Run or Bust

The first time I went to the gym after moving to Southern California, I came upon the oldest, wrinkliest, saggiest raisin of a woman sitting buck-naked in the locker room.  Her loose skin draped all over her skeleton like a liver-spotted curtain, hanging off her arms, her legs, her belly, her droopy ass, even puddling around her ankles.  But from deep within the epic folds of sun-damaged flesh, like Athena being birthed from the head of great Zeus himself, sprang the tautest, hardest, roundest, most perfect pair of breasts that money could buy.  They looked like they were transplanted off a marble statue and sewn onto the saddest woman in the world.

Most facets of my life can be summed up with the letter B.  B-grade student, B negative blood type, B-level athlete, be negative attitude, B-cup bra size.  Despite my slightly above-average, far under-excellent existence, I’m not complaining, at least as far as my tits are concerned.  Though comparatively small in a town where the local meteorologist looks like this (and, uh, this), I’m still happy with what my double helix gave me and I’m determined to keep everything as nature intended.  To that end, please spare me a meander about breasts, running, and the elastic invention that binds the two in active harmony – the sports bra.

Just like Newton's apple fell off the tree, the laws of gravitational pull state that one day your tits are going to be dragging on the floor.  It might not have been phrased as eloquently as that in your eighth grade science text, but trust.  Likewise, I once heard running described as a series of coordinated falls.  It stands to reason that with every step I run, I’m accelerating my inevitable trip to Sagville.  Since I’m no fan of implantation, the best course of action to keep my boobs north of my belly button is to truss these suckers down.  And to that end, when it’s comes to running there’s a two-bra minimum for my delicate B’s.

Make no mistake, I don’t pay top dollar for high-tech undergarments.  Especially now, the current contents of my underwear drawer are remnants of the less favorable end of the laundry cycle.  This means that all future runs till laundry day will be done wearing the dregs of the sports bra pickings.  We’re talking two dollar sports bras that my mother found in the bargain bin at Big Lots back when it was still unsavorily called Pic N’ Save.  Intellectually I know it’s disgusting to hang onto fifteen-year old bras that didn't even pass muster when they were brand new, but emotionally my cheap heart can't seem to throw them away.  Instead I double up and hope that two bad bras equals the support of one amazing one.  They say you know you're starting to sag if you tuck a pencil underneath your bust and it doesn't fall to the ground.  So far I'm still passing the pencil test, which I take as proof positive of the power of two.

My only quarrel with sports bras, other than their typically exorbitant price tag, is that they don’t offer enough defense against a constant and embarrassing problem that lingerie catalogue copywriters like to euphemistically refer to as “headlights”.  Specifically, mine are always on high beam.  It doesn’t mean that I’m cold, that I’m lactating, or that I’m happy to see you.  It simply means that my nipples have more of the third dimension than most.  So please don’t leeringly ask me if I need a sweater when what I really need is a better sports bra.  And perhaps a stickier pencil.

He Blew a Snot Rocket When I Passed Him

Let your imagination fill in the details....

A Poetic Trio (with Bonus Outtakes)

A Limerick About a Prick

There once was a runner named Spence,

Who always would give his two cents.

He had his comeuppance

For all of his tuppence

When gals left him for less bossy gents.

The Pooh Haiku

Up and down I go

The bowels wait for no run

I pray for dense growth

Doggone It: the Sonnet

The serenity of a refreshing jaunt

In the dewy hours of newborn dawn

Such quietude that I would want

Is precipitously trampled on.

He runs to me with canines bared

A bark so shrill to pierce my ears.

Now in his leash I am ensnared.

His vulgar owner laughs to tears.

I disentangle with a scowl

As she says he is but playing.

I dream of murdering most foul

But leave without further delaying.

I run perturbed and am far warier

Of future run-ins with her terrier.

Bonus outtakes:

A Limerick About a Prick, Var. 1

There once was a man who ran past

The others because he was fast.

He fell in the dirt

Though he was unhurt

He ended up coming in last.

A Limerick About a Prick, Var. 2

There once was a man on the grass,

Running along way too fast.

A tree root protruded

His stride was up-rooted

And he ended up flat on his ass.

A Limerick About a Prick, Var. 3

I once ran with a man, a poor gent

Who didn’t observe where he went.

A crack caught his toe,

He fought hard, but no.

He ended up eating cement.

Tattoo a Tear on My Cheek Because I Killed It!

For those of you who aren’t rabidly following this blog like the IT guys at work are rabidly following Game of Thrones, I ran on a long-distance relay team this past weekend. 

