing, balloons a'flying. I crossed the finish line in two hours, two minutes. My goal was two hours. After the killer hills, I will take the additional two minutes in stride.

My dad stuck with us for the first 4-5 miles, and then paced back a bit. Catalano and my boyfriend and I stuck together until about the last mile. He finished in just over two hours, and Catalano finished just a minute behind me.

And then I puked. First time for that. I finished the race feeling pretty shaky, and decided that what I needed immediately was lots of fluids and something to eat. I managed to eat part of a bagel and a whole banana, and then we got into the beer line. I kept feeling worse and worse, but trying to convince myself that it would pass and I would feel better. Not even half a beer in, everything came back up. In front of everyone. Nothing like ralphing with friends and family looking on.

The boyfriend kindly convinced me that only real athletes puke, and recounted the number of times he's retched before, during, and after swim practices in college. I later found out that two of my trivia girls also let loose - one at a water stop, and one ON the finish line. Both of those seem far more epic than a Beer Garden Retch, to be honest.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, and it was glorious. When I finally rallied around 7pm, all I wanted in the world was a bison burger. And I had one. With french fries. AND CHEESE. And it was divine.

I spent the next three days limping with insanely sore quadriceps, and didn't really feel better until I got a run in yesterday. This is better than Lee who, upon running his first half marathon a few years ago, went out on a marathon drinking spree and was unable to walk at all the next day. I, at least, had the use of my legs.

So now, I am looking for the next race, the next challenge. I know I'm not prepared - mentally or physically - to take on a full marathon yet, but ultimately I think I'd like to knock one out in the next couple of years. I need to get a few more halfs in first, however, ideally without puking.

In other news, in all of the chaos of work, moving, running, and the thousands of regularly-scheduled programs I have going on in my life anyway, I got a parking ticket. It was my own fault: I was unloading my car one rainy night after an epic Costco run, and parked illegally thinking I'd be out of there before I could get ticketed. No lie, an officer stuck me with a $77 parking ticket in the ten or so minutes it took me to unload my frozen foods.

I have inordinate amounts of rage when it comes to things like parking tickets. It's all entirely relative of course: I don't understand why meter maids aren't doing their jobs when I see someone else parked like an asshole, and I scream victimization when I myself park like an asshole and get a ticket. (Sort of like how I get angry at pedestrians when I'm driving and angry at drivers when I'm walking.) But with my sudden need for STUFF (who knew I was going to need a shower caddy AND hooks for my aprons in the kitchen??), I feel as though I'm hemorrhaging money, and racking up a $77 parking ticket in less than ten minutes feels agonizing.

Because I am naturally a very graceful person who is well able to mask anger and carry myself with aplomb, I of course didn't immediately get shaky lower lip and call the meter maid a name that would make a sailor gasp. I of course didn't do anything so rash and childish as then proceed to wave the ticket in the air and weave an eloquent tapestry of curse words while standing out on the sidewalk. I didn't call into question the intelligence of the assigning officer, and I certainly didn't bring Baltimore City Parking Authority into it.

Certainly.

My boyfriend, from whom I initially attempted to hide my proclivity for violent bursts of outrage upon feelings of victimization by unseen forces (and occasionally inanimate objects that trip me, hide my keys, or otherwise complicate my life), was privy to this obviously mature and logical outburst. He had that look on his face that's a cross between "Should I offer a distraction; say, an ice cream cone?" and "I have never met this person before in my life, Officer."

One thing that has arisen out of the mellowing that has come with my late twenties is that these outbursts are far shorter than they used to be. Within the hour, we were watching documentaries on Discovery Health about phantom pregnancies and weird phobias, and I was quite content.

Until a week later, when it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to check the due date on that parking ticket. Because I presumably owed SOMEBODY, SOMEWHERE some moolah for my egregious parking. While my life is cluttered and busy, I tend to have a photographic memory of where things are located (making it all the more infuriating when something gets moved and I can't find it) and I specifically remembered sticking the parking ticket in the middle of the front seats by the gear shift so that I wouldn't lose it. So that it would be staring me in the face and I would remember to pay it.

Except it wasn't there. It wasn't on the floor, in the seat, tucked carefully into the glove compartment or center console, and wasn't even in my bag or wallet. The thing had gone missing.

I assumed that the city of Baltimore just wanted its money, and I could go to the website, enter in my tag number, and it would spit back at me the amount I owed and tell me again what a horrible crime I had committed for "blocking an unmarked" (UN-FREAKING-MARKED, mind you) "pedestrian walkway." But still, losing things irks me to no end, and I wondered if perhaps in my fit of blind rage I had eaten the ticket or shoved it somewhere unsightly. Because my boyfriend was witness to everything, I casually asked him if he remembered what I'd done with the ticket and said that if I couldn't find it, I could probably just try to track it through my tag number.

