Oops, I'm gonna do it again...

While sitting on the couch with my roommate today- a location we have both left as infrequently as possible this weekend- I introduced a novel and fascinating idea:

We should start training for a marathon.

So, I have my beloved 'Marathoning for Mortals' book open on the arm of the sofa and I've started a training schedule. We're going to the Shamrock Sportsfest in March- not sure yet if we'll be aiming for the half-marathon or the whole. Either way it will be terrifically challenging and rewarding. I have hours of sweating and sobbing and aching ahead of me. And I can hardly wait.

Happy reading.

Because I Sham-rock!

As promised, I ran the Virginia Beach Shamrock Killian's Red Sportfest (a hundred other names) Half Marathon on Sunday morning.

I had to get up at five-thirty AM, which did not feel pretty.

It was great. And hard. I finished in a little under three hours, coming in at about the same time as the man who won the entire marathon (I can't remember his name right now, but he's pretty famous...I might get in some pictures as "Slow Half-Marathon Girl in All Black and Movie Star Sunglasses").

I started the race with the 2:30 pace group, which is really fast for me. Then I had to stop and use the port-a-johns at mile three. As did half of the race. There was a ten minute wait- needless to say, I never saw the 2:30 pacers again. And there were men waiting in front of me. I just wanted to yell at them to 'GO IN THE WOODS!'

A few miles later, I got sick to my stomach. We won't go into that. But I couldn't take any more energy gels, so by the end of the race I was running on...Nothing. Water. And a few sips of Gatorade. THAT was hard. The last three miles especially. It was the only time I really missed having my ipod and the only time I did not enjoy the encouragement from the sidelines. People would wave signs and cheer, "Come on! You're almost there! Only two more miles!" and I would want to yell, "YOU DON'T KNOW! YOU COME OUT HERE AND RUN TWO MILES!"

But I dragged myself to the finish and it FELT GREAT. I am, as I write this, still wearing my medal (pictured above). I just feel like I did this incredible thing. It isn't a life altering experience, but it made me realize how much my life has altered.

Special Shout-outs (though most of these people will never read my blog) go to:
- Everyone who waited at the 3 mile port-a-johns.
- The man dressed as The Scarecrow, who tried to hand me beer instead of water or gatorade and was surprised that I didn't want it.
- The guys standing behind me at the beginning of the race who still hadn't recovered from St. Patrick Day Kegs and Eggs. They veered off into a construction site about three minutes into the race to use a port-a-john they saw there.
- The two army guys who told me they were 'digging' my movie star glasses and that I made it look easy.
- The man with "WILL RUN FOR BEER" on the back of his shirt.
- Boy Scout Troop 79, especially the kid dressed in a huge, air-inflated fat suit, who the boy scouts kept pointing to and saying: "Look. Now you won't end up like this!"
- The half-marathon runner dressed like Uncle Sam.
- Also the marathon runner in the pink afro wig. I wonder how long that stayed on?
- All the citizens of VA Beach who stood on the sides of the road and cheered for us- especially all the army guys who kept yelling "MOTIVATION!" at us.
- Everyone from home who sent me good wishes before and after the race.
- My Mom, for schlepping down to VA Beach and driving back while I mostly slept in the passenger seat. And buying pasta dinner for me. And trying to take pictures with my digital camera but mostly just video recording the sand. And being so supportive and wonderful and proud of me.

As Mom and I were walking back to the hotel, she turned to me and said, "So. Which was harder: running a half-marathon or going onstage in just your underwear?"

I thought about it: the brave moments of my life. And it's the half-marathon. After all, going onstage in your underwear is like jumping off a diving board: once you take that first step and make that commitment, there's no going back. You're already out there, in front of everyone, in your underwear. But with a really long run, you can give up at any time. You have to keep recommitting yourself. And that's more difficult.

When we got back to the hotel room, and I peeled off all the grimy layers to hop into the shower, I realized/remembered I was wearing the same underwear that I'd worn onstage.

Obviously, it is the underwear that is brave. Not me.

Peace out, everyone. I'm going to go fondle my medal.

In less than 24 hours, I'll be very tired...

Well, this is it. I'm off to Virginia Beach to run the half marathon.

I'm having a slight toe issue, so I hope that doesn't turn into a problem.

