One of the reasons I love running is that it gives me long stretches of time alone with my thoughts. I have designed retreats, planned events, and written lots of posts and poetry while thumping along on my training runs and races. Yesterday I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the fifth year in a row. Usually finishing races yields some of my trademark Profound Thoughts, but yesterday was an anomaly – a more difficult course added to poorer preparation yielded a distracted and miserable race. Still, there were a few takeaways. What I learned from this race:
1. Spectators never expect you to cheer for them first.
Without going in to great detail, I would like to apologize to the meek young woman in the Boston College sweatshirt who I apparently scared out of her mind. My bad.
2. “The new course moved all the hills to the front of the race” is code for “the first nine miles are hilly as hell!”
So yeah, this course was hilly, and hilly in all the worst areas. We would turn onto a residential street, suddenly be all crunched together, and hill would come up and everyone would change their pace in a different way. Chaos. I honestly don’t know why they even mentioned the hills when they were explaining the new route. What would have just been a more difficult route now feels like a bait and switch since they tried to convince us it was going to be easier. I should admit, some of the blame falls on we runners – did I really think that the run into Asylum Hill between miles 11 and 12 was going to be flat?
3. Sometimes the most trying experiences result in success, not failure.
OK, I know I promised not to get all Profound Thoughts ™ about this, but it can’t be avoided. I was miserable yesterday. Everything hurt. I hadn’t trained enough, I hadn’t done enough hills, my feet, thighs, knees, and hips were all screaming by the mid-point of the race. As I stumbled through Elizabeth Park , what was supposed to be the most beautiful part of the race, I was mad at everyone: myself for not training enough, the people who kept me late at work Friday so I had to miss packet pick up and go in at 6:30 am on race day, those organizers who changed the course, the other runners who kept me from starting off at a comfortable pace, and God for making everything athletic so damn hard for me my whole life. I wanted to show everyone how badly I’d been wronged. I wanted to punish them by failing.
But then I checked my timer. I was making better pace than I ever had, and that tiny part of me that had enough energy to be positive said “don’t waste this by crapping out now”. I did my best to turn my brain off and keep running hard. In the last two years or so I have cut almost a minute off of my mile and my body still doesn’t know what to do with that – it knows it is working harder than it is used to, but also knows it can’t slow down.
I thundered across the finish line without having cried once – quite a feat for me during my most difficult runs. I finally was able to check my time today and it was 20 seconds faster than my time on my last race. Barely a PR, but I’ll take it.
I run because it is hard for me, and when I succeed I know it is not because I am just doing what comes naturally – it is because I am striving to accomplish something in the field that challenges me the most. Sometimes I want an excuse, a reason why I can’t do what I’ve set out to do, and it is tempting to give in to the frustration of not being naturally gifted. Then, just as I think my body and my pride can’t take any more challenge I turn the corner into the park, run through the crowds to the Arch, and have something else of which to be proud.
Showing posts with label training. Show all posts
Showing posts with label training. Show all posts
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Set Me as a Seal on Your Heart
During my summer of crazy tri-training I had a little phone trouble. There were a few days when I wasn’t getting notifications of messages, so when trying to organize my standing swim-breakfast date with Brendan and Nicole they left message after message and I thought they were blowing me off.
It seemed reasonable that they would want a morning off from me stomping up the vine-covered back stairs at 7:30 to eat their English muffins, so I went straight from the pool to class and didn’t think too much about it. Around noon-time I checked my email and saw about 15 different messages from them. Where are you? Are you ok? What did you do this morning? We went to the pool and looked for you.
For some reason I take great comfort in the image of Brendan, dressed for work, standing at the front desk of the pool in the humidity and heat, asking our favorite lifeguard to check the bottom of the pool.
Those two were married yesterday, in a liturgy that was sacramental in every sense of the word. Over pasta and breadsticks about six weeks ago we put together a ritual that included four languages, three blessings, two pieces by Handel, and a procession to beat the band.
The Gospel reading was the Beatitudes, and as I listened to those words read while my beautiful friends stood side by side, and our other friends and their families surrounded them in joy, my breath was taken away by how perfect everything was. They already live the Beatitudes, they already live the Good News. They are peacemakers who hunger and thirst for justice. They are pure of heart and merciful. The truth that was confirmed in the light of that Gospel passage isn’t displayed in piety or lofty speech, but in the work those two do for other people, the love they show their friends, and that they went out of their way to look for me at the bottom of the pool.
Yes, there is a special grace involved in their sacramental marriage. Still, even before the vows, the air in the church was simply crackling with grace. By doing good work their whole lives they have surrounded themselves with other generous and loving people, and the power of the community’s love was nearly tangible.
