Vinegar guy: He’s baaaaaaack

So following the post about vinegar guy at my gym, I didn’t see him (or smell him, actually) around for a few weeks.  My avoidance strategy seemed to be working, so I didn’t give it a second thought last week when I walked into the cardio room and there was only one open treadmill.  It was near enough to the end by the far corner and I didn’t feel like waiting for an end machine to open, so I hopped on.  I mean, I was just going to do few easy miles before lifting and biking, so I’d be on there for minimal time.  

Big. Mistake.

As I started up my machine and got going, I noticed in my peripheral vision a couple changeovers on the treadmills down the way, but I had my headphones on and was consumed by trying to zone out with sports highlights, so I really didn’t pay much attention.  I had only been moving for a couple minutes when out of nowhere a distinctive, powerful odor wafted by.  ”Oh no.  Oh nonnonononononononono,” was all I could think.  There were only two ‘mills to my right so I looked left thinking I would see him down the way on one of the ~17 machines that line the windowed wall.  Nope, not there.  Hmmm, I turned right and surprise!  He was on the treadmill right next to mine.  

My mind froze (I think stench-freeze is the term for this).  I had no idea what to do.  Do I stop and get off?  Wait for another machine to open at the other end?  Take it as a sign from the universe that I should flee?  

“No,” I thought, “I’ll be done in a few minutes and can hit the weight room.  Push through.”  I kept running, determined to just get through the warm-up.  I sped up the belt to way faster than warm up speed, trying to make time go faster.  

Turns out, most people aren’t that determined (or masochistic), because before I finished the first mile, SEVEN treadmills on that side of the room opened up.  I’ve never seen folks hustle to wipe down a machine and scoot like that!  Seriously, this guy cleared a room at a gym–a place known for it’s weird odors and for being full of people sweating.  That says A LOT.  

I made to one and half miles before I gave up.  I went to grab the paper towels and spray to clean off the machine, and as I walked back over I let out an involuntary (I swear!) “UGH!” as I stepped back on the machine.  Vinegar guy glanced at me (BTW, wearing the same grey t-shirt with the dragon/flame thing on the left shoulder as the last time we crossed paths) and I know he must’ve seen my disgusted expression.  I considered saying something to him for about half a second and then just turned and ran to the other room, where I overheard at least two other people commenting on how they couldn’t stand to stay in the cardio room.  Ew.  

(Further question:  how the hell does he stand to put those on?!  That shirt has to go over his head at some point.)

Since this is the second time I’ve been booted by the stink, I need to update my strategy.  I’ll stick with the original end-only machine rule and the off-hours visits as much as reasonably possible, but I think defense-only isn’t the best route.  I’m considering asking one of the trainers or the manager to mention to him how offensive and gag-worthy his presence is in its current incarnation (I’m assuming they’d put it much more nicely).  I might even donate a box of Tide to the cause.  Or am I just copping out?  Should I just say straight out, “Dude, you’ve gotta wash your clothes after you work out when they smell like this”?  Something else?  *Sigh*        

Seriously, dude.  See–ri–ous–ly.

Happy new year! In September?

Yesterday was the first day of fall.

*Sigh*

Every year I’m conflicted over this event.

On the one hand, fall brings with it the end of my dear, beloved, too-short summer.  Gone are the long, sweltering days of abundant sunshine and green leaves, days on the hot sand of the beach, sundresses and flip-flops.  Fall marks the arrival of early darkness, cold temperatures, the inevitable coming of winter with its blankets of frost, chunky boots, sweaters, and layers upon layers of wool.  This weekend I will swap out my tank tops and shorts for running tights and long-sleeved technical tops.  Given the chilly mornings lately, I even have my running jacket on stand-by, along with moisture wicking gloves, hat, and double layer socks.  Welcome back numb fingers and toes.

On the other hand, fall is the sign of a new year!  Don’t worry I haven’t misplaced my calendar (actually, I have misplaced my datebook; but I’m speaking metaphorically).  Around the beginning of September is when the new school year starts.  Sure, grammar school was ages ago (seventeen years, actually), but I work in the university system and follow the academic calendar.  So in late August I go school supply shopping.  Who doesn’t love school supplies (really, it all goes back to that new Crayola smell), and who doesn’t have their own set of preferences for learning instruments?  My annual requirements:  new Bic Ultra Round Stic pens with blue ink (never pencils or black ink), college-ruled spiral bound notebooks (never wide-ruled), new computer desktop folders for class documents set up by semester and course title (never the course code), and, of course, new shoes (one pair of running shoes, natch, and one pair of “school shoes” which are usually just boots I can’t resist).

