one popsicle at a time

If you're not one of those people who can scamper out of the house and go for a 20 mile jaunt because it's just the natural distance your body wants to go (yes, these people do exist), you should consider NOT doing any of the following before you plan on running 17 miles for the first time ever:

1. hiking 5.5 miles on a 100 degree day with less than adequate amounts of water & food

2. spend 4 hours floating down a scenic river on another 100 degree day with less than adequate amounts of food & water

3. plan to return home around 9pm the night before your run and then have to make all of your neurotic running preparations at a time when you should be banking extra sleep

I survived the 17 mile plod yesterday, but it was quite possibly one of the hardest runs I've ever experienced. Harder than that one time I ran 12 miles down a country road and completely ran out of water and had to ask an old man mowing his lawn if I could trouble him for something to drink. Not quite as hard as that one time I ran 10 miles in rolling West Virginia hills and then proceeded to spend the next 3 hours in and out of the bathroom with horrible stomach cramps.

Here's what I saw at the start of the run in central park:

Needless to say, I should have started earlier. Please see the aforementioned list for reasons that made waking up before 6 am seem like more than I could handle. Things went okay for the first 10 miles. And by okay, I mean I didn't feel like I would keel over, but I also noticed that the heat was making life much harder than it needed to be.

Around mile 6, I stopped for an overpriced popsicle and spent a luxurious 5 minutes walking while I ate it. But before the stick ever hit the side of the trash can, I felt like I'd never even heard of popsicles. Do you remember that feeling of infinite running misery that I mentioned? It descended not long after I finished the popsicle and continued to ride on my shoulders for the remainder of the run. At any given point after mile 7, I could not imagine ever being done. I tried to busy myself with podcasts, but I was so distractible that I can barely remember what I heard. I do know that Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me has the perfect hodgepodge of information and fast-paced antics to keep me interested for more than 2 minutes at a time. This American Life: forget it. I love you Ira Glass, but you were not meant for torturous situations.

My intended route for the last 6 miles was to circle the reservoir for 3 laps then return to the main park drive for another mile and a half back to Columbus Circle. I couldn't face the rolling hills on the drive, so before I even got to mile 11 (right before hitting the reservoir for the 2nd set of laps around the shell track) I decided to just hunker down for an extra lap and forget about attempting anything than even closely resembled an ascent. Things that made this a wise decision: extremely flat surface, guaranteed bathroom (that I didn't end up needing), 2 water fountains, 80% shade, and a nice breeze coming off the water.

But even a view like that can feel like purgatory when it seems like you're running on a combination of hot coals and crushed glass. Okay, that's slightly dramatic, but my feet were really unhappy by mile 13, and I slowed from my respectable crawl to a miserable shuffle for the last 4 miles. I maintained my 4 minutes of running, but the walk breaks* went from 1:45 minutes to 2 and sometimes 3 minutes.

As I hobbled through the last 20 yards, I passed tourists eating ice cream sandwiches on a bench, and it was all I could do not to rip the ice cream out of their hands and smear it all over my face. The thought of eating anything made me sick to my stomach (which was actually a problem for the last hour because I had a hard time forcing down any food; can we say heat exhaustion?), but I could have really gone for a frozen facial. Instead, I huffed my way over to a vendor and squeaked out my order of a vitamin water and a popsicle. I paced** and forced down my snack and tried to keep myself from laying flat on my face in the grass.

The only down side to running in central park is that when it's all over, you have to get on a train with other people (unless you happen to have an endless supply of taxi funds). All you want to do is sit down, but so does everyone else, so you end up sitting next to people. I can only imagine how lovely an experience that was for everyone around me. I was covered in black dust from the shins down, there was a peanut butter explosion on my water pack that I hadn't had the energy to clean up, and I'm sure I smelled like roses soaked in hobo juice. But I consider the ride a success because I got a seat for every leg of the trip, no one actively moved away from me, AND I didn't puke or explode in any other way. Small victories, my friends. Teeny, tiny, graceless victories. That's how you train for a marathon.