Because I’m so practical (and cynical) I know it seems a little incongruous that I am often talking or writing of love. If love were only the romantic, indulgent kind displayed on all of the wedding cards that I browsed the other day, then I doubt I could be bothered for very long. But because of God and the people in my life I know fierce, diligent love. I know productive, gritty love. I know relentless, inescapable, sustaining, thrilling love. I have learned Father Zosima’s lesson that “active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared to love in dreams”, and led by the example of the people in my life I have tried to plunge into that love.
Nicole and Brendan let me tag along on their adventures in goodness, and I am so grateful. This morning I congratulated them once more and sat on the Common with a few of our other friends from our volunteer year. The sun was shining and the breeze was cool: a perfect September morning. We talked about work and family and told dumb jokes, and then I went off to noon mass. Sitting in the pew (a rare occurrence) I had trouble focusing, thinking about the previous day. In my distractedness clarity hit me like a ton of bricks: my whole life is a sacrament. The outward signs of grace are not objects - not my apartment or car or job. Relationships manifest grace, and I have better ones than I deserve.
Set me as a seal on your heart,
as a seal on your arm;
For stern as death is love,
relentless as the nether world is devotion;
its flames are a blazing fire.
Deep waters cannot quench love,
nor floods sweep it away.
Song of Songs 8: 6-7a
It seemed reasonable that they would want a morning off from me stomping up the vine-covered back stairs at 7:30 to eat their English muffins, so I went straight from the pool to class and didn’t think too much about it. Around noon-time I checked my email and saw about 15 different messages from them. Where are you? Are you ok? What did you do this morning? We went to the pool and looked for you.
For some reason I take great comfort in the image of Brendan, dressed for work, standing at the front desk of the pool in the humidity and heat, asking our favorite lifeguard to check the bottom of the pool.
Those two were married yesterday, in a liturgy that was sacramental in every sense of the word. Over pasta and breadsticks about six weeks ago we put together a ritual that included four languages, three blessings, two pieces by Handel, and a procession to beat the band.
The Gospel reading was the Beatitudes, and as I listened to those words read while my beautiful friends stood side by side, and our other friends and their families surrounded them in joy, my breath was taken away by how perfect everything was. They already live the Beatitudes, they already live the Good News. They are peacemakers who hunger and thirst for justice. They are pure of heart and merciful. The truth that was confirmed in the light of that Gospel passage isn’t displayed in piety or lofty speech, but in the work those two do for other people, the love they show their friends, and that they went out of their way to look for me at the bottom of the pool.
Yes, there is a special grace involved in their sacramental marriage. Still, even before the vows, the air in the church was simply crackling with grace. By doing good work their whole lives they have surrounded themselves with other generous and loving people, and the power of the community’s love was nearly tangible.
Because I’m so practical (and cynical) I know it seems a little incongruous that I am often talking or writing of love. If love were only the romantic, indulgent kind displayed on all of the wedding cards that I browsed the other day, then I doubt I could be bothered for very long. But because of God and the people in my life I know fierce, diligent love. I know productive, gritty love. I know relentless, inescapable, sustaining, thrilling love. I have learned Father Zosima’s lesson that “active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared to love in dreams”, and led by the example of the people in my life I have tried to plunge into that love.
Nicole and Brendan let me tag along on their adventures in goodness, and I am so grateful. This morning I congratulated them once more and sat on the Common with a few of our other friends from our volunteer year. The sun was shining and the breeze was cool: a perfect September morning. We talked about work and family and told dumb jokes, and then I went off to noon mass. Sitting in the pew (a rare occurrence) I had trouble focusing, thinking about the previous day. In my distractedness clarity hit me like a ton of bricks: my whole life is a sacrament. The outward signs of grace are not objects - not my apartment or car or job. Relationships manifest grace, and I have better ones than I deserve.
Set me as a seal on your heart,
as a seal on your arm;
For stern as death is love,
relentless as the nether world is devotion;
its flames are a blazing fire.
Deep waters cannot quench love,
nor floods sweep it away.
Song of Songs 8: 6-7a
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Seasons
A few years ago I spent three weeks in Malibu at the beginning of the summer. I returned refreshed to a Boston that had suffered a brutal heat wave in my absence, and was often asked how the weather was. Although I'd never needed a hat or gloves, and I'd never sweat through my clothes, I hadn't been totally satisfied with three weeks of 70 degrees and sunny. I didn't have the nerve to confess this to my friends and family, but I had found that monotonously idyllic weather boring.
