A different kind of endurance test

This morning’s schedule called for 1200 m repeats at about the fastest pace my short legs can carry me for any sustained amount of time. After a very hard 11 mile run on Tuesday night, and looking ahead to a whopping 23-miler scheduled for this Saturday, I figured that my legs and knees could use a change of surface, so I opted for the gym. Additionally, every gym trip helps to justify our stupidly-priced membership, and, because I had to get up just after 5 am to fit in this workout, it is comforting to be in close proximity to both water and bathrooms at that uncertain hour.

And so although it was a lovely, dry morning, I figured that the gym -- despite its still, hot air -- was the safer option. At the very least, in my sleepy state and with tired legs, I knew that I’d be forced to run my prescribed pace on the treadmill, while I couldn’t be so sure that I wouldn’t slow down considerably if it was just me versus the open road. And I was right. By the fourth repeat, my HR was climbing to strangely high territory. By the fifth 1200 m repeat my legs were beginning to burn, and I began counting down the remaining time by the second. By the sixth repeat, I could barely go quickly enough to prevent myself from flying off the back of the machine altogether. And when I finally started my cool-down, I kept the pace a tad higher than I should have because, I figured, the faster I finish this workout, the faster I get to go home, drink a cup of coffee, and eat my cereal (and by this time, Zdenek was already complaining on the treadmill next to me that he was hungry). In running, it seems, quickness helps not just when you’re working hard, but also when you want to stop working. Quickness is everything.

The same cannot be said of other sports -- in particular, golf. This past weekend, Zdenek and I flew to Canada to spend Easter with his parents. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, we stayed up until (relatively) late, drinking, eating, and talking with my in-laws. It was good to be with family, and we seemed to cover every subject under the sun. It was exactly the way I would have designed the weekend. But when I am with my in-laws, I know that a golf game is always on the table. On past visits, I have run 18 miles while the rest of the family golfed 18 holes, but this weekend, we had only an easy 13 miles on our Saturday schedule. The weather was beautiful, and we had plenty of time for nine holes in the afternoon.

To be clear: I am most definitely not a golfer. Although I’m not very good at it, it doesn’t leave me frustrated or cursing on the green as it seems to do for those who truly love the sport (a perverted love indeed). It does, however, bore me. I find that on the first couple of holes, I’m relatively focused. I concentrate, take note of my stance, and practice my swing a few times. By about the sixth hole, however, I start to lose interest. I just want the game to be over as quickly as possible. I don’t return my club (one of only three that I use) to the bag between turns. I forgo practice swings in favor of connecting with the ball -- however poorly -- more quickly, which just leaves me chasing it down the fairway in ten foot increments, thus wasting even more time. Towards the end, I sometimes don’t even finish the hole at all, instead opting to take whatever score the scorekeeper decides I might be worth. I just grab my ball and head off to the next hole, ticking them off like miles in a marathon.

Something about golf just bores me and strikes me as a waste of time (and money and water and green space). I may not be quick enough to be a great runner, but I surely lack the necessary focus to ever become a great golfer. Golf just isn't challenging for me in an adrenaline-rushing, heart-pumping kind of way. I don’t grin from ear to ear like I sometimes do when riding my bike. I don’t enter a zone the way I can while running hard and long. It doesn’t even seem good for my body in the way yoga or swimming does. And it most certainly does not reward speed. To attempt to play quickly will certainly just backfire and end up prolonging the game. In golf, unlike running, to be quick is to suck, and I am definitely not cut out for the patience demanded over nine or 18 holes. Eighteen miles, on the other hand, is a different story.

My kind of golf

Real enjoyment

This past Saturday, in talking with my sister, I learned that one of my nephews has decided to take his training to a new level. Without going into too many of the details, he very much wants to improve his competitive swimming but feels that three practices per week offers insufficient pool time to realize his full potential. And so, recently, he approached the front desk of his local swimming pool to request an open swim schedule and purchase a book of drop-in passes. He has committed himself to swimming two times per week -- before school at 6:30 am or so -- on his own and in addition to his usual club practices. Did I mention that my nephew is just shy of ten years old?

