Post-Marathon Recovery Guide For Dummies

I’ve now runstaggered through seven marathons, religiously adhering to my training schedules and to the advice of the experts.  I have followed, to the letter, suggestions on how to run, how to rest, what to eat and what to wear.  If Hal Higdon had suggested I drink of the purple Kool Aid rather than of the Gatorade, and use coffee flavored Gu in place of BodyGlide, then that’s what I’d do, and willingly, too. I’ve demonstrated unwavering compliance, people, and all it’s earned me has been some fairly humiliating finish times, and some seriously compromised toenails. I’ve now decided that the “experts” can chew the stains from my muddy shorts, and have compiled my own list of essential marathon information. It begins the second you stumble across that finish line:  

1. Forget all that bullshit about walking and stretching after you cross the finish line.  Instead, fall to the ground and pout.  Resist as the race volunteers attempt to remove your timing chip…but only if you can resist without actually moving or stretching.

2. Scowl and shake your fist angrily at all those who managed to BQ.  They are clearly steroid addicted cheaterpants. 

3. Scoff in derision whilst reading Hal Higdon’s advice on recovering from a marathon: “Generally, it takes a minimum of two to three weeks for the body to recover from the strain of running 26 miles 385 yards. Return too quickly and you increase your risk of injury. Some experts suggest resting one day for every mile you run in the marathon, thus 26 days of no hard running or racing! Others suggest one day for every kilometer, thus 42 days rest.”  

4. Continue scoffing while you blatantly disregard Hal’s “expert” advice and begin running just six days post-marathon.  Ignore the intense pain in both knees and your right hip, and proudly wave a “Hal Higdon is a known panty waist” banner while you run.

5. Remember that pain is NOT your body’s way of telling you that something is amiss.  Rather, it is weakness leaving the body.  Yup…proven fact, people - just weakness leaving the body. 

6. Don’t even THINK about trading in your battered, tread-less running shoes for ones that have actual cushioning and intact soles.

7. Register for another marathon, preferably one that occurs within four weeks or less of your last marathon. ‘Cause you’re already really fucked up, so why the hell not?  

That’s right – mental midget/masochist that I am, I’ve registered for another marathon.  Even though my feet still look like this: 

 (And for God’s sake do NOT embiggen the picture or you’ll surely go deaf, dumb and blind.  And if you happen to be a foot fetishist, like most of my readers, I apologize for forever stealing your wood.)  

  

Loose Moose Volunteers

It is my firmly held conviction that community service and philanthropy are for losers.  If you currently are involved with the Red Cross, Habitat For Humanity or your local food pantry, you should probably knock it the fuck off and spend all those extra hours you’ll reclaim heckling the old or vandalizing a preschool. My idea of community service involves returning my water logged library books within six years of their due date, and not bitch slapping the uppity librarian when she begins mumbling about late fees and damages.  Community service means that I make most of my court mandated meetings with my parole officer, and that I verbally rather than physically assault the participants in Special Olympics. ’Cause it’s all about me, people. 

Somehow, though, I found myself volunteering at a local 10K yesterday.  (How this happened, I don’t know, but I blame J.) I was hoping we’d be assigned to a glamorous detail, like water distribution or maybe even chip removal. I wanted a fancy title like “Hydration Specialist” or “Finish Time Technician”, and a clipboard or whistle sure would have been nice, too.  Instead, those bastards assigned us to be human highlighters/cheerers.  We were issued THE most eye searing shirts you have ever seen, (imagine the color of a highlighting marker but at the intensity of a total solar eclipse…only much, much, much brighter) and then brusquely ordered to a corner.  Upon reaching our corner (and blinding several passersby who neglected to avert their gaze)  J. and I found it to be already crowded with fellow human highlighters.  We took it upon ourselves to position ourselves elsewhere on the route, and we settled in with our annoyingly loud bell.  It took forever before we got an opportunity to ring the bell, however, because apparently in the absence of J.’s TomTom GPS, we can get lost on a 10K route in a town we know well…even when we have a map.  WTF?  The 5K was half over before we realized that we were missing ALL of the action.  Our corner was one block PAST where the runners turned.  Umm…oops?