"You could," he reasoned, "but it would be a waste of time."

"Why? You sort of have to pay parking tickets, it's kind of the law..."

"Well, maybe it was already paid."

Say whaaaaaaaaaat?

Lemme tell you about modern romance. You can leave the flowers, the chocolates, the love notes, the little gifts, and all those trappings of Hallmark flirtation and give me a man who steals parking tickets out of your car and pays them. This is also the guy who has filled my gas tank, fixed all of my electronics, helped me move twice, doesn't flinch when I spill red wine on his carpet, and doesn't mind touching my disgusting feet with the missing toenail when I am hard up for a foot rub. Swoon.

I did give him Portal Coasters a couple of weeks ago. That has to count for something.

So, settling into New House in New Neighborhood and resting my horribly-aching quads. There is a bit of a lull between now and the holidays where I feel as though I can finally catch my breath a bit, but somehow things never remain that quiet for that long, so I'm just trying to take advantage of the brief glimpse of down time. And figuring out how the hell to fix my closet.

Puked and Lost a Toenail

Well worth it, and now consider myself a real runner. What's next?

Take Your Mark

Soooooooooooooooooooo.

The last couple weeks of life have been chaotic (but, really, when is life ever not chaotic?), hence the lack of posting. I feel as though I came back from vacation, packed up my life, and moved in the span of about two and a half weeks. Oh wait...that's exactly what happened.

Life is again a flurry of boxes and bubble wrap, only this time it's a more settled feeling. My new house is beautiful, the neighborhood is divine, and things are slowly but surely beginning to develop new patterns and routines. A week into the new house, and I can make my way from my room to the bathroom downstairs at night without the lights on. I call this progress.

Oh, and tomorrow I'm gonna run a half marathon. You know, no big deal.

Actually, wait; it is a big deal. I've been training for this thing for eleven weeks. And while I haven't had time to update the mileage to the right of this page, I know that I've put 175 miles on these feet since August in preparation for this.

Icing on the cake - my dad, my boyfriend, and Catalano are all running too. My lone hobby became a project for my boyfriend and me, and I will say that training with a partner was much, much easier than training alone. We did all of our long runs together, starting at 8 and working up to 12.5. We had difficult runs where we could barely pick our feet up off the ground, and runs where we finished before we realized. I have to say, I probably got the better end of the deal - training with someone who was a college athlete was a huge asset. I learned what to eat, how to stretch, when to rest, when to push. The best part: I had someone to rub my shins and shoulders and work the knots out of my calves.

What?! I cooked him dinner on many occasions!

So this half marathon will be a family-and-friend affair, and I couldn't be more excited. And a little nervous. I've been working towards this for the last few months, but also I feel as though I've been mentally prepping for this for the past year. Last year when I ran the relay, I knew this was something I wanted to do. The greatest physical challenge I've taken on thus far.

And one of those bucket list things: run a half marathon before you're thirty.

Shoot. I should probably make a list of all those things I was supposed to do before thirty. Because that's in like...7.5 months. Damn. I need to get busy figuring out world peace, writing a best-seller, and penning a Billboard top single.

But first...I think I'll unpack some more boxes. And run 13.1 miles.

New Record

Ran ten miles this morning before work.

You know; no big deal.

After an excruciating and embarassingly bad week of training last week (we're talking crawling uphill on a mediocre 6 mile run in a manner that left my spirit broken and soul empty) this is actually a very big deal. Not only that, but it's my longest distance to date. Not only that, but it marks nearly the halfway point in the training program, and is almost at the apex. Once we get a 12 miler in at the end of September, it's downhill from there with two easy weeks before the race.

Miles to date in training: 78.5.
Coconut waters consumed: small, tropical isle's worth.
Days until I am lying on the beach in Key West: 9.

Glory Run

Completed an 8 mile run yesterday. This is the largest amount of miles I have ever run at one time, and it was one of those Glory Runs where you finish strong and have an inkling of "I might just actually be able to do this!" Glory Runs are the things that keep you going. Because for every Glory Run, you have at least two or three runs where you're pretty sure that you're actually crying while you run, and that you may even be crying tears made of your own blood.

This means I have run a total of 50 miles in the month of August since the beginning of training. This also means I am way past due for a new pair of sneakers. I've been running in the same shoes for a shamefully long time (for a runner, anyway). Also, when I was changing my nail polish the other night, I noticed that half of one of the nails of my next-to-little toe on my right foot is purple. Ew. So, basically, now I have to wear polish at all times. Not that this is problematic. My feet are completely shredded anyway. I foresee an epic pedicure after October 15.

