Hey, where's No Wetsuit Girl?

The clock's run out. My 100th No Wetsuit Girl post will also be my last. But don't cry, don't fret, I'm not going away, I'm only moving!

My new URL is now (drumroll please):

speedyspeedracer.blogspot.com

Perhaps you've seen it hanging out at the bottom of my profile page trying to blend in like a 19-year-old in line outside a bar. Maybe, you've been the 19-year-old and tried to get in, only to be turned away at the door when you show your ID because you weren't on the guest list. Well from now on, the site is public.

So why the change? Well, there are a few reasons:

1. I can't go on living without a wetsuit forever, and it was naive of me to think that people would actually go through the archives to find out what the name meant.
   
2. Not only do I plan on acquiring a new wetsuit this season, I also plan on acquiring a speed suit, thus justifying using the word speed (twice) in connection with moi (the first and last time, I'm sure). So there you go, there's the swim apparel connection. If you want to stretch it you could also get really creative and point out that I don't even own a bikini, only SPEEDos (I look like I'm cross-dressing in a bikini anyway).
3. I have a personal pet peeve against people who use "Girl" at the end of a nick name. It is a misdemeanor to use it after a single word, but to use it after an entire sentence fragment is a felony (as is spelling it "grrrl", by the way). God knows what I was thinking.
4. There was some kind of justification of the wetsuit reference when I was "... Overseas!", however tenuous. But now that I'm back in the states there is absolutely no play on words that I could think of to salvage my creative pride. The whole thing had to go!
   
5. Finally, the title "Training and Blogging in Spain" was originally longer and in an argot that only me, my friend Allie and a few other high school friends share where every list of verbs ends in "... an' Thuggin'". My original title was "Trainin', Bloggin', an' Thuggin' in Spain", then I realized that was stupid but couldn't think of anything better, so I took out the "thuggin'", added a couple of Gs, and voila! The world's stupidest blog title!

Every time I got a new reader I cringed because I knew that if I'd come across the above mentioned sins of cheeziness I wouldn't even read my own blog, no matter how brilliant it was.

To those of you who have a link to my page on your sidebars, I respectfully request that you change it. So, bye bye No Wetsuit Girl, and good riddance.

Extra Credit Reading:

For those of you who are interested in knowing the story behind No Wetsuit Girl, I'll tell it quickly right now:

I first started swimming seriously in January in Santa Cruz with the SC Masters team. Santa Cruz (and that whole part of the coast) have particularly cold water, in part because of an upwelling of water from some of the deepest parts of the ocean in that region. This does not prevent the local Masters team from swimming in the ocean regularly year-round, either around the wharf (roughly 1 mile) or "swimming the buoys" (a string of 4 buoys that works out to be about 1000m round trip) WITHOUT A WETSUIT. Every New Years the SC Masters team puts on a New Years swim around the wharf on January 1st when water temperature is usually in the 40's, and every August they put on a 10k Wharf to Wharf swim when the water is at its warmest (around 60*). As in all SC Masters races, your results are not counted if you wear a wetsuit.

Really, I thought that this was normal. So every week I sucked it up and swam the buoys without a wetsuit. I did intervals submerged in the cold plunge at the gym to get my body used to being in very cold water. I thought that this was the way it worked, I thought everyone was doing this. So imagine my surprise when I showed up at the start to the Big Kahuna (coincidentally, the same year the Iron Kahuna did it for the first time, by the way) and I was the only one on the beach without a wetsuit. This earned me lots of cheers of "GO NO WETSUIT GIRL!!!" and marked the first time in my life that I was proud of the results of going through life with my head up my ass. It was the beginning of an era... and an identity.

Wild Turkey 5 Mile Road Race Report

I've been looking forward to the Turkey Trot in Salem for weeks. Why? Three reasons:

1. The web site said that the t-shirt was going to be "tech fabric".
2. It's a late fall race, so the t-shirt was pretty much guaranteed to be long sleeved.
3. The registration site allowed you to specify your t-shirt size, so I was sure to not get XXXL.
   

Really, can you ask for more in a race? I think not.

Since 5 miles isn't even as long as my training runs have been lately, I decided to run this event for speed. Well, "speed" is a relative term I guess, but my goal was to break 45 minutes, or 9-minute miles. I usually avoid "speed" goals because I invariably go out way too fast, have GI distress by mile 1, and sometimes puke. It'll be different this time! I assured myself.

And what better way to prepare for a speed goal than riding my trainer for 2 hours and 45 minutes while watching Chariots of Fire and sprinting during all the running scenes to make sure that my legs were nice and fresh. Two observations about Chariots of Fire:

1. All English guys really do look gay.
2. The only thing that looks gayer than an English guy in 2007 is an English guy running in white man panties in 1922. (Really, watch that first scene where they're running in the waves, they run like a bunch of girls!)
   

Wakeup was at 5:30 to be out the door before 6:30. Driving up to Salem it was so foggy that you couldn't see the road signs until you were right under them. The fog never burned off over the course of the morning. I was a little upset that I wouldn't get to see the sea views, but I decided that it would be more spooooooooooky to run through Salem in the fog. Unlike the last time I ran in Salem (the Witch City Sprint), we got to run past all the creeeeeeeeeepy stuff that downtown Salem has to offer: the Witch Museum, the Wax Museum, the Myths and Monsters Museum, and the statue of Nathaniel Hawthorn which gives adults nightmares for weeks about high school English classes. The only thing creeeeeeepy about the part of town we ran through in the Witch City Sprint triathlon was that this was probably the part of town where people would dump a body.

Beforehand everyone was complaining that it was sooooo cold. I was actually feeling okay in my surfing top and ninja sweatshirt (sans hood). I was happy about this turn of events, until I started running and immediately began to overheat. The ninja sweatshirt is NOT easy to get off while running, so rather than elbow a fellow runner in the face trying to pull it off I just sweat it out. You're welcome, guy with Jesus tattoos on each of his calves.

The first mile I went out really pushing the pace, sitting right at what I hoped would be my anaerobic threshold. Turns out I was going a bit harder than that, and by mile one breakfast was reminding me that this is not the way we do things around here! My smoothie was threatening to make its way out the front exit, while my intestines turned to jelly to let my English muffin out the back way. I let off a bit, but there was this chick in front of me that had very unfortunate cellulite distribution. Not only that, but Thunder Thighs seemed to know everybody on the whole North Shore, runners and spectators alike, and while I concentrated on keeping my sphincter closed she was waving to runners coming in the other direction, calling them by name, and yelling hellos to spectators watching from their porches. Pet peeve: people like that. I was NOT going to be beat by a chatty Cathy with Thunder Thighs. I now had a reason to dig deep.

We came out onto a little peninsula with some "views" of the ocean (by "view" I mean that the visibility was about 10 feet out to sea, so you could see spoooooooky looking rowboats bobbing away in the fog, waiting for the ghosts of fishermen lost at sea to come and claim the bodies of tortured runners). Here there were a lot of spectators out to cheer us on at 8:30 on a holiday morning. A morbidly obese woman stood in her driveway cheering, one family had a table set up with dixie cups of beer, another had a big bell (the kind they have on ships) and one of those horns that they blow before setting the fox free in a steeple chase, and yet another had the whole family, 7 members from grandma all the way down to grandson lined up in age order along the porch, all wearing Red Sox sweatshirts (I wonder if this was planned).

