Let's Train!

I'm supposed to be training for the marathon. But…do you really expect me to do that during the holidays? Do you know how many obstacles appear this time of year? Have you seen how much snow there is up here? Do you know how cold it has to be in order to make that much snow? Do you know how important that Yankee Swap is? Do you think I would be accepted if I showed up to a New Year’s party with running shoes and tights? Me neither. And if you are stressing about a marathon four months away over Christmas vacation for Lord's sake then you are not going about this the right way. So let’s just say I’ll start training in a little while.
I’m not scared.

In the meantime, we can chat about other things. For instance, my relatives, who get up early on Christmas morning to go running for, like, an hour and a half before breakfast. PS. We live on a hill that goes basically straight up for half a mile so whether or not you like it you are hill-running. We could also talk about each of my family members asking me how the marathon training is going and me having to continually assure them that it’s okay that I haven’t exactly started yet. Really. I’ll start soon. I did it once, I can do it again (nervous laughter). We can also talk about my lucky-ass brother who moved out to Wyoming to be a ski-bum. He sends photos of himself, waist deep in gorgeous fluffy snow, smiling as his new skis break through, blowing a cascade of magazine-photo-worthy flakes around him. He ditched me on Christmas; I’m the youngest one here by twenty-five years and have no one to give those looks to, the “ok, sure, whatever you say crazy lady” looks. I am also partial to the under-the-breath side-comments like “not” which are totally mature, of course. But they’re only funny when someone (who is supposed to hear) hears them and can’t stop laughing but obviously can’t explain what is so funny. So I keep explaining about the training: it’ll happen.

Most days on vacation in the New Hampshire woods I settle for a thirty-minute walk around the property with my mutt. He doesn’t judge me when I sleep until 8am and eat breakfast before letting him out. Plus, he’s really cute so you can’t lose. When the weather cooperates we run the 5 mile loop, ending with the painful hike uphill, but somehow it’s really different without the “training” label attached to it. So, when I start officially training, I’ll let you know.

I've got my charity. How do I get the money?

Have you ever begged for money? It’s horrible. And I’m not even talking about standing on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth with an empty, torn Dunkin’ Donuts cup, sweating in the blazing summer and freezing in the icy winter, because I can’t even imagine that. That’s gotta be a million times worse than what I’m talking about. I used to drive by this strip of median where the same guy would walk up and down all afternoon and evening with a crappy little misspelled sign; he was just one of many, and I’m sure you have seen someone exactly like who I’m talking about. The sign claims he has kids and a family and has fallen on hard times; he is sober of course and any little bit will help. Sad story, no? Anyway, I’m not really into just giving away money, and I never have any cash (do people carry cash?), and don’t forget I’m so broke I’m living in a dorm with 25 high school guys to pay the bills, so I thought I would give him a sandwich instead. Now I didn’t make this sandwich myself, I’m no saint; I took it from the “old sandwich” donation pile that didn’t get picked up at the deli where I worked. Regardless, it was a perfectly good sandwich made yesterday and I thought this guy on my route to and from work could use it more than the pile in the store that would sit still until tomorrow. PS. It was a good sandwich. I had it myself, on occasion. I rolled down my window, and he walked over. My dog (sometimes Dog is my co-pilot—don’t you hate that bumper sticker?) sniffed the air a little but was otherwise not interested. I didn’t know what to say, so I shoved my hand, nervously holding the sandwich, out the window and waited, hoping the light wouldn’t turn green and force me to make an awkward(er) exit. The man took the sandwich, stared at it, held it out in front of him, pulled it up close to his face, and asked me what it was. Excuse me, do you really care? Aren’t you f’ing starving? I was so shocked I just said, “Cheese,” and stared at the license plate ahead of me, now wishing the light would turn. I felt like such a failure. He hated my free sandwich! A bum, begging on the smoggy median, sweating on the summer solstice, didn’t like a free sandwich. Dammit! But then he looked at it again for a second, smiled at me so his scraggly whiskers crinkled in all different directions over his creased cheeks, and told me about how he had been hoping he would make enough money this afternoon to go get two hot dogs for dinner and boy, wouldn’t this sandwich be way better? So I slapped myself across the face for feeling bad for myself (not really, but that would be funny) and drove away in the traffic of Boston commuters, sitting alone in their cars, not car-pooling, and not giving away delicious sandwiches. Didn’t I tell you I am better than most people?