Taking the advice of "Marathoning for Mortals", I am packing ALL of my running clothes. Because, as the book says "I'm certain that if I forget one piece of running apparel, one sock, one singlet...then, on race morning, I'll decide I need that exact piece of apparel."

Luckily, I haven't been running very long, so I don't actually have many running clothes.

13.1 miles. It isn't 26.2, but I don't want anyone to make the mistake of thinking this will be easy for me. It won't. I've run 13 miles before. Hell, I've run 16 miles before- remember the sobbing? It wasn't the initial goal, but it's still damn hard. And I'm ridiculously excited.

Anyway, this is me signing off...Think of me from 7:00 AM to 9:30/10:00 AM on Sunday morning. Cuz that's when I'll be chugging along the streets of downtown Virginia Beach...

I am a failure...and other not quite true statements.

Merriam-Webster online defines failure as:
1 a: omission of occurrence or performance; specifically: a failing to perform a duty or expected action. b: a state of inability to perform a normal function. c: a fracturing or giving way under stress.
2 a: a lack of success. b: a failing in business: bankruptcy.
3 a: a falling short, deficiency. b: deterioration, decay.
4: one that has failed.

On Thursday morning, around 11:30, I set out to run eighteen miles on the NCR trail. The first part of the run felt great. I ran the majority of mile six because I was feeling so energized (this was party due to a Espresso Love GU I had consumed fifteen minutes earlier- twice the caffeine of regular GU, you see). Around mile eight, I began hoping that the ice I had been picking my way around so dexterously would trip me up. Then I would fall and break my leg or at least twist my ankle. Someone would have to be called in to carry me to safety. I would no longer be able to run the marathon.

I felt a brief surge of hope and joy at mile nine. I'd made it halfway. I turned around and started back towards home...only nine long miles away.

As the next bright yellow marker approached, I was giving myself a pep talk. I wasn't allowed to start freaking out yet. I couldn't start freaking out until I reached the Monkton station, which was still three miles away. After that I'd only have five miles to go. I could probably freak out for five solid miles and survive.

And once I completed the eighteen miles, I only had three more long runs to go: a twenty miler, another eighteen, and then the marathon itself. Then I never had to run again. Not a single step. Not even if someone was chasing me. I would just die instead.

With these happy little thoughts dancing through my head, I reached mile ten. And I shut down. I stopped running.

I did not take this new action (or inaction) lightly. First I tried to bully myself into running again. I spoke outloud. I used obsecene language. I mocked myself incessantly.

No go.

So I tried to be reasonable. I'd come so far. I was doing so well. I could run sixteen miles and, after all, eighteen was only two more. Was I really going to walk the eight miles back to my car instead of continuing my run? That would take forever. I would miss my flight to Minnesota. I could do it. This was only a mental block. I could run eight more miles.

No go.

So I walked. I walked and I looked at the trees and I took my headphones off and I listened to the birds. I answered two cellphone calls from work. I called Lizzie. I waved at children walking their dog in a stream. I took my sunglasses off. I enjoyed the beautiful day. I breathed deeply instead of gasping for air.

And after walking over a mile and numerous failed attempts to start running again, I reached a decision:

I am no longer running a marathon.

At least, not now.

I've developed a love for a sport I never showed a previous interest in. I like to run. I enjoy it. But not for eighteen miles and certainly not for twenty-six point two. I mean, I enjoy Ben and Jerry's Phish Food, but I'm not going to eat it solidly for six hours.

I called my mother and asked her to pick me up at Monkton. It was one of those wonderful occasions where a mother can be completely supportive while saying very little.

Me: Hey. Can you come pick me up at Monkton? I don't want to run a marathon anymore.
Mom: Okay. I'm in Timonium right now, so it will take awhile.
Me: That's fine. I have a bit of a walk ahead of me.
Mom: Okay. Call me if you change your mind.

I didn't.

Is it brave to quit something? No. Not at all. But it can be hard. And it's kind of brave to tell everyone. I was going to do this wonderful, glorious thing. Everyone was astounded. And now I'm not doing it anymore. I'm ordinary. I'm (dare I say it) mediocre.

That doesn't mean I made a wrong choice. Running that much was overdoing it. It was hurting my body a lot. And I'm planning on continuing the running. I like the idea of six mile runs. It takes the first two miles for me to convince myself that I actually want to run...and then I can enjoy four miles of solid, happy running. I can listen to my ipod. I can smell the fresh air. I can feel that wonderful tightness in my legs that means all of my muscles are working their hardest towards a common goal.