As his running, swimming, and cycling aunt, I beamed with pride to hear my sister tell me this, and I sincerely hope that both of them stick to their new plan (because, of course, his ability to make a morning pool time will depend on her ability and willingness to get up earlier than usual to drive him to the pool). My sister’s life is, to put it mildly, extremely hectic, and so I can’t say I’ll blame her if this new commitment ends up falling through the cracks. Nevertheless, I applaud my nephew for even suggesting an increase in his training intensity, and I’m delighted that he’s enjoying swimming as much as he is (and so, too, is my other nephew, who recently told me, “I finally found the sport that I really, really, really enjoy”).

The truth is, though, if my nephews are enjoying swimming as much as they claim to be, then extra swim practices and early mornings probably don’t feel like work at all. Training can almost become the opposite of work and, indeed (in the adult world at least), relief from work. I know this feeling well. Tonight on my calendar, for example, I have a work party (complete with dinner and drinks) at a swanky Manhattan location. Unfortunately, though, I missed my scheduled eight miler this morning, and so I am faced with the choice of: (a) missing this run altogether (unheard of); (b) shuffling around my runs for this week to try to accommodate it elsewhere (annoying); or, (c) skipping the party and heading to that other Manhattan hot spot, Central Park. I have opted for (c). Though I was a bit nervous to reveal to my co-workers my reason for missing tonight’s party, I found that everyone I told had the same reaction: “That makes sense. That’s a very good reason to skip the party.” I guess my co-workers understand that it’s the one thing I really, really, really enjoy.

Welcome home

We recently took advantage of the US Thanksgiving holiday to fly home (to my original home town, that is) and visit friends and family. We’ll be spending Christmas week this year in Paris and the Czech Republic, but the past four days in Canada felt almost like being home for the holidays. (Ironically, as we cleared US customs at the Canadian airport before flying back to New York City, the immigration officer greeted me in Spanish, laughed about being unable to fake a New York accent, and then handed me back my passport, saying, “Welcome home.”)

The trip to Canada was busy from start to finish and I think we’re only now starting to make a dent in our accumulated sleep deficit, but it was well worth it. We got a Christmas teaser with an afternoon visit to Lake Louise in Banff -- seven feet of snow along an icy, picturesque lake (with a small avalanche before our very eyes) was a fine welcome to the month of December. I spent as much time as possible with my family and friends, and managed to ingest an impressive number of perogies over the weekend. On Saturday morning, Zdenek and I ran a liberating 14 miles through Fish Creek Park in an attempt to shake off the previous night’s libations. It wasn’t Central Park, but then, it didn’t have to be.

Lake Louise looked just like this during our visit

Muffins with meaning

It's been a drizzly, cold weekend in New York City. For once, though, I don't mind the weather so much, because it's allowed me the opportunity to stay warm and cozy at home without feeling like my time could be spent more productively. On Friday night, I was asleep on the couch by 9:30 pm and made the 15 foot migration to my bed 20 minutes later. We managed a respectable 13 mile run on Saturday morning, and then rewarded ourselves by snuggling under a blanket to watch "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" while drinking Belgian-style brews and eating strong cheeses. Later, we actually rallied to meet friends at the frou-frou Morimoto, where we indulged in an extraordinary amount of sushi and, of course, more beer. Today has been both relaxing and rewarding thus far: a couple of hours reading the NY Times followed by a quick 5 miles in a mostly deserted, rainy Central Park. I'm now showered and cozy in my favorite Boston Marathon sweatshirt, enveloped by the warm, delicious scent of baking banana pineapple muffins. The best part of my weekend is rising up (literally) as I type this.

These muffins are my mom's favourite recipe -- or at least, they are the ones she made most often when I was growing up (and probably still does, though I'm home too infrequently to be sure). At that time, most yellow bananas in our house fulfilled their destiny as a midday snack or as filling for a peanut butter-banana sandwich. But for the one or two bananas each week that turned brown and soft with neglect, a more delicious fate was in store. These potassium powerhouses would soon find themselves peeled and mushed, mixed with a bit of crushed pineapple, and stirred into a pastry mix. Twenty minutes later, my mom would retrieve the fragrant, yellow muffins from the oven, scoop them out onto an old newspaper for cooling, and then dish one out for me with a pat of butter on top. Sometimes these muffins were prepared on Saturday mornings, but just as often, their tempting aroma would fill the house on midweek evening and provide a comforting bedtime snack.

