Um, Wow

Periodically I Google myself to see what information about me is out there. I did that today and discovered a few things. First, if you have a Facebook profile, it is the first result that comes up, with a little more information than you think would be available without an open profile. Second, as usual, the state bar and the Legal Writing Instructors Institute are continuing to conspire to provide too much personal data about me on the Internet.

The third discovery stopped me cold. The result shown was for linmark sports, and the page was for Clean Air 5k awards.

I knew I ran the Race for Clean Air well. I was thrilled with the result – 3.1 miles in 26 minutes and 17 seconds. That’s an average pace of 8.29 minutes per mile. I’ve never done any race, ever, in which my pace averaged less than nine minutes per mile. I knew I placed at #366 for the race, out of 1200 participants. Again, I’m not sure I’ve ever cleared the top half of a race before. I checked these results online a few hours after the race. It never occurred to me to check the awards listing. Not back-of-the-pack me.

But there it was, about the fourth or fifth entry down of my Google results. Awards. I clicked on it. For each age/gender division, there are three winners and two honorable mentions. My division, women 35-39, had the first three winners listed and me in the number four spot. I assumed there were only six or so women running in this division until I looked up its size: 51. I placed fourth out of 51. If this race were four months from now, I would have won an award in the 40-44 division.

I’m beyond astonished at this. I’ve always been the lumbering girl in the back who runs just to participate. I don’t actually win. Who is this new me and where did she come from? Man, I freaking love Google.

No Cracking Up!

Spring race season is upon us! It actually began in March, but my first race of the season is this coming Saturday. The Race for Clean Air is a nice little 5k along West River/MLK Drive (or is it Kelly? I can never remember). The following Friday evening I will do the four-mile out-and-back party run (Kelly Drive to a bar). And then the big behemoth: The Broad Street Run. This is ten miles of scenic delights for which I’ve been training like crazy over the past four months.

When I say that I have been training like crazy, the insanity is a literal reference. I have made a lot of progress, and I am deeply paranoid about protecting it. I’m running as many miles per week as I did to train for the marathon, but I’ve pushed myself to get faster and faster. I have a new ability to run better than I ever have before. That ability is like a fragile little egg nearing hatching, and I am the mother bird perched on top of it chirping furiously at any threats. An example: at Passover dinner, my poor brother-in-law innocently backed up his chair over my toe. Was I magnanimous and forgiving of this purely unintended and ultimately harmless mistake? Nope. After my hugely theatrical yelp, I shot him death rays from my eyes through the remainder of dinner, all the while hissing “Broad Street Run” under my breath.

The basis for my fear is simple. When it comes right down to it, my progress at this year’s Broad Street Run is now mostly out of my hands. I’m trained. I’m ready. I’m worried. This list of things that could ruin the race dances through my head. I could have a bicycle crash, like the one that kept me out of last year’s race. I could sprain my extremely weak ankle. It could be hot and humid on race day, conditions that destroy me. Even the threat of thunderstorms that morning will impair my run, and could keep me out of the race entirely. Sadly, I’m not even trying to get into the top half of the 16,000 expected participants. I just want to shave a few minutes off my best time.

So, I’m nuts. I’ve let my leisure, supposedly stress-reducing activity utterly unnerve me. I can’t even imagine what a wreck I’ll be if I run New York in November. Oy vey.

Semi-Sweet

I'm back from Slothville. As promised, I did all of the 32 miles of running I had planned for last week. I should be feeling fit and happy. I do not, and the problem isn't lack of exercise. It's chocolate. Large quantities of chocolate. Embarrassing quantities of chocolate.

To say I have a sweet tooth is the understatement of the ages. I love all sweets -- cookies, cakes, jelly beans, marshmallows, hard candies. And at the very pinnacle is chocolate. I am absolutely, utterly, completely obsessed with chocolate in all its lovely forms. Drinking chocolate, fudge, mocha coffee drinks, brownies, cakes, icing, the range of straight chocolate all the way from Hershey's Milk to 70+% artisan bars -- it's all good. I can even find use for the bastard cousin that is white chocolate. I am extremely well educated on all of these varieties. I have strong opinions of each, ranging from yum to angels have appeared, and they're singing. It is my long-held dream to open a chocolate shop here in Philly, so I can derive a living from being a chocolate guru.