Years are funny things. They're long enough that we can't really comprehend their span, but short enough that they can seem to pass quickly, and we give a lot of meaning to this number of 365 days. In New England we get a little of everything in each turn of the earth around the sun - snow & freezing temperatures, humidity and blazing heat. Although the warm weather seems terribly distant each February, we never really go long enough without a particular season to forget what it is all about.
I think that's why I have always liked the liturgical calendar so much. Every element of Christian living is given it's due at least once a year. No matter what the seasons of our lives are we are called to ponder the whole experience during the course of the year. We celebrate new life and the Resurrection even if our own lives feel like an unrelenting penitential season. When life is joyful we still pause for sorrowful remembrance and contrition. We go through it all - and then we cycle around and go through it all again.
This weekend I finally packed up my swimming and biking gear from triathlon training this summer. I went into fall with good intentions for keeping up with those sports, but the demands of work and music have left me no time to even find a gym with a pool, never mind swim in that pool once I've found it. I keep saying "I miss swimming", and I do miss the feel of the water on my body and the rhythm of my arms stroking through the water. But what I really miss is the season: bright mornings leading into days that would be longer than the nights, early breakfasts in my friends' kitchen, running my towel through the dryer in the sunny laundry room before I stuffed it into a backpack and got back on my bike.
Years are funny things. They're long enough that we can't really comprehend their span, but short enough that they can seem to pass quickly, and we give a lot of meaning to this number of 365 days. In New England we get a little of everything in each turn of the earth around the sun - snow & freezing temperatures, humidity and blazing heat. Although the warm weather seems terribly distant each February, we never really go long enough without a particular season to forget what it is all about.
I think that's why I have always liked the liturgical calendar so much. Every element of Christian living is given it's due at least once a year. No matter what the seasons of our lives are we are called to ponder the whole experience during the course of the year. We celebrate new life and the Resurrection even if our own lives feel like an unrelenting penitential season. When life is joyful we still pause for sorrowful remembrance and contrition. We go through it all - and then we cycle around and go through it all again.
This weekend I finally packed up my swimming and biking gear from triathlon training this summer. I went into fall with good intentions for keeping up with those sports, but the demands of work and music have left me no time to even find a gym with a pool, never mind swim in that pool once I've found it. I keep saying "I miss swimming", and I do miss the feel of the water on my body and the rhythm of my arms stroking through the water. But what I really miss is the season: bright mornings leading into days that would be longer than the nights, early breakfasts in my friends' kitchen, running my towel through the dryer in the sunny laundry room before I stuffed it into a backpack and got back on my bike.
Friday, October 9, 2009
I had a nice run
It had been over a year since my most recent tumble (which came merely 5 days after another, during the summer of my bi-continental clumsiness). My streak ended yesterday.
I had set the alarm for 5:25 yesterday morning. Since I put my alarm on the other side of the room I don't consider myself in danger of oversleeping, but yesterday was an exception. I have no recollection of getting up, weaving through the maze of furniture crammed in my studio, finding the tiny button on my cell phone to turn the alarm off, and getting back in bed. I must have done all of those things, because I awoke 15 minutes later than I usually rise on mornings when I don't run.
Therefore I had to run at the end of a long day. I got home around sunset, changed quickly and got out on the road as quickly as I could, taking a familiar route that I knew would be well-lit. About three minutes into my run I was suddenly on the ground, somehow ending up on my back even though it was my front that was bleeding. I now have a sweet bandage in the usual place of knee-skinning. I have given up on having legs without scars. There is no real reason for my having fallen.
In addition to banging up myself, I also cracked the face on my watch. I looked at my watch before going running, thought "I need to take this off" and then forgot to do so (NB: In my mind, this is my way of being punished for sleeping through my alarm, because if I had gone running in the morning I wouldn't have been wearing the watch).
To confirm my suspicion that I'm better off not running in the evening, while scaling the last hill on the way home I was passed by a man in street clothes, easily over 200 pounds, wearing flipflops. He was obviously fleeing from someone.
I had set the alarm for 5:25 yesterday morning. Since I put my alarm on the other side of the room I don't consider myself in danger of oversleeping, but yesterday was an exception. I have no recollection of getting up, weaving through the maze of furniture crammed in my studio, finding the tiny button on my cell phone to turn the alarm off, and getting back in bed. I must have done all of those things, because I awoke 15 minutes later than I usually rise on mornings when I don't run.
Therefore I had to run at the end of a long day. I got home around sunset, changed quickly and got out on the road as quickly as I could, taking a familiar route that I knew would be well-lit. About three minutes into my run I was suddenly on the ground, somehow ending up on my back even though it was my front that was bleeding. I now have a sweet bandage in the usual place of knee-skinning. I have given up on having legs without scars. There is no real reason for my having fallen.
