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I had the day off from work today, and with a very busy weekend fast approaching it seemed only sensible to do my long run today. There is nothing sensible, however, about running 18 miles in high humidity while wearing substandard clothing. The good news: I finished. The bad news: I am suffering from what can only be described as Extreme Boob Chafe. I know that most female runner/readers are all too familiar with the horizontal band of boob chafe which circles the body right at the bottom of the jog bra. I have found that, for me, certain bra combos can curtail or even eliminate this band. Today, however, in a fit of utter insanity/masochism, I wore the worst jog bra combination possible – my extra-large Nike bra paired with my el cheapo generic grey piece-o’-shit bra. Truth be told, my breasts are considerably smaller than the average Bing cherry and since that extra-large bra had nothing substantial to hold, I guess it figured (‘Cause my clothes are sentient, don’t you know?) “Why NOT ride up and down for 18 miles, eroding the shit out of this flat-chested bitch?”
The discomfort I felt while running was nothing compared to the agony I later experienced in the shower. ‘Cause boob chafe is a gross, nasty condition and it does NOT like soap. Or hot water. Or exposure to the air. And it REALLY doesn’t like to be toweled dry.
Extreme Boob Chafe is a serious disease, people, and it MUST be eradicated. It just amazes me that those morons at the World Health Organization are wasting precious time on trivial concerns like malaria and malnutrition when E.B.C. is afflicting the running community at an alarming rate. Wake up, WHO! I am a scrofulous mess, and I demand a cure, damn it.
BTW: If you are not a regular reader, but rather a pervert researcher who stumbled upon this blog after Googling “boob shower masochism”, you probably didn’t find exactly what you were anticipating here. So sue me.
So if the Red Cross were to collect my blood today (which I’d never allow, BTW, as my cowardice is surpassed only by my meanspirited-ness) they’d not get a pint or two of iron-rich A-positive, but gallons and gallons of lactic acid. While it may appear that my skin is covering and containing muscles, bone and blood it is actually acting as an enormous Ziploc bag of the aforementioned acid. One puncture in the bag, people, and I could spray downtown Frostburgg with enough lactic acid to completely tucker out the entire populace. I am TIIIIRED. And those bastards at FIRST care nothing of my stellar performance yesterday, and instead believe that I should run 20 miles at my marathon pace plus sixty seconds. Surely they jest.
I persevered, though, and somehow managed to pound it out. (Again, SOLO, as J. and M. STILL haven’t come to their senses and abandoned their families and careers to come out and play with me. Traitorous she-devils.)
It was a fairly action-packed run. A colleague (Which is far different from a “college”, BTW.) drove by and was kind enough to not heckle me whilst he effortlessly drove his vehicle up a hill that nearly proved the death of me. I met a new resident of Frostburgg, who originally hails from the Liberal Little City Chock Full of Prestigious Universities and Relocated Hippies. I had a scary dog incident whereby a doberman who stands taller than my entire house thought it’d be fun to make me whimper. Probably that Dakota dog who lives up the road told him about me. In between my four loops I stopped at the ol’ moose lodge to pee, eat my weight in Strawberry Newtons, and refill the water bottle. I also used this downtime to rid my soles of myriad squashed snails and slugs. ‘Cause due to my comically oversized shoes and the sheer volume of snails on the roads today, I must have killed billions. And they all had those wussy shells, so instead of making that satisfying “Pop!” produced by bubble wrap, they just kind of anticlimactically fizzled to their deaths. Don’t hate me, snailophiles, but my clown shoes are probably responsible for the extinction of entire species. Whatever.
According to Vic, I burned 2,553 calories today. I will therefore spend the remainder of the day holding down the couch while ingesting large volumes of high calorie foods. Not escargot, though – I hear that’s in short supply these days.
Today BoyMoose and I ran one of my very favorite races. (In an effort to maintain my schweet, schweet secret identity, I’ll not be revealing its true name, so it will heretofore be known as the Bog Rodent 5K and 10K. Just suck it up, Spidey fans, ’cause like Peter Parker, I don’t care to be outed.)
This is a great, great race for several reasons. First and foremost, it is relatively close to Frostburgg, so one need not rely on J.’s Tom Tom GPS or M.’s insanely accurate internal compass to locate the site of the Bog Rodent Run. (Good thing, too, as both J. and M. chose to shun this run in favor of ridiculously pesky, time-sucking pursuits like “family time” and “career building.” Jeesh. It’s a sad, sad day in the running world when one lets silly things like kids and work take precedence over sweating like a dog amidst hundreds of strangers. Fear not – I’ll definitely be talking to those two to help them to reprioritize and to come to their senses.)
