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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Magic Treadmill
Yesterday the magic treadmill gave me a gift. The magic treadmill exists among the back row of that particular equipment at my gym. There are the regular treadmills in the front row, normal but with the nice added feature of a fan built into the dashboard. The back row units, however, are special. Every time your foot hits the surface, the machine happily springs you back into the air with very little added assistance from you. The result is that you can go much farther and faster than you could have imagined, and run way better than you can actually do in real life. Less Rush Limbaugh, more Usain Bolt.
There is one particular treadmill in this row that shines. Perhaps the calibration is off, it is in a well-ventilated section of the gym or it could be the recipient of a spell cast by some personal trainer sorceress. Whatever the cause, the thing is unbelievable. According to its read-out, I am really, really fast. I know that, in fact, I am not really, really fast, but I do adore the ghost in the machine.
Some background, first. I took two days off of training before yesterday’s run. Lately, I have been running five days a week, with a rest day both before and after a long run on the weekend. This means that I never take two days in a row off. Last week, I had my fifth day, and longer run (eight miles) on Saturday, so Sunday was a rest day. I was set to begin my work-out week on Monday, but, in the immortal words of Greg Brady, something suddenly came up. I took the day off. I was extra rested heading into Tuesday’s run. Still, at the beginning, I wasn’t sure how it would go. I have been extremely tired lately because work has been insane, and I was not in a running kind of mood. I started out with my warm-up mile. In itself this is ridiculous. Outside, my warm-up mile is 10:30 minutes. Magic Treadmill? Eight minutes, forty-five seconds. Thirty six minutes later I finished my run. Five and a half miles in 44:45. Four and a half miles at an average pace of eight minutes per mile.
I am not an eight-minute-mile person. I am a 10-minute-mile girl. If I push myself, maybe nine and a half. Real runners do eight-minute miles. People who lumber along with the sole hope of not keeling over during the run don’t.
I should feel great about this. I think, however, that the magic treadmill may be not so much a great motivator as it is a Nigerian prince offering me a rare chance at a guaranteed lucrative investment. It whispers enticingly that, yes, I can run the Broad Street Run in under 85 minutes, even though my fastest previous time is 102 minutes. I can break a two hour half-marathon. I can, gulp, do the impossible: qualify for the Boston Marathon. I just have to give it more time. I have to hire a nutritionist and a coach to perfect my form and protect its fragile motor from my heavy foot strikes. It beseeches me to sacrifice my remaining wisps of spare time, my love of junk food, several pairs of running shoes and a few toenails to the alter of running glory.
I am not fully in its grasp. I still have my weekly outdoor long run, which serves as a remarkably effective reminder that I am still a back-of-the-packer.
There is one particular treadmill in this row that shines. Perhaps the calibration is off, it is in a well-ventilated section of the gym or it could be the recipient of a spell cast by some personal trainer sorceress. Whatever the cause, the thing is unbelievable. According to its read-out, I am really, really fast. I know that, in fact, I am not really, really fast, but I do adore the ghost in the machine.
Some background, first. I took two days off of training before yesterday’s run. Lately, I have been running five days a week, with a rest day both before and after a long run on the weekend. This means that I never take two days in a row off. Last week, I had my fifth day, and longer run (eight miles) on Saturday, so Sunday was a rest day. I was set to begin my work-out week on Monday, but, in the immortal words of Greg Brady, something suddenly came up. I took the day off. I was extra rested heading into Tuesday’s run. Still, at the beginning, I wasn’t sure how it would go. I have been extremely tired lately because work has been insane, and I was not in a running kind of mood. I started out with my warm-up mile. In itself this is ridiculous. Outside, my warm-up mile is 10:30 minutes. Magic Treadmill? Eight minutes, forty-five seconds. Thirty six minutes later I finished my run. Five and a half miles in 44:45. Four and a half miles at an average pace of eight minutes per mile.
I am not an eight-minute-mile person. I am a 10-minute-mile girl. If I push myself, maybe nine and a half. Real runners do eight-minute miles. People who lumber along with the sole hope of not keeling over during the run don’t.
I should feel great about this. I think, however, that the magic treadmill may be not so much a great motivator as it is a Nigerian prince offering me a rare chance at a guaranteed lucrative investment. It whispers enticingly that, yes, I can run the Broad Street Run in under 85 minutes, even though my fastest previous time is 102 minutes. I can break a two hour half-marathon. I can, gulp, do the impossible: qualify for the Boston Marathon. I just have to give it more time. I have to hire a nutritionist and a coach to perfect my form and protect its fragile motor from my heavy foot strikes. It beseeches me to sacrifice my remaining wisps of spare time, my love of junk food, several pairs of running shoes and a few toenails to the alter of running glory.
I am not fully in its grasp. I still have my weekly outdoor long run, which serves as a remarkably effective reminder that I am still a back-of-the-packer.
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