Several months ago, while enveloped in 12 layers of clothing and barricaded in my house behind a mountain of snow, I decided that I would run the Steamtown Marathon. Steamtown, as a net downhill and very well organized marathon, is a seemingly good choice for my goal of trying to break four hours. That Steamtown, on October 10, is one of the earlier fall marathons did not faze me at a time when I was preoccupied trying to figure out who might have remaining supplies of ice melt. When crafting my training schedule, it did not occur to me to be concerned that my long training runs of 16-20 miles and greatest escalation of weekly running miles would occur in July and August instead September and October. Why? Because it’s easy to be in denial about the difficulty of training in the heat when you have to remove a pair of mittens to type your training plan.
Let me be plain. I despise running in the heat. I hate the heat with, well, a white hot intensity. It’s not just running. I’ve never liked hot weather at all. I consider Miami, for example, a fun place to visit in February, but it just sounds like pure misery from April through October.
As I’ve mentioned before in this blog, my body type could not be more different from that of a good distance runner. The best marathoners are tiny little wispy people who do not consider pizza fries to be a good carb-loading option. Just last week there was an article in the New York Times about a male 10-k runner who, at 6’1” and 165 pounds, is considered freakishly huge in his circuit. Bigger runners have a tougher time with distance anyway, and studies consistently show that larger runners suffer exponentially more in hotter weather.
Anyone reading this from this region of the country can see where I’m going. Training for a marathon in this particular summer simply sucks. We’ve had such a prolonged period of intense heat that the TV weather guys are talking about a “cool down” to 97 degrees on Thursday without any irony. Last Tuesday night, the cumulative effect of all the heat and the lack of sleep due to it caught up with me, and I had my worst training run of the year. I was miserable, thirsty and cramping from too much water at the same time. I couldn’t breathe, and I had to walk to finish. This was completely and utterly discouraging for a relatively short run. Happily, I got a reprieve. This crash was followed by two days of perfect summer weather, high of only 80 degrees with low humidity, which restored my spirits.
I don’t know if I can count on such a break to come again. It certainly doesn’t look like I’ll get one this week. I have to find my inner optimist, the one who will remind me that if I can force myself to train (carefully!) in these conditions, I’ll be stronger for it, and better prepared in October. Maybe this is just what I need for my sub-four, which reinforces that this was an insane idea from the beginning.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Toys for Trots
I’m a shopper. I can’t be sure if it’s because of nature or nurture, but I love to buy shiny new things. I’m the type of person who gets just as excited about the gift shop at any destination as the destination itself. Every time I get into a new hobby, I’m equally enthralled by its merchandise.
Running, an activity done by barefoot tribesmen on dirt roads, provides an excellent opportunity to indulge in retail therapy. There are stores dedicated solely to running -- a beautiful thing. Just purchasing shoes means you have a myriad of choices, and you can change your mind every two months when your old pair wears out. Then there are the clothes, with all the new advancements in climate control, the cool gym bags with all the clever compartments, the watches that offer all sorts of other timing options besides telling time, hydration products, books and magazines, recovery and therapy products. The list goes on and on. If you’d like proof of this, go try to buy a simple running hat. The range of choices is dizzying.
While I scoff at the people who run out to get iPad and the newest Wii games, as a runner I am both an early adopter and a toy-hound. I’ll try virtually any new product that claims it will make my running life easier/faster/more comfortable/less injurious/cute. I have superlight sunglasses, orthotic insoles for my shoes, a Spibelt to carry stuff, a Road ID tag on my shoe and a mix of every kind of technical clothing imaginable. With all the different brands I resemble a NASCAR vehicle when I run, only not quite as sleek.
So when the hardcover book about running (Born to Run, Christopher McDougall) I was reading claimed that injuries are caused by running shoes, and a barefoot-style shoe call Vibram FiveFingers could help, I immediately bought those too. The theory on barefooting is that running shoes actually cause injuries by providing so much support and control that your natural form suffers. Vibrams contour to your foot and around your toes, giving you the form of barefoot movement with a soul for protection from the ground. Mine are pink, and, as my new brother-in-law helpfully pointed out, they look like they should be part of a Barney costume. They take getting used to, but the change in form they trigger is immediate and dramatic. I am so optimistic that these will become my primary running shoe that I have already picked out a second pair for rotation.
