Racing Stripes on Love Handles

Update #7: The Finish Line

2010-07-03T14:35:00.000-04:00

It has taken me a long time to write this, which is fitting, in a way: what was so long and difficult to accomplish is equally difficult to describe. (Okay, I'm really just scrambling for a more poetic excuse than "I had to have some dental surgery and there was a sales conference for work.") Nevertheless, this is the story of my marathon. Warning: it's really long, but I think you'll enjoy it. Go grab a cup of coffee; get comfortable, then come back.

PRE-RACE

The day began at 4:30 AM, in the lobby of our hotel. It seemed cruel at the time - by now it's been downgraded to "dick move" - but it makes sense, logistically: you want to start the marathon early (7am) so that most runners can finish before the day hits its highest heat. And it's difficult to move tens of thousands of people from place to place; that takes time and buses, though I've heard a burning bush works, too. Still - 4:30??? I don't know about everyone else, but for me, at 4:30 in the morning, everything appears to be a stupid decision. Except for coffee. But when you're about to run for many, many hours, coffee is a VERY stupid decision. So I had a cup of decaf, which was completely unsatisfactory in every way.

Of course, for the experienced runners, the time spent waiting around was awesome. They were at a party. They were taking photos, hugging, decorating each other with temporary tattoos and sharpies and slathering sunblock on one another, while me and my two running friends, Milica and Jinky, sulked quietly in a corner. (We actually weren't in a corner - by then we were out on the sidewalk. But in that atmosphere, wherever we were FELT like the corner.) Throw in some yearbooks and you've just described my senior year of high school. I didn't dwell on the symbolism when the one temporary tattoo Milica put on my cheek had been dropped by one of the cool kids on accident.

My one moment of popularity came when people noticed my race bib. On the application form we'd filled out months before, there was a field where you could customize it with some text. Most people had put a cutesy nickname for themselves or the name of someone in whose honor they were running. I filled out my form one night after a couple of beers and writing a of running update, so predictably it read "Chafed Nuts". Unless my nards land a role in the next Twlight movie, I think they've seen the height of their popularity.

Finally, we rode the bus. I've got nothing to say about that part. It was a bus. Its wheels went round and round, its wipers went swish swish swish, etc., etc.

THE FIRST HALF

With fifteen minutes to until race time, we had to get into our corrals, which we'd been assigned to according to how long we thought it would take us to complete the course. I had put 5:30. This would turn out to be very, very incorrect, because I started to get antsy and unpleasant. Behind me was a guy whose entire right leg was in a cast, wearing a shirt that read "Marathon Maniacs". I made my mind up that if he passed me I'd break the other leg.

With minutes to go, everyone was excited; you could feel it. Even the people who'd been nervous had to realize that they'd crossed the Rubicon. This thing was about to happen, whether you were ready or not. That's when they played the national anthem. I'll fully admit that I tend towards cynicism, but even I get the goose bumps when I'm standing in a crowd and they play the Star Spangled Banner. And that's when I'm in the bleachers at a ball game. Standing on the street like that, with my race number pinned to my chest? I felt like a goddamn Olympian. Fuck goose bumps - I was covered in BALD EAGLE BUMPS. USA! USA! I would have joined the Armed Forces if I could have.

And we were off. Milica, Jinky and I held hands as we crossed the starting gate, and we set off slowly, because we'd decided long before that we wouldn't let our adrenaline push us into doing something stupid. But while we were shuffling our way to victory, everyone around us was tripping their way to a faceplant. For those of you who have never been in a marathon before, it's astounding how much of a clusterfuck it is. People are so eager to pass each other that they don't watch for things like traffic cones, or those little "drunk bumps" on the street. People were falling down all over the place. I had no sympathy what so ever. That corral had been one of the friendliest places I've ever been (except for what I wanted to do to the "Casthole" as I thought of him) but once you cross that rubber "start" bumper it turns into the Jog-o-bahn. We were in corral 29 of 62 - slow down, Prefontaine. I saw one guy eat shit after tripping over a concrete median, and I wished I could have been in his head when he tried to justify that to himself: "What the-??? That thing CAME OUT OF NOWHERE!!! What asshole puts a center divider in the middle of the road?!?"

Thus, we entered the first half of the race. Oh, that first half. Man, that was fun.

The first half of the race was amazing. There were people all along the streets, cheering us on. The first five miles there was a band at almost every mile, and they were rocking.

It was a team event, and everyone was on the same team. We cheered fellow TNT'ers from Wisconsin as enthusiastically as we cheered our Brooklyn teammates, and they cheered us back. It was a giant love fest...except for those poor suckers who weren't there from Team in Training. Those guys were on their own, cheer-wise. I'd feel bad for them, but in a way, weren't they running ON BEHALF of Leukemia and Lymphoma? And who would want to cheer on someone like that?

Troupes of actual cheerleaders from local high schools were also stationed along the way, wearing shirts that read "Spirit Girls" and cheering loudly. At each one of these stations, I'd run over to them and charge through, getting high fives all down the row. I'd come out of the line twice as fast as I came in, whooping as loud as I could. Maybe I wasn't conserving my energy, but I was getting twice as much back in return.

I felt wonderful. We were even cracking jokes, and while I can't remember what they were about, I remember how much I was laughing and smiling. I was genuinely having fun. This would change.

I was also in a very generous mood. At each water station I made sure to thank them for volunteering. I told Milica and Jinky how glad I was to be doing this with them. Around mile ten, we began to pass two women, probably in their forties or so. One of them was asking if anyone had an extra visor or hat for her friend. Who was I to refuse help to a woman in need? It was sweaty and nasty, but if she wanted it, it was hers. She asked me if she could do anything in return, and all I wanted was a hug.