In addition to banging up myself, I also cracked the face on my watch. I looked at my watch before going running, thought "I need to take this off" and then forgot to do so (NB: In my mind, this is my way of being punished for sleeping through my alarm, because if I had gone running in the morning I wouldn't have been wearing the watch).
To confirm my suspicion that I'm better off not running in the evening, while scaling the last hill on the way home I was passed by a man in street clothes, easily over 200 pounds, wearing flipflops. He was obviously fleeing from someone.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Notes on the tri
Training for a triathlon ranks with learning to play the bass clarinet and moving to New Bedford on the list of most impulsive decisions I have made. I knew this past summer I would be laying low in Boston, and I also knew that I had a nice bike I didn't use enough and a good friend who would remind me how to swim, so I went for it.
On Sunday I took the plunge, literally, into a beautiful lake in the middle of CT wearing a race-issued pink swim cap. The water was colder than I expected, and it took four solid minutes for my heart to stop racing enough that I could put my face in the water. Once I was able to, though, the swimming leg felt great. I had trained hard this summer for endurance (not giving much thought to speed) and was rewarded with a great swim in the race.
Something funny happened while I was swimming that hasn't happened in the dozen or so road races I have done since I started running again: I passed people. I distinctly remember thinking to myself "this is what it feels like to pass people in a race". Racing is usually an exercise in humility for me; that feeling was unfamiliar.
I got over it quickly. As I ran into transition I realized that I had made a mistake that I knew I would make: My sneakers were still tied from the last time I had worn them. That juvenile habit fills me with shame every time I kick my shoes off without untying them, and on Sunday I finally paid the price.
As it turns out some cyclists take riding very seriously. Thus, a lot of people passed me on the second leg of the race. I had spent more time on the bike this summer and greatly improved over the course of my training, but since most of my riding was through Lower Roxbury, I never really had a chance to train for speed. As I cruised back into the race site at the end of my race, some guy screamed at me "smile!" I really could have ran him over. I don't go to women's races so that I can still have men boss me around, thank you very much.
The run was miserable, as is to be expected. Apparently the definition of "flat" for a trail run is different from a road race, because the trail was not nearly as flat as had been promised. I also was not prepared for the aerobic fatigue I felt by the final stretch. Even though I run road races that take longer than the tri took, I don't think I had ever maintained such a high level of activity for as long as I had around mile 1 of the run when I really started to feel worn out.
I was happy to see my mom waiting for me when I crossed the finish line, and was not surprised at all that she teared up during our sweaty hug. After a free bagel and sandwich we got on the road (with a stop at Dunkin). I took the shower of a lifetime at my parents house and drove back to Boston, where I had to conduct at the 9 pm mass. By the offertory I could barely lift my arms.
On Sunday I took the plunge, literally, into a beautiful lake in the middle of CT wearing a race-issued pink swim cap. The water was colder than I expected, and it took four solid minutes for my heart to stop racing enough that I could put my face in the water. Once I was able to, though, the swimming leg felt great. I had trained hard this summer for endurance (not giving much thought to speed) and was rewarded with a great swim in the race.
Something funny happened while I was swimming that hasn't happened in the dozen or so road races I have done since I started running again: I passed people. I distinctly remember thinking to myself "this is what it feels like to pass people in a race". Racing is usually an exercise in humility for me; that feeling was unfamiliar.
I got over it quickly. As I ran into transition I realized that I had made a mistake that I knew I would make: My sneakers were still tied from the last time I had worn them. That juvenile habit fills me with shame every time I kick my shoes off without untying them, and on Sunday I finally paid the price.
As it turns out some cyclists take riding very seriously. Thus, a lot of people passed me on the second leg of the race. I had spent more time on the bike this summer and greatly improved over the course of my training, but since most of my riding was through Lower Roxbury, I never really had a chance to train for speed. As I cruised back into the race site at the end of my race, some guy screamed at me "smile!" I really could have ran him over. I don't go to women's races so that I can still have men boss me around, thank you very much.
The run was miserable, as is to be expected. Apparently the definition of "flat" for a trail run is different from a road race, because the trail was not nearly as flat as had been promised. I also was not prepared for the aerobic fatigue I felt by the final stretch. Even though I run road races that take longer than the tri took, I don't think I had ever maintained such a high level of activity for as long as I had around mile 1 of the run when I really started to feel worn out.
I was happy to see my mom waiting for me when I crossed the finish line, and was not surprised at all that she teared up during our sweaty hug. After a free bagel and sandwich we got on the road (with a stop at Dunkin). I took the shower of a lifetime at my parents house and drove back to Boston, where I had to conduct at the 9 pm mass. By the offertory I could barely lift my arms.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The Downside of Discretion
The downside of discretion is that it's hard to get credit for the things you don't say.