A few weeks ago I was on my Saturday morning group run, running with Seth, who I suspect slowed down to hang with me out of pity. Every mile a beeping sound would emanate from Seth’s wrist. He would then announce the precise pace in which we had completed that particular mile. He could do this because he was wearing a Garmin Forerunner 305 watch, which tracks your runs with satellites. I have wanted one of these since I heard of the concept, but for years the reception in cities was simply not that good. But now they’ve improved, and they work where I need them to work. By the second beep, I knew the 305 would be on my wrist within weeks.
It arrived at my office this past week, just a few hours before my Tuesday night group run. I drove everyone at work crazy beeping away while I was trying to set the thing up. I didn’t have time to properly ingest the instructions before I went for the group run. Luckily for me, another runner in my pace group, Tracy, was wearing one. This was most unfortunate for her, because of the barrage of questions she had to deal with from me. “How do I get it to beep each mile?” “How can I see the pace?” “How fast did we just go?” “What time is it?” And on and on. “Is our pace going up a lot?” Yes, it was, because poor Tracy was frantically trying to shake me loose. I annoyed the stuffing out of her, but I think she got an eight-minute mile out of it. If I ever figure out the Forerunner, I know I will love it. It has the coolest features I’ve ever seen. I can make it beep at me if I’m going too slowly. It can help me find my way home if I make a wrong turn. It can even create a little image of a virtual opponent, who can either beat me or not depending on what the Garmin people decide.
I don’t know what running gadget I’ll have to have next week. I do know it is a very good thing that qualifying for the Boston Marathon is virtually impossible for me. I would definitely be one of those people decked out head to toe in Boston Athletic Association gear, which is the running equivalent of shoes on the beach.
Running, an activity done by barefoot tribesmen on dirt roads, provides an excellent opportunity to indulge in retail therapy. There are stores dedicated solely to running -- a beautiful thing. Just purchasing shoes means you have a myriad of choices, and you can change your mind every two months when your old pair wears out. Then there are the clothes, with all the new advancements in climate control, the cool gym bags with all the clever compartments, the watches that offer all sorts of other timing options besides telling time, hydration products, books and magazines, recovery and therapy products. The list goes on and on. If you’d like proof of this, go try to buy a simple running hat. The range of choices is dizzying.
While I scoff at the people who run out to get iPad and the newest Wii games, as a runner I am both an early adopter and a toy-hound. I’ll try virtually any new product that claims it will make my running life easier/faster/more comfortable/less injurious/cute. I have superlight sunglasses, orthotic insoles for my shoes, a Spibelt to carry stuff, a Road ID tag on my shoe and a mix of every kind of technical clothing imaginable. With all the different brands I resemble a NASCAR vehicle when I run, only not quite as sleek.
So when the hardcover book about running (Born to Run, Christopher McDougall) I was reading claimed that injuries are caused by running shoes, and a barefoot-style shoe call Vibram FiveFingers could help, I immediately bought those too. The theory on barefooting is that running shoes actually cause injuries by providing so much support and control that your natural form suffers. Vibrams contour to your foot and around your toes, giving you the form of barefoot movement with a soul for protection from the ground. Mine are pink, and, as my new brother-in-law helpfully pointed out, they look like they should be part of a Barney costume. They take getting used to, but the change in form they trigger is immediate and dramatic. I am so optimistic that these will become my primary running shoe that I have already picked out a second pair for rotation.
A few weeks ago I was on my Saturday morning group run, running with Seth, who I suspect slowed down to hang with me out of pity. Every mile a beeping sound would emanate from Seth’s wrist. He would then announce the precise pace in which we had completed that particular mile. He could do this because he was wearing a Garmin Forerunner 305 watch, which tracks your runs with satellites. I have wanted one of these since I heard of the concept, but for years the reception in cities was simply not that good. But now they’ve improved, and they work where I need them to work. By the second beep, I knew the 305 would be on my wrist within weeks.