In other news, I went to Happy Hour with Sporty last night. Sporty and I worked together back in The Day (which, in this instance, consists of May 2007-February 2008) and we saw each other through some particularly difficult growing-up times. It was a bright moment to sit at the bar last night, sipping martinis and talking about what train wrecks we were four years ago and how much happier we are these days. And, of course, to discuss at length the Amanda Knox case (the murder of Meredith Kercher occurred when we were working together, and we followed the news trail through to the final sentencing), the Casey Anthony trial, Britney Spears's upcoming appearance at the VMA's (Really? REALLY?!), why Kate Middleton stopped eating, and other, pithier conversations tnot involving pop culture icons or the media. Suffice it to say, we can still both confidently eye one another up and say, "We have been through some THINGS. I'm glad to know you."

In other news, I am making a random, quick trip to New York tomorrow for a dinner in Brooklyn. I am psyched not only for said dinner and because I'll get to see New Kid; who is pure, unbridled awesome; but because my boyfriend splashed out on train tickets. I'm used to Greyhound which, although cheap and utterly convenient, can be rather cramped. We had a bad experience when we went to Philadelphia back in April: couldn't find seats together and somehow wound up on the stinkiest bus in the developed world. It was not a good experience.

In other news, 19 days until Key West. I've already booked a kayak tour, which I am beyond psyched about because the kayaks are CLEAR. I think I may have stated this already, but I'll just reiterate the awesomeness again: THE KAYAKS ARE CLEAR. I also ordered four books from Amazon. For a five-day trip. Optimism.

It had better not hurricane on my parade.

Half-CAFFFFFF

So, in addition to all of this half-marathon training, I decided it was high time I cut my caffeine intake. I wonder if I might possibly hate myself a wee bit.

(Cut, mind you. As in trim. As in moderate to some degree.

Not quit.

No amount of suspected self-loathing could lead to that nonsense.)

I had noticed, as of late, that 'round 'bout eleven or twelve in the morning, I was tweaking. Like, tweaking.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE FAX WASN'T SENT. IT SHOULD HAVE GONE THROUGH. IS THERE PAPER IN THE MACHINE. THIS PEN IS LEAKING. I DISLIKE THE DEGREE TO WHICH THIS PENCIL IS SHARPENED. WHY IS EVERYTHING SO LOUD. WHAT IS GOING ON. SURE, I'LL RUN TEN BLOCKS TO THE STORE. IS THERE AN EARTHQUAKE. THE GROUND APPEARS TO BE SHAKING. OH NO, THAT'S JUST ME.

I mentioned this late-morning freak-out to a friend who politely inquired what sort of caffeinated beverages I was consuming in the morning.

"Typically a large coffee or a triple latte."

"Large as in....?"

"16 ounces."

And that's just breakfast.

Then there's the green tea(s). I keep a box in my desk. For the mid-afternoon slump(s).

Then there's the energy drinks, the Rockstars and sugar-free Red Bulls, the hydrating drinks. And the Gu. Chock full of caffeine, all of them.

And don't even get me started on the sugar cravings.

Partially, I know that I crave these bursts of energy because I'm still learning the whole eating-to-working-out ratio*. If I don't eat consistently - as in, every few hours at least - I find myself in trouble. I either become so completely irritated by everything (THE AIR CURRENTS IN THIS BUILDING ARE INFURIATING!) or I just want to lay my head down on my desk and take a nice little nap. If I find myself swinging violently from mood to mood and lurching between wanting to rip my own hair out or curl up in the fetal position and sleep for an hour, chances are I just need a snack. Most of the time, the equilibrium of my body behaves like a four-year-old.

The eating isn't that big of a deal. I come to work armed with snacks, I make sure I schedule eating around meetings. On weekends, I tend to eat fewer but larger meals, but I still rely on a piece of fruit or a granola bar to see me through.

But the caffeine...that is becoming a problem.

To begin with, I am already an anxious person. Constantly in motion. I am a leg-jiggler (and have suffered the tines of my mother's fork under the dinner table when I start shaking the entire room), a fiddler, a fidgeter. Add in some caffeine, consumed over the better part of the morning, and I become something akin to a jonesing meth addict. Neck-scratching included on particularly bad days.

And, besides, caffeine (shockingly) dehydrates you. Which, in turn, makes you that much more tired when you have to, oh, you know, get up and run eight miles.

I'm on Day Three of this experiment. And, besides the blinding headache that seems to have taken the place of my daily freak-out, so far mostly what I feel is tired. This could be the "waking up at 6am to work out every morning" thing, but the tiredness is a different kind of tired than before. It's not accompanied by the jittery, hand-shaky need to WRITE EVERYTHING IN CAPS or chew the ends off of all of my pens. This tiredness is slower, but steadier.

And, let's face it, I'm not ready to give up caffeine entirely yet. I'm not a masochist. Mama needs at least a little hit in the morning.

Not entirely sure how this is going to affect my penchant for a delicious espresso martini. I guess I'll just have to put more vodka in it.