*long story short, we're doing a run/walk program of 4 min running with roughly 1:30 min walking.

**I saw a t-shirt that said "marathons only hurt when you stop." Gospel, I tell you.

the promised land awaits

At the end of last weekend's long run, we were faced with not one, but two of the best food trucks camped out right next to each other. I'd tucked a $20 bill in the pocket of my running shorts for just such an encounter with the promised land. I was actually so blinded by the Yogo truck that I didn't notice the dumpling truck until we were standing in line for frozen yogurt. Charrow and I gave each other a conspiratorial look and decided that we should probably split an order of savory dumplings to go with our sweet treat. It's all about balance, right?

The combination actually made me feel a little sick when it was all said and done, but I would totally do it again. I would just wait about 30 minutes before eating any of said treats.

Also seen on our run: boat loads of balloons, most of which were pink.

frozen yogurt mirage

There's comes a point in every long run when I can't imagine ever being done. All I can think about is how many more times I have to put one foot in front of the other and how many more beads of sweat there are left to sweat. For last weekend's 11 mile run, that point came as I crested the hill near the Grand Army entrance of Prospect Park for the second time. Rounding off the 7th mile meant that I only had 4 more to go, but that kind of math doesn't really comfort the soles of my feet.

The course I mapped took me past the botanic gardens and the Brooklyn Museum where I took a pit stop to snap some photos of the fountain. I don't know if it was the extended break or the mesmerizing cascades of water, but when I started the next stint* of running, I felt less overwhelmed. I sank into a comfortable plodding rhythm and even managed to laugh out loud at Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.

But somewhere around mile 10 I was faced with two long, gradual hills before the last quarter mile descent (I knew about one hill, the other one was a nasty little surprise), and the feeling of eternal running doom returned. The thing about running in Brooklyn versus training in Atlanta is that there are public transportation options everywhere along the route. This is both comforting and horribly tempting. Thankfully, there were no viable options for the last 15 minutes of the run. I don't know what it would take for me to stop running (besides the obvious answer of injury), but sometimes it's best to not even have the option of quitting.

After 2 full episodes of Peter Sagal** and company, I decided to cap off the end of the run with an episode of the Moth aptly entitled "Sloth." Sadly there was no frozen yogurt truck camped out along Prospect Park West. I was really hoping to drown myself in granola and natural tart, but alas, all I had to look forward to was a smooze in the freezer at home and a bagel concoction that looked something like this (peanut butter & jelly on one side. butter on the other. because I'm indecisive):

*we're doing the Jeff Galloway run/walk program. more on this in a separate post.

** Peter Sagal is a frequent Runner's World contributor so it felt appropriate to listen to him for almost the entire run. Plus, he's hilarious.

the slog

So we're doing it. We're running a marathon. Specifically, the Portland Marathon. We decided to do the Portland race because there are volunteers that hug you at every mile marker, they give you free sparrow tattoos at the water stations AND, wait for it... there are rivers of coffee that run through the city.

Okay, so maybe there are no coffee rivers, but I bet there are hugs!

I don't know exactly how Charrow contracted the marathon itch, but when the runner's world issue with the top 10 marathons came out, she asked me if I wanted to run Portland because it was touted as a good beginner marathon and neither of us have ever been to visit. Blinded by the promise of donuts, specialty coffee, and the potential for visiting a good friend that I haven't seen in years, I agreed.

And that's why I have to run (and by run, I mean shuffle) 11 miles tomorrow. Who's excited?

To be fair, I, too, have the marathon itch (although I do not have the Boston hives), but ever since our half marathon experience that resulted in a foot injury, I figured marathons were just not on my dance card. But we're giving it a go and so far things are fine. My feet are sore from working at the Very Successful Coffee Shop (henceforth known as "the shop" because that's a long nickname), so I'm doing my best to run on days that I don't work, and I'm icing the crap out of my feet whenever I can. In fact, I'm sitting in an ice bath right now.

Okay, I'm not, but I will be tomorrow after the slog.