It arrived at my office this past week, just a few hours before my Tuesday night group run. I drove everyone at work crazy beeping away while I was trying to set the thing up. I didn’t have time to properly ingest the instructions before I went for the group run. Luckily for me, another runner in my pace group, Tracy, was wearing one. This was most unfortunate for her, because of the barrage of questions she had to deal with from me. “How do I get it to beep each mile?” “How can I see the pace?” “How fast did we just go?” “What time is it?” And on and on. “Is our pace going up a lot?” Yes, it was, because poor Tracy was frantically trying to shake me loose. I annoyed the stuffing out of her, but I think she got an eight-minute mile out of it. If I ever figure out the Forerunner, I know I will love it. It has the coolest features I’ve ever seen. I can make it beep at me if I’m going too slowly. It can help me find my way home if I make a wrong turn. It can even create a little image of a virtual opponent, who can either beat me or not depending on what the Garmin people decide.
I don’t know what running gadget I’ll have to have next week. I do know it is a very good thing that qualifying for the Boston Marathon is virtually impossible for me. I would definitely be one of those people decked out head to toe in Boston Athletic Association gear, which is the running equivalent of shoes on the beach.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Quest for Four
While I was sitting around last fall and winter, staring longingly at my running shoes and waiting for my ankle to heal, I had some time to ruminate on my running ability and goals. There are certain realities I should face. I’m over 40, my knees hurt, both Achilles tendons are damaged, I have strange big toe pain and some weird problem in my hip. I’m not skinny enough to run distance, but I really don’t care to lose any weight. My best marathon time is 4:32, decent for a regular person, but it’s not going to get me any shoe deals. The intelligent approach would be to stop pushing myself so hard, cross-train on the bike at least as often as I run and, most important of all, lay off the marathons.
I used to be smart, maybe even smart enough to follow this path. But I’m not anymore. I think the oxygen deprivation from all that running has killed the common sense brain cells. So my current plan is to run one or maybe even two marathons this fall, and to complete one in less than four hours. This goal is so ridiculous for me that I may offer it to the Merriam Webster people for consideration as a definition of delusional.
The idea of breaking four hours started germinating in my mind a year ago, when I kept setting personal records at races. It really took hold, however, when I volunteered at the Philly Marathon in November. My assignment at the Marathon was to hand out medals at the finish line. This gig was a blast. I was right there when the winner crossed, and I got to see all of the ecstatic people who finished with Boston Marathon qualifying times. I’ve never been there to witness all of the people coming in under three and four hours. Despite the cool air, they were sweating profusely, and many were stumbling as soon as they finished. I saw a lot of paramedics rushing to help runners who simply could not take another step. Witnessing the sweaty zombies, my brain damage spoke to me. It said, look at these people; you are not working hard enough.
When I mentioned my goal to the bright-eyed jolly members of my running club, they assured me that of course I can do this. That they had to tell me this at the post-run dinner because I can never keep up with them during the run itself did not factor in their conclusion. In fact, they said, I should try to qualify for Boston. They’re not crazy; I’m just so far behind them they’ve never actually seen me run.
I have picked the marathon for the attempt: Steamtown in Scranton on October 10. I’ve also signed up for the Philly Marathon in November as a backup. My training plan requires me to run five days a week, getting up to 50 miles a week by marathon time, cross-train on my bike on a sixth day, and incorporate weight and core training and yoga. I also have to lose at least 10 pounds, which sucks because the only reason I run in the first place is so that I can eat what I like. As of now, I’m up to 29 miles a week, and I’m working hard to bypass the basket of Hershey miniatures that is left for us at work every day. I also spent money I don’t have on a Garmin Forerunner to track my pace, because ordering it was a training tactic I could accomplish while sitting on my butt in front of the computer.
Even if I manage to do all of this, I still don’t know if I can break four. Worse yet, if I do achieve this goal, there’s a darker, scarier idea bouncing around in that otherwise empty head of mine, too impossible to address.