Fall is also cross country season, which marked the beginning of the new school year for several years of my adolescent life.  There is almost always one crisp day each fall when the light hits the trees just right and that fall smell is in the air–I don’t know how else to describe it–and I can’t not go for a run.  I also can’t not hum the Bulldog fight song, but it’s best if no one else has to hear my tone-deaf version of that.

September marks the beginning of apple season.  Apples are my all-time favorite food and fall is when the Indiana/Michigan orchards are overflowing with the year’s crop.  My hometown also marks the occasion with the Johnny Appleseed festival, a sure sign that apple season is upon us.  The thought of a tart and sweet apple crisp or an apple dumpling with ice cream transports me right back to my grandma’s kitchen with the changing leaves just outside the window.  Seriously, the woman can bake.

Rosh hashanah, Jewish new year, is also in the fall.  No, I’m not Jewish, but my part-time job is in a research center devoted to Jewish Studies.  (Every year I crack myself up by counting down from ten and then yelling “Shana tova!” the Hebrew new year greeting.  Every year my very confused and good natured co-workers remind me that there isn’t a count down for Rosh hashanah.)  So, of course every September I get a new calendar for my office cubicle from my boss, along with apple-honey cake, a traditional Rosh hashanah treat (or so I’m told).

Fall is also election season, though I’m not convinced that season ever ends anymore.  New politicians, new campaigns, new administrations.  New reasons for unbridled idealism and/or cynicism.

As a Libra, fall also marks my birthday.  Meaning I literally start a new year of life every September.  This, for me, is the most significant of the fall new year events.  In fact, I don’t make resolutions on January 1st, but on my birthday in September.  Last year I resolved to try one new thing (place, activity, food, etc) every week.  It went well for a while, but like most resolutions faded by Halloween.  (Though I took a friend’s idea one year and gave up heroine and prostitution, and to this day I can say I’ve stuck to that resolution 100%.) This year I’m thinking of resolving to read at least one fiction book per month–not counting anything for school or teaching purposes.  No one ever said resolutions had to be painful, right?!

So for whatever reason you may have to celebrate, happy New Year!

**Next post:  the revenge of vinegar guy**

Sometimes there aren’t enough miles…

I start running on a nice quiet morning.  ”Ahh,” I think, “feels good.”  My feet pound the ground and I take in the scenery as I pass a woman pushing a small child in a jogging stroller.  Suddenly, my inner monologue starts and I can’t turn it off:  Gender roles and performance, hetero-normative femininity, Marxist-feminism, post-modernism, embodiment and lived experience, collective identity of runners, Title IX, Foucault, care of the self, the habitus, commitment and group participation, agency, sportsnets, network theory…bodies…..sports…..movements…AHHHHHHHHH! 

This is the moment I’ve been dreading: I’m less than a week away from my oral exams and I have lost the ability to focus.  And if one more person tells me it’s just a test, I might lose it.  

I’m stressed.  Anxiety ridden.  It’s as if I’ve drank three pots of coffee on an empty stomach after a late-night bender.  Concentrating on a task for more than a few minutes has become impossible.  Everything around me is sort of blurring by incoherently. It’s sort of embarrassing but my nightmares about zombie faculty members trying to eat me after asking me questions I can’t begin to answer have now moved into full-on daymares.  Two days ago I met with one of the examiners I affectionately refer to as “grandfatherly” and I swear his eyes were glowing red and he had a striking set of fangs by the time I walked out of his office.  His formerly soothing voice is now echoing menacingly, reciting something similar to the voice-over in Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”  

There are people who suffer from crippling test anxiety, where they become incapacitated by fears about test-taking.  For them, it’s not just a test but truly a horrific experience.  Penn State University’s website features information on test taking and says that some people who suffer from test anxiety can have headache, have problems concentrating, feelings of panic, changes in appetite, fainting or vomiting spells, and view test taking with dread and often feel angry after taking an exam.  It seems that people who suffer from this anxiety have it from a very early age, with varying degrees of intensity at different times.  Reading over this really puts those weekly spelling tests and timed math quizzes my elementary school teachers gave in perspective.  I wonder how many of my classmates suffered through while I remained oblivious?  

See, I’ve always been a pretty good test taker.  As a kid I was a good student and really thought tests were kind of fun.  The timed tests were kind of a game and I liked trying to be the first one finished (I was competitive back then, too).  In high school exams were more of a nuisance than anything else, taking my focus from friends and fun (and plotting ways to out-maneuver my mom’s seemingly watchful eye on the weekends) until it was over.  College was when the most I had to worry about was a comprehensive final exam where I could BS my way through an essay answer vaguely relevant to the question.  I was even relaxed on both the SAT and the GRE, ignoring all the test taking strategies offered by test prep manuals and my own teachers by skidding into the test-taking seat 20 seconds before the start after having stayed up too late the night before and skipping breakfast.  I may have actually worn pajama pants to the SAT.  In fact, I’m certain I did.  