By mile 4 I'd backed off enough that I was starting to feel like I could press a little harder. That lasted about 2 minutes. What was frustrating about the weather was that, since you couldn't see 20 feet in front of you, you couldn't tell when the finish line was getting close, or even when you were coming into town. It made the last, painful mile seem to go on forever. I have no idea if Thunder Thighs was ahead of me or behind me. I couldn't see the finish line, but I began running faster and faster until I was gasping for air and my GI tract melted into a steely yuckiness. Let's get this over with! I thought. I sprinted into the finish trying to overtake a middle aged woman with a sloppy stride. I did eventually pass her, but since there was no finish line on the ground I may have just cut her in line in the finishing coral. My time: 44:33! I broke 45 minutes!!! (although mapmyrun.com clocks the course at only 4.77 miles, but we'll ignore that, I'm sure that my mapping of the course was inaccurate. Yeah, that must be it.)

There were two adjacent finishing corals, and both were really crowded, and the transition from sprinting to standing still made me pretty woozy for a minute. When I got to the front of the line to hand the tearoff slip from my number to the volunteer she looked right at me and froze with a look of horror on her face. "Uh oh!" she said.
"What?" I said, wondering if I looked ashen. All the blood was probably pooling in my legs now that I'd stopped running. She pointed right at me, mouth agape. "What?" I repeated, feeling to see if I had a booger on my face or something. Then I turned around just in time to see...

... the girl behind me in the other coral spew chunks. Blaaaaaaagh!! she went and ralphed all over the exit to her coral. Blaaaaaaaaagh!! she went again as the crowd dispersed so she wouldn't hurl on their shoes. What must have been her mother ran up to rub her back as she retched again. Don't judge, we've all been there. Now that's how you make room for a nice, big t(of)urky dinner! Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Reminder: This blog moves on Tuesday morning.

Can you use olive oil to lube your chain?

...Well if the answer is no, then it's too late now!

As it turns out, it seems to do the trick. Just, next time, try to remember to put a towel or rag underneath the decanter, cuz mom and dad are gonna be pretty pissed if they see that stain on their TV room rug.

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"Share the trail" means "Get the hell out of my way"

I will be coming to New York this weekend instead of next weekend (I know, it's a surprise to me too). I'll probably take the Chinatown bus in on Friday night or Saturday morning. New York folks, let me know ASAP if you'll be around.

On Sunday I felt that I hadn't had enough of the cold after the Freeze Your %@&#$ Off 39.5 and decided to go for a long run. I decided to run in the woods, since weekends are the only time I can get out in daylight hours. It was a beautiful, crisp day, the sun was out, and all was right in the world except that I was in a foul mood!

All was going well as I caught up on the blogs that I'd missed out on after my mad scramble for the Freeze your %@&#$ 39.5. I didn't have to talk to any real people and I was on the internet where we all have the patience of saints, I didn't even know I was in a bad mood yet. However, when I went down to get ready for my run and saw that my mother had gone to church with all my cold weather gear still in the car I threw a temper tantrum. It was a 2-year-old's temper tantrum that I allowed myself to indulge in only because I knew that I was home alone and that all the windows were closed so the neighbors couldn't hear me. When I found my coat hung up in the wrong place I screamed and threw it on the ground. Then I picked it up to hang it back up and screamed and threw it right back down when I saw that a button had been knocked off by the SOB who'd hung it in the wrong place. I stomped a bit, threw a couple more unbreakable things onto soft surfaces, and growled dramatically. With that out of my system, I put everything back away, ate half a sandwich, and spent some more time on my soon-to-be-released new blog. Clearly, I really needed this run.

Within an hour I had cooled down enough to go out in public. I layered up in my not-so-sexy, better-to-be-worn-at-night-when-no-one-can-see-you cold weather clothes, grabbed some Gatorade that I hadn't emptied from my Camelbak yet (being a slob does have its perks), and hit the road.

When I'd run about 3/4 of a mile straight uphill I realized that I'd forgotten my Clif Shots at home. I decided not to go back because the sandwich I'd eaten seemed to want to make a break for freedom, and who knew if I'd come back out if I went home now.

I was going to try a new rout that could be between 10 and 16 miles depending on where I decided to come out of the woods, but I didn't have much information about where to pick up the trail except trying to match a pdf map up with a Google satellite photo and cross-check that with my awful memory and sense of direction. When I came to the trail head that I'd thought I was looking at on the google map, I realized I was wrong about that too. I stopped my watch to take stock and let the sandwich settle into its new riding conditions...

I'm stopped for two minutes at a water treatment plant next to the reservoir where there's no parking, and still someone catches me slacking off. A woman came up behind me dressed like she's just bought out all of Eastern Mountain Sports and pointed at the chain I was standing in front of. On said chain there was a sign that said, PUBLIC WATER SUPPLY, NO TRESPASSING. "Do you thing they mean that?" Ms. Gore-tex Outerwear 2007 asked me.
"If they did they would have put up more than a chain," I said. "And they would have covered up that footpath over there." Indeed, there was a well-used footpath going around the barrier, not that the chain itself was going to stop anyone from stepping over it.

A minute later I followed suit and stepped over the chain. In my opinion, if you don't want people to trespass, you don't put a nice, wide, even path all the way around the reservoir and continue putting NO TRESPASSING signs on every tree, even a mile from the nearest communicating path if you don't want people to run on it. I mean, come on, every high school aged kid in town's gone skinny dipping in that water anyway (except for me of course, nor have I ever vomited 2 40 oz. bottles' worth of Steel Reserve into its crystalline waters). I ran some 2-3 miles around the lake and found myself face-to-face with a fence stretching all the way to a ten-foot drop into what would be the lake in wetter years. The only way to get around was to climb over the railing and walk on the 2-3 inch ledge for a couple of feet clinging to the fence. Oh crap, have I ever mentioned that I'm afraid of heights? I got around without incident, though, and before starting out on a wider loop I looked at my watch to see how long the loop on the Forbidden Trail had taken me. What the fuck?! My watch had been stopped the whole time! In a good mood this would have barely phased me, but I was in a rotten mood and vaulted me right back into rage.

I ran off to do my usual 5.2 mile (although I think it's more) loop backwards (because backwards it's like a whole new trail). I was seething because my gear was fucked up, my nutrition was fucked up, my rout was fucked up, my data was fucked up, and my day was fucked up. Could this run get any worse?! Of course it could...