I used to be smart, maybe even smart enough to follow this path. But I’m not anymore. I think the oxygen deprivation from all that running has killed the common sense brain cells. So my current plan is to run one or maybe even two marathons this fall, and to complete one in less than four hours. This goal is so ridiculous for me that I may offer it to the Merriam Webster people for consideration as a definition of delusional.
The idea of breaking four hours started germinating in my mind a year ago, when I kept setting personal records at races. It really took hold, however, when I volunteered at the Philly Marathon in November. My assignment at the Marathon was to hand out medals at the finish line. This gig was a blast. I was right there when the winner crossed, and I got to see all of the ecstatic people who finished with Boston Marathon qualifying times. I’ve never been there to witness all of the people coming in under three and four hours. Despite the cool air, they were sweating profusely, and many were stumbling as soon as they finished. I saw a lot of paramedics rushing to help runners who simply could not take another step. Witnessing the sweaty zombies, my brain damage spoke to me. It said, look at these people; you are not working hard enough.
When I mentioned my goal to the bright-eyed jolly members of my running club, they assured me that of course I can do this. That they had to tell me this at the post-run dinner because I can never keep up with them during the run itself did not factor in their conclusion. In fact, they said, I should try to qualify for Boston. They’re not crazy; I’m just so far behind them they’ve never actually seen me run.
I have picked the marathon for the attempt: Steamtown in Scranton on October 10. I’ve also signed up for the Philly Marathon in November as a backup. My training plan requires me to run five days a week, getting up to 50 miles a week by marathon time, cross-train on my bike on a sixth day, and incorporate weight and core training and yoga. I also have to lose at least 10 pounds, which sucks because the only reason I run in the first place is so that I can eat what I like. As of now, I’m up to 29 miles a week, and I’m working hard to bypass the basket of Hershey miniatures that is left for us at work every day. I also spent money I don’t have on a Garmin Forerunner to track my pace, because ordering it was a training tactic I could accomplish while sitting on my butt in front of the computer.
Even if I manage to do all of this, I still don’t know if I can break four. Worse yet, if I do achieve this goal, there’s a darker, scarier idea bouncing around in that otherwise empty head of mine, too impossible to address.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Back on Treadmill
On Tuesday September, 22, I ran for the last time in 2009. At the time, I didn't realize I was finished for the remainder of the year. I thought two months would be sufficient for my achilles tendon to stop hurting. By the end of December, however, while it did hurt less, it still wasn't perfect. This cost me one of my most treasured New Year's day rituals -- running past the drunk attendees of the Mummer's Parade.
The tendon still wasn't perfect at the end of January either. By then, however, the combination of the economy's impact on my checking account, the cold weather, the short days and the lack of running had turned me into Cranky McCrankypants. Really. Godzilla meets the old guy who yells at you to get off his lawn-cranky. Ask anyone who had the misfortune of trying to communicate with me then and only heard some gutteral combination of a hiss and a growl in response.
At this point, I had to weigh the pros and cons of running. Con: I could still snap the achilles tendon. Pros: I could start training for spring races; I could start working toward meeting my New Year's resolution of a four-hour marathon; I could be fit without having to sit for 90 minutes on a bike trainer, the most boring piece of exercise equipment ever created; I could prevent my mood from descending from slightly grouchy to top story on the news psychotic.
In this particular mind-body war, mind won. With a well-taped ankle, I hopped on the treadmill in the last week of January. It wasn't bad. I obviously lost speed and stamina, but all that time on the bike trainer did leave me with some level of fitness.
Six weeks later, I have added mileage and speed, and the ankle is no worse than before. I even ventured outside for the first time last week, and all was well.
So I'm back in training. Despite being far behind where I was last year at this time, I am still hoping to get a 5-k personal record at a race I'm doing in April. I am planning on completing the Broad Street Run in May.
Then there's the four-hour marathon. To do that, hopefully in the second week of October, I'll have to do more weekly mileage than ever before. To do that safely, I can only add that mileage slowly. Which means that as of right now, I'm in marathon training. On a taped-up ankle. But I guess a torn tendon is better than a ruptured soul.