It was somewhat significant for me to whip up this same batch of muffins for my husband soon after we were married. I don't fancy myself a domestic goddess, and I don't derive a great deal of satisfaction from mothering those around me. But carrying on the tradition of almost-weekly banana pineapple muffins seemed to rest on my shoulders once I left my mother's home and moved into one of my own. With both purpose and pride, I transformed the first brown banana in our apartment into my mom's signature muffins (and I'm certain that my sister does the same for her family on a routine basis). Because the muffins are, in fact, very good, and because anything baked with love is downright delicious, Zdenek showed his approval by helping me to finish the whole dozen within days.

It's been months -- if not more than one year -- since the scent of banana pineapple muffins has filled our Upper West Side apartment. I'm not sure why, exactly, other than perhaps I'm trying to avoid having a dozen baked goods around when there are only two of us to partake. (Zdenek has instead made good use of mushy bananas by folding them into his pancake batter after Saturday morning long runs.) But today, as we were heading out the door to face the rain and cold, Zdenek suggested that "we" (meaning me) whip up a batch of banana pineapple muffins this afternoon, and I didn't require any convincing. On our way back from the Park we stopped off to buy a crushed can of pineapples; thirty minutes later, we're both salivating at the thought of a warm, delicious muffin on this dark and dreary Sunday afternoon. And I know there's a pretty good chance that, thousands of miles away, the same treat can be enjoyed this weekend around my mom's kitchen table.

Full and thankful

Today is both Canadian Thanksgiving and my parents' 46th wedding anniversary (Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!). It's also Columbus Day here in the United States. Indeed, no matter how you look at it, today is a holiday.

Sadly, I got no such holiday today, and instead headed off to work for my usual stint. My husband fared a little better than me -- one small perk of working in the financial markets, I guess. It's probably a good thing that I was forced to go to work instead of lounging around at home, because I'm certain that I would have spent it in an unproductive and lazy way after the many indulgences of the last 48 hours.

Zdenek's parents have been visiting for the last few days, and it's been a huge treat having them around. Even though we're surrounded by millions of other people on this island, there are only a couple dozen in the world whose absence leaves a noticeable hole in our day-to-day.

In homage to the Canadian holiday that allowed my in-laws an extra day off of work to make a trip south of the border, I prepared several culinary delights this weekend that left us all stuffed and rubbing our bellies. For her part, New York City cooperated by providing us with warmish temperatures and a bit of sunshine, at least on Sunday. As usual, we have much to celebrate, and much to be thankful for.

In clover

It took some time to get out the door this morning. Once I was dressed in my leg warmers, booties, and new cycling jacket, we headed out into the early dawn for our usual three loops of the Park. Bundled up in my fuzzy warm attire, I wondered how long I'll be able to continue cycling before running will become the warmer, and therefore only, option.

Somewhere around Tavern on Green on the West side, and again by the Reservoir on the East Drive, the strong, warm, comforting scent of cloves was all around us. I've been enjoying Central Park on an almost daily basis for over four years, and I have experienced this a few times before. Today, it was an unexpected but pleasant surprise in the chilly air, and it made me want to wrap my cold fingers around a hot cup of cocoa and enjoy a slice of gingerbread (or two). (Appropriately, a coworker has just informed me that a slice of chocolate chip pumpkin loaf awaits me this afternoon. Three cheers for coworkers who bake, and especially for those who bring the fruits of their labor into the office the next day!) After my ride, I did an online search to see if I could find anything about the location or source of the Central Park cloves. I didn't manage to find any clues, but I was somewhat amused to learn that "in clover" not only implies a carefree life of ease, comfort, and prosperity, but is also synonymous with "cozy."

Perhaps due to the lingering scent of the cloves in my head, I selected my longest, coziest fall sweater to wear today. Walking to work, wrapped to my knees in wool, I began thinking about our plans for the next few months: My in-laws will be visiting us in the Big Apple this weekend to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. During US Thanksgiving in November, Zdenek and I intend on making a trip home to Calgary for a few days of blue sky and fresh mountain air. And in December, we're off to Europe to visit Zdenek's extended family in the Czech Republic, as well as to connect with old friends for three days in Paris. Although I've been to Paris a few times during the summer months, something about visiting the City of Lights in the days before Christmas seems absolutely magical. This morning marked the beginning of what is bound to be a memorable and unique holiday season.

