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WTF, Brightroom? Now that running is no longer consuming my life, I am filling my days with obsessively perusing the interwebs. My most visited site is www.brightroom.com as I NEED to view my photos of the Buffalo Marathon. I have a theory, see, and it goes like this: My epic failure was not the fault of my own weak character, but rather the result of some mysterious phenomena that will be made visible only through the wonders of modern photography. Like, maybe there was this enormous 300 pound boat anchor that was tied to my left ankle and I dragged that fucker for MILES unbeknownst to me or to my fellow runners. Or maybe, just maybe, there was a river of thick molasses that flowed only in my path, or perhaps my sneakers were not sneakers at all but were actually hollowed out watermelons packed to capacity with hungry ferrets. It could happen, people. And when those indolent photographers get off their lazy duffs, the world will clearly see the watermelon foot gear, the sticky knee-high molasses river, and that barnacle covered anchor and they will say, “Ahhh! Poor Running Moose. ”
I will feel immediately vindicated, so much so that I might actually consider running again. But only if my sneakers are ferret feces-free.
Well, it is now three days post-race and I still feel as if I have been run over by a truck. (And not a small fuel efficient truck, either, but a bone-crushing, planet-killing Hummer.) I’m seriously wanting to banish all running related objects from my life. Unfortunately, that would mean that I would be a naked, homeless wretch, and I hate when that happens. Truth be told, I haven’t a stitch of clothing that does not in some way scream “I’m a crazy runner! Look at me! Look at me!!” and the home office from which I write this post is filled to capacity with various running mementos. I couldn’t even live naked in my vehicle, as it currently sports a new bumper sticker courtesy of M. which proclaims “I heart 26.2″ And today I am decidedly NOT hearting 26.2. Twenty-six point two SUCKS, people. It leaves you battered and bitter and chafed.
On a happier note, however, I’m kind of secretly excited to still be in so much pain. It means that despite not reaching my goal I pushed hard and was not a total wuss. It also means that my long suffering family is catering to me even more than usual. My Mr.Moose is giving up more of the bed than usual to accommodate my aching gams, and he also seems to understand that said gams cannot quite fit securely behind my antlers ears when we’re um…um…playing contortionist. And the GirlMoose made me a delicious post-race cake and the BoyMoose hung the laundry, because even if I could walk down the stairs to the cellar, the idea of bending and stretching to hang the clothes is completely absurd. Completely absurd – kind of like running 26.2.
If the reader is imagining that BQ in this case stands for “Boston Qualifying”, then I, of course, am completely full of fecal matter. If, however, I am granted a bit of leeway with these letters, then I feel confident in stating that I did BQ today, again and again.
First and foremost, on multiple occasions today I Behaved Queerly. Case in point: In the midst of the constant stream of angry muttering, singing and cursing that I engage in whilst running, I saw a fellow runner wearing a GLER hat. (M. and I ran the Green Lakes Endurance Run, a fantastic but exhausting 50K, this past summer.) I was very excited to see someone, albeit a total stranger, who had also done this run, and so I maniacally yelled “GLER!! GLER!! GLER!!!” whilst pointing insistently and jabbing at my head. I imagined that I’d see a look of camaraderie on said runner’s face when he saw that I was sporting the same hat , but instead I just saw fear/revulsion. Could be because I was NOT wearing my GLER hat, but, instead, my trusty, crusty army hat. Oops. Sorry, Runner-Who-I-Frightened.
Another example of my stellar ability to BQ today: Beverage Quaffing. Today I drank dozens and dozens of cups of water and Gatorade (although I did reject the beer offered near Mile 24 by the tie-dyed raucous drunkards.) If there was a medal given for the most beverages quaffed I would surely be the only logical recipient. Ha! In your face, you lesser consumers!!
A shameful example of today’s BQ: Big Quitter. It’s sad, but true that today I basically threw in the towel. I pride myself on being mentally if not physically tough, but today’s events proved that that is absolutely not the case. When it got painful and I grew tired, I allowed myself to walk. And of course the more I walked, the more unlikley it became that I would meet my goal. By Mile 13, I knew I’d not BQ, but I still imagined a PR was in my future. By Mile 20, I knew the PR was not likely, so I merely hoped to finish in less than four hours. Big Quitter that I am, I didn’t even accomplish that. I Bonked Quickly, people.
Another BQ: Beneficent Quartet. OK, so technically we are not a quartet as H. is living abroad, and M. is soon on to greener pastures, but in the unlikely event that we could all assemble on the same continent to run a race, then Team Yonker is a force with which to be reckoned. J. and M. were awesome today, handily meeting their half marathon goal. They inspire, train and encourage me, all the while protecting my cowardly ass from fierce dogs and graciously giving me the solo hotel bed. I lurve you guys!
Which leads me to my last and final BQ: Beastly Quandry. Should I even bother to continue the running madness? Is it even sane to devote so much time and energy in an attempt to meet a goal that may be completely unattainable for me? Because frankly, when I think about how much time I’ve spent over the past 18 weeks, I get a Bit Queasy.
Well, it’s now just two days ’til the Buffalo Marathon, and I feel woefully ill prepared. I MUST do the following:
1. Locate/acquire essential pharmaceuticals including Immodium, Advil, BodyGlide, and Peanut Butter Power Bars. (Even in their generic forms, the aforementioned magic potions should serve to keep me relatively feces-, pain-, chafe-, and hunger-free.)