The tendon still wasn't perfect at the end of January either. By then, however, the combination of the economy's impact on my checking account, the cold weather, the short days and the lack of running had turned me into Cranky McCrankypants. Really. Godzilla meets the old guy who yells at you to get off his lawn-cranky. Ask anyone who had the misfortune of trying to communicate with me then and only heard some gutteral combination of a hiss and a growl in response.
At this point, I had to weigh the pros and cons of running. Con: I could still snap the achilles tendon. Pros: I could start training for spring races; I could start working toward meeting my New Year's resolution of a four-hour marathon; I could be fit without having to sit for 90 minutes on a bike trainer, the most boring piece of exercise equipment ever created; I could prevent my mood from descending from slightly grouchy to top story on the news psychotic.
In this particular mind-body war, mind won. With a well-taped ankle, I hopped on the treadmill in the last week of January. It wasn't bad. I obviously lost speed and stamina, but all that time on the bike trainer did leave me with some level of fitness.
Six weeks later, I have added mileage and speed, and the ankle is no worse than before. I even ventured outside for the first time last week, and all was well.
So I'm back in training. Despite being far behind where I was last year at this time, I am still hoping to get a 5-k personal record at a race I'm doing in April. I am planning on completing the Broad Street Run in May.
Then there's the four-hour marathon. To do that, hopefully in the second week of October, I'll have to do more weekly mileage than ever before. To do that safely, I can only add that mileage slowly. Which means that as of right now, I'm in marathon training. On a taped-up ankle. But I guess a torn tendon is better than a ruptured soul.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Heeding the Call to Heal the Heel
I have found my runner’s Achilles heel, and it is my Achilles tendon. I had some nagging pain starting in the middle of summer. I am an older, bigger, born-with-the-sloth-gene runner, so I get random pains all the time. It’s my knees, or my toes, or my hip. Despite all the good advice to the contrary, generally I ignore the pain, and generally it mysteriously vanishes.
I told myself all sorts of stories about the new tendon pain. I convinced myself that it was just stiffness or some mild tendonitis, and stretching and icing it down would be a completely sufficient way to deal with it. I believed it couldn’t be a serious problem, because both ankles were bothering me, and what were the chances of tears in both tendons at the same time. I said all this to myself even when the pain in the right tendon turned sharp and a hard bump formed on the ankle.
Then one day something happened that could have either been a dose of reality or another opportunity for delusion. I forgot to pack socks in my gym bag for a six-mile run on the treadmill, and I ran all six miles anyway. For days after that run, the inflammation on my ankle was screaming red, huge and very painful. I stopped running for about a week, and asked every runner I saw what I should do. Everyone said “go see a doctor,” until I got to the person I was looking for, the one who said “it could be your shoes.” So I went to the running store to change shoes.
The tendon felt better after a week off from running, and I embraced the idea that it was just a shoe problem after all. The pain, however, came back quickly. But it returned just a few weeks before the Philadelphia Distance Run, so I decided to do a three-week taper, run the PDR, and then see where I stood.
I had a fantastic PDR, considering that I had hardly run at all for a full month leading up to it. My time was 2:02:53, a personal record by more than nine minutes and very close to my ultimate half-marathon goal of breaking two hours. I felt so good that I went for a run again two days later. Walking home after the run, I again had sharp pain.
I was finally ready to accept reality. My Achilles tendon was injured enough to require a doctor’s visit and to stop me from running at all until I knew what was wrong with it. I did not want to see a doctor before this because I knew the doctor would tell me to stop running, maybe for months. I finally went to a podiatrist this week. He told me to stop running, and he is absolutely right. He believes the tendon has tears in it, and if I keep pressing the issue, it could rupture completely. We’re going to confirm this with an MRI, but the reason I finally broke down to go see a doctor is that deep down, I know he’s right.