One feature of the race is that, because it covers almost two hundred miles of paved road, the organizers can’t close the course to traffic.  Therefore you’re forced to stop at red lights when you’re running, which was actually a relief in the nearly one hundred degree heat.  I prayed harder for the reds than a fan in Fenway.

Another quirk is that the slower teams start before the fast ones, whereas in traditional races the elite athletes are the first off the block.  This weekend’s race had such a variety of participants that if everyone began at the same time, the finish line would have had to be up for almost twenty hours.  An interesting byproduct of the slowpokes going first is that the faster runners usually pass a lot of tortoises along the course.  When this happens, in relay parlance it’s called a road kill.

All this is background for the following text exchange with my husband, who was relaxing in an air-conditioned coffee shop while I suffered through my first leg.

My last leg was by far the most difficult.  It was the longest, had a brutal incline, and was run on less than two hours of sleep in a crowded mini-van in a position that can best be described by neophyte yogis as Modified Plow.  Fortunately, A got off his latte-sipping duff to run with me, but even that added motivation couldn’t keep me from walking a few times up the scorching, mile-long climb.  I was pretty miffed about all the people who killed me on the way up and am disappointed that I didn’t run the whole way.   I guess that’s what happens when you don’t train for heat and hills.

Despite the setback on my final run, I’m satisfied with how I did in the race overall.  Kicking ass on two out of my three legs ain’t half bad.  In fact, it’s technically only one-third bad if you want to get all mathematical about it.

I Have Confidence in Confidence Alone

A while ago, the former world number one tennis player Victoria Azarenka basically said in an interview that she doesn’t believe in confidence.

Reading that I thought, “How can you not believe in confidence?!?!”

While I understand her point regarding mechanics, it struck me as one of those smug statements made by someone who is so comfortably confident on a subconscious level that it doesn’t even occur to her that there’s an alternative.

That being said, I am running a race in a few days and am the exact opposite of comfortably confident.  I’m not even uncomfortably, remotely or infinitesimally confident.  In fact, I’m so witheringly, knowingly and completely unconfident that I’m forced to rely solely on mechanics to get me through, the mechanism being my legs stepping one in front of the other until the glorious moment when I can stop.

The race I’m doing is a distance relay, and my three legs total fifteen miles.  I know I sound like a whiner because it’s really not that much, but I might be called upon to pick up a fourth.  I had participated in the same type of race at a different location last fall.  The biggest unknown then was how sleep deprivation and running at all hours, day or night, would affect me.  Last summer, I trained diligently.  I consistently increased mileage every week, overran my longest leg, went on multiple night runs, ran twice in one day a few times, and once thrice in thirty hours.  I stopped short of forced sleep deprivation in my training, but I practiced running on unfamiliar streets in the dark.  I had trained like the Dickens last time but it all that paid off because I was extremely happy with the results.

Cut to this time around, and I kind of coasted.  Now having a good idea what to expect, I simply didn’t train as hard and hence I feel unprepared, unready, and yes, unconfident.  This is my own fault, but it goes to show how confidence can carry you through and lack of it can cause anxiety or worse. 

Hopefully I’ll be alright.  I’m trying not to push myself too hard.  Maybe if I diminish my expectations I will be pleasantly surprised, which seems to be my mantra in all things even outside of running.  Who knows, maybe this race will even build my confidence for the next one, despite what certain a Belarusian professional athlete thinks about such a ridiculous notion.  Although this is also a woman who also believes she looks like Blake Lively.  So it would appear that her idea that confidence is overrated has catapulted her self-belief into the stratosphere of delusion.

What a Sad Day

I was all set to write a pithy entry about some silliness or another, and then I heard about the horrifying events at the Boston Marathon.  Information is still unfolding, the whole thing isn’t even half a day old, and perhaps this is too soon to comment.  I didn’t know anyone running or watching the marathon, and the number of people I know who live in Boston I can count on one hand.  But as any amateur runner knows, qualifying for the Boston Marathon is such a benchmark of personal achievement that for most, the mere opportunity to run it is a victory.  How sad that anyone or anything would want to malign such accomplishment and crush such joy.  How sad that hatred should be made manifest on the lives of people who deserve nothing but celebration.  How sad the carnage in Boston and all over the world.  How sad the reasons, whatever they may be.  How sad.

Frozen Yoga

Instead of petting my cats and eating cereal right out of the box, or trying on every dress in my closet then discarding them in a heaping pile on the floor, I did yoga last night.  Well, actually I did also manage to find time to pet my cats and eat cereal, albeit in a bowl with soymilk like any civilized lady with lactose intolerance.