Most of the trail is single-track through rocks, trees and thick underbrush. In other words, it's not good terrain for passing, especially if bubble-headed 7-year-olds dressed in pink from head to toe are zoning out in the middle of it blocking your way. And everybody in eastern Massachusetts seemed to be out on that trail that day. Of course, that would have been fine, if they hadn't all brought their dogs, their neighbors' dogs, and their neighbor's cousin's best friend's 4 dogs along with them. I must have seen about 50 people and twice as many dogs that day. Have I mentioned that I'm afraid of dogs? I am very afraid of dogs... especially bigger dogs... especially if they're not on leashes... especially if they're running at me. I'm not kidding, most of the people I saw had a dog, and most of them had more than one dog, and none of them were on leashes, and most of them were big, jumpy black labs. The first close was when a black lab bounded towards me just to stop about 10 feet before catching me and stare at me with that stupid, "Throw me a stick!" look on his face. I'll tell you where you can stick it, you horrible mutt! I thought and gave its owners a dirty look. Later on I ran past a guy who's snapping, "Comet! Comet!" with his hands cupped around his mouth. He was facing in the direction that I was going. I passed him and came to a spot where three trails came together, and (I swear I'm not making this up) a dog comes sprinting down each one of those paths - one of which was a black lab of course - and they converge in a writing ball of romping doggie horseplay a mere three feet in front of where I'd stopped in my tracks, frozen in terror. If you can't get your fucking dog to come when you call, keep him on a fucking leash! I thought as I hightailed it out of there. I was not having fun anymore. I was still a good 2 miles into the woods, but I just wanted to get home already. Not only was there a dog around every turn, but I kept losing the trail under all the leaves and I was getting tired and hungry and this run was doing nothing for my mood. I rounded a bend and there in front of me was a man walking four black labs. When they saw me two of them took off in my direction with big stupid doggie smiles on their faces. I froze in terror, half crouched with my elbows in tight to protect my vital organs. The first beast pounced on me. His front paws landed on my chest and slipped down, then he jumped again and his paws landed squarely on my shoulders so we looked like we were about to slow dance. Only I looked like I was about to shit my pants. "Off, off" said the owner in a disinterested monotone. The dog was not deterred and I could feel its horrible moist breath on my face and its groping paws tearing at the cord to my headphones. When the monster was finally off of me the owner kinda grunted, "Sorry."
"Yeah. Excuse me, it's just that I've got this awful phobia of dogs..." I said. In my head I said, Kujo there should be shot, and then you shortly afterwards if you can't keep him under control!

From then on every time I passed a dog I could hear it rustling through the underbrush after me and I went tense. I know, I know, they can smell your fear, but what am I supposed to do if I'm afraid of dogs! If one more dog had so much as looked at me I was ready to scream, "Get your fucking dog off of me!" in my best crazylady voice and then marched down to town hall to get an ordinance passed.

I know that many of my readers have very lovable pooches at home, and this is not meant to offend them. I'm also fairly certain that my readers who have dogs make sure they get to burn off their energy more often than a sunny Sunday blowout once a month (or, like Angry's dog, maybe they're just too fat). But even if you're not terrified of dogs, it's still pretty unpleasant to have one tackle you in the middle of your long run.



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Freeze your %@&#$ off 75

... %@&#$, of course, means toes.

Just for the record I'd like to say that when I made the woman scream I was not
wearing my ninja sweatshirt. Sorry about the red tint on this photo, but it did
come out better than the alternative. And it wouldn't be a Claire picture if it weren't
awful.

I may complain a lot about the cold, but no one can accuse me of running from a challenge. So when Bob Almighty sent out a call on his blog to see if anyone wanted to come on one of his IM New Zealand 75 mile training rides I told him that I was man enough if he was. Of course, I was hoping that he wasn't man enough so I would be off the hook.

That was on Thursday. My internet was down on Friday, so I wasn't able to check and see if Bobby Boy was going to rock up. I took his lack of response to mean that he was chickening out, even though his silence was really due to me being incommunicado. Saturday morning I woke up and was cozily having some breakfast of plain yogurt and an apple when I stopped by Rob's page to see what sorry excuse he'd come up with for himself. I was met with a post called Freeze Your Tail Off 75 which went on to say,

When: This Saturday November 17, 2007 @ 1:30PM

Where: Lake Waramaug State Park, Warren CT

Crap! Well I would still have one very good excuse if my mom wouldn't let me have the car. When she finally came out of her bedroom to begin a long jag of computer solitaire I ran in and asked, "Are you using the car today?!" I tried to be as chipper as possible. A chipper person is the most unpleasant thing in the world in the morning, and I hoped that if I made her irritable she would say no.
"Where do you want to go?" she asked groggily.
"Connecticut, I'll be gone all day."
"Connecticut?!" but to my dismay she went on, "Yeah, sure."
I tried to give her an out, "Are you sure?"
Yep. Now I was going to Connecticut to freeze my %@&#$ off.

In record time I got my stuff together and packed into the car. I had to make a stop at the hardware store because I'd had the brilliant idea to try to put my speed sensor on my back wheel so I could use it on my indoor trainer, and predictably it hadn't worked. The zip ties I bought were to put it back on where it belonged. Then it was off on the 3 hour drive down to Western Connecticut where Bob and Angry live.

I rolled in a little late, around 1:45 and immediately started dropping trou, while still saying hello to Rob. I was wearing long johns (actually figure skating tights) under my bike shorts under my jeans, and changed to another pair of long biking pants. Then the worst part, under my 2 turtleneck sweaters I was only wearing a skimpy workout top. The temperature was in the low 40's and I had to strip down to near nothing before I could put on my jersey and thermal ninja sweatshirt. I pulled on a second pair of socks with little yellow chickies on them, then a Red Sox beanie to go under my helmit (and some gloves that I ultimately forgot in the car), and I was dressed for success in the Freeze Your %@&#$ Off 75. Only I'd been driving for 2 hours and I really needed to leave behind some water weight. "There are some winter bathrooms over there," Rob pointed to where a crazy family was having a winter picnic. The words winter bathroom suggested heated toilet seats and bright lights for short winter days to me, but it turns out that winter bathroom is just Connecticut-speak for outhouse. By the time we got my tires pumped up, my hydration pack ready to go, etc. it was nearly 2:00.

The plan was to do 10 laps around Lake Waramaug, a 7.8 mile loop that I had seen in the Nutmeg State Sprint in August. It was significantly less green and noticeably colder than when I had been there last. Bob decided to leave the major hills out (I wasn't complaining), leaving negligible elevation change on the circuit. Most of the roads had very, very little traffic, allowing us to ride side by side and discuss the hard-hitting topics like stem cell research, gay marriage, and whether or not it's worth it to learn Latin.

The first loop my fingers were a little bit chilly (for having forgotten my full-fingered gloves in the car), but by the second lap I actually decided that it wasn't necessary to stop. Our noses were running, my lungs got sore from breathing in so much cold air, and my legs felt like they never warmed up, but other than that I didn't feel unbearably cold... I just couldn't get my legs to move right.

I was proud of myself for keeping up with Rob who looked like a pro on his sleek, new, perfectly-fitted Specialized Bitch Stomper. That is, until we came up on the old guy. About half way through the fourth lap we came up behind a guy in his late 50s sitting way up high on his brake hoods with an enormous New York Marathon windbreaker flapping in the wind. "Let's go catch that guy!" said Rob, and we took off.
As we flew by he said to me, "Do you mind if I fall in with you guys?"
"Sure," I said, "go right ahead". See, I thought that he was old and slow and we'd drop him in a minute anyway, or that he'd hang on the back or something. It was all the same to me. I definitely was not expecting him to take off and zoom past Rob at lightning speed. What happened next was not as surprising, Rob took off after him. And then I took off, sort of. I pedaled as hard as I could, but I was still by myself. I yelled encouragement and insults to myself in my head, got into my drops, kept my head down, and went as fast as I could, but they kept moving farther and farther up the road from me. Oh well, I thought, we're going around in circles, it's not like I'm going to lose them, and I relaxed the pace a bit, but not too much. I found out later that they'd reached speeds as high as 25 or 26 miles per hour and didn't feel quite so bad for not being able to keep up. And then when we got back to where the cars were parked, Rob and the old guy just let off. They slowed way down, Rob looked back for me for the first time, and the old guy got back behind us to draft for another lap. I don't think you should be able to do that, make someone hurt for a few miles and then just spin away and let them do the pulling for the rest of the day, especially if you're wearing a flappy windbreaker that could block the wind for half of Connecticut.