Readers who know me are probably shocked to hear that occasionally a thought comes into my head that I don't announce to the world. I think discretion is an under-practiced art, and those who make comments like "I have an opinion but I'll keep it to myself" do violence to the idea of actually keeping something to yourself.
That said, I would like it on the record that I have had scads of pithy (and to my mind, hysterical) comments about training this summer, particularly about the filth of the pool in which I have been swimming. The sliver of my brain that is able to process normal social cues tells me that these comments about pool cleanliness are gross and inappropriate and that I should keep them to myself. Deep down though, I know that they are funny.
I had to get that out. One week until the triathlon.
Readers who know me are probably shocked to hear that occasionally a thought comes into my head that I don't announce to the world. I think discretion is an under-practiced art, and those who make comments like "I have an opinion but I'll keep it to myself" do violence to the idea of actually keeping something to yourself.
That said, I would like it on the record that I have had scads of pithy (and to my mind, hysterical) comments about training this summer, particularly about the filth of the pool in which I have been swimming. The sliver of my brain that is able to process normal social cues tells me that these comments about pool cleanliness are gross and inappropriate and that I should keep them to myself. Deep down though, I know that they are funny.
I had to get that out. One week until the triathlon.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Day One of Training
You now can add something else to the list of crazy things I have decided to do: training for a triathalon. Saturday was Day One of training, which really only means that I took my bike in for a tune-up.
Mid-morning Saturday I walked my old bike over to the local bike shop, which shall remain nameless. No one had answered the phone for a few days, and of course they don’t have voice mail or an answering machine, but I figured that at 11 am on a Saturday there would have to be someone there working.
I approached the front door, bracing myself for the onslaught of creepiness that usually accompanies a trip to the bike shop. Instead, two perfectly nice workers were standing in the shop which was clearly being renovated. I told them I was just looking for a tune-up, and they suggested I wait while they got one of the employees who was just next door.
So one of the electricians went into the bar next door (you may remember that this whole story takes place before noon) and got one of the guys. “Come back next weekend” he told me. I thanked him and mentioned that I would probably take my bike some place else. He looked at me like that was the most absurd thing he had ever heard: “There’s no other bike place in South Boston”.
Believe it or not, sir, occasionally I leave the neighborhood. It’s rare and unpleasant, but not unheard of.
My bike currently rests at a bike shop in the Back Bay, waiting for its tune-up and flat repair. I did use a stationary bike yesterday in an effort to get my training off the ground. Today, a few miles jogging and a trip to buy some goggles.
Mid-morning Saturday I walked my old bike over to the local bike shop, which shall remain nameless. No one had answered the phone for a few days, and of course they don’t have voice mail or an answering machine, but I figured that at 11 am on a Saturday there would have to be someone there working.
I approached the front door, bracing myself for the onslaught of creepiness that usually accompanies a trip to the bike shop. Instead, two perfectly nice workers were standing in the shop which was clearly being renovated. I told them I was just looking for a tune-up, and they suggested I wait while they got one of the employees who was just next door.
So one of the electricians went into the bar next door (you may remember that this whole story takes place before noon) and got one of the guys. “Come back next weekend” he told me. I thanked him and mentioned that I would probably take my bike some place else. He looked at me like that was the most absurd thing he had ever heard: “There’s no other bike place in South Boston”.
Believe it or not, sir, occasionally I leave the neighborhood. It’s rare and unpleasant, but not unheard of.
My bike currently rests at a bike shop in the Back Bay, waiting for its tune-up and flat repair. I did use a stationary bike yesterday in an effort to get my training off the ground. Today, a few miles jogging and a trip to buy some goggles.
Monday, March 16, 2009
New Bedford Half Marathon
I am please to report that I have completed my fifth half-marathon, running through the mean streets of New Bedford during yesterday's beautiful sunny weather. I had a great day, riding down with a good friend who ran with me and her boyfriend who drove us, and seeing a bunch of the current teachers at the school where I used to teach.
Here's the problem with the NBHM: Not enough slow people run it. Those of you who have seen me know that barring losing 50 pounds or growing 6 inches, I am never going to be a fast runner (have you ever seen a Sicilian track star? Me neither). But I train and I make progress, and I work hard within the limits of what my short little body will do. I always remind myself that if I ran with a random sampling of the population, I would not be so demoralizingly close to the end.
