Just One Marathon

Pride, Fear and All That Jazz

I’ve made it my goal to run to work once a week, as I prepare for Around the Bay. While I can’t say that I’m overjoyed at the idea of waking up early in the dead of winter and dragging my sorry carcass to the office, it really hasn’t been as horrible as I thought.

I think that’s because, despite the cold, exhaust fumes and excessive number of hills I encounter during the 9K run, it’s kind of a novel experience. Three things really spice up this run:

Fear of death: My Dad is a regular reader of this blog, so I hesitate to write this, but my running route to work is not always, totally 100% safe. When I start my run at 7 a.m., it’s still dark, and about half of the run is on a busy road with no sidewalk and a curb buried in snow. So that means running on the road, beside distracted, under-slept drivers who are talking on their cell phones, checking their Blackberries, eating breakfast and arguing with their kids. While it’s a bit nerve-wracking sometimes, it also keeps me alert. I don’t even listen to my iPod, I’m so busy listening for the screech of car tires. 

Peer pressure: At least three co-workers have mentioned that they have seen me running to work. And it’s a well known fact that I don’t actually look that good running. In fact, I think that recreational running should be a bit like AA – you don’t know someone’s in it unless you’re an addict as well. But if one of my colleagues does catch sight of me, I’d like to look fast. Or at least not slow. That’s an incentive not to let my shoulders sag or slow my pace. And if I do need to stop, I try to manage a high-velocity spit, so I look sporty.

Potential Spontaneous Dance Numbers: There’s lots of fun people-watching on a run to work. Recently, I’ve noticed how many people waiting for buses actually sing aloud to their MP3 music. I love this new development in human behaviour. It gives me hope that the run will turn into a show-stopping musical dance number, something like this:

 

Happy Most Depressing Day of the Year, everyone! Keep belting out those tunes.

Move over, Granddad

Headline: “Beijing has been on a manners kick for the last few years, but on the hottest summer days, there is no stopping men of all ages and shapes from rolling up their shirts and exposing their tummies.”

 

What do sweaty old Chinese guys and I have in common? We have both decided that comfort trumps fashion when it comes to baring our bellies.

For years, I’ve resisted the temptation to air my abs on a run. I had no problem baring my flabby arms to the world, but my muffin-top was nobody’s business but my own.

 

Then came this summer, with its 40-degree Celsius heat waves, fabric-drenching humidity and endless circuits around the track. While my slim, speedy training buddies would strip down to their running bras without a moment’s thought, I trailed behind them in my modest midriff-covering tank tops and tees, looking like their chaperone. I envied not only their cooler clothes but their evident comfort with their own bodies.

Then lately, I started thinking, “why not?” (That question’s been getting me in a lot of trouble recently.) I began checking out other runners – male and female – who strip down to what are essentially their skivvies for runs. And guess what? Many of them don’t have perfect bodies. But guess what else? They still look fantastic. There’s something about running in minimal clothing that looks incredibly hard-core athletic to me. It doesn’t matter the shape or size – it’s the “only-my-performance-matters” attitude that comes across.

 

So, last week when I reached the top of my local hill for 10 reps in 32C heat and there was no one else around, I threw caution to the wind, whipped off my shirt and ran in my sports bra. Then yesterday, at a yoga-for-runners class during the same heat wave, I did it again. And at the track last night? Stripped down to the essentials.  

 

Funny, I thought I’d feel self-conscious. We women may or may not carry a lot of weight on our hips, but we sure do carry a lot of baggage about them. Surprisingly, though, I wasn’t worried about how I looked. I didn’t think I looked good and I didn’t think I looked bad. I just didn’t care. That cool breeze felt so damned refreshing and I swear, I ran faster.

 

Is this what it’s like to get older? Then bring it on.

All of the Above

Here’s a multiple choice question for you. You have packed up your gym bag in preparation for a run or a workout during your lunch break. Which of the following would you rather forget?

 

A. A towel. (Giving you the option of air-drying – not really viable if you’ve got to put on panty-hose or another similarly body-hugging garment afterwards – or using those nasty rash-producing brown paper towels from the bathroom dispenser.)

B. Running socks. (This is the worst piece of running gear to forget, because it simply does not provide an adequate excuse to skip your run. You must run anyways, shoving your bare feet into what are probably the smelliest two items you possess. If you have to forget running gear, forget the shoes – a definitive run-stopper.)

C. Your Garmin. (If you go for a run in the forest, and there’s no Garmin to record it, did you really run at all?)

D. Post-run clean underwear. (A situation which forces you to decide on whether to forgo the extra layer between your naughty bits and the elements during your run, or go about your post-run business in a skivvie-deprived state … a problem you can’t really share with anyone except your friends in the blog world, because telling people you’re not wearing underpants at an afternoon meeting likely qualifies as harassment. There’s a reason they’re called “unmentionables”.)