By this time I'd started to notice my right foot aching from the cold. But I couldn't let Rob know that I was hurting, so I cowboyed up and prepared myself for another five laps with a stiff upper lip. "It's getting kind of late, we may only be able to get in 8 laps before it gets dark," Rob said. Oh, darn it! What a shame. Three more laps was better than five, but when we finished the fifth lap and started the sixth I'd lost my other foot to the cold. Rob had just bought toe covers that afternoon, so I figured he would be fine and I decided to hold my tongue. Pain is temporary, I told myself and off we went for the sixth lap.

Towards the end of the sixth lap Rob said something like, "This may have to be our last one, it's getting close to 4:30." I had the wind in my ears, and I wasn't sure if he was referring to this lap we were on or the next one being the last. I figured it was better to assume that he meant we'd do one more, and then maybe be pleasantly surprised. I was pleasantly surprised. "My toes are freezing!" he said when we got back to the cars and started to pack up. "I should have worn a second pair of socks."
"I was thinking I should have bought toe covers like you," I admitted.
I sat shivering in my car with the heater on full blast while Rob finished packing up the rest of his stuff. He was waddling his toes were so cold.

In the end we only covered 39.5 miles in 2 hours and 15 minutes. I was surprised to hear that we'd averaged 17.4 miles per hour over the course of the afternoon. Since my legs never properly warmed up and we'd been talking easily I'd felt like we were hardly moving. I couldn't believe the speeds Rob had clocked off with Old Guy. It was shorter than either of us would have wanted, and we both felt that we could have kept going, but riding in the cold is twice as tiring, and we were glad to be getting out of there.

We drove to get the most exquisite hot chocolate I've ever had. As I was driving and the blood started to return to my butt it started to actually feel colder. My theory is that my butt had frozen solid, and it wasn't until it started to thaw that the new blood could get to the nerve endings and make them realize they were freezing to death. We stood shivering in Dunkin' Donuts trying to warm up enough to walk back out to the car. We tried to come up with a way to stay warmer next time. "My pants are fleecy on the inside. They're really warm," said Rob. "Here, feel!" he said holding out his waistband.
"All of you's fleecy, Rob, I'm not reaching down your pants." Rob's a furry guy. In the parking lot it was time to brave stripping down to change clothes again. This time it was even colder because the sun was down and I started shivering so violently when I got down to my bottom layer that I dropped my phone on the pavement.

We then went to chez Angry where I met Angry Sr. and his fat pitbull mutt. "You're too fat to run, aren't you, boy?" Angry cooed. "You wanna do some stability strength? Wanna do some clean jerks? Huh? You wanna do some clean jerks?" The dog was so pleased when Rob started to pet him that he couldn't lay down fast enough and smacked his head on the floor. Angry had spent the whole day installing insulation for a tax break. Apparently running just isn't doing it for him anymore (hence deleting every post on his blog), but installing insulation really got his rocks off. I'm not kidding, he was really jazzed about this insulation.

We then went out to an Italian restaurant for dinner. Rob and I sat and talked tri-geek while Angry sat back, cool as a cucumber scoping out the waitresses for future breadwinners and mothers of his babies. I learned Angry's type: tramp. I admitted to Rob that one of my goals in life was to beat any one of his running or tri times once in my life. That's me, aiming high. Any of his existing slowest times seem impossible, so I hope he's a crappy ironman so I'll get a snowball's chance in hell of making a PB and beating the worst time he manages to clock in his career.

The conversation inevitably turned back to what it was like to be freezing. Bob told a story about a time that Ken Schultz had nearly frozen his %@&#$ off in an open water swim (that kind of thing doesn't happen to me, duh...) and explained, "I'm a lot heftier than he is..."
"Rob, I've been staring at your ass for two hours. You're not hefty!" I insisted.

Finally, after a very nice visit (altough somewhat of an impulse, and quite frigid), it was time to drive the 3 hours back home. Driving home I thought of how much fun I'd had with the boys and decided that this blog was probably the best decision (indeed, the only good decision) I've made in the past year.

Blog Candy

Warrior Woman has tagged me with another one of these stupid survey things. I believe these things are absolute crap, but she's right, I did deserve it after a comment that I left recently. Still, I am going to do my best to bury this foolishness under a new post very, very soon. So here it goes:

The rules:

• link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog
• share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird
• tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs
• let them know they are TAGGED by leaving a comment on their blog.

Link to tagger: Warrior Woman is my favorite commenter, and her blog is a riot. That is, when she can be bothered to post. But that's the kind of talk that got me into this mess... For a GOOD example of how to do this survey, visit her blog.

1. I once stuck a fork in an electrical socket just because I was curious about what would happen. I was in high school.
2. I have peed in the pool. I have peed on my bike (actually it was a borrowed bike). I have peed my pants running. Only one was an accident.
3. When I first got my driver's license I used to get so lost I would find myself in the wrong state.
4. I am terrified of heights, water where I can't see the bottom, and dogs. I have been reduced to tears on the top of 5 story buildings. My open water problem almost kept me from taking up triathlons. I could have gotten over the time when a friend's 150 lb dog attacked me when I was nine if they hadn't forced me to stand right out of reach of the dog's leash wearing a helmet for 15 minutes to try to teach the dog not to attack strangers in hats.
   
5. I don't like chocolate. I'll tolerate it in a few forms (around caramel, hot chocolate), but I never seek it out. People give me dirty looks when I tell them this.
   

Now I have to tag someone. Well, because I don't want to have bad luck for 7 years, or for the person I have a crush on to despise me, or that kid in Michigan to not get his cancer treatment, or to have bad breath for the rest of my life, or whatever implicit threat this chainletter holds, so I tag:

• Does anyone else smell chlorine
• Pimply runner geek
• Tour Rider on Hormone Treatment
• Biker's Plumber's Crack
• Stationary Bike Humper
  

Twice in a week and a half!

Last night it was a warm night (warm being above freezing), and after a frustrating day at work I was looking forward to a nice, tough run. I came home, put on my running tights, my surfing shirt (one of those long-sleeved shirts for water sports to protect you from the sun - my mom thought it was a running top, God bless her little heart), and a sweatshirt and ran out to the track. I ran 16 quarters alternating an 8 minute mile and 10 minute mile pace. That done, I was feeling good, so I decided to do an extra 2 mile loop through streets I knew to be well lit.

So there I am, running, minding my own business. I'm running on Church street which is lined with houses with no fences in their front yards and, well, churches. It's not the kind of street that rapists, or murderers, or kidnappers, or muggers, or embezzlers, or double parkers or other such criminals and unsavory personages tend to hang out on. Up ahead of me I saw a woman in a big, puffy periwinkle jacket walking a little, floppy, curly dog. I was gaining on her fast, and when I was within a couple of yards of her I said, "Excuse me" and ran around her. Only her little puffy dog was off to one side of the sidewalk and she was walking on the other extreme of the pavement, and even though I went up on the grass I passed pretty close to her shoulder.

And she screamed. I don't mean she yelped, I mean she shrieked with a lot of lung behind it. It wasn't the scream that you hear when the murderer jumps out from a dark corner, it was the scream after he pulls the chainsaw out from behind his back.

"Sorry!" I said over my shoulder, in earnest. Her mop started barking mean barks at me. I'm afraid of dogs and this little thing wasn't even making me nervous, but I ran away anyway. I thought of stopping and saying something to her. I thought of sticking around to reassure the neighbors who were sure to come out their front doors any second. But the damn dog was barking at me, and what do you even say in a situation like that? So I kept running.