Combining this obsession with a profound lack of self control means I should never be left alone in the house with more than an ounce of the stuff. The only willpower I am capable of demonstrating is not buying it in the first place. Once I have ownership, game over. This week, however, is Passover, which means I am baking numerous items that require semi-sweet chips. I bought the first bag and ate the whole thing before I even broke out the pans. I bought a second larger bag that was supposed to be a sufficient size for all of my Passover baking needs. "Supposed to be" is the key phrase in the preceding sentence. I need a 12-step program.

So, despite running 32 miles last week, I am a big pile of flab. Ever see a defensive lineman grab a fumbled ball, run it in for a touchdown and then need oxygen for the rest of the game? That's how I felt on my Sunday long run. Which I celebrated completing with a Snickers bar.

Lazy Days

I haven't been updating the blog because I have free time. It is the paradox that defines me; the more availability I have, the less I do. It's easy for me to run 30 miles a week, update the blog and still get my laundry done when I'm working 70 hours a week. When I'm off from work, however, I can only manage to sit on the couch, eat junk food with messy hair all the while wondering what I'm going to wear tomorrow because nothing's clean.

I've run five miles this week. All week. Happily, there is the handy concept of "recovery time," which allows you to back off for a short period while you're in training so as to give your body some time to heal. I've made an ex post facto declaration that this week was a recovery week. I'm ignoring the more inconvenient facets of the recovery concept, i.e., that it's really meant for people training at least a few hours a day and that you should cross-train rather prop your feet up on the sofa while munching on Cadbury Cream Eggs.

Tomorrow morning, I start fresh. I really mean it.

Red Light, Green Light

My long weekend runs over the past few months have all followed essentially the same route. I run from my office at 17th and Market to the Art Museum, and then I follow some variation of the Kelly Drive loop. Once I'm on Kelly, of course, I'm on a trail, and I only have to stop when the non-Kelly regulars send their dogs/kids/skateboards/scooters/bikes/strollers/streetsigns (?) directly into my path without looking. Kelly can be a particularly annoying obstacle course, but it's worth it to avoid street lights.

This is especially true for me at the moment, because I currently am suffering the wrath of the red lights. My street light karma sucks. For the past few months, every time I run to or from the Art Museum, every single time I approach a light, it turns red. Sometimes it seems it doesn't even have a yellow in between the green and red, it just sees me and automatically seethes red.

I have been trying to figure out how I offended the Philadelphia street light grid (not sure yet whether this condition is local or national). I suspect it's from my bicycle rides. It's not that I don't respect the red light. I do, but I don't see the point waiting for it to turn green to go. I do slow down, and I certainly yield to traffic that has the right of way. Is this really so wrong? I don't mean offense, I'm simply trying to get to work.

Actually, I am normally a staunch defender of the lighting system. I am always helpfully reminding drivers, in very direct language that leaves no room for confusion, of the exact purpose of a green light. I probably use the phrase "GREEN means GO!!! M@#@@+%!R" more often than "excuse me." It is sad that rather than receiving commendation for this defense of the system, the lords of lighting give me retribution.

To the street lights of the world: I appreciate the vital role you play in regulating the traffic system. Thank you. Now can I get down the parkway uninterrupted?

Drunk Dodging

It was the Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day, late in the afternoon, and I was headed out for my long run. My route was from 16th and Market, down the Parkway and a full Kelly Drive loop. A lovely 10.5 miles in great running weather – high 40s, overcast, no wind. Of course I was dressed wrong. I think I will finally figure out proper winter layering after spring settles in for real.