So I have to ignore the beautiful perfect autumn running weather happening all around me. Instead I sit bored to tears on an exercise bike in the gym, and will be doing a lot of standing on one foot under the supervision of a physical therapist. And through all of this, I keep repeating my new mantra: “you’re lucky it didn’t snap; you’re lucky it didn’t snap…”
I told myself all sorts of stories about the new tendon pain. I convinced myself that it was just stiffness or some mild tendonitis, and stretching and icing it down would be a completely sufficient way to deal with it. I believed it couldn’t be a serious problem, because both ankles were bothering me, and what were the chances of tears in both tendons at the same time. I said all this to myself even when the pain in the right tendon turned sharp and a hard bump formed on the ankle.
Then one day something happened that could have either been a dose of reality or another opportunity for delusion. I forgot to pack socks in my gym bag for a six-mile run on the treadmill, and I ran all six miles anyway. For days after that run, the inflammation on my ankle was screaming red, huge and very painful. I stopped running for about a week, and asked every runner I saw what I should do. Everyone said “go see a doctor,” until I got to the person I was looking for, the one who said “it could be your shoes.” So I went to the running store to change shoes.
The tendon felt better after a week off from running, and I embraced the idea that it was just a shoe problem after all. The pain, however, came back quickly. But it returned just a few weeks before the Philadelphia Distance Run, so I decided to do a three-week taper, run the PDR, and then see where I stood.
I had a fantastic PDR, considering that I had hardly run at all for a full month leading up to it. My time was 2:02:53, a personal record by more than nine minutes and very close to my ultimate half-marathon goal of breaking two hours. I felt so good that I went for a run again two days later. Walking home after the run, I again had sharp pain.
I was finally ready to accept reality. My Achilles tendon was injured enough to require a doctor’s visit and to stop me from running at all until I knew what was wrong with it. I did not want to see a doctor before this because I knew the doctor would tell me to stop running, maybe for months. I finally went to a podiatrist this week. He told me to stop running, and he is absolutely right. He believes the tendon has tears in it, and if I keep pressing the issue, it could rupture completely. We’re going to confirm this with an MRI, but the reason I finally broke down to go see a doctor is that deep down, I know he’s right.
So I have to ignore the beautiful perfect autumn running weather happening all around me. Instead I sit bored to tears on an exercise bike in the gym, and will be doing a lot of standing on one foot under the supervision of a physical therapist. And through all of this, I keep repeating my new mantra: “you’re lucky it didn’t snap; you’re lucky it didn’t snap…”
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Yuck Chronicles
Recently, a friend who is marathon training sought my advice for a delicate problem. Remembering that I had previously heartily recommended the purchase and liberal use of Body Glide, she asked in hushed tones whether I ever had chafing in odd places after my long run. When I inquired about which particular odd places, she sheepishly pointed behind her.
Now, I’m still a little too girly to confirm in a forum this public that I’ve ever had direct experience with my butt cheeks getting a little too chummy with each other during runs. Let’s just say I’m familiar with the existence of this issue. Yes, it happens. No, it doesn’t mean you have a big ass.
While embarrassing, on the scale of running related ickiness, this problem doesn’t even approach the highest level of gross. The activity that is arguably the poster child of clean living is actually quite disgusting.
At this point, I would like to warn my reader (Hi Dave!) not to eat while reading this. Below are some of the things that make you go ewwww.
Feet. Runner’s feet are notoriously bad. While some runners are blessed with the genetics that allow them to maintain perfect flip-flop ready tootsies, others quickly develop appendages that look like they should be exhibits in the Mutter Museum. Thick black toenails anyone? Blisters? Scaly toe tips? Pedicurists just love us. As does everyone else when we announce that we feel so much better because the toenail finally fell off. Add to that the sinking realization that the late night excruciating itching between your toes means you have contracted the fungal infection known as athlete’s foot, and you know you will never mate with anyone possessing a foot fetish.
Sweat. We’re moist and stinky. We know this, and it doesn’t stop us from going for coffee or food shopping on the way home from a run. I know of at least two running groups that go straight from their runs to a bar, sans intervening shower. I’ve heard of beer goggles; are there beer nose clips? Also, speaking for myself here, I know that when I work hard on a treadmill, I create a sweat spray rather like a city fountain that lacks water pressure restrictions. This does have the benefit of ensuring the treadmill next to me is the very last one claimed.