The thought of me frightening someone is totally ludicrous. I'm shorter than 5'2", I'm universally classified as "cute" by people who know me, I'm most often likened to Ellen Degeneres (and not just because I'm gay), I was running about 6.5 miles per hour in stretch pants. You would think that I couldn't strike fear into a six-year-old, but this is the second time in a week and a half that I've made a grown woman scream. Am I missing something?

DC, with worse pictures than ever!

This weekend my mom and I flew down to Washington DC for a family friend's bar mitzvah (sorry if that's spelled wrong, my spell check has no better suggestions!). I told my mom that I'd agreed to join her because I like the family that we were visiting, but in my heart of hearts I knew I was going for two very selfish reasons:

1. To get to run around the National Mall and see all the monuments and museums in one go.
2. To get the hell out of the cold for two days.

This post will be the usual Claire-style form of tourism, complete with horrible cell phone photography, but I'm going to go into "family time" a bit too. This is not to make you suffer, and I really hope that by the time I'm done it will have been worth your while.

Our flight was an evening flight on Friday, so I had time to come home from work, and eat some dinner before we left for the airport. We were off to a bad start when I decided to fill my shuffle with a brand-new playlist which wasn't done downloading in time, so we left the house 10 minutes late. My mom was already pissed, but I contend that that was time that we could have easily made up on the way to the airport if she would even come within 15 mph of the speed limit. When we got to the airport we found that our 9:00 flight had been delayed 3 hours: meaning that we wouldn't get into DC until 1:00, definitely wouldn't get a rental car, and might not be able to check into the hotel. I saw my mom drop her hands, thrust her jaw forward, and rock back on her heels, which means that she's about to give up, but not without throwing a temper tantrum and making life miserable for everyone around her. Luckily we got to talk to a competent airline representative who offered, "Would you like to take a US Air flight into Reagan instead?" (We were supposed to fly into Dulles) before my mom could blame her for everything bad that had ever happened in her life. Mom blew a puff of breath into her bangs, which is what she does when she gets her way but wants to show that she's not happy she had to fight for it and said, "Yeah, that's fine". We were quickly instructed on how to get to the other terminal for the 8 o'clock DC flight, blah, blah, blah and then I looked down at my watch. It was 7:20. Shit! "Are we going to have time to make it?" I asked, trying not to let the tone of my voice belie to my mom that she had just cause to continue with her aborted temper tantrum. "Oh yeah, you'll be fine," said the airline representative, who I'm sure had learned that this is always the correct answer, whether it's true or not.

Now, let me explain something to you. My mom is overweight and has been ever since I can remember. I think that's why my brother and I have always had a kind of weird relationship with food. In my head all of her shortcomings are related to her weight problem, not the least of which are mobility issues. My mom is the slowest walker in the whole entire world, I'd always accepted this as an annoying fact to be disdained, but put up with; annoying but harmless things like her annoying habit of smiling at strangers and her obsession with Home and Garden Television. I chucked her boarding pass at her and took off towards the other terminal, telling her I'd make sure they knew she was coming. I kept slowing down to look at signs, and when I got to the terminal I stopped to look at my ticket to find out the gate number before I went through security and realized that we still had to check in with US Air! I stopped in my tracks to wait for Mom and was surprised at how quickly she caught up with me. I vowed to remember this tortes-and-the-hare-like lesson the next time I wanted to slow down in a race to gather my strength. No sooner had she caught up when I whisked her back down the terminal towards the check-in desk. It wasn't till we got there (me first, then her half a minute later), that I realized that she was in tough shape. She was bright red, sweating, and she had an awful wheeze in her breath that I'd never heard in her before. I knew that sound, she sounded like an asthmatic runner 2 seconds after a sprint finish, or a cyclist about to get off and walk his bike up a hill. "Are you alright?" I asked, and didn't dash off to security until she shot an angry, "Yeah!" at me, like this was all my fault. Of course they had to give BOTH of us the full security scan (only made longer because we didn't have time to check our bags). Had I not been with my mom I would have enjoyed the fact that my frisker was obviously hitting on me. When they finished with me I pulled my suitcase off the table and all my stuff fell on the floor, underwear and all. My frisky frisker hadn't zipped my suitcase. I cursed, threw it all back in and fled from my mom who was still standing unattended in the strip-search coral before she killed someone. As my girlfriend chased me down to return the watch I'd left behind, it turns out that the other security guards were surrounding my mom trying to make sure she was alright. "Are you sure you're alright, ma'am? You're really red. Would you like to sit down for a minute?" Mom was seething. It must humiliating, not being able to do something as simple as chasing down a plane or not even get to put up with a degradation security scan because the TSA officials were afraid they were going to have to take the paddles to her. Or maybe she didn't even put together that not everyone looks like that after walking briskly from one terminal to another, and she thought that this was just another random inefficiency and humiliation you have to go through in airports. But I noticed, and I also noticed that it took almost the whole flight for the redness to drain from her face.

Mom sure was cranky still when we got back to the ground, and it was everything I could do to convince her to go get the rental car rather than paying a hundred bucks for a cab. I was the one who was in my right mind to drive, so grouchy became my co-pilot. At one point she reached to get something in the back seat, and I noticed that the twisting squeezed the breath out of her and she was winded for a few minutes after the effort. Then, later that weekend she climbed into the passenger seat and flailed her arm trying to reach the door to close it. "I hate it when they do that," she said. What? "Make the door swing so wide that you can't reach it and you have to get back up again to close it." I'd never had that problem. I looked over at her reclined in the seat and realized that she wasn't able to lean her torso out to get to the door handle. I thanked my lucky stars that I still have my range of motion.

The next morning we got to watch Noah become a man. It was my first bar mitzvah, and I enjoyed it for the first hour and a half, but I have to admit that after that I got a little bit bored. The prayer book really confused me and I kept turning the pages the wrong way. I tried to read the phonetic transcriptions of the Hebrew for a little bit, but I just wound up singing "Tralala" most of the time and trying to spot what page the Jews were looking at so that I could pick up the English when that came up again. My ear was desperately looking for something that it could recognize, and eventually it found something that sounded like almeja in one of the choruses. Almeja means "clam" in Spanish. "Mom, I think they're singing about clams," I said. "Clams aren't kosher," she pointed out. "Well duh," I said. "They're probably singing God Save the Clam!" Of course I knew they weren't singing about mollusks, but I felt as out of place as an octopus in a garage in that temple.

The reception was informal, in the lobby of the synagogue with bagels and tunafish, cookies, and potato chips. "Claire, come get a bagel, there are a few with cream cheese." "Did you see there are cream cheese bagels?" "Do you eat fish?" "Here, take a plate, try the cookies." There was nothing on that table that looked appetizing to me, so I took a couple of stalks of celery and a couple of carrots. "You don't fool me for a second," said the new mitzvah's mother, "you didn't put anything on that plate!" and I had to fight another volley of bagels. After that everyone went their separate ways for a few hours, most to eat lunch (for a second time).

Family tree provided for educational purposes only to keep track of the relationship
between people mentioned. Any attempt to invade the privacy of this family would be
really messed up, so please don't.