That's good stuff. It isn't a marathon. I won't get a little medal in the shape of a shamrock. But that's the sort of attitude towards running that can make a person's entire life better, and healthier.

Besides, the Absurdists say that making choices is the positive thing- it's what defines our essence and keeps us from losing ourselves in the Absurd. I made a choice. I chose to not run a marathon.

Pushing yourself to the limits is a great thing. It tests people. It forms people. It...makes people walk on the moon.

But knowing when to quit has always been a hard lesson for me. And that's a great thing, too.


Also, if you google failure, this is the first site you get.

Marathons, Heart Break and other Madness...

I've been wondering if perhaps I should give up on this marathon thing.

I've been training since September. I'm 85% sure I can do it. I'm just not sure if I want to.

I can do sixteen miles. Isn't sixteen miles enough? Do I really need to push and pound and bruise my body in pursuit of a goal that I have no real need to achieve?

When do we find the need to stop pushing ourselves? Why do we feel we must do impossible things? Isn't life on its own difficult enough? I've certainly found it a challenge so far.

I know myself well enough to know that I am attracted to impossible causes. There is something about me that enjoys the pain of a stretched out heartbreak. Anyone who has been priviledged enough to bystand my love life knows this.

Is running a marathon like being in a bad love affair?

Am I trying to prove something? If so, to who? Because I can't help feeling that the people I am trying to prove something to in life are ex-loves and ex-friends and people whose opinions shouldn't possibly matter. The people who love me and surround me are the ones I don't need to prove anything to.

Am I trying to prove something to myself? I was convinced of this for awhile. I have a deep and abiding fear of being mediocre. I want to do extraordinary things. And I've never been a very independent person. So if I can run 26.2 miles by myself...that means I can do anything by myself, right?

But I never want to be as alone as I felt today approaching mile fifteen. I took my one minute walk break, and I started to cry. It is not possible to cry after running almost fifteen miles. You don't have the energy, the breath, or the tears. So you walk and heave, walk and heave.

If something is so horrid that you can't even cry through it, isn't it something that you don't want to be doing?

I don't want to be alone at all in life. I want to be surrounded by the people I love forever. There's no shame in that. Independence is overrated.

And I lost my gloves today- the pretty blue and green ones with the embroidered flowers. And I have an irrational fear of bears and a perhaps rational one of being raped. Plus, if you must know (and you really don't need this info), most of the skin underneath my boobs has completely rubbed off.

Only a crazy person with a masochistic streak would run a marathon.

And maybe that's what I am.

It isn't all bad. Miles three through seven are really rather nice.

And I'm so close. I'm a little more than a month away. Next week, I run eighteen miles. The week after that, it's twenty-something. And then I start decreasing the running again, to prepare for the big day.

And once it's done, it's done. I have this accomplishment for the rest of my life. But it won't put food on the table or a writing contract in my hands. It won't bring honor upon my family or pay off my credit card bills.

I'm practically there already. I could do this. But why would I want to?

Ash Girl At Computer

Today I've been thinking about a volcano erupting over my office building- all of this buried in layers and layers of hot ash and perhaps lava. Years later, there would be guided tours and the nice tour guide would point out my body, hunched over the computer for all eternity. "It seems that the inhabitants of this building spent much of their time on these primitive computing devices."

Certainly not what I want to be remembered for.

I'm going running after work today. When did that become and exciting thing? And I'm going to my parents' house for dinner (read: to watch the tape of last night's LOST episode so I can figure out what all the fuss is about) and my Mom says she is making something she has always wanted to make for dinner but my father wouldn't let her.

My mom...not the world's best cook. So this could be exciting or massively sketchy.

Anyway, while searching for the above pic of Mt. Vesuvius, I came up with this picture of the David's ass. Whoever posted it was one of those annoying people who used their cameras in the Academy, even though there were many signs in many languages asking us not to do so. Not as bad as the people who took flash photos of the Sistine Chapel, but still. Respect the art. Respect the rules of the art.

I see you, David. Shakin' that ass...

Why I Love Television and My Smug Legs

I have had a headache all day. Plus, my right eye is twitching. Combined, this may very well mean I am suffering from a brain tumor.