My first half marathon was this same race three years ago, and it was miserable. Most of you have heard my joke about finishing 10th to last (by 'joke' I mean talk about it like it's funny, because it's not a joke, it's totally true). I was looking forward to redeeming myself at least a bit this year, and I cut 21 minutes off my time from three years ago. Still, I came in 30th to last. Where are all the other slow people? They're running races that don't require training through the dead of winter and races that have 5Ks and full marathons to go with them, I suppose.
I was a little disappointed because my time yesterday was about 5 minutes slower than my time last October in Hartford, which had been my best time yet by far. I couldn't figure out why - I felt just as good yesterday as I did last October, I really pushed myself on the handful of hills near the beginning, and the weather was about the same. My best guess is because they cleaned up all the cones off the course and re-opened all the roads while I was running. I GET IT, NEW BEDFORD, I'M SLOW. Usually around mile 9 on any run I start to get angry, and that was the case more than usual yesterday as the trucks came by shouting "runners get up on the sidewalk!" At that point my hips hurt so much there was no chance I was jumping up and down off of curbs at each intersection, plus I was pretty well delirious so I knew I would have trouble remembering where the turn were on the course. I know that I'm not a world-class runner, but I was finishing well within the realm of reasonable times and I deserved to have a good end to the race just like anybody else.
That's my rant on the race. All in all, a triumphant day (my medal is green for St Patrick's Day!) Who wants to run the next one with me?
Here's the problem with the NBHM: Not enough slow people run it. Those of you who have seen me know that barring losing 50 pounds or growing 6 inches, I am never going to be a fast runner (have you ever seen a Sicilian track star? Me neither). But I train and I make progress, and I work hard within the limits of what my short little body will do. I always remind myself that if I ran with a random sampling of the population, I would not be so demoralizingly close to the end.
My first half marathon was this same race three years ago, and it was miserable. Most of you have heard my joke about finishing 10th to last (by 'joke' I mean talk about it like it's funny, because it's not a joke, it's totally true). I was looking forward to redeeming myself at least a bit this year, and I cut 21 minutes off my time from three years ago. Still, I came in 30th to last. Where are all the other slow people? They're running races that don't require training through the dead of winter and races that have 5Ks and full marathons to go with them, I suppose.
I was a little disappointed because my time yesterday was about 5 minutes slower than my time last October in Hartford, which had been my best time yet by far. I couldn't figure out why - I felt just as good yesterday as I did last October, I really pushed myself on the handful of hills near the beginning, and the weather was about the same. My best guess is because they cleaned up all the cones off the course and re-opened all the roads while I was running. I GET IT, NEW BEDFORD, I'M SLOW. Usually around mile 9 on any run I start to get angry, and that was the case more than usual yesterday as the trucks came by shouting "runners get up on the sidewalk!" At that point my hips hurt so much there was no chance I was jumping up and down off of curbs at each intersection, plus I was pretty well delirious so I knew I would have trouble remembering where the turn were on the course. I know that I'm not a world-class runner, but I was finishing well within the realm of reasonable times and I deserved to have a good end to the race just like anybody else.
That's my rant on the race. All in all, a triumphant day (my medal is green for St Patrick's Day!) Who wants to run the next one with me?
Saturday, January 3, 2009
One statistic that was missing from my New Year's Day post was 2008 miles run: 529. That was with some long dry spells, so I am hoping this year will be even higher. I decided, against my better judgement, to run the New Bedford Half Marathon which was my first halffy in March of 2006. Since then all of my races have been in October, which is great because I can train during the summer when I have lots of time and the weather is lovely. This current plan means training all winter, which I kicked off last week.
The first week of training for me is always dismal. I seriously consider, every time, whether or not I am actually incapable of running. Today I did 6.25 outside and it was surprisingly un-miserable.
The first week of training for me is always dismal. I seriously consider, every time, whether or not I am actually incapable of running. Today I did 6.25 outside and it was surprisingly un-miserable.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Another half-marathon for the books
I started long-distance running about 3 years ago purely out of stubbornness. I was sick of watching my friends push themselves in these races and always watching from the sidelines, so I decided to train for the New Bedford Half-Marathon with a bunch of friends despite the fact that I am the opposite of a natural athlete (an unnatural athlete? maybe).
Today I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the third time, with a time 25 minutes faster than my time in March of 2006. I'm still slow, and running is still hard, but I am walking (limping) proof that you can do most things if you set your mind to it.
Today I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the third time, with a time 25 minutes faster than my time in March of 2006. I'm still slow, and running is still hard, but I am walking (limping) proof that you can do most things if you set your mind to it.