That night there was a small family gathering at the house to wish Noah even more mozel tavs and I got to know the extended family. I found myself talking to Syd, who, by all accounts had always been a lanky kid, but 65 years had caught him with a bald head and a big pot belly. "I used to be as skinny as Sara," explained Syd, "but now I just like to eat!" Sara's 15 and has been blessed with the body type and height to be a supermodel. When I told him about my plans to see all the monuments, he told me about his treadmill. "Yeah, a couple years ago I started having labored breathing and my doctor told me I'd have to get moving. It's amazing how much better walking on that treadmill makes me feel!" Later, at dinner Syd went up for seconds and thirds, and when there was still meat left when it came time to wash the dishes, he took care of the surplus using his gullet as a garbage disposal.

Syd's daughter, Alissa, was of the type that you know after talking to her for 20 seconds that she will never be cool, not even in the nerdiest crowds. As my dad described her, "She's your stereotypical New York Jew."
"No she's not," I said. "She's not funny." I decided that I really wasn't going to want to talk to her early in the evening when I was telling Syd about my plans to run past all the monuments. "So do you like to run, or do it for some other reason?" she asked. I thought it better not to go into my dysfunctional relationship with running, and told her I liked it. "Oh, so you're crazy." It wasn't so much a witty comment like rocketpants makes when she calls me crazy, it was more like condescendingly stating a fact. I decided I didn't like Alissa, so therefore I give my readers permission to not feel sorry for her. Alissa was also very, very heavy. Her ample rump easily covered an entire couch cushion. Sid was explaining to Sara that she had to look at her family history to know how to take care of herself while she's still young. Alissa pitched in her unsolicited advice, "Chocolate is the cure for pretty much anything. You have really bad PMS, just drink a glass of whole milk chocolate milk..."
"I don't really like whole milk," said Sara, I'm sure trying to deflect the conversation from her menstrual cycle in front of all her aunts and uncles.
"They also found that chocolate milk is the best recovery drink that there is for athletes, even better than Gatorade."
I tried to bite my tongue not wanting to get into any conversation with Alissa if it could be at all avoided. She was a know-it-all who had to know more than you about everything and have the last say at all costs. I mean, this kind of behavior is acceptable in a college student, but this woman was pushing 40. Not only that but she was one of those people whose sense of humor is so awkward it makes your skin crawl. I mean, she was weird. She did fencing in high school and now is very active in her Medieval reenactment group. I really didn't want to get stuck in a conversation with Alissa, but no one else seemed to want to get in a conversation with Alissa either, and when the awkward silence was about to kill me I ventured a very flat, "Well, yeah, they say that exercise improves pretty much every aspect of your life, physically and mentally."
"Oh, I can't do exercise, It makes me sick." Alissa interjected, desperate not to let the conversation turn away from her.
I looked her up and down. Of course it does, lard ass, I thought. I kept going like I hadn't been done with what I was saying. Save the conversation, I thought, don't let her ruin it for the rest of us! "Yeah, they say that it can improve your chances of fighting just about every disease, even mental problems and they find that active kids do better in school..."
"Because I have asthma," she went on when I ran out of things to say. "Yeah, I used to have really bad allergies, but then one day my allergies got better but my asthma got really bad. So that's what I meant when I said exercise makes me sick. Because breathing is good. Yeah, you never know how nice it is till you can't do it. So exercise makes me sick..."
Sara swooped to the rescue and started talking about how (pushing 6 feet), she's taller than all her friends. "Well at least you can reach things," I said. They'd been making short jokes at me all day and I'd started to accept it. "And no one ever picks you up off the ground, I bet. I used to get picked up all the time. I'd just be standing there and someone would grab me around the waist and lift me off the ground."
"Yeah, me too." Alissa had decided to play the short card. She wasn't really short, but since she couldn't compare to Sara in height, it would be easier to jump in on my team. "I have all these friends that are like 6'7" and stuff..." Nobody has "all these friends" who are over 6'7, not even basketball players, I thought, but held my tongue. "Yeah, they pick me up all the time. You don't know how disorienting it is to be on the ground and then suddenly you're not." I looked at Alissa, she couldn't weigh less than 300 lb. I didn't believe for a second that anything but a forklift could lift her off the ground. Why would someone do that? Lie just to be a part of a conversation? She oozed low self-esteem so bad that she made everyone around her feel uncomfortable, but did she really thing that bold-faced lies like this were a way to get someone to be your friend? And did she really think that if she told doozies like this that I would begin to believe that she was thin? I just didn't get it.

Syd's sister's name was Karen. Karen had the sarcastic wit and dry delivery that I stay up nights wishing that I had. We like Karen. "What are you going to do in DC tomorrow?" she asked. I told her about my plan to run past all the monuments. "They've made it harder than it used to be. You can't get as close to them as you used to in a car." I thought she was talking about parking, but still I grasped that I wasn't understanding something. As I usually do when I don't understand something I kept talking like I knew exactly what was going on. Later that night her brother, Norman was gave us driving directions to the Mall. "So when you get to Constitution St. you're going to start looking for parking..."
"No, Norm, they want to see all the monuments," she corrected him.
"Right, she's going to run past them," explained Norman.
"What do you mean? I thought she was taking the car?" asked Karen. I got the idea that none of us were trying to be witty and this was a real conversation.
"No, like on my feet," I explained.
"You didn't know that that's what she was going to do?" asked Norman.
"Well yeah, she told me... I just didn't know why anyone would choose to do that, like voluntarily." She wasn't kidding.

So I guess this is what other people do. They eat bagels when they're not hungry and eat whatever's left over, even when they've had their fill. Exercise makes them sick and when they have to run to catch a train, they have to risk cardiac arrest. And when they want to see a whole park full of monuments, they need to reserve more than an hour for it. I couldn't wait to get away from the "normal" people for a bit and get back to my "crazy" lifestyle.

We woke up at 7:30, and by 9:00 we had parked and I was ready to go. I filled my bottle with water that tasted like dirt from a water fountain and started running. I wasn't in any hurry and before I'd even run 5 minutes I'd stopped my watch three times to take pictures and cross streets. I didn't really have a set rout planned out, so I just ran until I saw the big stuff, and then ran towards it. I started out running towards the Capital Building.
As usual I tried to include myself in the photo only until I realized that it was essentially impossible. I figure that the abysmal quality of the shots is proof enough that I was, in fact, the photographer (and not just a google image source). But meanwhile, I'm sure you can recognize the top of my head by this time. .

Soon I came upon a greek-style building that had a set of stairs just begging to be run up, so I did. Had I had a running partner to take a cheezy Rocky imitation photo I would have. Instead you'll just have to use your imagination.


Next I came up on the Washington Monument. I wasn't too enthused about it. I mean, it's an obelisk. Boston has one just like it, and I'm sure there are others too. I bet George Washington feels a bit gypped.
Next I ran past the reflecting pool and up the interminable steps to the Lincoln Monument (where I took the above picture). I realized half way up that I really should have counted all those damn steps and wondered if I could go back and count with a magnifying glass and a penny later. I mean, if they put a tiny little Lincoln in his monument on the penny, they probably have the right number of tiny little copper steps, right?
I knew that the Vietnam memorial was close by, but purposely avoided it. It was Veterans' day, and although I was having fun not taking the symbolism of the presidents' monuments seriously, I didn't want to do the same with any war memorials. I inadvertently passed Korea on the way towards the Jefferson Memorial and it gave me the heebie jeebies. That memorial is way too life-like.

If you know the layout of the Mall you know that the Jefferson Memorial is set off from the rest, way off on a little peninsula jutting off into the Potomack. In the park next to the river I saw a 10k race finishing up, and I kicked myself for not looking for races before coming down. It was a beautiful day, though, and I didn't need a race to enjoy running along the river with the fall colors all around me. My phone seems to have a mean streak to it seeing as the picture with the prettiest colors came out with the worst lighting.