Today, I am dressed as the perfect secretary, except for my right hand/wrist. On my right wrist I have a hair tie and a pink rubber breast cancer bracelet, there are remnants of my 9:30 club stamp on my hand, and I am wearing my usual turquoise ring. Besides that, I am the perfect secretary. I have on a knee length black skirt, and a pink flowered sweater and little black heels. I look hot and secretarial at the same time. Go, me.

I had a really great weekend. Joss Whedon is a bit of an ass, but he still writes good movies. So, go see Serenity. If you weren't a fan of the show, you'll love it. If you were a fan of the show, you'll love it and hate Joss Whedon.

Saturday I participated in the Race for the Cure, which is kind of a like a big breast cancer themed party where everyone decides to take a walk. Panera Bread is currently offering their Cherry Vanilla Bagel as a ‘Eat for the Cure’ sort of thing where they are donating money to breast cancer research if you buy it. So…they’re good. Eat away!

Afterwards, I went to a crab feast at my friend Amanda’s and then the Dar Williams concert. Dar was fabulous, as was her opening act, Girlyman. I have been listening to their CDs all day, mostly because they are the only ones I remembered to bring into work with me.

Yesterday, I had to be responsible. Instead of taking a free ticket to the Renaissance Festival, I worked overtime and then ran six miles for marathon training. When did I get so responsible? It's a burden, I assure you. Responsibility sits heavy with me. At least I could watch old West Wing episodes while I was working, since no one else was in the office. And my legs are like rocks instead of flesh. They’re getting kind of smug. I keep reminding them: 6 miles is nothing compared to 26.2. They still have a long way to go.

Then last night, I watched my three solid hours of television. Grey’s Anatomy may have become my favorite in the Sunday night line up. This is surprising, as it used to be the show I just suffered through as I waited for ABC to bring Boston Legal back. I watch a lot of television, but I’m okay with that. I think television fulfills a certain need in the working person’s life. Our shows come on at the same time every week, so we have to set aside an hour or two, just for us, where we don’t have to work or talk on the phone or do anything; we just get to relax for a few hours. Now I believe there are people who abuse the privilege, sure, but television is more than just brain rot. It is an important tool in a society that has a lot of trouble taking a breather.

Patchwork

There are some people we are never meant to patch things up with and there are some people we will patch things up with again and again, because we love them enough. And that's just the way the world works. It's nothing biblical- it's not turning the other cheek. It's just that sometimes people are hard to get along with, and we have to work at relationships.

And there are other people that things go so smoothly with that we take it for granted and ignore the bumps in the road just to make things easier.

And whose to say which is better, really?

Anyway, one of my roommates should do some patchwork with me. I came home last night and the kitchen was a mess, someone had spilled my cat's litter and stuck my undryables in the dryer (living with boys has a price) and broken one of my picture frames. Now there is a panel of glass MIA. Makes walking around my bedroom a rather nerve-wrecking experience. I don't want to be patching up my feet. I need them for running.

I'm going to the running store today, to purchase my fuel belt and perhaps my shoes (depending on how much they cost). This is terribly exciting to me, as I have become a running geek over a very short period of time. What can I say, I have an addictive personality. And I don't think running is fun- I'm not a crazy person. But it is very satisfying, when the day is done.

I like to run, when the day is done- cha cha cha!

Just a little further...

My friend and I are participating in a marathon in February. It is 26.2 miles, to raise money to fight AIDS.

I'll be asking for donations later.

This weekend, I had my first official training session. It was a 3 mile run/walk, and through the course of the...course, I found myself playing the role of the motivator. There was a lot of: 'Let's just run to the next street, then we can walk', 'Let's run to that light post', 'Look how far we've come, we've almost made it' and 'Shut up, you CAN do this, you just don't want to'.

This is how I motivate myself day to day, I think. I set boundaries, small goals, and I meet them one at a time.

I can make it through one more month in this job...I can make it through one more hour without calling him...I can write one more chapter before bed...

And then, when the little goals aren't working so well, I look at the past. If I've made it this far, why should I stop now?

And finally, in those moments of self-pity and abject failure, when I feel like I can't do it anymore, there's the bullying: 'Shut up! You can do this!'

Really, it's dealing with the men in my life that has prepared me the best. Trying to wait until the last possible moment to call a guy, so he doesn't realize how interested I am. Or the long distance process of getting over a man while taking everything one day at a time, one emotion at a time.

So I think in many ways, I'm already very well trained for a marathon. I just have to catch up, physically.