*Far be it for me to claim to be any sort of expert on half-marathon training (or athletic training in general) but one of the hardest things to learn to balance is what's coming in vs. what's being expended. If you do the amateur math (100 calories per mile, averaging 20 miles per week at the start,) you'd think that's an extra 2,000 calories you get to consume: 285.7 per day! This is false math. It doesn't work that way. While you SHOULD up your food intake, it's better to look at WHAT and WHEN you eat as opposed to HOW MUCH. Forget the "Carbo Load" mentality: protein is your friend. And fiber. And WATER. Half the time, you think you're famished when, oh, you're actually just really, really thirsty. To help me in my quest, I did some research online (with a goal of maintaining my current weight through training) and downloaded the MyFitnessPal app for my phone. It's easy to keep track of what you eat (either look up the food item and enter in the quantity OR download the barcode scanner and take a picture of it with your phone for instant nutrition info) and when you are obligated to tally what you consume, it definitely makes you think twice.

This Is How Horror Films Start

The Full Moon Run was scheduled for this past Saturday, the night of the August full moon. Otherwise known as the Full Sturgeon Moon (the name lent from the Great Lakes and other massive bodies of water where sturgeon tend to present themselves to fishers during this time of the summer), the Full Red Moon (often seen through haze), the Green Corn Moon, and the Grain Moon. The last heavy moon of the summer, and the one night when the moon remains solely in the night sky and cannot be glimpsed during daylight hours. There was also rumored to be possible sightings of the Perseid Meteor Shower.

But all day Saturday brought chaotic weather patterns. Heavy rain, violent claps of thunder, monsoons raging throughout the day. We weren't sure if the run would be on, if the trail would be washed out, if it would be light enough to even see it.

By 7:30pm, they still hadn't called the race, so my boyfriend and I pounded some energy drinks, had some Gu (GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!looksandtastesjustlikeitsounds), and headed up to the NCR trail head in Hunt Valley. Two hundred people had signed up, but there looked to be barely a hundred or so there. It was completely overcast and foggy, and well on its way to being totally dark. Some of the fog was due to the clouds that had decided to come down a little closer to earth, and some of it was haze on loan from the Virginia swamp fires: thousands of acres of swamp land burning since last Tuesday.

We were given our numbers and told to deck out in glow sticks. Around the neck, through the shoelaces, shoved down the backs of our shirts so that we could be seen by other runners in the woods. No head lamps, no flash lights as they would blind other runners. Just glow sticks. A techno-parade of insane runners taking off into the dark.

The rain held off, the lightening stayed away. And it was completely dark. Even the meager glow sticks didn't hold up, only briefly piercing it with neon brightness. But as runners passed ahead or fell behind, their glow sticks formed hazy auras in the fog before disappearing altogether. At one point, it was just my boyfriend and me, with no runners directly ahead or behind, and for the first time I started feeling twinges of panicked adrenaline. It's a good thing I trust him, because had he been the slightest bit shifty, he might have absconded with me into the dark and sold me into human trafficking. I'm almost entirely certain he had the same thought about me. I'm rather shady.

Because it was dark. I mean, dark dark. You could barely make out patches of overcast sky above through the knot of trees, and the crushed limestone path, which would have glowed in moonlight, was barely visible as a long rectangle ahead and behind, disappearing into clouds of darker matter. There was no visible destination ahead and no way of verifying where you had been. The woods were dark and deep, as Frost declared, but the loveliness was shrouded in an eerie stillness. Nothing moved in those woods, except for us. There was no way to tell if we were headed in the right direction, if danger lay ahead, or if the safety of a water station awaited. There was no way to see if the path was clear and safe, only the trust that the runners that had gone on ahead hadn't returned and weren't lying on the sides of the trail, and so had pushed onward into the darkness.

It was almost like a dream, with the haze from the fog creating halos of dark against darker. You forget how vulnerable we humans are; how utterly unprepared to survive in the wild without the benefit of fire, light, and GPS.

E.L. Doctorow once described writing in this way: "like driving a car at night; you can never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." This felt like that. Six miles in the complete dark, and you can only see as far as twenty or so feet in front of you. If that. But you run, you put one foot in front of the other, and you trust that you'll make it. Having my running partner there was crucial. Had I been alone in those woods, with no runners anywhere nearby, I might have panicked.

In a way, the night run was an adrenaline rush that might not have come had the moon been out in full glory. The creepier elements of the woods certainly hurried my feet a bit more, and nothing was more welcoming than the finish line, laid out in glow sticks. And the pizza we ordered and demolished around midnight once we got home was a welcome victory meal.

The run was the way anything is in life: on a path with limited vision, seeing ahead and behind only as far as you can, and going on the knowledge that if you fall, if you run into something, if you crash, if you get off-course, there will be something or someone there to help you. There is no guarantee and no certainty that danger will not befall you; just the trust in yourself, in what little of the path you can see, and the people surrounding you.