I believe the calf pain I had a few weeks ago was caused by not stretching enough after runs, and when I say “enough”, I really mean “at all”.  A doesn’t give a lot of credence to a stretching routine, but he is also someone who’s nonplussed about being unable to touch his toes.  I however once prided myself on being a pretty flexible kid, but as with so many things that took flight on the wings of that sweet bird of youth, my limberness has left me.

In the interest of staving off future injury and to prep for a race next week, I have been ramping up my yoga-ing.  I realize yoga is not a verb but I cannot bring myself to refer to what I’m doing as “my practice” because that implies a dedication that I don’t have and a obnoxiousness that I don’t want people to think I have.

The type of yoga I do is famous for being held in a room that’s heated to over 100°F (38°C).  I, however, usually forego the hot and stuffy yoga studio and instead opt for the cold comfort of my bedroom.  I understand the intended benefit of stretching in a hot room, but my reasons for eschewing the heat are threefold: 1) driving to the nearest yoga studio turns a ninety minute class into a three hour commitment, 2) I still manage to work up a decent sweat without the heat, and 3) the purveyor of this yoga is such a phenomenal ass that I cannot bring myself to pay the exorbitant drop-in fee knowing he’s getting a slice of those royalties.  

Despite these objections, there are many things I like about this type of yoga, particularly that it is the same set of poses executed in the same order every time.  In other types of yoga where there is no dedicated sequence, I find that my mind wanders the whole class and the best stretch I get is my neck craning every two minutes to see the clock.  Just like I prefer running on a familiar course because I always know exactly how much I’ve done and how much is left, with this type of yoga I always know where I am in the sequence and how soon I'll be finished. Additionally, I am fortunate to have audio of the class that I can follow along to at home, having done it in studio enough to know that my form is at least fairly correct, if not excellent.  

Pairing yoga and running seems like a no-brainer, but it’s always nice to wake-up to a little validation from a pro.  Maybe after A sees this he’ll finally start his practice.

Return to the Scene of the Crime

Yesterday, A and I went to the course of a fourteen mile trail race I participated in ten years ago.  It was the second race I ever ran, the first since moving to the west coast, and the only one I have ever medaled in. 

Having just moved from one big city to another, I didn’t understand the concept of trail running and how it could be any different than running on a city sidewalk.  On top of that, I cavalierly capped my training off at around eleven miles.  A accompanied me as I trained, but wasn’t much for racing back then.  On race day, he and my friend N came along to cheer me on at the finish line.

It wasn’t long after the gun went off that I realized I was way in over my city slicker head.  The rocky terrain bruised the bottom of my feet through my minimal sole shoes.  I hadn’t trained hills at all and turns out I had to climb over 3,600 feet.  The descents were even more harrowing, at times so steep I crawled down backwards, ladder-style, as the more sure-footed competitors skipped on by.  The whole thing was brutal.  I swore never again.

Considering I walked the majority of it and was probably one of the last people to cross the finish line, I was pretty shocked when three weeks later I received a bronze medal in the mail.  I couldn’t believe it.  This was no “thanks for participating/everyone’s a winner/you’re special just for being you” medal.  This one had my name engraved on the back and said I came in third amongst all women in my age group.  I never had a prouder moment.  I might have shed a tear.  I took pictures posing with my medal, on good ol’ fashion film no less, and had them developed at the one-hour photo mat in our local drugstore.  I displayed the medal in a place of honor.

Many years later, long enough to forget how unbelievably grueling it was, A and I toyed with the idea of doing the race together.  We went to the website to see when it would be held, and out of curiosity, I checked out my old time.  I gasped.  Their records showed that I came in under two hours.  If my memory was serving me, there was no way that was possible.

I asked A, “Could this be true?” He said nothing, but the look on his face was the same one that my mother gave me when I asked her if they tested me for mental retardation when I was a toddler because I was not as advanced as my older sister.

I called N.  “Do you remember that trail race I did that you came to watch?  Do you remember if I finished in less than two hours?”

“Oh honey, no.  It was more like, uh, four.  Or five.”  Her voice was dripping with pity and I know it pained her to to be so brutally honest.  I'd like to think it hurt her more to say it than for me to hear it, but then again I'd also like to think that I actually came in third.

I don’t know what happened, but obviously someone shaved off a good three hours from my actual time.  I didn’t have the courage to contact the race organizers to correct their version of events.  I still don’t have the heart to throw away the one and only medal that will probably ever have my name on it.  I have since hung it on the broken thermostat in the back office, which seems like a rather appropriate display case for my unearned honor.