How to get rid of fruit flies (and other valuable lessons)

We're back in the Big Apple after a pretty-much-perfect holiday in Canada. This one more than made up for the constant driving and cloudy skies we experienced during our last visit north of the border. A few valuable lessons were learned over nine days in Calgary, Banff, and the Okanagan valley. Where possible, I've included some illustrative photos:

1. Calgary really is the sunniest place in Canada.

2. Even when a gondola is available to whisk you to the top, it's more fun to climb a mountain by foot.

3. The 10.5 mile run around the Glenmore Reservoir in Calgary is perfect in terms of distance, terrain, and scenery. It is more difficult the day after climbing a mountain than after a day of rest.

4. $75 worth of beef jerky (purchased at the shop behind us) may seem like a good idea at the time, but really, it's not.

5. Despite thousands of miles of physical separation and only getting together every 12 to 18 months, my friends and I can pick up where we left off every single time.

6. Four nights of hard partying is something better left to our selves of 15 years ago, but old habits die hard.

7. When confronted with clouds of fruit flies in your kitchen, a vacuum hose and a few drinks can make for video-game-like entertainment.

8. Classy is a state of mind.

A stormy start

Some especially ferocious weather ripped through New York City on Tuesday evening. It lasted only about 30 minutes and started just as I was going to bed, but it was evident by the simultaneous thunder and lightning over our Upper West Side brownstone that we were in the eye of the storm. I didn't think much of it until the following morning when we arrived for a mid-week cycle in Central Park. The carnage of branches and leaves across the road made cycling difficult at best, and dangerous at worst, and by the time we reached Engineer's Gate at East 90th Street, we were forced to turn back due to a felled tree further up the road.

The extent of the destruction wrought by this storm really sunk in when I read that over 100 trees had lost their lives Tuesday night, and an estimated 500 more had been severely "injured." While the roads had been cleared by the time we returned Thursday morning to attempt another ride, the fields in the upper half of the Park looked as though an arboreal mass murder had taken place. There was something very sad about seeing my favourite playground so damaged, and in some way I mourned the loss of so many majestic chestnuts, oaks, and elms. I had not realized on Tuesday night just how devastating that storm would be.

I also received a bit of disappointing personal news on Tuesday that, at the time, didn't seem too severe. In truth, it really isn't severe, and if it represents the worst of my problems, then I am very lucky indeed. I know it's something on which I shouldn't dwell another moment. But as my mood gradually soured on Wednesday, I realized that Tuesday's bit of bad news was only beginning to sink in and was affecting me more than I would have anticipated.

This morning didn't help make things much better: it was 29 degrees Celsius and 87% humidity by 7 am, but for some reason known only to my inner psyche, I forced myself to run a hard-ish 3.5 miles. It sucked. I struggled. It was perhaps the first run of my life on which I actually felt nauseous and dizzy, and all that within the first 15 minutes.

But last night I read an intriguing article in Runner's World about the potential for our psychological pain to manifest itself in the physical, and to create injuries where there should be none. I have no time or patience for injury right now; I'm enjoying cycling and running far too much to be sidelined by some silly pulled muscle or sore joint. Lest I wallow in my bad feelings any longer and end up sidelining myself for the rest of the summer and fall, I am going to end today's post with three positive thoughts:

1. Zdenek and I cycled a fast and furious 18 miles on Thursday morning. We knocked it out of the park, and we worked as a team of only two. It was the best ride of my life (though admittedly it helps that I started from scratch only one year ago).

2. I've been glued to the IAAF World Championships all week long, but Usain Bolt's 200 m sprint yesterday was something that I almost feel lucky to have witnessed. Even better, the men's and women's marathons are on this weekend, so I have much exciting sports viewing to look forward to.

3. In one week and one day I will be back home with friends and family. It's Take 2 on the 2009 summer vacation. It will be filled with time in the mountains and around lakes, hiking and swimming, eating and drinking. I'll get to spend almost five days with my girlfriends in the Okanagon Valley (pictured right), where we'll get caught up with one another, tour a few wineries, and celebrate the "hitching" of one of our gang.