Hanging our heads in shame, we made our way back to our original corner, pretending not to notice the disgusted looks of our fellow human highlighters. To make up for our despicable performance, we cheered like crazy women and rang that annoying bell for all we were worth.  I yelled, at the top of my lungs, every cheesy thing I’ve ever heard during a run.  For the most part, the runners seemed very appreciative.  Our fellow human highlighters…not so much.  They eventually abandoned their post, which just compelled J. and I to cheer even louder. I must admit that this volunteering thing was actually pretty fun.  It felt really good to cheer people on, and to know that their experience was perhaps more fun or more memorable because of us. 

Has this experience resulted in a kinder, gentler Loose Moose?  Well, I may never become a regular volunteer for Girl Scouts of America, but I’ll probably stop mocking their uniforms and stealing their cookies…probably.

Race Report: Mochester Rarathon

Silly me – When I registered for this marathon I was under the mistaken impression that Mochester was a small city in Stew Nork Yate, thousands of miles north of the equator.  I imagined that Mochester’s late September weather would be temperate and crisp, and that if I perspired at all it would only be in anticipation of my imminent BQ.  Apparently, I was very, very wrong.  Mochester is actually a fiery helltown located on the surface of the sun.  But not our chilly cold ass sun – more like a red fucking giant sun…only MUCH, MUCH hotter. 

OK, so once again I have failed to BQ.  Once again, I have turned in a finish time far slower than my most previous time.  And once again, I’ve a ready excuse – we moose do NOT reside near the equator, and our antlers are piss poor at wicking sweat.

I’ll not tell you my exact finish time for two very good reasons:

#1  It’s fucking embarrassing.

#2  You’ll use it to cyberstalk me and learn my true identity.  (I know, because once when that obscenely gifted J-Money, writer and runner extraordinaire, was foolish enough to include her Boston Marathon finish time in a blog, I spent DAYS on the interwebs, determined to learn what her “J” stood for…and where she lived…and if I could pay her to be my BFF. When I learned her true identity, I was giddy with excitement.  I am currently making matching BFF bracelets for us to wear…Shhh – don’t tell.)

I will tell you that of my seven marathons, I’ve only finished two slower. And that I was over HALF AN HOUR away from BQ-ing.  Remember, though, that Mochester IS a fiery helltown.  It was 87 degrees at the finish, with insanely high humidity, so that it felt like 100 degrees.  One hundred degrees!!  I managed to stay on pace through Mile 13, but it was an enormous struggle.  After Mile 13, I slowed down considerably and walked quite a bit.  “Heat Warning” signs were posted everywhere, and race volunteers were very aggressive about properly hydrating the runners. I doused myself at each water stop and drank a minimum of four cups of water and/or Gatorade, but I still felt lightheaded and sickly.  I saw several runners down on the course.  Shortly after Mile 13, elite runner “Chichelle Mille” DNF’d.  As mean spirited as it sounds, I must admit I was a teeny bit excited about that.  J. and I had run into her that morning and she very arrogantly informed us that she was an elite runner.  And that she was likely to win the marathon.  And that she was an elite runner.  And, oh, did I mention that she was an elite runner?! Obnoxious, I tell you.  I later learned that she was one of over 50 marathoners to DNF, and that 150 people required medical treatment for heat related illnesses, while 9 were rushed to Strong Memorial for more serious conditions.  I also learned that at 12:30 race officials closed the course at Mile 20, and runners (more like “staggerers” by that point) were not allowed to finish at Frontier Field.  Stupid fiery helltown.

Despite my utter inability to BQ, I have to say that this was my second favorite marathon ever.  The Expo, the finish medal (which is large enough to be seen from space – Seriously blingtastic) and the goodie bag were all exceptional, as was the post-race spread.  And the people of Mochester are ridiculously kind.  J. met a fellow half marathoner as she waited (and waited…and waited…and waited) for me to come in, and when this Mochesteronian learned that J. had several blisters on her feet, and that I was likely struggling to finish, she insisted on sticking around to drive us back to our hotel.  J. and Stranger Danger cheered like wild women for me when I finally entered Frontier Field, and even though my finish time sucked, I felt absolutely euphoric…and giddy with dehydration.