The race has since been taken over by a different organization that has thankfully purged all the old results.  Only now that my record has been expunged, I dared to go back to the scene, although this time not for a race, but just for a run.

Ten years wiser, yesterday’s attempt fared a little better.  We ran a good chunk, walked quite a bit, and, despite having a course map, only got lost twice (still a better outing than our Joshua Tree adventure).  Fortunately, we were aided by a lovely group of hikers who gave us water and a granola bar.  Our unintended detour added some distance and all told we covered about fifteen extremely tough miles.

Slowly, slowly we are getting our trail legs under us.  Learning how to tackle the elevation changes, both ascending and descending, and getting used to the hazards of the terrain are proving extremely challenging for me, but I need to keep at it.  I don’t really have a choice since we’re doing a trail race in July.  Maybe if I work hard enough, I can actually place the old fashioned way.  Here’s hoping there are only three people in my age group!

You Never Forget Your First

The sky was blue, the sun was bright

the clouds were all but gone.

It seemed it was the perfect day

for my first marathon.

The when was on the 6th of June

The year 2003.

The where was San Diego and

The who was A and me.

I stood in a line fifty yards long

Just waiting for the john.

I wished I was a man so I

Could pee right on the lawn.

We'd had some coffee, water and

A bagel and banana.

I had on a beige chapeau

A wore a blue bandana.

The gun went off but we were packed.

All we could do was creep

Slowly toward the starting line

Like one big herd of sheep.

We finally began to run.

Not stopping was my goal.

All along the course we heard

Bands playing rock and roll.

Someone told me we should drink

at every water station.

That seemed obvious to me

to practice good hydration.

Every cup that I picked up

Was poured right to the top

But religiously I'd pause

And drink every last drop.

We ran ahead but it was packed

We hadn't any leeway.

I think it was ‘round mile 10

That we got on the freeway.

It was at the halfway point,

A opened up a Gu.

I wasn't sure that I could make

All twenty-six point two.

We were running very slow

Just like we did in training.

The sun was hot, my feet were sore

And I started complaining.

A was pushing up the pace

So I turned to him and said,

“If you want to win this fucking race

Then you go run ahead.”

He stayed with me but ran some feet

Away, just like a stalker.

Our pace was so slow that we were

Passed even by a walker.

But then I started struggling

And faltering my gait.

A came back to help me when

I began to hallucinate.

What I learned after the race,

But clearly did not know

Was that I was suffering from what

Was too much H2O.

Finally we got near the end,

The crowd was big and plenty.

Eventually we crossed the line

Around five hours twenty.

I saw a girl throw up when she

Was just trying to cough.

But she was better than the guy

Whose whole nipple fell off.

I was happy we were done,

Though our time was a disaster.

The next year in DC we ran

A whole one hour faster.

Milling the Tread

For reasons so uninteresting I can’t even write about them without losing my train of thought, I have been running a lot on the treadmill.

I used to loathe the treadmill with a hatred so intense it was only eclipsed by the hissing vitriol my cats have for each other over a freshly-poured bowl of kitty crunchies.  My biggest problem with the treadmill is that I can’t overcome feeling like a witless hamster spinning his wheel.  I suspect that when anthropologists a hundred years from now look back on our society, they’ll marvel at the fact that gay marriage was controversial, that women willingly implanted baggies full of silicone in their chests, and that people paid a lot of money for the pleasure of running in place.  And beyond the fact that it is literally exercising in futility, running on a treadmill is just…so…boring.

Unlike the malevolent feline situation, I have managed to make peace with the treadmill.  The biggest adjustment that I’ve made is that instead of throwing my towel over the timer and pretending it doesn’t exist, I use the clock to my advantage.  I set my pace knowing how far I want to go, and while I run I calculate the distance I’ve covered and how much I have left based on the minutes and seconds that melt away.  I also find this keeps me running at a pretty decent clip.  When running outdoors, my speed has to be self-generated.  On the treadmill, once I choose a pace the machine generates the motivation for me.  The belt waits for no one.  Knowing the options are either keep up or fall flat on my face, I almost always choose the former.

Make no mistake, my druthers will always be a good, old fashioned outdoor run.  But for me, running on a treadmill has become a necessary evil.  It’s convenient; I can exercise at lunch and return to work freshly showered; the rain doesn’t affect my workout; and even if it’s nice outside, my skin is saved from time that would otherwise be spent soaking up UV rays.  In other words, on the treadmill I can expose my tan lines all I want without making any new ones.  Although I don’t really expose too much, mostly out of courtesy to the other gym members.  No one wants to see my cellulite in motion.