Finally I ran back to the Mall and was surprised to see my mom sitting on a bench and find myself already back to where I'd started. "I missed the White House!" I said, disappointed. "Where is it?" I had really wanted to see the White House with the same kind of fascination as people who like to glare at photos of people they hate. I wanted to see where the bastard lived. I told my mom I'd be right back, looked at a map, and ran off to find the White House.

Coming of age during the "W" administration I'm suspicious of the US government and anything associated with patriotism, and truth be told, DC made me nervous. I was quite glad I was running, just in case someone tried to chase me down and send me to Guantanamo for ex-patriating or just thinking unpatriotic thoughts, I was already prepared to run away from them. When I passed the White House I didn't linger so as not to endure too violent a visceral reaction to what I knew to be inside. I was afraid that all the men standing around in suits with ear pieces in their ear could read my thoughts, so I tried to think patriotic thoughts. They came out kind of like this:

With running, photos, and crossing streets my whole Washington DC tour came out to about 7.5 miles in an hour and a half (1:11:30 of which were running). So maybe I'm "crazy", maybe a bit "abnormal": I don't risk cardiac arrest when I'm late for a flight, I don't eat food I don't need, I don't think chocolate is a cure-all for everything from PMS to high blood pressure, but in the whole busy weekend, I was the only one who managed to get the whole historic Washington DC trip in on a beautiful day. Call me crazy, but I'd rather do it my way.

New Post Coming

Hi folks,

I'm working on a new post, but right now I'm wrestling through some technical difficulties with blogger. Bear with me, I'll be back soon, I promise.

No Wetsuit Girl does Capital City

I'll be spending this weekend in DC visiting some family friends with my mom. I'm hoping to get to run around the city where our country's biggest decisions are made. Don't worry, I promise to behave myself! I'm hoping to go on a run and see how many famous monuments I can hit in one morning.

Also on the agenda: I'm coming to the Big Apple! I'm meeting up with some friends from California the weekend of November 30-December 2. So far all I know about the trip is that we're going to be staying "somewhere in New York" and that we're going to see Phantom of the Opera. I hope I get to meet some New York bloggers like Renee, Michelle, and Satan (although I could never keep up with the fallen angel if we were to go running).

So story time will be back soon. In the meantime, here are some exciting developments and recent observations:

1. I got a bike trainer, which took me a good half hour to put together (it's got 3 parts, including my bike). Now I can do two of my favorite things at the same time: ride my bike and watch CSI. One problem though, I have to turn my TV up to full volume to be able to hear it over the whirring of the trainer. Oh well, I think my parents can deal.
2. I've been running in the cold. I can't feel my legs by the time I get home, and I think that's fucked up. This is how people get hurt!
3. Daylight savings: I would just like to find the guy who invented streetlights that turn off when there aren't any cars around. I want to have just a few words with him. Most of those words will only have four letters in them.
4. They have the Total Immersion book and DVD at my library! Too bad I still don't have a pool. More to come on this topic as well.
5. It's too goddamn cold in my house, it's too goddamn cold in my cubicle (there's a draft so strong it blows the blinds around!), and it's CERTAINLY too damn cold outside!
   

Bushwhacked! (Plus pictures from CCM)

Friday the pictures from the Cape Cod Marathon were released. I was kept in unbearable suspense all afternoon, since I saw that the pictures had been released but there was no way to retrieve them without my bib number. The bib number was not listed on the results page, so I was forced to be patient all afternoon, remembering all the cameras I had seen on the course and imagining the badass photos that would be their fruit. I mean, these were going to be intense enough to be used in a Gatorade ad. Sometimes it's better not to look...

I was expecting pictures that exuded the tune of Eye of the Tiger, instead I was stuck thinking, Eew, do I really look like that?! Unfortunately (or luckily, depending on how you look at it) the photographers' web site has managed to prevent me from pirating pictures of myself off the internet or even providing a link, so if you want to see pictures of me looking like a duck doing an impression of a... well some faster land bird, then you'll have to click here, find the Cape Cod Marathon and search for number 1467.

Despite my clumsy running stance, which is so rigid it makes Frankenstein look like Gumby, Cape Cod brought something out in me that I didn't think possible. Suddenly, I love running! All week I was resting up, spinning easily on a stationary bike my mom bought in the mid-90's and I only ran once. By Thursday I was raring to lace up my running shoes again and go prancing through some new places. My discovery of coolrunning.com (something that I always knew was there, but never took advantage of because, well, I hate to run) led me to a local trail race in Framingham, MA named the Busa Bushwhack.

Bushwhack: v. 1. To make one's way through the woods
by cutting at undergrowth, branches, etc. 2. To fight as a
guerrilla in the woods, to ambush.
Definitions adapted from Dictionary.com

The race was billed as a trail run with a choice between a flat 5.3 mile course, or 9.3 mile course with "some hills". The little angel on my left shoulder whispered in my ear, "If you're going to do this, do the short course. You don't want to get injured." The little devil on my right shoulder simply whispered, "Don't be a pussy!" I'm a righty, guess who I listened to. While filling out the waiver form I asked the volunteer, "If I sign up for the 9 mile race, will I have the option of doing the 5 mile race instead if I get tired?" She urged me not to, but said I should let someone know if I changed my mind mid-run so I wouldn't be accused of cheating. So I put a check in the box next to 9.3 miles.

While huddling in the elementary school gym for warmth I made friends with a guy from New Hampshire named Thom. He gave me the skinny on the central New England trail racing scene, pointed out who were the big guns, and urged me to do some races that were coming up. The one he was plugging the most was a 16-miler in Derry, New Hampshire in JANUARY. He said that a lot of the guys come across the line in nothing but spanky shorts and a singlet with icicles hanging from their ears and facial hair. The t-shirt is well worth it, he explained to me. Ironically, it's a thermal winter fabric. I looked around and noticed that a lot of the other runners were minimally-dressed for today's event, despite temperatures that I was sure were going to freeze my sub-tropical butt off (the high 40's). I myself was wearing some hearty workout pants that I'm sure were designed for yoga once upon a time and my thermal winter pullover (which is actually a cycling top) which, when zipped up all the way, makes me look like a ninja or a surgeon.

I groaned as the MC/race organizer announced over the bullhorn that we would have the pre-race meeting outside. Unlike some MCs, the laughs that this MC elicited were actually genuine (*ehemTrickorTrotcough*). He began, "The trail has been really well-marked with pink ribbons, I know because I was out there yesterday for 2 hours putting them up myself." Everyone cheered. Yesterday the remnants of hurricane Noel came through MA, and it was pouring cold rain with winds up to 50 mph all day. "We used to have pie plates with arrows marking the turns, but some of those have been blown away, so we'll have volunteers at all the turns indicating which way to go, so you won't get lost. If this is your first trail race, keep your eyes on the ground or you will be on the ground." A laugh rippled through the runners, but homeboy knew what he was talking about. I saw no fewer than three people "eat shit" (as the Californians so eloquently put it) on the course. In the first couple of miles I saw one guy trip and fall a few people in front of me. He picked himself up quickly, but in a few minutes he was down again, this time with several runners at close enough range to have to make quick detours to not trample him. He got on all fours, and as he was getting his legs under him, they slipped right out again and he fell right over a second time. Afterwards I saw him back in the school and he had 2 huge band-aids over each knee, poor guy! The MC earned a few more laughs before we all hoofed it down to the start.