I’m nearly ready to concede defeat to the marathon gods, as they have definitely made me their bitch again and again. Running can be a time consuming, painful, expensive pursuit, and I’ve nearly had enough.  I’ve decided to give it one more season, however, before I cry “uncle”.  I’ll run Buffalo in May, then Mochester again in a year.  Or maybe I shouldn’t take any chances with the heat and just register for the Antarctica Marathon immediately…

Mochester Mantra

J. and I leave tomorrow for scenic Mochester!!!  I somehow managed to survive the FIRST training, and believe that I may actually be a wee bit faster.  There was collateral damage, though, and it’s called my ass. Somehow it’s vanished.  Completely. Mr.Moose is pining away for all that junk that used to reside in my trunk, and I am unable to sit for more than two minutes without severe discomfort.  Even the most plush and comfy couch feels like a church pew designed by Torquemada. Stupid sensitive coccyx  – always wanting flesh and padding. I’ve promised Mr.Moose that the second I qualify for Boston, I will eschew running entirely, go on the bacon/gravy/cheesecake diet, and valiantly attempt to regain my ass. (Little does he know that I’ll likely be ninety  before I BQ, and that my newly regained ass will be arthritic and liver spotted. Have a blast fondling that geriatric granny ass, you dirty, dirty moose.)  

My colleagues, all of whom have asses, are a bit bewildered by the whole running thing.  They consider it an odd pursuit, at best.  One coworker surprised me yesterday, though, with an enormous gift bag of running goodies.  She included a variety of Power Bars, Propel, pasta and party horns.  (I’m thinking that the party horns are for Mr. Moose to use to celebrate the return of my ass… And wouldn’t that be a fine title for a movie?  The Return of My Ass.  It’s got the sound of either an Academy award winning movie with a stellar cast of talented thespians, or a nasty spunk-filled porno with a stellar cast of talented lesbians.  Either way, count me in. ‘Cause I kissed a girl…and I think I liked it.)

While my colleagues were showering me with schweet, schweet gifts my legion of faithful readers were…not.  Power Bars – zip.  Gatorade – zilch.  BodyGlide – nada.  Cases of Stain Stick to reduce the appearance of unsightly butt sauce stains on my favorite running shorts- zero.  WTF, people?  Though I’ve never revealed to you my name, hometown, or profession you know me far, far better than most people. And besides, who needs the persnickety little details like one’s name when you’re intimately aware of the really  important stuff – stuff like my intense fear of virtually everything…and the uncooperative nature of my bowels…and my love of the often neglected ellipsis. It’s not too late to redeem yourselves, though, you scurvy dogs. I’ll forgive this heinous oversight if you immediately, ASAP, send me your favorite running mantra.  ‘Cause mine are stale or ineffective.  And I’ve a feeling it’s mind candy I’ll need more than anything as I tackle the Mochester Rarathon the day after tomorrow.  So quit reading and send me your fuckin’ mantras already.  Thank you…thank you very much.

Race Bandit

I am a self proclaimed chicken shit.  When driving (which I try to avoid at all costs – ’cause I am a self proclaimed chicken shit) I freak out completely if I see a police car.  I drive much, much slower than the speed limit and slow down even more in the presence of The Man. I’ve been at my present job for four years now, and still hyperventilate when my supervisor says “Good morning!” or “Have a super day” or any other blatantly threatening, stress-inducing platitude. I’m terrified of dogs, lightbulbs, the Quaker Oats man, traffic circles, global warming, and Pop ‘n Fresh canisters. (I only wish that I was exaggerating for humor’s sake, but those aforementioned things really and truly frighten me.  Alot.) I am far too timid and cowardly to ever consider  banditting a race, but that’s nearly what I found myself doing yesterday. 