Ok, so I have had to start begging for money. Not in the just-mentioned sort of way, but via e-mail to friends and long-lost friends and friends-of-my-mom and random people in my Yahoo address book. They call it “Friends Helping Friends” or something, which is true, of course, but it sounds so lame, doesn’t it? I may be pessimistic, but the name could be a little more powerful sounding I think. Asking friends for money is rather humiliating; they could at least make it sound cool like…”Hot Babes if You Donate” or “Best You-Tube Ever!”. But again, I can’t really feel that badly. It’s for a good cause, and it is not because I am out on the streets. But still, I have to whine a little. I mean, do you ever get e-mails or calls from people, asking for you to donate to such-and-such? Yeah, I hate them too. They are so annoying! And for my cause, so I can put myself through the torture of training for and running a marathon, I have to ask everyone, and anyone, for money. I wish I could take a delicious sandwich instead.

PS. If you want to donate, friend, visit: http://metrolacrosse.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=253234

Which charity, you say?

The summer before my Boston Marathon vision, I worked as an “Education Intern” at a small organization right outside the city that offers free, year-round character education-via-sports to the nearby communities. Being the incredible jock that I am, I was totally interested in helping make this kind of thing possible for kids and knew I could do a great job at it. Duh. It doesn’t hurt that part of my grad school requirements included completing a “project or internship” in the general area of my degree (education). As an education intern (grad school class, check), I wrote the summer camp curricula, which was quite fun. Summer camp is supposed to be fun, so it’s not like I had to be a perfectionist about anything; my goal was to have the kids learn about being healthy, with good heads on their shoulders, and do some team building/cooperation/good citizen stuff. There was also some athletics thrown in as a ruse because no middle schooler in his right mind would sign up for “Character Education Camp.” If you can name one I will give you a dollar.

This organization, MetroLacrosse, needs some moolah, as I am sure all non-profits do. I had to bring my own pen to work! Can’t the presidential candidates just give some of their campaign money to us? The ones who aren’t going to win probably know it anyway and should just give up now so we can stop hearing about them and seeing their dumb signs and commercials all over the place. Now, I don’t follow each candidate’s charitable givings, but their advertisements are terrible (did you see Hillary opening up the presents of “health care”, etc.? blech!) and I really feel they can spend their billions a lot more wisely. And less annoyingly.

For instance, they could spend it on MetroLacrosse, which “Teaches Kid to Stick to Their Goals.” Get it, like lacrosse goals but also like life goals and being-a-good-person goals...and also stick as in lacrosse stick but also adhere? I love this motto; so cute and so true. So I feel good about running for this charity, and I feel good about running this marathon. Is that because I haven’t really started training yet?

To donate, visit: http://metrolacrosse.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=253234&lis=1&kntae253234=1E4988660E54426DB9B6A0F2C28BD304

How to get into the race without being a superfast runner

In order to qualify for popular and busy marathons, you have to a) run a marathon before the one you actually want to run and b) get a frickin’ awesome time on said marathon-before-marathon. For me, as a [gorgeous] 26 year old, that qualifying (aka terrifying) time was 3hours and 40minutes. I’m not saying that would be impossible for me, especially if you made it some sort of race with my nemesis (that bitch) or something, but it wasn’t exactly a leisurely activity I felt like doing in preparation for the marathon I was actually interested in running. That would be an uncomfortable pace for me, and I would have to spend four months training at that uncomfortable pace; as you already read, it isn’t cool to sign up for something and then complain about it the entire time. As I also previously mentioned, here’s how you can run a marathon if you are too lazy to qualify: run for charity.

There’s definitely nothing wrong with raising money for charity; in fact, I wish the Boston Marathon bigwigs allowed more people to do it. If I wasn’t housing $30,000 in graduate school loans, living in an all-male high school dorm to avoid paying rent and utilities, and struggling to find a job in my post-school days then I would certainly be giving more to charity. Scout’s honor. Right now my favorite one is the Central Asia Institute which pays for schools and good stuff like that in northern Pakistan; if you haven’t read its story, Three Cups of Tea, you are insane and must immediately go do so. I also enjoy the World Wildlife Foundation, not to be confused with the wrestling kind of WWF, because who doesn’t love wildlife? I know I am kind of a hick, growing up on the ocean in Maine, attending high school on a mountain in Vermont, and spending all my free time in northern New Hampshire where deer, turkeys, fox and bear frequent the premises and six inches of snow is a “crappy” storm, but the world is a pretty good thing to invest in, don’t you think?