Me, I can’t decide. So I’ll probably just go on forgetting one or the other every couple of weeks until I come up with the correct answer. Dammit.

Head Games

One thing I’ve been wondering about running 42.2K is what I’ll think about while I’m out there. We’re talking four and a half to five hours of quality contemplative time – do I really want to waste it mentally monitoring the size of the blister on my right middle toe?

 

Tom, our marathon clinic coach, says he passes the time by saying “hello” to each runner he overtakes, and by adding up the numbers on people’s race bibs. But I’m thinking I should aim higher. For example, I could:

 

·        Find answers to all the vital questions put to us by advertisers. That way, by the end of the race I’ll know, among other things: how they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar, where I want to go today, whether I eat the red ones last, and the location of “the beef”.

·        Make sense of all the conflicting parenting advice I’ve read and heard over the years and come up with a single, unifying Theory of Parenting. If there’s time, mentally sketch out a book outline so I can sell my wisdom to others.

·        Decide – definitively – who is cuter: Starsky or Hutch? David A or David C? Bert or Ernie? Mr. Roper or Mr. Furley?  

·        Do a mental search of my house, office, car and every other place I’ve been in the last two years to track down the car keys I lost in 2005. We sold the car last year, but it’ll be satisfying just the same.

·        Come up with a really good answer to the interview question: “Where do you see yourself in five years?” One that doesn’t cause the interviewer to check the “smartass” box at the top of my résumé.

·        Make a list of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. See if running the marathon makes the top three.

 

I picked up race kits for our family tonight. It felt strange and exhilarating to walk past the 10K and half-marathon t-shirt tables to collect my marathon shirt. Now, I just have to earn it.

Spitting Distance

For much of this morning’s 19K run, I followed a runner I never saw. I knew he was there, though, because every 500 metres or so, he left a glistening blob of spit on the pavement. When you’re spending two hours putting one foot in front of the other, it doesn’t take much to amuse you, so I got a kick out of following the running progress of The Spitter, as I affectionately branded him.

How did I know he was male, you ask? Well, I didn’t. Instead, I made some very unfair generalizations about the fact that he spit directly in the middle of the narrow strip of snow-free pavement along the side of the road and assumed there was a Y chromosome involved – the same determinant factor that leads to laundry in the middle of the bedroom floor and the ability to clean the kitchen without wiping the table. Sorry, guys.

About 5K into the run, The Spitter drank from his water bottle (random spillage across the whole running surface), then expectorated some more. I wasn’t annoyed – really who cares? – just entertained. Did he have a cold? Allergies? Or maybe he was the running equivalent of Hansel … leaving a trail of gob to lead him home?

I rarely catch up to other runners, so I was a bit wistful that I would never have the opportunity to clap eyes on the guy. Then, as I was rounding a curve, I saw a lean, tights-clad fellow struggling his way over a snow bank coming from the forest. I’m always safety-conscious when I run alone so I slowed down to watch his progress. Then it dawned on me what I was seeing. It was The Spitter, making his way back from his bathroom break! I took a moment to admire his accomplishment -- leaving every possible type of bodily fluid along his running route. Now that’s commitment.

I never did catch up with The Spitter … he and I ran at the same pace, so he remained a constant 500 or so metres ahead of me until he turned onto a side street. But I felt like we, y’know, connected. And I think he felt the same because as I reached his turn-off point, I discovered that he had left me one last luminous globule of phlegm.

Drinking and Running: Separated At Birth?!

A running buddy of mine has a tradition: her friends meet her in the last 500 metres of her race holding a cold beer, which she quaffs before dashing to the finish line. As a strategy, it’s so contrary to everything that I’ve ever heard about how to run well (hydrate, hydrate, hydrate), that I have to admire it. 

Then again, the more I think about it, the more I realize that boozing and running have a lot in common. For example:

§         They both give you a high.

§         A little makes you feel great; too much makes you feel like hell the next day.

§         If you are serious about either, they can become pretty all-consuming hobbies. You can read about them, take classes about them, buy expensive specialized equipment to do them, and, of course, blog exhaustively and entertainingly about both drinking and running.

§         Both require stamina if you are going to do them well.

§         It’s not a good idea to phone people while doing either.

Sure, there are differences. Here are a few I can think of:

§         You can’t drink with your dog.

§         ... But you can drive after running.

§         It is possible to successfully juggle while running.

§         They make different parts of your body hurt.