And, of course, the hope of victory pizza and beer to guide you.

AHOY

Oh. My God. The exhaustion.

Week 2 of half-marathon training, and I hit a bit of a brick wall. Mostly because: it's only Week 2. Brick walls are not allowed. This shall not do.

Went to see Harry Potter the other night. I've been an avid fan since the books first came out, and have seen all of the movies. This one was, truly, spectacular. The special effects were amazing, the 3D not over-zealous. And Mrs. Weasley called Bellatrix Lestrange a "bitch." And Ron made out with Hermione. And.... [insert spoilers here]. Delightful.

In other news, tonight I am going to do something I swore I wasn't going to do. I am climbing aboard an Urban Pirates tour. I eschewed it mostly because I thought it was overrated and it wasn't going to come anything close to Gasparilla. But then the boyfriend uttered the magic words: there will be beer. And I haven't had an excuse to wear my skull & crossbones scarf since Nicole Richie got married up and decided to dedicate her life to child-rearing, accessories-designing, and keeping boho alive.

Tomorrow is the 6-mile race. In the woods. At night. I'm pretty psyched for it, so long as my body holds up and I don't trip on anything or anyone. Mostly, as always, I am excited for the after-party. A guy I know in Federal Hill does competitive biking, and we were comparing the aches and pains and disasters and glories of biking vs. running, and he quoted an author (perhaps Hemmingway?) in saying "I do not like writing; I like having written." The same, it seems, holds true for biking and running. I do not always like running. But I like having run. The satisfaction I get in logging miles, in pinning my race number on my wall next to the others I'm amassing, in comparing times and courses is monumental. The actual running part of it...well, most of the time, it sucks. It's hard and it hurts, and it leaves you feeling about a trillion years old. Sometimes.

And then sometimes you feel pretty damn spectacular. Pushing yourself, training, seeing and feeling results are all substantial positives of taking on something athletic.

And, you know, post-race beers taste the best.

Ahoy!

Hot Curry

Week One of Half-Marathon training complete. Logged 14 miles overall and an hour of weight training. Pretty light to start, but it only goes up from here. I am still holding onto my "how to eat an elephant" mentality of one thing at a time. Gazing overly long at the training schedule in its entirety causes immediate fatigue. Best to avoid fatigue when one is training for an athletic event.

In other news, I successfully made pulled BBQ chicken this weekend for Josh, Lee, and Lee's fiance. (She reads my blog and really, at this point, is quite deserving of her own nickname. Except that I really just want to call her Hot Curry. Which she might find hilarious. Or blatantly annoying, one or the other. I should probably give credit to her accomplishments and soon call her "Doc." But that sounds butch. I dunno. This might be an ongoing campaign: procure handle for Lee's fiance.) The evening was quite fun and evolved (or devolved, in some cases) into a very abstract and poignant game of Scattegories. The funniest bits, naturally, cannot be rewritten here as our senses of humor can be somewhat less than politically correct and substantially fortified by bathroom humor.

I actually managed to document the cooking of the chicken and will be posting delicious photos this week. This is part of my campaign to regularly use my fabulous birthday gift from my parents: a new camera.

On the docket this week: 21 miles to run, 6 of which will be done during a night race on Saturday. The NCR's annual Full Moon Run, done entirely under the cover of darkness. I am extremely hopeful that I will not trip and bring down the boyfriend, Cool Runnings-style. Or any of the other runners, of course. But mostly him, because I have to drive home in the car with him.

Also, it's Restaurant Week. Happened into it last night at Aldo's in Little Italy, and enjoyed a three-course meal of Italian Summer Salad (tomatoes, cukes, onions, and basil in a balsamic drizzle with thick brown bread), rib eye grilled in black truffle oil, and a berry panacotta. Delicious.

Photos of culinary adventures to come soon.

How To Eat An Elephant

So, somewhere in my complex and ever-so-slightly warped sense of taking on challenges, I decided that I would sign up for - and ostensibly run - a half-marathon this fall.

It's something I started spouting the second I finished the marathon relay last year; six miles to hand off a velcro "baton" to my teammate in the middle of Druid Hill Park. The relay was so much fun, and six miles - why that's nearly halfway there! If I can pull off six miles, I can certainly pull off 13.1. They're practically the same, really.

Except...not.

But, here's the thing: if I say I'm going to do something, and I mean really say it - not like that whole "I'M MOVING TO NEW YORK" half-decade of my life, or the time I was going to move to a writer's camp in Vermont for a summer and cut off all communication with everyone, or the time I thought I might convert to Judaism, or that one fall when I realized that my entire life's work was wrapped up in writing a screen play (and all of this is making me re-think my frequent announcements of Things I Am Going To Do!) - I'mma do it. Mostly. All ostentatious claims aside.