Potty. Ah, yes, the phrase “the runs” does have two separate meanings, but they have been known to intersect. Sometimes, usually without warning, all that bouncing up and down dislodges the bagel you placed in your belly earlier in the day. If you are a business that has a restroom, you have an interesting dilemma on your hands when a sweaty, pale and clearly desperate jogger begs you for use of your restroom. If you say yes, you will be enjoying some fine karma, because, believe me, that runner is really in need. You will also be creating some warm fuzzy feelings in that runner for your establishment (thank you again, Copabanana in University City!). The flip side is that they will be in your bathroom for at least ten minutes, and the person following them in should bring a mask and a gross of matches to light. I think you would have to grant bathroom privileges in this instance. Otherwise would be like steaming away from a lifeboat full of shipwreck survivors.
Also, most runners participating in races, particularly races longer than five miles, use the portajohn first. While some portajohns have hand sanitizing lotion in them, most still don’t. Disgusting in and of itself, compounded when you think about that box of soft-pretzels and bagels that everyone is tearing into at the finish line. But we’re all very healthy.
Now, I’m still a little too girly to confirm in a forum this public that I’ve ever had direct experience with my butt cheeks getting a little too chummy with each other during runs. Let’s just say I’m familiar with the existence of this issue. Yes, it happens. No, it doesn’t mean you have a big ass.
While embarrassing, on the scale of running related ickiness, this problem doesn’t even approach the highest level of gross. The activity that is arguably the poster child of clean living is actually quite disgusting.
At this point, I would like to warn my reader (Hi Dave!) not to eat while reading this. Below are some of the things that make you go ewwww.
Feet. Runner’s feet are notoriously bad. While some runners are blessed with the genetics that allow them to maintain perfect flip-flop ready tootsies, others quickly develop appendages that look like they should be exhibits in the Mutter Museum. Thick black toenails anyone? Blisters? Scaly toe tips? Pedicurists just love us. As does everyone else when we announce that we feel so much better because the toenail finally fell off. Add to that the sinking realization that the late night excruciating itching between your toes means you have contracted the fungal infection known as athlete’s foot, and you know you will never mate with anyone possessing a foot fetish.
Sweat. We’re moist and stinky. We know this, and it doesn’t stop us from going for coffee or food shopping on the way home from a run. I know of at least two running groups that go straight from their runs to a bar, sans intervening shower. I’ve heard of beer goggles; are there beer nose clips? Also, speaking for myself here, I know that when I work hard on a treadmill, I create a sweat spray rather like a city fountain that lacks water pressure restrictions. This does have the benefit of ensuring the treadmill next to me is the very last one claimed.
Potty. Ah, yes, the phrase “the runs” does have two separate meanings, but they have been known to intersect. Sometimes, usually without warning, all that bouncing up and down dislodges the bagel you placed in your belly earlier in the day. If you are a business that has a restroom, you have an interesting dilemma on your hands when a sweaty, pale and clearly desperate jogger begs you for use of your restroom. If you say yes, you will be enjoying some fine karma, because, believe me, that runner is really in need. You will also be creating some warm fuzzy feelings in that runner for your establishment (thank you again, Copabanana in University City!). The flip side is that they will be in your bathroom for at least ten minutes, and the person following them in should bring a mask and a gross of matches to light. I think you would have to grant bathroom privileges in this instance. Otherwise would be like steaming away from a lifeboat full of shipwreck survivors.
Also, most runners participating in races, particularly races longer than five miles, use the portajohn first. While some portajohns have hand sanitizing lotion in them, most still don’t. Disgusting in and of itself, compounded when you think about that box of soft-pretzels and bagels that everyone is tearing into at the finish line. But we’re all very healthy.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Insanity Loves Company
I’m officially in denial about the Philly Marathon. I refuse to admit that I’m actually going to run it in November, yet I have registered, paid the fee, bought extra pairs of running shoes, crafted a training plan and started following it. I really think I don’t want to do this, so I’m looking for a place to cast blame for compelling me to engage in this self-torture. I have a suspect.