So while this week may have gotten off to a stormy start (and while it's actually storming outside my window as I type this), there are rides to be ridden, marathons to be watched, and vacations to be had. Injuries, stay away!

A birthday tribute

My earliest memory of being on a bike does not involve riding it at all. As the youngest of three children (by a significant number of years), I was always the peanut of the family who was too small to keep up with the recreational pursuits of my parents and older brother and sister. When they went skiing in the Canadian Rockies, I stayed in the daycare at the foot of slopes and napped. When we camped away our summers in BC, and my brother, sister, and cousins were swimming in the lake or careening down the slides at the adjacent waterslide park, I waded up to my knees with water wings on. But when we went cycling, I was able to participate.

During these family bike rides of my early childhood, I never rode my own two-wheeler, but rather was seated comfortably in a yellow bucket seat attached to the back of my mom's bike. To this day, I'm still not certain why my mother, rather than my father, was forced to haul me around, but I have fond memories of riding through Fish Creek Provincial Park, enjoying the biking experience without having to exert any effort. A few years later, I would actually pedal my own bike (I believe it was called, "Strawberry Shortcake") alongside my mom and dad. True, they were walking and I would keep up by riding beside them, but our paces were well matched. My mom and I haven't been on a bike together in years, but every time we are in the same place, we typically end up on long and rather vigorous walks, allowing us plenty of time to get caught up on all the things we miss in each other's lives by living so far apart. In the last few years, my mom and I discovered cross-country skiing. Here our abilities are aligned, and I know that this is something we will continue to enjoy in the years to come.

My mother is an extraordinary woman. I've known her all my life -- in fact, I've known her longer than I've known anyone -- so I feel rather confident in saying this. She is an incredibly cool woman -- that is, she is one of the calmest and least stressed people I know. She takes every bump along the road in stride. And while all mothers are generous, particularly towards their children, my mom is constantly giving of her time, her talents, and her love to those around her. I suspect that she adopted this trait from her own mother, whom she references often, and while "generous" is not the first word I would use to describe myself, I try to live by her example each day.

My mom and me in the Galapagos Islands, 2008

While I have said that I am "back home" this week, this isn't quite accurate. In fact, my true "home," or at the least the one in which I grew up, is thousands of miles away in Calgary, Canada. I miss home constantly, but perhaps more so today. July 12 marks my mom's 65th birthday, and my entire family is together celebrating at my parents' vacation home in the mountains of British Columbia. Perhaps they are swimming, biking, or hiking. Central Park may be lovely, but I know where I'd rather be today.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

My future training partners

I've already made mention of the fact that my sister has the three most wonderful children. I was delighted to talk with one of them last night and learn that they are more than just a collection of adorable faces -- they are becoming athletes! My two nephews are each kicking serious butt in their competitive swim clubs, while their younger sister (seen here at her esteemed preschool graduation ceremony) is apparently happier in the pool than out of it. It seems that they are all taking after their Uncle Zdenek (to whom they have no blood relation, but that's beside the point).

And so, I dedicate today's post to these future athletes (which -- let's be honest -- also seemed like a good way to post some cute photos). I am thrilled that they have found such pleasure in physical activity, and though I know that the hard work and committment is only just beginning (for both them and their parents), I am rooting for them from afar!

In awe

Yesterday at work, my coworkers and I were talking about the relative ease with which one can obtain a PhD. As a card-carrying Doctor of Philosophy myself, and with two other non-practicing PhDs in the room, I commented that a PhD seemed impressive to me only before I actually had one. Having gone through grad school and then a short stint as a post-doctoral fellow, I've seen all sorts of people receive PhDs: smart; not-so-smart; insightful; dull; motivated; bored; and altogether absent. It seems to me that the secret to getting a PhD is enrolling in the first place, because most supervisors and departments are loathe to have a grad student not finish -- it simply reflects poorly on everyone. True, the very weak students might fail multiple committee examinations, suffer numerous dissertation re-writes, or, at the very worst, receive a "Master's degree in lieu of," but even that's not such a bad way to put an extra two or three letters behind one's name. Of course, I don't mean to disparage my own education or that of others. But it's funny how things can seem overwhelming or downright frightening -- that is, until we actually try them and (hopefully) succeed.