Monday, September 29, 2008
more news from the crime scene
The first time that I went to Europe was in the summer of 2000 when I spent three weeks in Parma studying Italian. I returned shortly after that to go to Rome, and kept lira in my wallet for a long time after that as a reminder that I wanted to go back to Europe as soon as possible. In a biting instance of dramatic irony, you all know that lira are worthless now as Italy has switched to the Euro, so I had put my pretty little lira in a tin that read “Baseball: America’s Favorite Pastime” into which I also tossed pennies and Euros. I discovered yesterday that was taken in the theft also. Did the thief know that my brother gave me that tin?
Everyone keeps saying “You are handling this so well!”, but I don’t really know how I am supposed to handle it, or how they expected me to handle it. I cry about once a day over losing my Add-A-Pearl necklace, and I was a little creeped out to discover that all of my clean cloth rags had been put in the bin labeled ‘dirty’ and vice versa. Other than that, I haven’t had much emotional turbulence about the whole thing. Until yesterday that is…
Just before I was about to embark on my training run I realized that the radio I use when I run had been taken. That’s right, I listen to a Sony Walkman radio when I go running, and I hope the fact that it attaches to an armband makes other runners think it’s an Ipod. It cost about $40, and that creep who broke into my house took it. Congratulations, you’re just a jerk for stealing something that is worth next to nothing, the theft of which only serves to inconvenience me, not benefit you. That, combined with my recent discovery that my chapstick was also stolen because it was in the top of my jewelry box, set me off, and I screamed and shouted alone in my apartment. Then I went to Target and bought a new radio and chapstick.
Everyone keeps saying “You are handling this so well!”, but I don’t really know how I am supposed to handle it, or how they expected me to handle it. I cry about once a day over losing my Add-A-Pearl necklace, and I was a little creeped out to discover that all of my clean cloth rags had been put in the bin labeled ‘dirty’ and vice versa. Other than that, I haven’t had much emotional turbulence about the whole thing. Until yesterday that is…
Just before I was about to embark on my training run I realized that the radio I use when I run had been taken. That’s right, I listen to a Sony Walkman radio when I go running, and I hope the fact that it attaches to an armband makes other runners think it’s an Ipod. It cost about $40, and that creep who broke into my house took it. Congratulations, you’re just a jerk for stealing something that is worth next to nothing, the theft of which only serves to inconvenience me, not benefit you. That, combined with my recent discovery that my chapstick was also stolen because it was in the top of my jewelry box, set me off, and I screamed and shouted alone in my apartment. Then I went to Target and bought a new radio and chapstick.
Monday, September 8, 2008
How city living has me jaded, in two parts
I. Today they were setting up a film shoot across the street. Rather than trying to sneak a peek at Mel Gibson or whoever was out there, all I could think was "I hope this doesn't mess up my bus route".
II. I accidentally ran 12.5 miles on Saturday (should have been 9 - don't ask). At about mile 12 I was running around the park and an old senile woman in the busstop shouted out to me. I turned down my music and she screamed "Can you wait with me to make sure the bus picks me up?"
Those of you who don't have these encounters often are imagining your virtue right now. I know, I know, you would stop and wait. You would make sure she had bus fare. You would keep her company. Not me. I told her I had to get home and kept running.
Both of these have to do with buses.
II. I accidentally ran 12.5 miles on Saturday (should have been 9 - don't ask). At about mile 12 I was running around the park and an old senile woman in the busstop shouted out to me. I turned down my music and she screamed "Can you wait with me to make sure the bus picks me up?"
Those of you who don't have these encounters often are imagining your virtue right now. I know, I know, you would stop and wait. You would make sure she had bus fare. You would keep her company. Not me. I told her I had to get home and kept running.
Both of these have to do with buses.
Monday, August 18, 2008
I hope these cuts and bruises make me look tough
I am not a gifted athlete. Those who know me will recognize that as an understatement. I only started running half-marathons out of stubbornness. I’m not good, and I don’t plan to ever be good. One of the few things that make it easier for me to run is that I have such an active imagination, so I can daydream for miles and not realize how hard I’m working. It’s the running equivalent of when you are on the highway and realize you can’t remember the last 40 miles.
Unfortunately it appears I have to start paying closer attention, because I fell again today. I landed on the same spot on my knee that I tore up last week, so the scab was ripped off and blood shot everywhere (GROSSOUT!! My students would love that). I did not go down fingers first this time, but have a brand-new nickel-sized cut on my right palm.
There was a lot of blood, so I had to go over to Sullivan’s and get a few napkins to mop up before I started running again. That was hardly my proudest moment.
I had been looking forward to the dingification of my new running shoes which are still dorkishly gleaming. I didn’t expect to have it come from a spattering of blood.
Unfortunately it appears I have to start paying closer attention, because I fell again today. I landed on the same spot on my knee that I tore up last week, so the scab was ripped off and blood shot everywhere (GROSSOUT!! My students would love that). I did not go down fingers first this time, but have a brand-new nickel-sized cut on my right palm.