So charity is good. And you can apply to run for a charity (which is good). I did; I was accepted; here we are, planning out some training for the next few months. Oh, and I have to come up with at least $3,000. Sounds great huh?

visit the homepage!

http://metrolacrosse.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=253234&lis=1&kntae253234=1E4988660E54426DB9B6A0F2C28BD304

Explanation part II

I guess I should explain where and when I changed my mind about marathons. You’re reading this; you’re taking time out of your perfectly good day to follow along; you could be drinking wine, knitting, and watching Tom Brady instead; you deserve to know. It isn’t really that good of a story though, so don’t be dismayed if you aren’t inspired by the following information. I worked at a sports academy at which most of the faculty and staff were pretty outdoorsy and athletic, if not at least attempting to be, and someone’s sister-in-law or something-someone-twice-removed registered for the marathon in Burlington, Vermont (for which one, mercifully, does not have to qualify by time), and suggested her relative tag along. Can one really “tag along” on a marathon? I’ll have to ask. So, she convinced my roommate and another co-worker to sign up, and I, being the Most Competitive Girl in the World that I am, chortled at the thought of them pounding out the pavement for 26.2 miles, and immediately sent in my registration forms as well, pushing them out of the way and stealing their stamps in the process. Just for the record, these ladies are, and were, perfectly capable of running long distances, reaching goals, sticking to plans, and doing so with a smile on, and I hold nothing against any of them (I actually adore them), but of course I knew I could do it better. You will soon learn that I can do just about everything better than most people. This is what we call “obvious”.

That reminds me of a hilarious Scrubs episode (is there one that isn’t hilarious?) in which JD is, as usual, annoying Turk talking about how he is so good at this and the best at that and the other and so on. Turk finally asks him to just shut up for two seconds already, his little chuck-stache twitching. So, JD does shut up, but in his head he is counting down, “one…two…three…and now I’m the best at that also”, in his smart inner-monologue that the writers, and fans, of that show so love, and giving himself a knowing nod that confirms he is, indeed, the best at that also. My good friend JK and I went on vacation together last summer and spent out entire trip commenting on how much better we were than everyone—yes, at everything—and honestly, it’s true. Well, it is our own fault we traveled by cruise ship—have you seen people on cruise ships? You are better than they are, and I don’t even know you. I had a ball, let me tell you, but I kid you not, the very second night we ended up stranded at a dinner table with some lady with fake nails and hilarious hair and an ah-mazing New Joisey accent talking about her miraculous marriage to the man she met online while totally embarrassing her daughter, who she pointed out to be adopted (isn’t that, like, the cardinal sin of adoptive parents?), who was all of twelve and had eye-lined her beautiful almond Asian eyes to New Joisey hell. You may also come to learn that these are the kind of people I do not mesh well with. But it makes a good story, no?

I guess the point (that I was trying to make a few paragraphs ago) is, if even a whiff of competition comes up, which it didn’t even on this particular occasion because no one “challenged” me to a marathon, so I guess if even a non-whiff comes up, I attack. I’m like a frog, squatting still on a lily pad, only eyes moving, following the trail of the next kill, dying to unleash the length of pink muscle that will capture my next meal but knowing I have to remain all-green and undetected for the one perfect opportunity that might not come again if I screw this up. Seriously, I’m like that. It’s like an itch on the inside, which clearly can’t be scratched, bubbling up my throat, dying to get out. If I feel the tug of competition, even if self-inflicted, I have to tap my feet or grind my jaw around to let out that energy building up and keep myself from offending anyone with a sarcastic challenge. I start sizing up people, my eyes flickering up and down their bodies like a pervy old man along the gym wall at cheerleading tryouts. If the competition isn’t offered, I might just crack and say juvenile things like, “wanna bet?” or “best of three?”. Then it gets serious.

At this point it is safe to tell you (and if you don’t already know you’re a dumbass): I hate not being the best at something. Well, I’ve gotten better at letting some things slide, like maybe someone else can vacuum once in a while, but I do such a better job it really isn’t worth it and I have to go around a second time afterwards anyway, lifting up chairs and going behind doors and other places normal people never vacuum for some weird reason. Lazy. If you ever need a prototypical Type A “Let-me-do-it-because-you’ll-just-do-a-bad-job-anyway” specimen, just give me a holler. I will be the best specimen you need, naturally, so why look elsewhere?