One of the things I’ve always taken comfort in is the anonymity of exams.  Sure you sit there in front of a proctor, but the questions are set and given to you in writing.  You can change an answer, rethink something you wrote and change it, outline, and make notes about things you want to expand on.  Then it’s graded when you’re not around.  If the examiner winces at something I wrote, rolls their eyes, or even exclaims “What an idiot!  You know nothing!” I have no idea.  What I get back is the same exam, or a result sheet, with a score.  Sure there may be comments but no one knows if I don’t read them.  Not so with an oral exam.  

As you may have guessed, an oral exam consists of me sitting in front of a committee of my future colleagues, fielding questions as coherently as possible while they fire them at me.  Terrifying.  The anonymity is gone, there is no chance to erase what I wrote and do it again.  If the examiners think I’m crazy I’m going to see it right on their faces, in real time, as I continue to drone on.  If that wasn’t enough to freak me out, the examiners are people I like and respect, so I actually care that they don’t think I’m a moronic poser who managed to fall the cracks these past few years and somehow duped everyone up to this point into believing I belong here.  (According to my own school’s wellness center, this is called the “impostor syndrome” and is quite common.)  What I wouldn’t give for a blue book and an eraser!

Continuing to read Penn State’s info on test anxiety, they offer some suggestions for dealing with anxiety.  I considered everything they suggested, but some seem a little impractical: 

Remember that it’s only a test.  This again?!  Only a test that shows whether or not I get to pursue a future in academia.  Other than being potentially career-altering, career-halting actually, no big thing.  

Don’t think of the test or yourself in a negative light.  Seriously?!  Maybe I should write down three things I like about the exam and it can write down three things it likes about me and we can share.  Puh-leeze. 

Do something relaxing in the hour before the test.  Ok, you cover my Thursday morning class and I’ll go for a massage. Don’t spend time with classmates who generate stress before the exam.  What if I’m the classmate stressing me out?

Ok, I obviously am incapable of taking these four seriously.  There did seem to be some hope in another stategy: 

Exercise aerobically.  Bingo!

Finally, something I can sink my teeth into and take seriously.  I mean, I use exercise as a way to release day to day stress, so it should work now, right?  In the past two weeks I’ve been trying to run away my test anxiety.  I’ve logged more miles that I probably should have, and a lot were a higher intensity than I planned, as a way to try and sweat out all the negativity and anxiousness.  Sadly, I’ve discovered that if there are enough miles to calm my nerves, I haven’t done them all yet.  Even trying to focus on the physical sensations of the moment have just brought my mind back to theories of embodiment and processes of self-discipline.  I’m stuck in my own head half-way through the run.  The iPod is no help when you start reading into hidden meanings of “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.”  The exercise wears me out to the point that I’m too tired to study, so I worry to the point that my stomach is upset and I then I can’t sleep.  It’s a vicious cycle.  

So far the piece of advice I’ve gotten about these last few days that seems to carry the most promise was from another of my examiners who suggested that I talk, yell, or scream answers to possible questions to practice getting them out of me, run till I can’t run anymore, take whatever I need to take to get some sleep, and show up looking confident even if I think I’m going to puke.  

After all, it’s only a test.

Fictional runners: The Dragon Tattoo series is keeping me up at night!

What was the last book you read that you recommended to everyone from your best friend to your boss to your grandmother and your pastor?  The one that you couldn’t stop talking about, even if it was totally cliche and everyone else already knew about it?  Been a while?  

Confession:  I am a bookworm.  ”Bookish” has been an accurate descriptor of me for as  long as I can remember.  I still have the alligator (or was it crocodile?) book I read over and over as a toddler, recall most of the Berenstein Bears plot lines, and befriended Curious George, before moving through the pre-teen existences of Kristy, Claudia, Dawn and Stacy in the Babysitters’ Club and solving crimes with one Ms. Nancy Drew.  At times I was a bit embarrassed about my habit, like when my fourth grade teacher, who I still remember fondly for her dangly earrings and bedazzled flip-flops, asked me why I seemed so sleepy and I confessed that I had been breaking the bed-time rule and staying up until the early hours reading. She threatened to tell my mom about my late night hijinks unless I promised to do my reading during waking hours.  I agreed, and then stayed up late that very night finishing a Sweet Valley High.   