Marathoning is a similar phenomenon. A long time ago, when I was 20 years old, my boyfriend at the time used to run for 30 minutes a few days each week. I was amazed! How on earth can a person run, without stopping, for 30 minutes at a time!? Only when I began running myself and was eventually doing 45-60 minutes at a time did this cease to be incredible to me. When I moved to Toronto several years later, I met my now dear friend, Siobhan, who was training for a half marathon at the time. When Siobhan suggested that we train for a marathon together, I looked at the training schedule and was unconvinced that I could run so long, week after week. But as we plundered through our plans, 20+ km runs became, and remain, my norm. True, in those early training days, Siobhan and I would run, eat, and sleep away the rest of the day, whereas now I'm usually showered, changed, and out the door again within an hour or two of my long runs. But what once seemed impossible now seems merely average to me; I spend most of my time marveling at the elite and sub-elite runners who can complete a marathon in under three hours (something that I'm pretty certain will always remain beyond my abilities).

These reflections seem especially relevant this week, as Siobhan just had her first baby. Note that I have two adorable nephews and one very adorable niece, courtesy of my sister, and that my sister is the world's most amazing mother (next to my own). She does it all, and then some, and she has raised the three most wonderful children imaginable. She works her butt off. But she's always been my big sister (by many years), and so I've always kind of thought of her as being more mature and capable than me. On the other hand, Siobhan and I are the same age and I relate to her in many ways, so to say that I am in awe of the fact that she is now a mother would be an understatement.

I have a hunch that having and raising a child is probably more difficult than any PhD or marathon. On the other hand, the vast majority of parents seem to get through parenthood, and oftentimes decide to do it several times more! I imagine that most of parenthood is like running the final, difficult, but immensely rewarding miles of a marathon over and over and over again. As one who's never done it (that is, neither parenthood nor repeatedly running miles 24-26), I'm sure that's a wildly inaccurate analogy, but it's the only one I know.

Congratulations, Siobhan and Jeremy!

Backs and backsides

Although I complained to Zdenek yesterday that my butt hurt after our first cycle of the season (and to which, to my annoyance, he replied that he felt fine), I didn't really think twice about heading out again this morning. I have an out-of-town trip planned for Friday, so I need to squeeze in as many cycling days as possible between now and Thursday. All seemed to be going okay this morning until we actually got on our bikes, at which point our tushes felt like tender, bruised patches of flesh being punched over and over again by hard, unforgiving saddles. (Turns out that Zdenek's butt actually was sore!) I was certain that I would have to do the whole ride standing up, but, fortunately, it numbed completely by the time we reached the Park.

Three workouts in 24 hours has taken a bit of a toll on my body, and with Zdenek pushing the pace today, it was a pretty rough 40 minutes for me. Towards the end of our second loop, I complained to him that we seem only to ever have one pace, and that we don't know the pleasure of riding leisurely. He reminded me of one weekend ride last summer when we were about 20 miles away from home, heading through the Palisades in New Jersey, when my nagging knee injury (caused by my then ill-fitted bike) finally forced me stop pedaling. My valiant husband, eager to help me but even more desperate to get home, cycled beside me, hand on my back, pushing me uphill for several miles until I could pedal again. I'm not sure that's how I would define a "leisurely" ride, but it is comforting to know that my husband always has my back.

I'm meant to be flying to Canada this weekend to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of my good friend, Heather. I am blessed with a very tight group of girlfriends -- the five of us have been together since high school, but several of us have friendships extending back even further than that. We're throwing a stagette for the bride-to-be at Jessica's cabin in BC this coming weekend. The girls and I haven't spent quality time together since goodness-knows-when; the last time we were all in the same place for a night was in 1999, a few weeks before I moved to England. This would be a 10 year reunion of sorts, and I'd be loathe to miss it. (As you can see from the photo, whenever we get together, there's always some unexpected fun.) The girls have done a lot of planning and work for this weekend; all I have to do is fly in. I count myself blessed to have such organized, generous, and supportive friends.

Unfortunately, this week at work is shaping up to be no less hectic than the last. I'm desperately hoping that I will, in fact, still be able to make the trip come Friday, and that I'm not forced to cancel last-minute because of the deadlines with which I'm dealing. I am lucky, however, to work with a talented and motivated group of individuals, several of whom are now scrambling to enable me with some sort of remote international broadband access for this weekend so that I may have my cake and eat it, too.