Another reason this run is one of my favorites is because it’s just far enough away from the city to deter the real runners from participating, which therefore increases the odds for us slowpokes of winning an age group award. (By “the city”, of course, I refer to that place 30 miles south of Frostburgg where the residents proudly claim to “bleed orange”. Orange blood – WTF? Must be that their proximity to one of the nation’s most polluted bodies of water has caused them to mutate. Where’s Erin Brockovich when you need her?)
The turnout at this year’s Bog Rodent was impressive. I located BoyMoose amidst the crowd, and he quickly flashed me the antler sign as the gun went off for the 5K. While the Boy was running, I spent my time in the rest rooms, wishing I had eaten two individual AlphaBits cereal pieces and a bowlful of Immodium, rather than the other way around. Stupid, stupid bowels.
27:22 minutes later BoyMoose’s fast young hooves carried him across the finish line. Yay, BoyMoose, for what I believe may be a PR!
Now for the amazing news: I ROCKED today! Despite my treacherous bowels, I managed a very nice PR, shaving nearly three minutes off of my previous best 10K. In fact, I was the fourth person with ovaries to cross the finish line!! I finished in exactly 47 minutes, which means I averaged a 7:34 minute/mile. In your face, Uta Pippig!!! Immediately after crossing the finish line, I visited the rest rooms yet again, and loudly cursed their conspicuous lack of both bidets and washing machines. ‘Cause half ply toilet paper and cups of water can only do so much, people.
At the awards ceremony I received, as I did last year, the highly coveted and very elegant Bog Rodent ceramic coffee mug. I’m hoping the race committe will decide to expand to other pieces of table wear in future runs, as I’d dearly love an entire service for eight of Rodent related dishes. This would make a fine heirloom, I’m thinking, for future generations. ‘Cause who doesn’t want to look at rodents as they empty their plates of AlphaBit-Immodium casserole, that’s what I’d like to know.
So this morning a Catholic priest solemnly uttered a holy benediction to a congregation of runners made up to resemble long dead cemetary escapees.
If this fundamental component was conspicuously absent from your last 5K, then you better come to your senses, mister, and shake your head with regret over the fact that you just missed the 2008 Shaun Luu Zombie 5K.
I am not even kidding when I tell you that said priest, in priestly garb complete with collar, addressed us as “My brother and sister zombies.” Although the priest’s role in today’s event initially seemed very odd, it all began to make perfect sense when I remembered Mr.Mooses’s firmly held conviction that Jesus was a zombie!! It’s true! Think about it: Years of Catholic school left me not just with a severe aversion to plaid clothing, but with the knowledge that Jesus rose from the dead, and if that is not the text book definition of zombie-ism then I don’t care to know what is.
At the start of the run, M., J., BoyMoose and I shambled off in true zombie fashion with a veritable hordeof fellow runners. (When I write ”horde”, remember, please, that I am the resident of an itsy, bitsy nearly invisible town, so think not of thousands, but more like a number more than 32 but fewer than 36.) We zombie runners were sporting a LOT of face paint which, given the heat, ran faster than we did.
The best thing about this run:
Very awesome t-shirt. (What’s not to lurve about a running zombie with half his brain exposed, sporting bib #13?)
The worst thing about this run:
The realization that this will be our last Team Yonker run for who knows how long. (If I haven’t written yet about M.’s imminent departure, it’s only because it makes me too sad to think about it.)
I went out solo this AM to do my six mile tempo run, and all seemed right with the world. It was a gorgeous Friday morning with a really decent temperature, and the wild flowers and birds and deer that I saw all made me appreciate nature in a way that I rarely do. Then, of course, all hell broke loose. So screw nature, people, because it’s not just fuzzy bunnies and harmless Bambis out there- there are killers on the road. This particular killer answers to the name “Dakota” and he is a mean ass husky. Though we pass him daily, this is the first time I’ve seen him loose from his chain and roaming free. He growled and barked and menaced me for several minutes while I did what I do best – whined plaintively. Finally his owner (heretofore referred to as “Irresponsible Asswipe”) came out and hollered not at the dog but at ME, Pathetic Cowering Runner.
Irresponsible Asswipe: “He ain’t gonna hurt ya. He’s a baby – only four months old! He just wants to say “hello” “.