I began seeing them immediately – the St. Patrick’s Day revelers. To be fair, most weren’t intoxicated yet, but they all had their game face on. Attired in a combination of slutty/trendy/comfort clothing, with a skip in their step and bright eyes that said “I’m going to get plastered tonight,” they were ready for their evening out.

I love/hate the drinkers when I’m running. My New Year’s Day tradition is to go for a run that takes me from South Philly across the Mummers Parade route, so drunk dodging is a sport I know well. I love them because, let’s face it, they’re funny, particularly the ones stumbling around like toddlers getting off the tilt-a-whirl. This is far more interesting than the collection of street signs and sidewalk cracks I usually see. I really love the ones wearing face paint, Mardi Gras beads and antennae with fuzzy shamrock tips who look at me as if I’m the one who’s strange. When they notice me, that’s the typical reaction, a quizzical “why would you do that rather than drinking?” look.

This brings me to the ones I hate. Ever notice that the drunkards who are truly amusing to the sober are the ones who don’t think they are being comical, and the ones who think they are hilarious are funny only to people who are similarly trashed? You will if you have to run past them only to have some Einstein yell out “look, I’m running too” and start to jog along side you to the hysterical reaction of his deeply impaired friends. Also, let’s face it, folks on the other side of six pints of beer and eight Jagermeister shots are not very mannerly. They step right in front of you, they hog the whole sidewalk without moving out of the way, they blow smoke in your face as you’re running past. Plus, my olfactory senses could do without the combination of alcohol, cigarettes and puke when I’m already gasping for air.

It’s all good, though, especially since I think I found the perfect compromise to this. Next month I am participating in a Friday night race that actually ends at a bar. I get to be a runner and a dodgee all in the same evening.

How It All Began

I’m Jill and I’m a runner. A slow runner. I was not born to run. As a kid, I was hopeless at anything athletic. I was the last kid picked for every team, and I flunked the Presidential Physical Fitness test every year it was given. The only race I could win was a cookie-eating contest .

I got into fitness around the time I turned 30. I was doing activities I liked: weight lifting, rowing, cycling. But I had trouble keeping the workout going when I got too uncomfortable. I needed a way to overcome this threshold. Running was perfect. I hated it and had no speck of natural ability. I figured that if I could teach myself to do something I despised from the very first step, then I would be good with the stuff I actually liked.

It evolved slowly for me. At first, I was miserable every run. Then, I started mostly tolerating them. After that, every once in a while, I would have a run I actually enjoyed. I started participating in some 5-k races, bringing up the rear and scrounging for whatever bananas remained at the obligatory food tent. Even in the smallest races, I almost always timed it poorly and had to walk a bit to finish.

So one day I am riding my bicycle to work when I hit a bump in the road and get ejected quite handily from my seat. I’d like to say the damage to my ankle wasn’t exacerbated by the pull-on high heel boots I was wearing, nor that I had to yank them off because I refused to cut them. Whether it was because of the fall itself or the fashion gods, I had a high ankle sprain. No running for at least six weeks.

A strange thing happened. Every time I saw a runner trot by, I was jealous. I told myself that this was because I hated my crutches and I was feeling increasingly out of shape. But the runners would bop past, all springy and bouncy and enjoying the outdoor breezes in their hair. For the first time, I realized I wanted to run not to achieve some other purpose, but simply because I wanted to run.

Since then, I’ve completed too many runs between 5-k and 10-k to count, the Broad Street Run (10 miles) three times, five half marathons and three full marathons. The first two marathons I had to walk a lot to get to the finish. The third one, Philly this past November, was my breakthrough. I ran the whole thing. I had to back off my pace a bit for the last five miles, but I did not walk. I’ve overcome so many injuries that the PTs at Novacare just shake their heads when they see me coming. I used to be shocked when I had an enjoyable run. Now I’m surprised by the bad ones.

I’m hungry to see what I can really do. How fast can I get? I’ll never get a shoe deal, but maybe, just maybe, I can elevate myself to the middle of the pack, where there is a plethora of yellow bananas to choose from at the end of a race. Simple goals, maybe, but not so when you consider where I began.