2. Sleep, stretch, eat pasta. Sleep, stretch, eat bread. Sleep, stretch, eat potatoes. Sleep, stretch…
3. Pack my mini stapler and my laminated 3:45 pace bracelet.
4. Pound my head against the nearest wall repeatedly and with great vigor for even dreaming that I might somehow possibly finish a marathon in 3:45.
5. Berate myself for not having acquired a pace tattoo, which would negate my need to pack a mini stapler. (Because if you’ve ever used a laminated pace bracelet, then you know that sweat has an uncanny and sinister way of seeking out the tiny staple holes in the pace bracelet, filling said tiny holes, and causing the paper to swell to ten times its size. My pace bracelet is generally a soggy, unreadable mess past Mile 15, but I still refer to it often, if only to direct my curses and scowls somewhere.)
6. Create, steal or borrow an effective mantra. I’m kind of partial to “Suck my dick” , but it doesn’t exactly leave me feeling warm and fuzzy inside. (I’m not suffering from penis envy – I’m just trying to draft on G.I. Jane’s mental and physical toughness.)
7. Remove all race pins from my much maligned running hat. I lurve my grungy, battered, army hat but every second counts, people, and those Boilermaker pins must weigh at least 12 ounces.
8. Pray for at least partial sun today, so that I can wash and hang to dry my running clothes, including my sweet new running socks. (Thanks again, M!)
9. Cut my gnarled, grotesque toe nails, lest they poke canyon sized holes in my aforementioned sweet new running socks.
10. Purchase new ear pods for my iPod, as the thought of running 26.2 miles without the melodious inspiration of “Come On, Eileen” and “I Will Survive” is clearly absurd.
So my ghost writer M., has been gracious (Or perhaps the more accurate word might be “coercive”?) enough to not only set up this blog, but to assume my identity and to post as me since this blog’s inception. She’s kind like that. I thought the time was right, however, to finally make my presence known and to begin posting on my own before she completely jinxes me with all this BQ talk. Stop the bravado, M! Don’t anger the BQ gods with all that nonsense!! (I have a theory that intense training coupled with equal amounts of modesty is the only way to appease the gods, and thereby qualify…either that or wake up as a 20-year-old Kenyan.)
In five short days, M. and J. and I will be making our pilgrimage to Buffalo, and it ain’t to check out the waterfall, people. Instead, we’ll be running the Buffalo Marathon for the third straight year. I’m hoping to shave off twelve and one half minutes, which coincidentally happens to be the very amount of time that the aforementioned Kenyans will reach the Mile 3 marker – damn these pokey American genes of mine. My plan to reduce my time by 12 1/2 minutes has been relatively simple: Completely shun my long suffering family in favor of training runs six days per week for the last 18 weeks. I now have a closer realtionship with my Garmin than I do with my kin. (In my defense, his name is Vic and he’s nearly irresistible. You’d be smitten, too, after one look at his bold, sleek frame.) In addition to shunning my family, I am currently shunning lettuce and all other nutritious yet sinister foods that may end up half digested in my running shorts on marathon day. So repeat after me: No Family + No Lettuce + 18 Weeks of Hal Higdon’s Boot Camp = a tiny, tiny, infinitesimal chance of maybe, possibly, hopefully BQ-ing.
Zzzzz…….Time to go snuggle with my Vic and dream happy thoughts of a worldwide lettuce blight.
This weekend is the Buffalo Marathon. This will have been my third year running this race in a row…and we’re all crossing our fingers that this will be *the year* for me to qualify for Boston.
The week leading up to the race is always one of great anticipation. The goal is to get several nights of really good sleep before the race, since normally the night before the race I’m unable to sleep at all. It’s nerves, of course, and my teeny weeny bladder, that keep me up all night. So I try my best to get as much sleep as possible in the week before.
zzzz.
Oh… what? Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. As I was saying, the week before. In addition to getting plenty of sleep, there’s the whole business of carb-loading. I also spend the week before the race ingesting large bowls of pasta and peanut butter sandwiches. Lettuce becomes a bad word in my house, as does anything with too high a fiber content. The idea is to avoid food that will do anything to knock ye old bowels off their schedule. Lettuce happens to be one of those culpritous foods.
And yes, “culpritous” is a perfectly cromulent word. It means “having culprit-like qualities.”
Also on the to-do list for this week: print and laminate pace bracelets, figure out what the hell I’m actually going to wear on race day (which includes shoes…I still have not decided which shoes will carry me the 26.2 miles this time around), and eat some birthday cake. ‘Cause my birthday is tomorrow, beeyotches.
What do I want for my birthday?? I want to BQ, TYVM.
And the last thing I’ll do is work on hinting to my running buds that I want new running socks for the race. I think I’m partial to the thin Balega Enduros. I do not, however, want those crazy Injinis.
Some links for race-week prep:
9 Things You Must Do Before the Marathon
Psyching Up Before the Race (or, being psycho before the race–heheh)
I’m happy this morning to see that Runner’s Lounge has an interview with Dean Karnazes. I am continuously impressed with Karno; next to his running feats (or stunts), my own running aspirations seem downright normal.
So when my family suspects I’ve lost my mind as I register for yet again another marathon, or better yet, another ultra, I can just point to Dean and say, “No, THAT’S frickin’ crazy. Not me.”
A quick front-end word on this blog: It is being forced upon me against my will.
I am hilarious, fun, generous and an amazing runner-friend. My other runner friends blog, and they insist that I blog as well. So they have put this blog together and have threatened to post in my stead until I relent and take it up myself.