Still, these are minor differences as far as I concerned. They are two highly complementary activities – though I don’t quite have the panache to do both at the same time. So I’ll settle with doing one at the beginning of the day and the other at the end, and leave you to guess which is which.

Better Than Ice Cream

I have made no secret of the fact that I hate hills. Really, really, really hate them.

And they hate me right back.

Last Sunday, however, on my long run (16K this week), I encountered a hill that made me realize I had been unfair in my attitude. While tackling the hill, my muscles felt strong, my pace picked up, my heart rate slowed and I was able to catch my breath. And I was fast … by God, I was fast. A later look at my Garmin revealed that my speed on that hill represented my fastest pace of the entire run.

That’s when I realized that I don’t hate all hills; I only hate hills that go up. I feel just the opposite about hills going down. Me and “down” hills are B.F.F. Seriously, when I am standing at the top of a long descent, I feel an intense passion for the hill that I usually reserve for my children, my husband, and the first Dairy Queen Chocolate Xtreme Blizzard of the summer. (Except that only the first Blizzard of the season is good, whereas every “down” hill is just as good as the last one.)

I think downhill running should be a sport. After all, there’s downhill skiing. And lots of other downhill sports, like bobsledding and luge (although they may actually be the same thing; I’m not sure.) I bet I’d be good at it. I bet I’d be the most enthusiastic downhill runner ever. And when I made the Canadian Olympic Downhill Running team, I would come to all the regular running events to cheer on my fellow athletes.

Because I know how hard that sport is.

Career-Limiting Odours

Most Tuesdays, I sneak out of my office for a quick lunchtime run. I love this routine because it’s a great energizer and an efficient way to wedge an extra workout into my week. I feel a bit guilty doing it because there’s never enough time to do everything at work as it is. But I rationalize it telling myself that I make up the time in so many other ways (for example, by eating lunch at my desk most other days).

There’s just one little problem. Although my workplace does have a locker room and showers (I work in a hospital), there is neither the time nor the facilities to wash and dry my hair. So, I shower, apply lots of product to all parts of my body and hope for an afternoon with no meetings in close quarters.

If I do have an afternoon meeting, my mind is only 99 per cent on the task at hand. The other 1 per cent of my brain is mulling over the all-important question: “Does my hair smell?”

A few weeks ago, I pounded out 30 minutes on the treadmill, quickly showered, jumped back into business attire and rushed to a meeting with my boss and all the managers in the department. As I sat down, I came to the horrifying realization that although in my mind I was finished working out, my body had not cooled down yet. As I prepared to present to the group on a current project, I could feel a wave of sweat sweeping from my head to my feet.

That time, my brain was asking another question: “Take the jacket off and cool down or keep it on and provide a protective barrier between my undoubtedly-stinky shirt and the people who determine my future career?” Yes, it was my “Pursuit of Happyness” moment, and I probably should have come up with some kind of clever line about my condition – maybe made a pun about the sweet smell of success or something. Until I do get that 1% inspiration (as opposed to the 99% perspiration that I already possessed), I’ll just have to go through my work life wondering if people think of me as “that smelly girl from HR”.

Could be worse, I suppose.

It's Not As Bad As You Think

A detailed mathematical analysis shows that this is the most depressing time of the year. No matter how bad it gets, though, I’d like to give you a moment to reflect on one uplifting fact: it could be worse.

Like with this blog, for example. Sure, I spend an excessive amount of time dwelling in excruciating details on the minutiae of my running life. But it could be way, way, way worse. Here are some things I’ve considered writing about but haven’t – yet:

§         The problem of snot on a long, cold run. To use your mitten or not?

§         The amount of stress I experience if all the gastro-intestinal stars do not align in the hours before my run. My desperate search for bathrooms along various running routes.

§         How my knee is hurting – again.

§         Life-altering insights from song lyrics heard on my run. How, after 15K, “My Humps” is actually an empowering feminist anthem.

§         A lengthy description of the cute look my dog gave me when I came in from my run the other day. What I imagine he was thinking. (In cleverer hands, this can be funny. Check out “Things I Tell My Dog”.)

§         How hard it is to spit while running without gobbing on my shirt. The physical conditions that lead to the need to spit.

Those are just some of the boring, depressing blog entries you can be grateful you never had to read.

There, now aren’t you feeling better?

Smells Like Victory

So I’m in the locker room at work the other day and I open my gym bag. From its depth wafts the now-familiar tang of sweaty socks, nylon and rubber running shoes, and shower gel. The smell hits me and I feel … happy.

Yup, it’s official. I have now added one more odour to the list of scents that are now indelibly linked to moments of joy in my life. Cookies baking, pine trees in a Northern Ontario forest, a freshly-powdered baby – and the inside of my stinky gym bag.

Just thought you ought to know.