Becoming engrossed in a book, even a really bad/boring one (hello, Talcott Parsons), comes pretty easily to me.  That said, there are very few books that draw me in to where I almost literally can’t not turn the page.  Sure, I’m happy as a clam (a pre-clam bake clam, I’m assuming, though I have no idea why I use this strange phrase) to settle into a good biography, essay collection, memoir, classic fiction, or spy thriller.  I can go for days on a diet of Hunter S. Thompson and cookbooks.  But those I-don’t-want-it-to-end-because-it’s-so-good type of books tend to be few and far between, and I’m torn over whether this is sad or lucky.  

When I was on vacation I picked up Stieg Larsson’s novel, Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.  This book rocked my low-cut, moisture-wicking socks.  One of the main characters is even a runner, and I’m not giving anything away by saying this habit turned out to be nearly fatal for one of the characters (and no, not from exertion).  The description was so vivid that I was even looking over my shoulder at all the runners that passed me on my early run the other morning and am now seriously suspicious of secluded paths–especially if I come across one the next time I’m in Sweden.  But really, this book–and so far its sequel The Girl Who Played With Fire–is my literary find of the year.  Not only is the plot sufficiently twisty and unpredictable, but the characters are mundane enough to be believable and kooky enough to be interesting for 500+ pages.  The lack of books that entertain me like this, I think, is sad.  On the one hand, why can’t all novels be like this?  

On the other hand, a dearth of books like this means that I can usually sleep.  As a direct result of this book series I have not slept well lately.  I have to limit myself to reading before bed and I’ve been reverting to my elementary school days, staying up way past my bedtime trying to figure out what Mikael will do next or what glimpse into Salander’s life Larsson will give me.  If I get up in the night, I’m actually a little frightened to be out in the hall alone.  And the dreams!  I’m having dreams where people mysteriously disappear and everyone around me is a sexual deviant out to get me and the only way I can escape is to run as fast as I can.  Goodness, this book has even penetrated my sub-conscious!  I guess I’m lucky more books don’t affect me this way?  

I’m not a book reviewer (how does one get that job anyway?), but I want to throw this book a party.  Mikael’s character development is fantastic, where we get to see the change from two-dimensional “he’s an investigative journalist who got in trouble,” through to a much more fleshed out understanding of Mikael’s background as a hard-nosed financial journalist (whose findings about corruption by bankers and finance persons reads like it was written about this little recession I’ve heard so much about) and former military guy with a soft, seductive side that really makes me want to be his friend.  Salander’s character also evolves with terrific contradictory splendor from the first glimpse of her as a sullen, untrusting, and strange private investigator to a deeper understanding of her upended childhood, victimization at the hands of a social welfare system, and moral underpinnings.  Salander’s deeper past isn’t revealed in DT to the extent it goes into in the sequel, leaving me wanting more.   That, along with the surprise ending to both plot lines, just makes a sudden trip to Barnes and Noble for the next installment that much more likely. 

Sadly, there are only three books in this series (the author died shortly after finishing the third book), so I’m trying to savor each page before I run (literally, I’m going to run) to the bookstore.  Luckily, this means that soon I’ll get to sleep at a decent hour.  

Ok, I’ve gotta go read!

Busy, noisy, overcrowded: I love this city.

Welcome back!  After a crazy few weeks studying like crazy (oral exams in less than three weeks–eeks!) and a trip to visit S’ family at the lake, plus the start of the new semester I have been inundated with things to more than occupy my time.  The concept of free time really has lost all meaning at this point.  Since this summer has been so crazy we were really looking forward to a trip to our trip to the lake.  Boats, fresh air, open water–what’s not to love?

Let me explain a bit about the lake, reader, just so you can get a feel for what I’m talking about.  ”The lake” actually refers to a small town in way-the-heck-up-there Wisconsin where S spent his summers from the time he was a kid until he was out of college.  Since he was a kid the family has moved (on the third lake/house so far), but the little tourist trap, I mean town, is still only eight miles away.  S’ parents live up there from spring until fall before following the flock of snowbirds south for the winter, so they were there the whole time we were visiting. 

 There are several reasons S and his family like being at the lake.  First, they are nature lovers like I’ve never seen.  Seriously, like I’ve NEVER seen.  There was more staring at the moon (which was quite stunning the first half dozen times), bird watching (they came, they ate, they left), breathing the fresh air (yep, that’s fresh), and taking in the scenery (trees, water, water, trees) than I’ve ever participated in, ever.  I get it, they dig the North Woods.  

They also really like that it is very quiet.  Going to bed with the windows open was not only completely dark but also completely silent.  Seriously, S shifting the sheet seemed startlingly loud.  It was almost that creepy quiet where everything is so still that you begin imagining you’re hearing things, like an axe murderer breathing from the closet or a lost possum with big, sharp teeth ready to bite me and give me rabies.  Or, my worst nightmare, a snake.  *shudder/cold sweat*  Good times. 