I think the biggest step was plunking down that $85 for an entry fee. Nothing like the greater part of a hundred bucks to say, "Yep, I'm in. Let's do this thing."

The next biggest step was the procurement of a decent training plan. I have many friends who've dared the half before (and some, like Legs, who have gone full-tilt batshit crazy and done an entire marathon), and so I asked for their plans. Everyone's got one, most are cobbled together from racing sites, running groups, even some books and training manuals. Putting together your own plan, however, is a delicate and personal thing.

I'm 11 weeks to the big event, and already running 4-6 miles on a regular basis. My minimal runs (maintenance runs) are about 3-4 miles, and once a week I'll try to log 5-6 as a long run. I ran the Survivor 7-Miler in June with a bit of aplomb, so I like to think that somewhere in my muscle memory I could dredge up 10 miles if I had to. In two weeks, I have a 6-mile run (at night...on the NCR trail...no lights...just moon...). Somewhere in the next two months, however, I have to find 13.1 miles in me. 12 tops to train, then 13.1 for the big day.

It would not be outrageous of me to say that this is one of the bigger challenges I've faced. Writing a thesis, getting a job, running 7 miles...all of those things required diligence and patience and work. Sure. But 13.1 miles is not 7 miles. And this is not something you half-ass.

My goal: I will not walk. I can slow down, I can jog, but I Will. Not. Walk.

What both complicates and makes things easier at the same time is that I have partners in crime. Catalano, my dad, and my boyfriend have all signed up for this adventure too. I will have running friends, we will all push one another, and while we may not cross the finish line all together, we will finish just the same. However solo I've wanted to be in my tasking in the past, having a group of people taking on the same challenge is pretty encouraging.

And then we will drink gallons upon gallons of free beer. It will be glorious.

So, I'm two days into the "eat the elephant one bite at a time" training. That saying, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time," reverberates. How am I gonna run a half marathon? One mile at a time. I did three last night. Four this morning. Good start.

One bite at a time.

Post-Race Sky-Gazing

Ran a hard race this morning and took about two minutes off of my time from last year. There were 7 races in between, over the last year, so this is Improvement. Still not my best time (which was an unprecendeted 24:11; in the pouring rain; on a hilly course) but felt good, so I'll go with that. Hit up brunch afterwards, then randomly decided to cash in a coupon for a full-body massage, and now going in and out of naps by the pool. Most excellent day.

In other news, hooray for New York and progressive policy-making. Perhaps the rest of the nation will follow suit.

In other news, Bristol Palin's memoir apparently reveals details that smack of sexual assault by Levi. Too many wine coolers on a camping trip in the wilds of Alaska. While I would never encroach upon any woman's right to the safety of her own body, I have to wonder why this is coming out now, years later, in a book. If BP is such an advocate for abstinence, why would she shy away from the vitally important message that sexual assault is something to be reported? Her mentioning of the incident in a memoir, long after the fact, cheapens it and relegates the act to the unfortunate hush culture of similar assaults. And where the hell was Grizzly Mom Palin, advocating for her daughter's rights to due process in the aftermath of what BP describes as confusing and without her consent? Busy proselytizing about teen abstinence and family values, no doubt.

I'm not going to try and debate whether or not what Levi may or may not have done in a tent on a camping trip constitutes rape. But I take serious issue with BP bringing it up now. If that's indeed what happened, speak out against non-consensual sex and underage drinking, and the relationship between the two. To do anything else smacks of an attempt to reconstruct a public image in the light of Good Girl.

Granted, I have not read the book, so I could be missing something. But the review I read mentioned nothing about follow-up to the incident or advocating against date rape and for the voices of silenced girls to speak out against their attackers. And that, to me, is a greater issue than worrying if BP might have remained a virgin until marriage.

In other news, the BF returns (hopefully) later this week from a long work trip overseas. I hope he brings me a pony, as requested. I do not think this is asking too much. Miniature ponies, when babies, are even small enough to pack as carry-on, and I'm sure customs will have no problems processing its sheer cuteness.

Weddings, Brew Fests, Cool Runnings, Et Al

Oh, man.

So, been super busy (as always...not really anything new there) but also working in preparations for Snap's wedding this coming weekend. I've got the dress, the shoes, the awesome date, and am fine-tuning the toast. I don't want to give too much away, but suffice it to say that I tried to incorporate a spectrum of emotion that includes Supreme Humiliation. Ok, maybe not humiliation, per say. A touch of humor, maybe. At Snap's expense. Har.

So I went on a long run on Saturday (working towards the Survivor 7 on June 12), and was running peacefully along in some sort of Zenned-out state when I realized that there were throngs of people lining the sidewalks. So I shifted over and ran in the street. Curiously, no cars. Excellent running conditions, however, and the street was even conveniently mapped out with lines of orange cones. Then I realized people were cheering. Just as I was congratulating myself on such good form, I glanced over my shoulder to see Fifi gliding along behind me. Apparently, I had found my running trail along AVAM's annual Kinetic Sculpture race route.