The Dermatological Woes of the Outdoor Runner

I have liver spots…on my face.  I try to pass them off as freckles, but they are not a light dusting of impish orange dots sprinkled over my nose bridge.  My liver spots are a fast growing confluence of mud-colored splotches right on the ball of my cheeks.  They would be more appropriate on the hairy hands of an eighty year-old retiree playing bocce ball in Florida, not on the face of a thirty-five year old who still desperately tries to pass for twenty-seven.

Turns out that thirty-five also happens to be that glorious middle age where biology blesses you with both acne and wrinkles.  I need no more empirical evidence that god does not exist than seeing the effects of both puberty and menopause every morning in the mirror.

Most of the activities I enjoy, running chief among them, expose my skin to the sun.  But so many things I do to arm myself against the sun’s harmful rays end up clogging my pores.  I have tried numerous cocktails of creams and cleansers, gadgets and gear, but I’m still searching for the perfect regimen.  Currently this is what I use, to middling degrees of success:

1) I keep reading that the skin around your eyes is the most sensitive area on your face and that UV ray-blocking sunglasses are your best defense to avoid sun damage.  I always wear my sports sunglasses with polarized, coated lenses when I’m exercising outdoors.  I love them.  They’re not the sexiest-looking piece of eyewear in my collection, but they are light and comfortable, and honestly I would paste a toilet seat from my eyebrows if it meant never having to worry about sagging lids and crow’s feet. 

2a) On a run I always wear a visor, but I fear this only protects my forehead at best.  I have become increasingly obsessed with this lovely piece of headgear which I have seen on the streets of Northern California.

 

My friends have dubbed it the Darth Vador.  I would actually consider wearing it if it weren’t for the fact that my husband would probably never be seen in public with me again.

2b) In terms of visor advocacy, I am compelled to specify that I am a girl with long hair.  I’ve noticed a disturbing trend of bald men wearing visors.  Now I love me a shaved head, but topping one off with a visor is offensive to look at, serves no function whatsoever, and turns one’s scalp into a breeding ground for melanoma.

3) Before a run, I slather my face with sunscreen, Kabuki-style.  In my twenties, I spat in the face of mortality and didn’t run with any skin protection at all.  Once my skin started becoming splotchy and saggy, I panicked and bought a moisturizer with SPF 15 which I have since learned is as effective as wearing a sweatshirt in a blizzard.  After being told that anything less than 45 is a waste of time, I graduated to a SPF 75 facial sunscreen.  It did not smell great, but seemed to offer decent enough protection.  However, I’ve since whole-heartedly embraced the bigger-is-better concept when it comes to sunblock, so now I’m using a SPF 100 sunscreen lotion made for swimming babies.  I figure if it's good enough for a newborn's wet ass, it'll work for my sweaty cheeks, too.  The cream is so thick and gummy it sits on my skin like a mask and glows white when I start to perspire.  I'm not exactly recommending it, but until they create a sunscreen that’s SPF Infinity+1, it’s what I’ll be wearing.

4) I moisturize every night and have used the same face cream for almost fifteen years.  It was first given to me by a friend whose parents bought a house from a dermatologist and kept getting sent free samples.  It’s very creamy and literally looks, feels and kind of smells like butter.  Before I only used it during the windy, harsh east coast winters, but now that I’m an oldie on the west coast, my skin needs that moisture year-round.

5) I used to wash my face every morning and evening with an exfoliating scrub.  Tons of column inches have been devoted to how abrasive and abusive scrubbing your skin is, but it’s the only way I can feel I've cleaned my pores.  But I have been admonished enough that I’m willing to try something new, despite just having bought two more industrial-size bottles of cleansing scrub.  I will not be taken down by my proclivity for buying in bulk.  My two friends who are dermatology junkies have been raving about this new sonic skin brush.  Granted, they are alabaster elves who avoid direct sunlight whenever possible, so our skin care needs could not be more different.  I have been using the brush for a few weeks now and I’m unconvinced.  I was hoping it would magically even out my skin tone and lift my jowls overnight, but sadly that has not been the case, not even a little bit.  But the glowing endorsements and financial investment are such that I feel I need to stick with it for at least two months.  I am keeping a big bottle of scrub on the counter, though, just in case.

For those of you runners with a skin care routine that works, please let me know what you’re doing.  It’s dispiriting because I know a lot of older runners with grizzled, leathery mugs and I’m afraid I’m headed down that sunbaked path.  But I will not go without a fight, even if I need to recruit Darth Vadar for the cause.