It’s also very secluded.  We only saw two neighbors when at the house and two boatloads of people when we were anchored at the sandbar.  S was sitting out running for the week because of an injury he’s coming back from, so I had the beautiful recreation trail to almost completely to myself for ten full miles everyday.  

Don’t get me wrong, I like a little solitude and quiet now and then.  I was able to read with virtually no distractions (except for the aforementioned birds) and slept like a college kid after their first night of keg stands and kamikazee shots every night.  I also got fidgety.  Really, really fidgety.  

S’ parents thought I was nuts.  They were correct, I didn’t sleep as well in Brooklyn as I did there.  The city is pretty loud and I had probably damaged my hearing from the din of the subway cars squealing into the stations.  I do get frustrated (constantly) by the crowded sidewalks with slow-moving, awe-struck tourists, especially if I’m in any kind of hurry.  I did think it was awkward when that man on the bus exposed himself before disembarking.  People can be pretty anonymous in the city and who knows if anyone even cares that you’re there or not?

The day after we got back from our 10-day North Woods adventure, I got up and headed to work on the subway.  On the way to the station my building super was out walking his beloved pup and chatting on his cell, the man selling newspapers outside the station was arguing with the old man who hangs out by the bus stop, and several kids were laughing and teasing each other on the platform.  On the train a mariachi band played in my car for one long stop over the Manhattan bridge, providing a rousing soundtrack to the skyline playing in front of me.  I was lightly pushed by the hurried crowd going up the steps to the street where two women in too-high heels were walking too slowly for my taste as I wove my way through the herd of humans sweating in the continuing heat of the record breaking summer.  I opened the door to my office building and as I was hit with a blast of arctic cold air-conditioning and the friendly security guard looked up and said “Hey, we missed ya! Where ya been?”  Home, sweet home.  

Don’t get me wrong, I like getting away and communing with nature.  But me, I’m really more of an Empire State of Mind kind of gal.  I like crowds (where else can you see fifty people stop to watch a bucket-drumming session for several minutes in a 105 degree subway station?), I like interacting with strangers (even the ones who take their pants off while singing gospel songs on Midtown sidewalks), I like that there are people outside my building playing dominos and jawing at each other about who is the real baller (how else would I stay up on new music?), I like having people to go on long runs with (trust me, my thoughts are a scary place for that many miles), and I like the noise that reminds me the whole world is out there.  

It’s loud.  It’s busy.  It’s New York.  Damn, I love this city.

Adventures at the gym: Vinegar guy

Ok, confession:  every once in a while I will wear the same running shorts twice.  Horrified as my mother probably is by this admission, sometimes I don’t get around to doing the laundry as often as I should or need to and I run low on workout wear.  I don’t do this with work clothes or anything I would potentially be caught near a non-exerciser or stranger.  Usually I’m heading out to the open air of the park and the item is question is a pair of shorts (or top; oh, the shame!) that I wore when cross training or weightlifting, activities that my sweat output is far less than a hot, hard run.  In the summer, and especially this summer, I tend to go through more workout clothes, so every now and again I have to double up.

That said, I encountered a new individual at my gym and today was the second spotting.  We’ll call him “vinegar guy.”  I should clarify that I’m a particularly oblivious gym-goer, as I try to focus on the cardio-tv or a magazine when I’m treadmilling or cycling, so to say that I spotted him isn’t entirely accurate.  I actually smelled him.  The entire gym smelled him.  

I had barely noticed the person mounting the bike next to the one I was using, as I was busy watching an Oprah rerun.  Suddenly, something gd-awful caught my attention.  I looked around, up, down, to see if someone had spilled something (a glass jar of balsamic vinegarette maybe?)  After about thirty seconds of trying to locate the odor, I realized it was coming off the guy who just got on the stationary next to me.  Now, I may have been a bit delirious from the stench, but the first thought that crossed my mind was “why would someone soak their clothes in vinegar before wearing them?”  However, I don’t think this was the case of a pre-workout vinegar bath, but actually the lack of a bath.  It was the smell of gym clothes twice worn, still wet and caked in sweat,  forgotten in a plastic grocery bag for a weekend, then taken out to let dry in a non-ventilated room.  

As a runner who lives in a running household, I’m no stranger to the inevitable body odor that accompanies my sport.   I get it.  Really, I do.  People sweat and sometimes it’s not pleasant for the innocent bystanders in their path.  Bearing that in mind, this dude STANK.  