Slightly embarrassing, especially because there wasn't any place for me to turn off, so I just went with it for probably another quarter mile.

So if any of you witnessed the early part of the route and saw some ass running while everyone else was biking, it was me. Oops.

Also worthy of note here was that City Paper's Annual Brew Fest was a couple of weekends ago. As always, it fell on the most gorgeous spring day. I don't know how they do it every year, but it always seems that the weather is in gross extremes leading up to this event. 90 degrees with 100% humidity one day, 45 degrees and raining the next. And then CPABF comes along, and it's 75 degrees, sunny, no humidity. Just perfect.

I'm digging beer right now. Among my favorites:
Boulder's Kind Blue, blueberry wheat
Allagash White Ale
Hitachino Nest, white ale (harder to find, given present export situation)
Dogfish Head Midas Touch, ancient Turkish fermentation recipe (ridiculously hard to find, and ringing in at a whopping $14 per 4-pack in some cases)

So, spring is in full effect. Which means running outside, beer consumption, weddings, and soon- KAYAKING!

Hooray, spring!

Oh, and somewhere in there I'm gonna turn 29. Awesome.

Schweet Schweet Schpring

**WARNING: This entry is not about spring. It's about gross bodily fluids. Read on, and don't say I didn't provide adequate warning.**

Spring is in the air.

Or, at least, it was for approximately 4.7 hours on Monday.

And the defaulted immediately back to gloom-and-doom 40-degree cloudy nonsense on Tuesday.

You tease me, Spring.

But this morning marked the first of the outside morning runs. For the past five or so months, morning runs have been solely occurring on the treadmill at the gym. While I have no problem running at night in Baltimore after work, running in the mornings when it's still dark out is arguably more questionable.

But this morning, the sun was up at a reasonable time and even though it was a chilly 42 degrees, I got in a nice run through Federal Hill and around the Inner Harbor. Delightful, really.

Except.

I was never a spitter until I became a runner.

And there is something about running out-of-doors in cold weather that gets the juices flowing. There is something even juicier about running out-of-doors in cold weather in the springtime, with those lovely early-morning clouds of pollen that arise to greet the sun.

However satisfying it is to work up a nice hauk, I can't get over the digustingness of it. Having run a leg of the Baltimore marathon last fall as part of a relay team, I can attest to the sheer grossness of running as a sport in general. Running a marathon and have to go, and the next Port-A-Potty isn't until Mile 7? Just go, man. No trees around? Whatevs. Pull over to the side and get it done. And, yes, this includes other bodily functions.

Something about running makes your body want to expel things. Sweat, primarily, and spit. But other things, too. I'm sure every runner has seen that viral email photo circulating with the guy from the Boston (or New York?) marathon, running for America against the wind with the remnants of his last four meals running down his leg.

I KNOW, IT'S GROSS.

Thankfully, I have never done such a thing. Although the September 11th 5k was a particularly painful course for me given the sudden and extreme cramps I developed (for no reason other than the fact that I'd neglected to have any coffee that morning, so I've deduced). I've also never experienced that hallowed trademark of serious runners everywhere- the puke-and-rally. Not to say that I won't. I'm told that most runners, at some point, will puke. It's almost inevitable. But not yet, not for me, and I'll fight it to the very last if I have to.

But it's true, your body expels things as you run, and for me this manifests into an extremely un-ladylike display of public spitting. I can't NOT spit when I run. Hence my vast preference for running out-of-doors as opposed to a treadmill.

Important note- running inside does not produce as much expulsion as running outside. Temperature, I'm sure, has a great deal to do with it. Also there are no trees dumping pollen on me inside the gym. So far.

Spitting and running go hand-in-hand, and this is something I've grown to accept. I'm not yet, and hopefully will never be, to the point where I would finish the race at all costs without stopping and just allow bodily fluids to go where they will with no regard. But spitting...that I will do. And now that I've gotten the hang of it, and learned to give it some force and distance, it's a great deal less embarrassing than the girly little "PTOOOTS" I used to try that would wind up all over me.

Velocity is key.

Anyhoodle, so spring. Yes. I've decided I'm done with socks this year, and refuse to wear them at all costs (except when running, of course) so if Mother Nature could comply with my personal choices so I can stop being cold, that'dbegreatthanks.

Can I Have Four Beers?

One of the things I love most about running races in Baltimore City (which I'm sure is the case everywhere) is the unification of two of my favorite past times: running and daytime drinking.

Nothing is better than a well-prepped, well-orchestrated, well-hydrated rendition of either. In fact, much of what goes into running also goes into proper daytime drinking. The pre-event hydration, the requisite "carbo-loading" (although sometimes I think we get a little carried away- there's probably no need to "carbo-load" before a 5k....), and the plotting of timing, checkpoints, and meet-ups.