There was a lot of blood, so I had to go over to Sullivan’s and get a few napkins to mop up before I started running again. That was hardly my proudest moment.
I had been looking forward to the dingification of my new running shoes which are still dorkishly gleaming. I didn’t expect to have it come from a spattering of blood.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
I fell again
On my run today I think I brought my summer 08 tumble count up to my winter 08 number. The combination of momentum and lack of attention resulted in this being significantly less funny than other recent falls have been. I skinned or otherwise damaged almost my entire right side (with the blessed exception of my face), which combined with the bites all over my right leg from running through the brush yesterday gives me some smoking hot legs. I also jammed two of my fingers in a way that leads me to believe that I subconsciously thought I could break my fall solely with my ring and middle fingers. After shaking it off I proceeded to cry for at least a half mile.
What I have noticed, in my extensive experience of falling, is that the whole time I am going down, right up until I skid to a stop, is that I really believe that I am going to right myself and avoid a tumble. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm going to ice my hand and let you figure it out.
What I have noticed, in my extensive experience of falling, is that the whole time I am going down, right up until I skid to a stop, is that I really believe that I am going to right myself and avoid a tumble. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm going to ice my hand and let you figure it out.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
My recent adventures at the Boston Public Library
Despite its name, Ordinary Time tends to yield some of the most moving (and most familiar) readings in the lectionary. This weekend we read about Elijah’s ‘small whispering sound’ and later the calming of the storm. I am not sure that I had noticed this detail before: Jesus makes the disciples all get in a boat, and then goes somewhere else! And I thought that I would do anything to have private time…
Today I did my long run (I’m only a few weeks into training, so my long run still isn’t very long) by South Station and up to the Common, then home through Chinatown. Something about the Common always makes me feel like I am visiting the city for the first time. When I realize I am not, then I get all excited again about the fact that I actually live in a great city, with tall buildings, brownstones, and beautiful parks. Maybe it’s all those years of reading “Make Way for Ducklings”.
I paid for an August T-pass which has given me more incentive to go into other parts of the city since I have been back. Most days involve a trip to the Conservatory to practice and later a stop at the library. I can probably blame my mother for my love of cities, and I can definitely blame my mother for my love of libraries. I have been poking through the DVD collection recently looking for whatever opera I can find. Somewhere in the mess that is their AV department I found the Glyndebourne Figaro with Renée Fleming, which I will have to watch before the end of the week-long loan period.
Armed with my library card, I’m trying to read some novels that I wouldn’t normally read (I’m in the middle of one right now) but am also indulging my sociology-dork side. I find that when I am sick of music and theology, I end up taking refuge in policy or history books and magazines. For that reason, I just read E.J. Dionne Jr.’s Souled Out: Reclaiming Faith and Politics after the Religious Right. I can’t take great credit for reading books by authors with whom I know I will agree. Dionne is a progressive Catholic from New England – sound like anyone we know?
One book that Dionne referenced in his book was Urban Exodus: Why the Jews left Boston and the Catholics Stayed. That tome is now on my nightstand, ready to be read next.
Today I did my long run (I’m only a few weeks into training, so my long run still isn’t very long) by South Station and up to the Common, then home through Chinatown. Something about the Common always makes me feel like I am visiting the city for the first time. When I realize I am not, then I get all excited again about the fact that I actually live in a great city, with tall buildings, brownstones, and beautiful parks. Maybe it’s all those years of reading “Make Way for Ducklings”.
I paid for an August T-pass which has given me more incentive to go into other parts of the city since I have been back. Most days involve a trip to the Conservatory to practice and later a stop at the library. I can probably blame my mother for my love of cities, and I can definitely blame my mother for my love of libraries. I have been poking through the DVD collection recently looking for whatever opera I can find. Somewhere in the mess that is their AV department I found the Glyndebourne Figaro with Renée Fleming, which I will have to watch before the end of the week-long loan period.
Armed with my library card, I’m trying to read some novels that I wouldn’t normally read (I’m in the middle of one right now) but am also indulging my sociology-dork side. I find that when I am sick of music and theology, I end up taking refuge in policy or history books and magazines. For that reason, I just read E.J. Dionne Jr.’s Souled Out: Reclaiming Faith and Politics after the Religious Right. I can’t take great credit for reading books by authors with whom I know I will agree. Dionne is a progressive Catholic from New England – sound like anyone we know?
One book that Dionne referenced in his book was Urban Exodus: Why the Jews left Boston and the Catholics Stayed. That tome is now on my nightstand, ready to be read next.
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