Hopeful that the smell was just temporary or that it would fade or that my olfactory system would spontaneously shut down, I tried to ignore the waves of reek coming off my neighbor.  I was having little luck, and apparently none of the unsuspecting people on that half of the cardio room were either.  One by one they quickly left their machines, wiped them down, and found something to do far, far away in another part of the gym.  I tried to gut it out.  Then my guts began creeping into my throat.  I was planning to do 45 minutes on the bike and was only 10 in when the wicked stench of the west slid on over.  I lasted until 20 minutes were up–at which time I was actually wondering if this qualified as infringing on my pursuit of happiness–then followed the lead of the other gym goers and hopped on an elliptical at the other end of the room.  

I think there is a lesson to be learned here and I don’t mean the obvious always make sure your clothes don’t smell like feces-stew before putting them on (though this is a valid lesson), or to always remember to take dirty gym clothes out to dry and Febreze before re-wearing in close quarters (this is also a good rule).  Instead, I think the lesson might have something to do with my gym-going strategy.  For instance, never take the machine in the middle but always wait for one on the end (or the one next to the one under repair) where you have 50% less chance of getting stuck to anyone, stinky or not.  Also I was there during peak after work hours, so making sure to go at an off-time when there are rarely two people who have to be right next to each other, if at all possible, seems like a good bit of advice I can take away for future reference.  Making sure to have a workout back-up plan seems like a good idea in retrospect, as part of the reason I stayed on the bike so long was because I wasn’t sure what the better cross training alternative was.  

Mostly I think the biggest lesson I learned  was the next time vinegar guy gets anywhere near, run!  Run like the wind!

At the races: Melting with Pride!

If anyone had questioned whether or not summer had officially arrived in NYC, the past week answered definitively in the affirmative.  Temperatures and humidity soared, leaving the city’s inhabitants glistening with a layer of sweat when completing simple tasks such as walking to the subway, stepping out for lunch, and even sitting on a park bench.  This past weekend was especially steamy, with the high yesterday, Sunday, hitting 92 degrees near my apartment.

Besides signaling that the summer steam has set in, the past week was also Pride week with fun events celebrating the LGTB community in NYC.  My personal favorite event of the week?  The FrontRunners NY Pride 5 mile run held in Central Park.  (The Pride parade is a close second.)  The run, hosted by NYRR, is a standard 5 mile course on the lower portion of the Central Park loop.  What isn’t standard, and what makes it FUN, are all the extras!  Those of you who were there may disagree with some of these, but these few things have made the Pride run my favorite racing event of the summer.

First, the national anthem.  Ok, so I’m not a huge anthem fan.  Yeah, yeah I know, it seems un-American, but hear me out.  The anthem was originally a poem that was then set to music–really, really tough music to do well vocally.  My guess is that this is one of the most-butchered songs in the history of humanity, and often the butchering happens right before a sporting event.  You know how it goes:  everyone is pumped up for the event and BAM! the moment is ruined by a singer who either forgets the words or, more likely, just can’t hit that last “waaaaaaaaaaaaave” and a collective cringe ripples through the crowd.  Not this year.  No, no.  The singer at this year’s Pride run, Peppermint, performed a light-hearted, jazzed-up version and skipped the high note, letting the recorded singers backing her up take it over.  Plus, that dress!

Second on the list were the cheerleaders.  I was a failed middle-school cheerleader (go Bulldogs! ouch, my legs hurt just thinking about toe-touch jumps) and I appreciate the support from the cheer squad from CheerNY out there in the heat with spunk.   They performed a go-get-’em number before the race and then yelled support at the start and finish.  Runners rarely get cheerleaders, making this doubly fun.

Something special this year were the technical tees given out at registration.  Technical tees are always welcome race swag, and bonus if the graphic isn’t obnoxious.  I was amused that the shirts for this year seem to be adidas leftovers from the 2010 Boston Marathon.  Who cares?  A tech tee is a tech tee and I’ll wear it happily.

Last is my favorite perk of the Pride run:  post-race Popsicles.  The post-race pretzels, apples, bananas, and even the occasional bagel are all well and good, but nothing, NOTHING cools you down post-run like a rainbow Pop handed to you along with a “Good job!” from a happy volunteer.  (Really, it just makes so much sense, no?)  This is the reason I run the race every year-heat, rain, or high water.  Though in my excitement this year (picture a 6 year old getting an unexpected goody from the ice cream truck and that’s pretty much the way I was) I took my icy treat from the first volunteer I saw, who had been standing clutching the box–in the heat and sunshine–as the smarter runners took theirs from the other 15 or so waiting down the line.  When I stepped to the side to unwrap it, it was broken in half and melting at an alarming rate.  No matter, I enjoyed it in pieces with rainbow juices running down my chin.

Oh yeah, about my race.  It went ok, though I underestimated the humidity and started faster than I should have, giving me some trouble on the hills and a less than great time.  Still, I think I earned that Popsicle!

I hope everyone had a great Pride!