Interesting- when MY babies were four months old, they never barked and growled only when the Gerber sweet potatoes weren’t being shoveled in fast enough to suit them. The most dangerous thing they ever did was to occasionally squirm during changing time in such a way that I pricked my finger with their diaper pin. This dude’s “baby” wants to chew off large pieces of me, and then shit me back out. Baby, my aching ass.
Irresponsible Asswipe made several very feeble attempts to call back the dog, and eventually, when I was nanoseconds away from becoming completely hysterical with fear, he grabbed Demon Dog’s collar and dragged him home.
My intense fear of the entire canine family (’cause it’s not just BIG dogs I fear, but ALL dogs. Sometimes even slightly overweight cats will set me off if they look at me kind of funny.) is seriously affecting my running. A stellar 5-mile loop, my previous favorite, is now dead to me because of a similar dog related trauma. Although the ever brave M. and J. do sometimes coax me into doing this route with them, it is one that I would NEVER dare to attempt alone. And when I run it with them, a certain procedure and ritual must be followed:
First, M. and J. must be prepared with jog bras packed full of Pupperoni. (Note that neither J. nor M. own a dog and that this canine snack was purchased by M. with the sole purpose of bribing mean dogs into eating IT, rather than US.)
Next, M. and J. must rearrange our typical running order so that I am securely placed in the middle of them. In other words, we make a sandwich, and I am the chickenshit filling to their whole wheat bread.
Finally, M. and J. must mutter kind words in soothing voices, things like “It’s OK. I don’t see him at all. Nope! No mean dogs here!” whilst pretending to not be completely disgusted by my incredible display of cowardice.
Tomorrow I will NOT have to face my fears. We will run the (dog-free) Zombie 5K, as it is my firm belief that the typical zombie is downright warm and fuzzy compared to the canines of Frostburgg.
[Editor's Note: Originally, this post was written for M's blog. But now that I have my own blog, I can post it here. What happened, you see, is that cool Sally Bergesen from Oiselle sent her some free schwag to review, and she kindly shared the wealth.]
Spring has sprung! Today [this was back in March] the temps rose to a balmy 46 degrees, and there was actual SUNSHINE! For the first time since November, I ran in shorts and shunned my reflective running vest. (I’ve always thought that vest makes me look less like a conscientious, safe runner and more like an AWOL construction worker, anyhow.) I wore my sweet, new Oiselle Roga running shorts and my most comfy hoodie and off I went for five quick miles. My legs are scarily unattractive after a winter of minimal sunshine but maximal varicose vein growth, but the pleasant appearance of my new shorts helped to balance things out. They’re a sage green color (the shorts – not my legs) and they’re constructed of a very light breathable material. They have an inner pocket, built in undies to contain my junk and a secret tiny mantra printed right on the inside just above my butt: “Go fast and take chances.” I LOVE this mantra. It’s like I have unrevealed mojo that those other runners are not privy to. Suckers. Now I will surely beat them.
These shorts performed nicely for me, and even garnered a compliment from my clothes conscious 17-year-old daughter. She deems every article of clothing I own to be unbearably frumpy (note the aforementioned reflective running vest which I sometimes wear not to appear more visible, but just because), but even she said, “Hey! Those are cool shorts.”
I set out for my morning run today, hoping to do 14 miles at a 9:20 pace. (Those FIRST bastards seem to think I should be doing 15 today, but guess what? Not gonna happen. I figured I’d average that 15 with the 13 from last week that I’ve already missed due to my marathon-induced melancholy. And ask me if I give a shit that by screwing with the specifics of my schedule, it is no longer “scientifically based”. I don’t – give a shit, that is.)
Let’s just say I did NOT meet my mileage goal for the day. Here in the itty bitty village of Frostburgg (Few Residents. Obscene Snowfall. Tenuous Balance of Unwashed Rednecks and Guardians of Goodness), we are experiencing a heatwave. The last of the snow just melted, so we Frostburggians are now in the thick of our one other season – summer. (What’s that you say? What about spring and fall? Can’t say as I’m familiar with them.) Summer here lasts from June 1 – Aug. 31 and is unbearably hot and humid, and then it’s back to the blizzard-like conditions that we know and love. And I generally welcome the return of winter, as I would waaaaay rather be dodging snowplows and de-icing my eyelashes, even in late May, than to run in this heat.
The pros of running in incredible heat are few: I can use my salt encrusted arms as a conveniently located salt lick. I can take off my shirt and run in my jog bra without COMPLETELY offending the Guardians of Goodness. (‘Cause I lean more towards the “Unwashed Redneck” type, myself.)