This past Sunday's 5k- the Shamrock- saw 4,500 individuals (most of whom in green) running down Charles Street. From the starting line headed southward, it was quite a sight. A sea of green spanning all lanes, bobbing along. The race curled around Key Highway, and the victorious finish line led runners straight into Power Plant.

And there, the grand clusterf--- began.

4,500 people, herded like cattle towards two 6 foot plastic tables with a beer truck parked behind it.

All 4,500 of them thirsty. Very, very thirsty.

The Shamrock 5k is not one of those races for runners who eschew things like alcohol and daytime drinking.

The Shamrock 5k is for runners who embrace things like alcohol and daytime drinking.

Needless to say, the beer area was a maddening throng of individuals clamoring for their free beer. And the attendants were not regulating the amount of beer you could take. This was no beer ticket operation- this was a mad-scrabble, take-as-much-as-you-can-carry free-for-all. This was on par with loaves of bread being tossed out to crowds post-Armageddon.

Mrs. Spaz, who was running her first race ever, was my companion in this grand knot of thirsty daytime drinkers. We happened upon a group of people we knew, and ascertained that they had somehow managed to rob the beer truck blind.

"How did you get so many beers?!" we exclaimed, ogling the beautiful pyramid of glistening, sweaty, foamy beers piled up in the corner they had somehow managed to stake out.

"Carried 'em," they proudly proclaimed.

"Can we have one?!" we asked, excited. We had cheated the system. We weren't going to have to brave the mean, jostling crowd for a sip of delicious Michelob Ultra (the beer choice of champion racers- because you can drink 47 of them and still solve complex math problems.) We were going to get FREE BEER FOR EVEN MORE FREE because we wouldn't have to wait in line!

"Nope. Get your own," came the response.

Crushed.

Deflated.

Heat-stroked.

Thirsty.

Angry at the sudden institution of fair-play when it worked against us, Mrs. Spaz and I braved the crowds for all the beer we could carry (which amounted to three, slightly-squashed Solo cups apiece, each only halfway full after sloshing the precious Ultra every couple of steps when someone elbowed us mightily) and, approximately forty five rib-crushing minutes later, made our way back to the corner staked by my friends.

They eyed our beers thirstily. I felt instantly protective of my beers as they circled around us.

"Hey, guys! You're back!" they asked, all smiles and cheer. I was wary. Jackals, they appeared to be, licking their fangs. "Ummmm, can we have one of your beers?" Casually. As if they hadn't previously quashed our hopes and dreams of avoiding the soul-crushing beer line. AS IF THAT HAD NEVER HAPPENED.

Mrs. Spaz and I looked at what had been a glorious, glistening tower of beer. It was sitting in direct sunlight. Some thirsty flies had discovered the cache and were blissfully drinking away at 64 calories of light beer, one drop at a time. The beer pyramid appeared to be melting.

"You still have a beer tower," we replied, haughtily.

"But it got warm! We couldn't drink it fast enough!" they cried.

My, how the tables turned.

Mrs. Spaz and I, ever beacons of charity, willingly donated one of our half-cups of beer to be doled out to the thirsty. We allowed each of them a delicious sip of our ice-cold (ok, slightly-less-than-lukewarm, but still frigid in comparison to the loaves of bread now baking in the beer pyramid) beer and felt as though we had earned our spots in heaven for doing so.

And thus, running season in Baltimore hath begun.

Breathing Space

Contrary to evidence here, I've been doing a lot of writing lately.

But it's mostly of the research, policy-minded, quantitative type of writing I thought I'd left back in grad school. Thankfully, because I believe in the causes and (mostly) love what I do, the intensive and sometimes mind-numbing work is ultimately rewarding. So I keep telling myself as I down triple lattes and log miles out on the Baltimore streets after work trying to expel all the contained energy.

In moving, I stumbled across a book of clippings from my freelancing days. While there are things I miss (the illusion of grandeur, mostly) what I've found these days is that the harder I work, and the more I commit myself to what I do, the easier it is for me to breathe.

Everything is just so different now, years later. Stumbling into something that fits seems so accidental and so deliciously gratifying, but is it really some freak alignment or a series of choices that line up and suddenly doors swing open at the right times? After so many years of running against the wind, you finally crash land against the right door and find it unlocked. And open it to find a whole world of doors you didn't know existed. And maybe it's not the door you thought you wanted, or even in a hallway you wanted to go down. But it's there, and it works, and it fits, and suddenly it all just makes sense, somehow.

Ran outside in short-sleeves the other evening. Spring is on its way. And I've got races coming up, final stages of moving into my new place, Vegas in April with Book Club, Snap's wedding in May, and the on-set of kayaking season!

Plus, you know, all that policy that needs writing. That, too.