At the races: Running with (ok, behind) Olympians at the NY Mini 10k

Forever in the record book of my own mind will it stand that I, April, beat Paula Radcliffe on June 12, 2010 in Central Park at the NY Mini 10k race.  What that record books will conveniently forget, however, is that Paula was running about 5 1/2 months pregnant, not officially entered in the race, and ran the last 50-ish meters with her toddler daughter.  It does not matter.  In my mind/book it counts!

(Truth be told, I adore Paula Radcliffe.  Along with Haile Gebrselassie and Joan Benoit Samuelson, Paula is one of my currently-running-marathons heroes.   How can you not love and admire a woman who breaks her own world marathon record in 2:15:25, setting a standard that no other woman–and to be fair, few men–can touch?  Though she ran the Mini well into her pregnancy, she still managed to pull out a respectable time in the 44-minute range.)

Of course, there was more to the day than Paula’s run and my up-close sighting of the running legend.  The atmosphere at the women’s-only race was incredible.  Thousands of strong, happy women lined up behind a deep elite field took off in the Saturday morning sun, racing up Central Park West before cutting into the park to run the large outer loop, finishing near Tavern on the Green.  Twenty year old Linet Masai of Kenya won the race decisively in 30:48 (yes, that’s a 4:58 per mile pace over 6.2 miles), with the second place runniner finishing about 30 seconds behind.

To me, the best part of the day wasn’t seeing Paula speak 10 feet in front of me, or running behind the Olympians in the corral ahead of mine, or even the carnation I was given at the finish by a very nice volunteer as a prize for the effort.  It was seeing so many women line up, compete in, and finish this race was worth the early morning subway ride to Columbus Circle.

Before the race I was talking with some running women about the significance and history of the Mini 10k.  From what we each knew of the history of the race, and from what I learned on the NYRR website, the “Mini” actually refers to a mini-marathon (as well as to the miniskirt, which was a popular fashion choice at the time).  Comparing a 10k to a marathon might seem sort of ridiculous in 2010, but in 1972 when the race was first held (also the year Title IX was passed) the population of women who ran any kind of distances was relatively low.   Shortly after Kathrine Switzer‘s entry in the 1967 Boston Marathon (and the attempt to forcibly remove her from that race), this was still in the era when it was believed that if women ran too far or too long their uterus would fall out or they may become infertile, or simply that they just weren’t physically tough enough to run 26.2.

Obviously, we now know that these fears were unfounded (if anyone knows of any woman who’s uterus has fallen out while running, please email me and correct me), and today women make up roughly half of all participants at road races.  We also know that women are strong, more than capable of running 26.2 and beyond, and can be mothers or mothers-to-be and still run.

The Mini 10k is no longer a race that is run as an alternative to a manly full marathon, instead it’s a celebration of women who run.  At least that’s what it is in my mind.

And this year it was the day I beat Paula Radcliffe.

Wow, it’s hot. Hooray!

I spent this past weekend visiting friends in LA.  Normally a trip from NYC to a place like LA for me would be a refreshing dose of warmth and sunshine, and the activities  any that can be done on the beach.  Well I made it to the beach everyday I was there, but I was bundled up in jeans and a fleece jacket, while NYCers were enjoying warm spring/summer conditions.  What?

This seems to happen to me when I travel to places that are supposed to have nicer weather than wherever I’m coming from.  Four years ago I went to Europe for three weeks during winter break.  I was freezing my rear off in Budapest only to see short-sleeved ice skaters enjoying record highs in Rockefeller Center on CNN International.  Three years ago I spent spring break avoiding the blasting wind coming across the beach in the Dominican Republic; last winter we went to Florida for a week only to bundle up in layers as thick as what we were wearing at home; last July NY had a heatwave while I was donning a full-body wetsuit just to hop into a Wisconsin lake.

This time I was greeted with two special surprises:  1) S painted our dining room while I was gone (poppy red and, yes, I wanted that color) and 2) a high of about 90 degrees today.  Ok, I’ll admit that 90 degrees is a bit excessive on the heat category, it’s actually too hot right now for me to run outside so I’m going to gym it in a few minutes.  What I do appreciate is that I can walk around in sandals, skirts, and tank tops without having to pack a sweatshirt (unless I’m going to a movie or museum where some sadist likes to keep the climacontrol near freezing).  It also means I can pack minimal clothing for outdoor running, as the lightweight singlet and shorts I brought for today illustrate.

The other thing I like about the warmer weather is that it is a cause for me to get up early and run.  I’m not a bad morning person, but I’m not a great morning person either.  I tend to have very good intentions of getting up early, getting my run in, and then relaxing over breakfast and the NYTimes as the rest of the City wakes up.  This happens less often than it does, as when it’s cold out I have very little incentive to get up and go in the dark, cold morning hours.  With soaring temperatures and bright mornings, I have every reason to drag my butt out of bed and trot out into the cool air.