The cons are myriad: I sweat like nobody’s business, and my glasses slide down my face with annoying regularity. I sweat like nobody’s business, and as said sweat funnels between my ass cheeks, it stains my shorts in a pattern seen only in the incontinent. I sweat like nobody’s business, and my need to rehydrate often causes me to make some very unwise choices. (Let’s just say that despite countless near misses/messes, I never seem to realize that Gatorade is comprised entirely of crushed up laxatives. Drinking this delicious but deadly fluid WILL make my shorts muddy.)
So I didn’t get 15 done, but I did manage to pound out 11at a pace somewhere between 8:55 – 9:15. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll now be retiring to my couch to lay prone and sedentary until winter returns.
So despite all claims to the contrary, and despite ALL common sense, I am now actively looking forward to my next marathon. I’ve decided that I want something different from the Hal Higdon training schedule that I’ve used in the past. FIRSTcomes highly recommended by some, and so I checked out their site today. (Schweet!! Drum roll, please…I have just this very second created an actual link on the interwebs! Look at that baby – it’s blue and underlined and I believe it might actually work!! Soon my tech skills will rival those of Bill Gates. I will call myself Gil Bates, and I will use my skills for some really evil shit – I’m not sure what, exactly, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.)
Anyway, back to my new training schedule. OMG…Screw whatever that FIRST acronym really stands for because Fucked up, Incapacitated Runners – Seriously Tired is all that comes to mind. I mean it sincerely when I say that I immediately took to my bed upon reading this schedule. I’m sure they mean well and all, but daaaamn. Based on my best 5K time of 23:15 (try to contain your jealousy now, Paula Radcliffe) these FIRST madmen calculate that my “easy” pace is 8:48/mile. HA!!!! What’s easy about that, I ask you? Sometimes it takes me eight minutes and 48 seconds just to complete simple tasks like putting on my left sock or clearing my lashes of those crunchy eye booger things. I certainly can’t be expected to run an entire MILE in that limited time! And get this - my short tempo pace should be a 7:12/mile. Again, I must reiterate: HA!!! ‘Cause I’ve done a 7:12 mile exactly NEVER in my life. This insane schedule also calls for five twenty-milers, the last of which is at a pace just 15 sec./mi. slower than my predicted marathon pace. I’m exhausted already. Freakishly Insane, Really Sadistic Torturers is who they are. It’s apparent that I will have to use my well honed techie skills to peruse the interwebs for a schedule more suitable to my abilities.
So here I am ready for my daily run. All I lack is my Vic and my water bottle, and I’ll be ready to hit the road. What’s that you say? I’m seriously glamorous?…and gorgeous?… and beautifully attired? Awww, shucks. (Insert modestly downcast eyes and scuffing toes here.) Mind you, this is just one of my typical running outfits. I alternate it with my extensive collection of Chanel gowns and Manolo Blahnik stillettos. I sometimes ditch my diamond tiara, however, when I’m feeling especially hard core. That’s me, alright – seeeerious glamour-puss. Okay – I admit my outfit has its drawbacks.The heels slow me down just a weee bit, and I hear that a good jog bra (or three) might hold the girls in place. I’m also thinking that the corset back could be the reason behind some unusual chafing I’ve been experiencing, as well as the reason for my utter inability to fill my lungs with even a minimum amount of oxygen. But who needs air when you look this beautiful?
Alright, already. Wipe the dubious expression from your face. It’s obvious that my idea of fashion means that my running shirts are relatively stain and stank-free, while my running shorts have no discernible muddy chunks falling from their baggy leg holes. Clearly, I lack the glamour gene. This is the GirlMoose and NOT the Running Moose, as I have never looked half this lovely on my best, best day.
Well, Brightroom recently posted photos from my ill-fated attempt to BQ, and it appears that though I remain highly unphotogenic, I was unfettered on race day by any noticeable impediments. (See previous bitter post “Brightroom, Frightroom.”) I will NOT be posting said unphotogenic photos here for two good reasons:
Number 1: I am a senseless, bumbling Luddite, incapable of providing a link. (Although the fact that I just correctly used the word “linK” in context of the mysterious interwebs is HUGE progress for me.)
Number 2 and most importantly: I am paranoid by nature, and fear that my legion of loyal readers, if provided with my race bib number, will cyber-stalk me and learn my true identity. And for all you know, it could be a sweet, sweet identity. Like, I could be Posh Spice or Paris Hilton or maybe somebody REALLY glamorous and influential like a super-delegate. So kindly back off, people, as no pics will be forthcoming. (That last comment was directed to YOU, M. No using your super human techie skills to reveal my identity – such attempts will not be tolerated.)