Mr. Moose and I headed to Pollutadaga Lake Park bright and early. He planned to menace the irradiated fish (which, incidentally, I fear) while I did my last long run before Mochester.  I knew that a 5K and a half marathon were taking place at Pollutadaga yesterday, but it’s a huge place and I planned to run a different route than the racers. All was well until our paths crossed.  The leading runners were approaching me in a fast moving pack.  I was facing them in the other lane, happily enjoying my tunes and periodically checking my right wrist (Victor McCrapBag Garmin – cursed be  thy name) to see if I was maintaining my 8:35/mile pace. I gave an enthusiastic thumbs up and a “Great job!” to the lead runners and got looks of disbelief in return.  I could almost hear those elite bastards thinking to themselves, “WTF?!  How did THAT get ahead of ME?  Inconthievable!!”  The shocked looks lasted only nanoseconds, before they figured out that I was certainly NOT in the lead. One look at my inefficient gait, my substandard form and my moisture-trapping attire, and these elite runners knew that I was NOT in contention for the lead. The race volunteers, however, were much easier to fool.  They cheered wildly and thrust Gatorade at me through every water stop.  And the more I resisted, the louder they cheered. It was shameful. Those silly, silly bastards truly thought that I was easily annihilating the competition. DUH!  Cotton t-shirt… legs substantially bigger than linguine…no race bib…and the biggest clue of them all – a speed fully TWO MINUTES SLOWER than that of the average runner in the speedy pack.  Those race volunteers were pleasant, but ridiculously misinformed. (And it’s just too easy to take a shot at Sarah Palin now, so just provide the name of someone else who is both pleasant and misinformed.  And who names her children Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig) 

Before the race bandit police lock me up with a Rottweiler for a cell mate, the Quaker Oat man as a captor and my only sustenance trapped in a Pop ‘n Fresh can with a hair trigger, let me publicly proclaim that I did not partake of any race supplies.  I had no water or Gatorade, nor did I require medical assistance.  I am therefore not a true bandit.  All I stole were the cheers and well wishes of ignorant race volunteers. So I am not a crook.

Frostburgg 5K

Each evening after dinner, Mr. Moose and I go for our daily stroll around the booming metropolis of Frostburgg. This is generally a veeery exciting event, with a climax involving the two of us spitting vigorously upon fish.  And no, “spitting on fish” is not a euphemism for something more fun. We actually stand upon a steel deck bridge, spitting into the creek below (Or “crick” if we’re feeling especially Appalachian that day) to tempt the fish to hit the surface.  Good, good times. And if your town has other leisure time options like these newfangled “parks” or “libraries” that we’ve been hearing ’bout, we couldn’t be less interested. ‘Cause nothing holds a candle to fish spittin’.

Tonight after tempting the fish with our very scrumptious phlegm ropes, Mr. Moose and I had an interesting encounter with a local. (Remember our town motto - Few residents, outrageous snowfall, tenuous balance of unwashed rednecks and guardians of goodness? Well, this local would be the grand high priestess of those “guardians of goodness.” Definitely NOT a fish spitter.) It seems that the local in question is interested in incorporating a 5K into a small village festival which is scheduled to occur in mid-October. Since M.’s recent abandonment desertion move abandonment, I am the ONLY runner in Frostburgg, so I guess she thought I could assist her with this endeavor.  HA!  Though I’ve now been running for about four years (not non-stop, of course.  That would be exhausting and Karnazes-esque), the only thing I’ve learned about races is that I will likely shit myself sometime between the start mat and the finish line. And this shit lump will make me walk funny, which I will try to pass off as a running induced limp or cramp. To no avail.

I certainly have no idea how to organize a run, or how to procure race essentials like chips, bibs, and stale bagels.  I did provide the Guardian of Goodness with a few names and numbers of local race organizers, but that small act depleted my every bit of civic mindedness.  It is freakin’ exhausting being a pillar of the community.  I’m spent, people. Let’s hope I recover just in time to participate in the Frostburgg 5K, but not so soon that I’ll be expected to actually provide assistance.  ‘Cause that’s just how we unwashed rednecks roll.