Not only does the morning exercise make me feel good for the rest of the day (yes, it really does.  Really.), but it also frees up the rest of said day.  I don’t have to stress through the afternoon wondering when I should leave work to squeeze in a run or try to coordinate a lunch hour run around my supervisors’ schedules.  It’s just get up and get on with it.

Hooray for summer!

Next post:  why getting up and getting on with it isn’t working out this summer the way I’d hoped–but in a good way.

At the races: On the rebound at the Jersey Shore

According to legend* when one has their heart broken there is a period of time following the end of the relationship where one is considered on the rebound.  In the time that one is rebounding the main thing they are expected to do is engage in a short term relationship with another.  This relationship is usually considered by most to be, uh, not necessarily a great idea, almost always a short term deal, and/or a simple distraction from one’s woes.  The point of the rebound relationship is to be a way to let off some stress/anger/frustration/sadness, have some fun, and prepare oneself to move onto the next serious relationship on the horizon.  

Folks, I was on the rebound.  

Following my disappointment–ok, call it “heartbreak” if you must go for the easy pun–at the Boston marathon I was in a funk.  It really felt like the end of a bad relationship:  I’d built it up in my mind to the point it could do no wrong, I tried and tried to make it work, but to no avail.  I was dumped, kicked to the curb (actually it was more like reduced to plodding next to it), told to pack my things and go.  Following the race I did what many recently dropped persons have done for ages, I rebounded with another race.   

Ok, so running another race two weeks after a marathon is generally not considered to be such a good idea.  However, I was so determined to move past Boston that when I mentioned my idea for a rebound at the New Jersey Marathon/Half Marathon to S, he enabled me the way a friend would have at 3am on Saturday night after a few mojitos when the newly-abandoned spots an available cutie from Jersey at a bar.  ”Well, I’m not sure it’s the BEST idea so soon, but if it’s something you need to do, I think you should.  Go for it.”  

So this morning we hauled our butts out of bed at 4:31am, wolfed down some breakfast and headed to Long Branch, NJ. My only goal for this race was to have fun, remember why I like running, and get some self-confidence back in my game.  So I wore my favorite running get-up, ignored the pull of signing up for a pace team, and left my watch at home.  I was registered for the full marathon and felt great during the first couple miles that run down the boardwalk and then onto nearby streets.  Those miles flew by.  So fast that the 3:20 pace team right ahead of me began yelling at the pace group leader to slow down.  The course was Hugh Jackman-abs flat, and I was feeling great.  The crowds were visible and cheerful, with lots of kids waving for high five slaps, and the breeze off the water felt great across my skin.  

Once we turned away from the water and began looping through the small towns, the heat set in.  It was over 80 degrees and humid in Long Branch today, and away from the shore breeze I was feeling every degree of it.  We were running on black asphalt and the heat seemed to be coming up through my sneakers from the road and beating down at the same time.  It was so incredibly oppressive that as I felt like I was struggling to get a fresh breath, runners around me were reduced to walks or all out stops.  Instead of letting it get to me, I tried something new:  I smiled as big as I could and pictured two miles ahead to mile 9 where S was waiting to meet me.  (In all honesty the smile probably just made me look either ill or delusional, as I tend to have a mean, uber ugly race face.  Really.)  We had worked out ahead of time that because the course was laid out in two loops and doubled back on itself S would meet me at mile 9, run to mile 13, and then meet me at the same place on the second loop, mile 22, and run me to the finish.  

As I neared our rendez-vous point I began debating whether or not to run the full 26.2.  I was still feeling pretty good and running a good marathon pace (I had the 3:20 pace group in my sights–not that I was watching), but I was HOT.  So hot that I actually stopped sweating at mile 8 and only started again after I downed a cup of Gatorade and two cups of water.  When I saw S, I told him I decided to just do the half because of the heat.  At first he was a little surprised, but about a mile into his four mile leg with me he completely understood, as he was overheating by then.  Since I decided not to go the full distance, we picked up the pace and according to S’s GPS watch we clocked the last mile in about seven minutes.   

I’m not sure what my finishing time was since the race website hasn’t posted the times yet, but I honestly don’t care.  I felt great and had FUN.  Like honest to goodness, I wish every race were that enjoyable, can we do it again soon, fun.  So I guess this rebound accomplished what all rebounds are supposed to, but rarely seem to deliver.  It got me ready to move on to the next serious challenge in this game we call running.

*I’m not sure if this is legend, myth, rationalization, or common sense, so I’ll go with legend.