I'm not sure how this week will shape up when all is said and done, but it seems that every time I stop to consider it, there are people all around me -- family, friends, coworkers -- who have my back. My butt, however, must fend for itself.

Painful reminders

One of the golden rules of marathon training (or, I imagine, training for any specific race or event) is to do all of your experimentation during your training program so that race day simply becomes a matter of executing what's already been tried and tested. This applies to fueling and hydrating yourself before and during the event, testing every last item of clothing that you think you may possibly need to wear on race day, knowing how many hours of sleep you need for optimal performance on the road, and properly estimating how much time and coffee you need to get ready and achieve optimal performance in the bathroom. A related rule states that you should probably refrain from trying any new activities or sports during the few crucial weeks before race day, lest you tear a muscle, break a leg, or otherwise injure yourself. Skiing is bad because you could really mess up your knee (I have a few too many coworkers who have suffered meniscus tears on the slopes for my liking), and cycling could land you with a broken wrist or severely torn elbow (been there, done that). As I learned this weekend, you should also refrain from trying any new dance moves during marathon training, because (a) you'll look like an idiot, and (b) it can really hurt your calves.

We just returned from a lovely Easter weekend north of the border where we mostly ate, drank, laughed, talked, and, as it happened, danced with my in-laws. It was a great weekend and we were blessed with superbly sunny skies for both Saturday and Sunday. On Friday I managed to lay pretty low and kept to a two drink maximum on the eve of our long run. Even a 20 minute walk on Friday seemed like a lot of work to me -- it's amusing that I can be so lazy when my schedule permits it! Saturday morning turned out to be a gloriously sunny day and, best of all, this was a recovery week that called for a simple 13 miles. It's pretty amazing how, after weeks of 18+ mile long runs (and every third one at race pace), an easy 13 miles truly feels like a walk in the park. Zdenek and I ran together, in equal measure against the wind and with the breeze at our backs, and the beautiful sunshine and fact that we were, technically, "on vacation," propelled us to a pace that was a good 20 seconds per mile faster than necessary. Finishing 13 miles together feeling refreshed and happy was a lovely treat!

Since the rest of the weekend was scheduled "rest time" (I jammed all of my runs and cross-training sessions into the week before), the end of that 13 miles was the green light to eat, drink, and be merry. After a relaxing day filled with delicious food and drink, Saturday night found us slightly tipsy and looking to make fools of ourselves. Well, we didn't set out to make fools of ourselves, but that's what ended up happening. As is usually the case at my in-laws' house, we migrated down to the basement bar shortly after dinner. There, my father-in-law proceeded to pump out some combination of Neil Diamond, Eddie Money, and Boney M, while a strobe light pulsated in the corner (I kid you not). And we danced. Or at least, jumped around and threw our hands in the air in some form of movement that approximated a mixture of polka and Sweatin' to the Oldies. And for some reason, I felt that the more air I got, the better I must have been "dancing", and so I pretty much jumped around the room until my arches hurt (a mild nag in my plantar fascia which I've been stretching and icing to keep at bay) and I decided that I needed another drink. It continued on like this for some time, until the drinking periods started to outlast the dancing ones.



Sunday morning found my calves permanently clenched into some sort of tight mass, a feeling I've never once experienced in training, no matter how many miles I log in one week. I winced getting out of bed, I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have to run that day, and sometime at around 4 am this morning, the nagging tightness caused me to readjust my weekly schedule in a half-awake state. Rather than subjecting my legs to further torture with a scheduled 11 miler this morning, I made the decision to try to ease my damaged gastrocnemius muscles back into running with a five mile fartlek. (Tomorrow, 11 miles, whether I like it or not.) In fact, I only remember ever feeling this type of pain in my calves back when I first started running routinely, somewhere around 2001. Back then I believed that the more I bounced, the more gazelle-like -- and therefore graceful -- I must have appeared. I continued on this way for a couple of years until I realized that my sore calves and aching knees were probably due to all the unnecessary air time. There's a different cause for my tight calves this time around, but it's no less painful. In any case, it was a relatively safe reminder that it's best not to try anything new in the weeks before the race, and that, as captured in these photos, I still have a long way to go in the "grace" department.