Philly Runners is a local running group that meets a few times a week in front of the Art Museum. It is a free group that welcomes runners of all abilities. It has a core of regulars, some people who show up periodically and others who pop in just once. The group is completely comprised of shiny happy people. Everyone is nice, friendly and non-judgmental. There is no “you don’t run an eight-minute-mile-distance pace?” snobbery.
That said, generally they run an eight-minute-mile pace. Before each run, someone calls out the pace groups. First is faster than seven-minute miles, which maybe yields one or two hands. Then seven to seven and a half, seven and a half to eight, and so on up to 10-minute miles. They will call out a group for over 10 minutes if it seems there is an interest. Most hands go up between eight and eight and a half, and the next largest bulk is between eight and a half and nine. There are people between nine and ten, but it is a much smaller group. I’m in this group, usually watching throngs of skinny 20-somethings take off ahead of me (actually a good number of them are around my age, a fact I choose to ignore).
My perception of reality has become severely bent running with these people. The times I have begun to think of as slow would safely put me in the top third in most local races. You should see the postings on their message board. The one currently with the largest number of replies is seeking people for Saturday morning runs of 17 miles at an eight-minute-mile pace. Another describes the eight people who came for Thursday night’s “hill sprints” in the middle of a thunderstorm a “decent turnout.”
In the real world, I tell others I am thinking of another marathon. The responses I get? “Why the hell would you do that?” “I don’t even like to drive that far!” “You’re going to kill your joints.” Running group responses? “Oh. You know, there’s a 10-mile run on the sand in Sea Isle in August. You should do that too.” “Philly? Me too. I’m going to try to qualify for Boston again.”
Marathons are a way of life in this environment. Autumn is not about falling leaves and apple-picking (except for carb-loading purposes). It’s for training. Those in the group not planning on doing a “full” (I think everyone is already signed up for the Philadelphia Distance Run, a half-marathon in September) almost sound a little defensive when discussing it. And this is why mob mentality is dangerous.
Philly Runners is a local running group that meets a few times a week in front of the Art Museum. It is a free group that welcomes runners of all abilities. It has a core of regulars, some people who show up periodically and others who pop in just once. The group is completely comprised of shiny happy people. Everyone is nice, friendly and non-judgmental. There is no “you don’t run an eight-minute-mile-distance pace?” snobbery.
That said, generally they run an eight-minute-mile pace. Before each run, someone calls out the pace groups. First is faster than seven-minute miles, which maybe yields one or two hands. Then seven to seven and a half, seven and a half to eight, and so on up to 10-minute miles. They will call out a group for over 10 minutes if it seems there is an interest. Most hands go up between eight and eight and a half, and the next largest bulk is between eight and a half and nine. There are people between nine and ten, but it is a much smaller group. I’m in this group, usually watching throngs of skinny 20-somethings take off ahead of me (actually a good number of them are around my age, a fact I choose to ignore).
My perception of reality has become severely bent running with these people. The times I have begun to think of as slow would safely put me in the top third in most local races. You should see the postings on their message board. The one currently with the largest number of replies is seeking people for Saturday morning runs of 17 miles at an eight-minute-mile pace. Another describes the eight people who came for Thursday night’s “hill sprints” in the middle of a thunderstorm a “decent turnout.”
In the real world, I tell others I am thinking of another marathon. The responses I get? “Why the hell would you do that?” “I don’t even like to drive that far!” “You’re going to kill your joints.” Running group responses? “Oh. You know, there’s a 10-mile run on the sand in Sea Isle in August. You should do that too.” “Philly? Me too. I’m going to try to qualify for Boston again.”
Marathons are a way of life in this environment. Autumn is not about falling leaves and apple-picking (except for carb-loading purposes). It’s for training. Those in the group not planning on doing a “full” (I think everyone is already signed up for the Philadelphia Distance Run, a half-marathon in September) almost sound a little defensive when discussing it. And this is why mob mentality is dangerous.
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