As I've said, I’ve become more apt to let others do their share of the work and I think my competitive side has chilled marginally since my college athletics/drinking games days. I play a mean Chandeliers, let me tell you. So I didn’t necessarily need to win the entire marathon, I just had to be the best one out of the people I knew running it. I don’t really know the best at what, considering I didn’t really care how long it took me to run the race nor was I all pumped up on the training process. I do know “being the best” definitely included—and eventually ended up being solely about—talking about the marathon the least, because I can’t stand people who choose to do things, on purpose, and then pretend they are some huge, inconvenient struggles they simply have to deal with (and talk about constantly, “sharing” aka “whining” about how horrible it all is meanwhile dropping hints about how amazing they are for running 10 miles at lunch time, etc., etc.). I actually stalked out of the cafeteria one time because someone, again, was talking about the misery of training. It remains unclear if she was looking for awed sympathy or actually just bitching, but I really couldn’t stand it. And obviously I am the best at not complaining, so I could be holier-than-she and hold my head high while violently returning my warped brown tray to the water-logged dishwashing window and stomping out to make a point. Also, I’m clearly very mature.

On that note, I think my reasons for running a second marathon are rather mature. I am raising money for charity. I wanted to run the Boston Marathon because it is such a big deal around here and basically the most popular (well, New York’s pretty big too) marathon in the country; I know I’m not living nearby forever, and I can bet you I’m not capable of running that distance for much longer, so, carpe diem, hey? Helping out a local charity can’t be a bad thing. So pat me on the back, I’m a good person.

Explanation part I

I didn’t really mean to run a marathon. Well, I don’t think anyone could actually run a marathon by accident (unless they were going for the award for Most Awesome Accomplishment While in a Coma or maybe the Guinness Book of World Records “Longest Activity While Sleepwalking” title or something. But then I guess if they were “going for” these they would be on purpose, and thusly not by accident, so nevermind). So that’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is there was a time in my life when I said, aloud, to another person, “I don’t ever want to run a marathon. That’s not something I need to do in my life.” I like drinking wine and sleeping in, I like to read, knit, cook and host parties, among other non-marathon-training-compatible activities. Don’t get me wrong, I like being outdoors, and I even like running, it’s just that running for three hours on a January Sunday when I could be lounging by the fire watching Tom Brady in that snappy (and tightly-bottomed) Patriots uniform win a play-off game and hanging out in sweatpants with my dog doesn’t exactly get me excited. I don’t think that’s an abnormal feeling really, to have no desire to train, for four months in wintery New England, for a race I would, if I ran, just simply want to finish. It’s just abnormal now, as I embark on the run- rest- repeat cycle of marathon training for the second time in three years and pretty much think nothing of it.

I'v decided to keep track of my journey. Enjoy!

Marathon, the Word

I would like to thank Merriam Webster for the following information on the word “marathon”:
Pronunciation: \ˈmer-ə-ˌthän, ˈma-rə-\
Function: noun
Etymology: Marathon, Greece, site of a victory of Greeks over Persians in 490 b.c., the news of which was carried to Athens by a long-distance runner
Date: 1896
1: a long-distance race: a: a footrace run on an open course usually of 26 miles 385 yards (42.2 kilometers) b: a race other than a footrace marked especially by great length 2 a: an endurance contest b: something (as an event, activity, or session) characterized by great length or concentrated effort

I especially love the pronunciation guides in dictionaries, don’t you? I have no idea what the little mark above the a means or what the dots before some letters and not others means. Maybe that was a basic skill I should have picked up sometime in school, but do these dictionary-writer people honestly think the general public benefits from the effort they put into splitting up the word like that? I have actually tried to make sense of the pronunciation section, but, let’s be honest here, it takes so many turns of pages and way too many verbal attempts to finally get the word to sound right. Then, all of a sudden, you’re sitting in the middle of the library, talking to yourself like a fool and everyone’s staring at you as the little granny librarian is running over with a yardstick to “ask” you to be quiet. So anyway, I know how to pronounce the word, that’s not the point.

The point is, I have signed up for any of the above definitions, and not one seems like a “normal” thing to do. A long distance race, a footrace of 26miles 385yards, a foot race marked especially by great length, an endurance contest, and something characterized by great length or concentrated effort (the last one is the worst), are all perfect definitions of what I will go through on April 21st. What this definition fails to recognize is that the marathon actually begins for me when I start fundraising for MetroLacrosse (a really neat and important, free, year-round lacrosse program for urban Boston neighborhood kids) and training, which is a good four and a half months before the actual race day and a hell of a lot of miles pounded out from my feet.

So, yes, the marathon was originally run from Marathon to Athens in Greece, in order to tell the capital about victory over the Persians, and the word now means that a running race is 26.2 miles long. But for me, the 2008 Boston Marathon is a lot more than that. What follows is just “that”.