I expected the ground to be super-squishy after all the rain yesterday, but actually the ground was relatively firm save for a few puddles, and the only danger from yesterday's weather was that the leaves blown off the trees hid the roots and rocks that you could trip over. I got stuck behind a man with a gait that was so springy it just made him look silly. I passed him and found myself behind a sinewy man that must have been on the far side of 70 to whose cervical spine the years had not been kind. This guy was a hunchback! I don't mean he just tended to lean too far forward, or rounded his shoulders too much, I mean that his shoulderblades and the crown of his head were at the same height. I worked away at him, and heroically passed him when he tripped over a root and fell over. Hey, I mean, I asked if he was okay and everything... what was I supposed to do?

After what seemed like only 10 minutes the leaders of the 5-mile race started bounding back along the single-track path, breathing like sprinters. This was especially irritating, since this was where the 5-foot-across puddles made their debut. The true priss I am, I managed to keep my white (road) shoes clean. Before I knew it, I was at the turnaround for the 5 mile people. I felt like I'd hardly been running at all, definitely not a full two and a half miles, and didn't even think twice about keeping going. Before long I was amb.. bushwhacked by the first hill. We were running along, minding our own business, and then suddenly there's this WALL with people on it. You're kidding, right? I thought as I started walking. I got to the top with my breathing labored and my hamstrings giving out like after a bad run-in with some lunges. On this hill Grandpa passed me... walking. He was WALKING and I couldn't catch up with him! I kept his hunched figure within my sight for the rest of the race, but I just couldn't catch him! I would get close to him on the downhills and the flats, and then we would reach an incline and he would just slip away, even when he was walking! The impossible hill stunt was only repeated once more, but there were enough small hills that Grandpa seemed firmly out of my grasp.

When we had made it to flat ground again for the return trip I had an even stranger sight in front of me than grandpa: a woman with a discman. I could never get a discman whose anti-skip lasted more than a week, let alone however long it's been since they made the last portable compact disc player, but there it was, with big headband earphones. She was so weighed down that I could pass her easily. I came up behind her and said, "On your left... excuse me." I guess she couldn't hear me, because when I edged around her she let out a scream, as if a snake had just crossed her path or something. "Sorry," I said. Weirdo.

I noticed that I was starting to feel like my tank was running low and wondered if a mile and a half justified busting out the Clif Blocks when I spotted Grandpa ahead. I ditched the idea of trying to breathe around gooey-chewies. It was just between me and Grandpa now. Like hell I was going to let a septuagenarian with a dawager's hump beat me! I pushed the envelope, the whole time staring at Grandpa's wiry, skinny little chicken legs and marveling at how they still managed to hold up his weight. As we came out of the woods and onto the road for the last half mile back to the school I pulled up next to him. "Hey..." I gasped, "I've been... following you... all morning!" He didn't say anything at first, and I thought that maybe he was a jerk. "Pass me if you want," he said finally, not ill-naturedly. "Are you... kidding me? It's... all I can do... to keep up... with you!" But I did manage to get about a foot ahead of him after several minutes of redlining. Only the finish wasn't where the starting line had been. We still had a couple more blocks to go, and wouldn't you know, there was an itty bitty, teeny weeny hill and he pulled away from me! Grandpa beat me!

I crossed the finish line gasping for air. I was still wearing my ninja sweatshirt (sans hood) with my number pinned to my t-shirt underneath. "Number?!" the volunteer yelled at me. "Oh yeah, sorry," I said, lifting my shirt. Only the fitted sweatshirt caught my t-shirt on the way up and I damn near flashed the woman before managing to pull my shirt and number back down. I was quite pleased to look at my watch and see that Grandpa had pushed me to finish in 1:35 and a nickel! With hills, walking, and the fact that it was trail, pulling off 10:13 min/mile is definitely a cause for celebration. I consoled myself in the fact that Grandpa had surely won his age group, and that made me feel a bit better. I mean, come on, only a jerk would want to beat Grandpa in a sprint finish (a jerk like me). I was happy for Grandpa (no I wasn't), he deserved to win (as long as he was behind me).

Thom was there waiting for me at the end with a some information about where to find more local races, and then I went and changed into real clothes before watching them giving out the awards. I wanted to see Grandpa accept his award. They worked their way through both women's and men's divisions before announcing the winner of the men's 70+ age group. They called out a name and a man walked up to accept his trophy, and it wasn't Grandpa! It was a compact little man with all his hair and an inconspicuously straight spine! And it's not like there were hundreds of people there, I don't think that the participants of both distances reached the 100 mark. But no, really, I'm proud of myself. Really. Getting my ass beat by a runner-up old guy, that's cool.

Speaking of old guys, I spotted a Rubbermaid container full of t-shirts with a sign that said, "GET YOUR FREE SHIRT AUTOGRAPHED BY RICH BUSA!" Who is Rich Busa, you ask? Why Rich Busa is the man who the Busa Bushwhack is named for, 78 years old and still running ultras such as Western States. I'm a t-shirt junky, so I went over to get my t-shirt autographed by Rich Busa. I was all ready to fawn over him and make a local celebrity feel special, but Rich Busa was kind of hard of hearing and I was chomping on a cookie while trying to talk. He stopped trying to listen after he'd finished autographing my shirt. I got stuck listening to the 30-something woman next to him enumerating his achievements (which were quite inspiring, especially with my new respect for the elderly athlete after being bushwhacked by Grandpa) while Rich Busa turned his attention to his grand daughter. She told me how one of his training runs is 20 repeats up THE HILL OF DEATH (as I call it, the Framingham Track Club calls it Busa Hill), and I was dealing with serious feelings of inadequacy, but when she shoved a newspaper article in my face with a full-page picture of Rich Busa, I found it hard to look interested and listen for my number as they called out the lottery winners at the same time. Are you ever in one of those situations where both parties are bored with the conversation, but it would still be rude to walk away? I figured I should put my Rich Busa autographed shirt over my long-sleeved shirt, but I was wearing my marathon t-shirt and didn't really feel like covering it up just yet before anyone had even noticed it. Finally I ungracefully escaped, but I could have read the article about Rich Busa anyway, because I didn't win anything in the raffle either (which is fine, because I'm not competitive).

As I rode home I continued listening to the audio book I started yesterday. I listen to audio books because I get less bored driving to a story than driving to music. And do you know what this audio book was? No joke, The Hunchback of Notre Dame!

Almost Famous

Last night I watched the WGBH's Nova episode on marathons in which they take 13 novice runners and train them for a marathon in 9 months. The content was pretty disappointing since it couldn't choose sides between the science and soap opera. And any self-respecting runner would find the science and physiology that they explained rather elementary.

HOWEVER, you should watch the show at least once on PBS (they'll probably still be rerunning once a year until your grandchildren are retired). Why? Because 80% of the shots of the training runs were on a course I run or bike at least once a week! That's right, the same Mystic Lakes that they run along on TV are the ones I've talked about in previous posts. My dad (who was impressed with the science) and I sat there yelling things like, "Look! That's the bridge by Wedgemere Station!", "Look! The parking lot!", "Why are they running in the street when there's a path right there?!" We got a particular thrill when the narrator said, "This is their final long training run, parts of it on the Boston Marathon course", and they were STILL showing footage of the Claire rout (which is NOT on the Boston course). I would give you a youtube clip, but they cut out most of the important footage, so it wouldn't be worth it.


That's right, I run where the stars run. In fact, I ran there before it was cool. So you heard it here first!