*today's picture is an example of how I plan to look after we finish the insanity and have gorged ourselves on donuts and greasy food.

obey the stripes

Does anyone ever take their own advice?

This week I have given 2 people advice to revive forgotten blogs and yet here mine sits, unattended and vying for attention like a certain orange cat that I know. It's amazing how much mental space something can take up. I think about the blog often. I think about how I don't know what to write, and then I think about how I don't have anything to say (unless a cat juices on my face, and then I'm here to shout from the top of Google mountain), but when does anyone have anything to say*, so why don't I just go ahead and say nothing already?

So here I am. Ready to talk about soup, or not talk about soup, all day. Or at least part of several days a week. Prepare yourself for snippets and tidbits of a not so salacious existence in the big city.

I know what you're thinking. This all sounds so familiar. You read 4 other blogs today that said "I'm going to post more often! I've been so busy!" Well, add another one to the list, but keep checking back because I might just surprise both of us.

*gross generalization intended to sooth insecurity. disregard.

lickety split

This past Sunday I had to work at the Very Successful Coffeeshop. On my break, I ate my apple and peanut butter snack, and after I finished the apple, I started eating a fig, but I couldn't figure out where to put the fig while I checked my phone for new text messages, so I stacked it on top of the apple core. Look at that! A snack stack! With knee-jerk swiftness, I snapped a picture on my new pocket internet machine and uploaded the silliness to Facebook. It wasn't until the train ride home that I realized I had broken a cardinal screen free sunday rule: no Facebook allowed.

And that in a nutshell is how my screen free sundays have been going. It is incredible how much conscious effort it takes to stay away from the internet. I fared better that afternoon: we went for a run, and I kept my computer usage* to financial information only (I'm obsessed with Mint and keeping track of my bank account), but I did catch myself staring absentmindedly at Charrow's computer as she sat next to me scrolling through the cavernous time suck that is the Face. Does that count as cheating? It felt pretty wrong as my eyes continuously wandered back over to her screen.

This coming Sunday I don't have to work and I can't paint because the client will be home, so my willpower is definitely going to be put to the test. How will I resist the siren call of My So Called Life on netflix instant play?? I may have to lock myself in the bathroom with a toothbrush and some baking soda paste (it's magical for cleaning tile grout, fyi). Or I could do the sane thing and leave the apartment.

*yes, I'm still turning my computer on, so technically I'm not completely "free" of the screen. maybe at some point down the line I will wean myself off of even the non-media related screen gazing, but I wanted to be realistic about this and avoid bingeing, so I'm allowing myself to check things like bank accounts and to watch one tv show for dinner. judge me if you dare (or even care).

a bumpy start

My first attempt at screen free sundays was a resounding failure. The morning started off well. I chipped away at the epic scientology article from last week's new yorker while I ate breakfast and drank my third attempt at making a hario pour over* without a gram scale. Then I cooked several things for this week's homemade eating crusade, but somewhere in the midst of chopping onions and grinding almonds, charrow suggested we go see black swan before the oscar award ceremony, and it all went downhill from there. I had to fire up the computer to check movie times. Then we sat for 2 hours in front of a screen larger than all the screens in my life combined while natalie portman's skin flashed with the nubbles of her avian transformation.

After we were sufficiently depressed and discombobulated by both the movie and the off-kilter people at the theater, we rode home and gathered our things for a bike ride** to williamsburg for a red-carpet-oscar-viewing-shrimp & grits-cream-puff-extravaganza. What can I say? I'm weak and the oscars don't come around every sunday, so I made plans to watch it with friends. A social fall from grace is better than sitting at home in my house pants overdosing on the A-list.

Measure of success: I didn't check facebook or any other blog or social media type mental gadget the entire day.

Measure of failure: I spent a combined total of 5.5 hours watching television.

*analogous task for those of you that are unfamiliar with a pour over, which is a relatively precise coffee brewing method: trying to thread a needle using your phone as a flashlight on a bumpy bus ride in the dark. It can be done, but it's not pretty

**three cheers for tolerable biking conditions!