Since I started training, people have asked me if I've ever felt a runner's high. I'm pretty sure that I haven't. The farther I run, the more it hurts. A runner once told me, "I've never done ecstacy, but I have got a runner's high, and I've gotta imagine it's like that." Well, I've been to Burning Man, and until 50,000 people fly to the middle of Nevada to run for seven days straight, I'm going to say "no." No, running is nothing like ecstacy.

Still, I can't help but notice a certain Burning Man-ness to the first half of the race (see: exchange of goods for hugs, above.) I was full of warm fuzzies. If I could have had one wish at that moment, it probably would have been to cross the finish line with everyone, all 30,000 of us, together in one big hand-holding hippiethon. But that wasn't a runner's high - it was a marathon high. It was the high of being with everyone, doing something so wonderful. One woman held a sign that read "If your feet hurt, it's from kicking Leukemia's ass" I still get goose bumps. I'd get them at random moments, too, when I'd hear some special cheer, or come across a view of hundreds of people all running together. Around mile six or so we passed a series of poster boards with pictures of people who'd lost their lives to Leukemia or Lymphoma. The boards read things like "We love you" and "Remember why you're doing this." I almost cried. That's the stuff I was high on.

Then the high wore off.

The first sign of things to come was around mile 11. We were running down the middle of the freeway. At first it was another cool, surreal moment, but oddly, there aren't a lot of people who are dying to go stand on a freeway, and without the crowds, I started to notice all the little things. My feet were starting to hurt, it getting warm, and I realized that I'd put on sunblock around 5 AM, meaning I wasn't protected anymore - I was just greasy. And I had a long way to go.

Things were still good, overall. As we were coming down a hill, there - in the middle of a freeway - was a group of Japanese Taiko drummers. That took the experience from "surreal" straight into Hunter S. Thompson territory. When we came off the freeway a half-mile later, there was a big group waiting to pick up where the cheering had left off. There were a few lines of Spirit Girls to charge through. My spirit was renewed. Still... there were omens. When we passed the 13th Mile marker, I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to touch it. I leapt as high as I could, but at the same moment, the wind blew it up and out of reach. (It's up to you how you want to interpret that: either a portend of things to come, or I'm just short and white and most things are out of reach.)

I was completely dependent on the crowds. My feet were hurting steadily, but I had enough to take my mind off of it: there was a Metallica cover band, and guys with hoses cooling us down. And there were plenty of Spirit Girls. (Look, let's just get this out of the way. Yes, those girls were under 18, and I know how it sounds for me to go on and on about how much I wanted them to lavish attention on me, and how it invigorated my spirit. Y'know what? I don't give a shit. I'll be a respectable human being the other 364 days of the year. I ran 26.2 miles, and if I had needed to snort cocaine off the body of a clubbed baby seal in order to cross the finish line, then so be it. Thank heaven for little girls.)

I remember the last good moment. At mile 14 or 15, I saw my family. My uncle lives in San Diego and my immediate family lives in Los Angeles, so the marathon provided us with a good excuse to get together. One of my cousins even flew in from Albuquerque with her husband to see me run. And there they were - the ultimate Spirit Girls. I got a hug from my nephew, and my dad ran with me for a 100 yards or so. If I had feet, I wasn't thinking about them.

THE SECOND HALF (bathroom break!)

Maybe a quarter mile away from my family, it was probably apparent that Milica, Jinky and I were struggling in our own private ways. Our plan was to run/walk: six minutes running, followed by a minute at a speedy walk. The idea behind it is that by changing your activity up, you use different muscles, giving your different parts a moment to recover. But unless we were doing six minutes running/one minute somersaults, there was no way I was taking the load off my feet. You could say that my dogs were barking, but that metaphor doesn't convey the magnitude of the situation. At this point, my "dogs" had stopped "barking" and they were now on to soiling my carpet. By the end of the race, my dogs were taking out sub-prime mortgages in my name. Our walking periods crept past a minute, and the velocity difference between running and walking was shrinking.

I've heard other marathoners talk about "hitting the wall," I've never heard a description of it. I imagine it's different for any runner. But what most people DO agree on is that the wall is something you could push through. If that's the case, then I did not hit a wall, because once my feet started hurting, they just got worse. I hit a quarry.

We were determined to finish, which meant we could only try and take our minds off our pain. I tried to remind myself of how good I had felt giving my hat to that woman at mile ten, and it helped for about ten to fifteen feet. (If I could just have given away another 5000 hats I'd have been all set.) It had been four hours, and the streets were emptier. People had gone inside, and the bands were spaced farther and farther apart. The gyre was widening; the center was losing its hold.

At mile 16, we turned a corner to find a comfort station where residents had handed out oranges. That was super sweet of them, but note that I said "had handed". As in, it happened prior to us arriving, meaning that by the time we got there, the sidewalks were empty and the streets were covered in orange peels. If there's one thing I know about orange peels, it's that they don't make good snow tires. Don't get me wrong - I love oranges as much as the next guy. I also love Slip N' Slides, BUT THERE'S A TIME AND A PLACE, RESIDENTS OF SAN DIEGO. (Note: my sister-in-law can beat this story. When she ran the LA Marathon, she came to a street covered in banana peels.)

As a reward for successfully navigating the citrus deathtrap, we saw the first of our team's coaches, Allison. I love Allison; as a coach, she was full of compliments and encouragement throughout training, and I needed some of that action. The problem is that it was her job to make sure we weren't killing ourselves, and that meant she had to ask, "How are you feeling?" I had been taking an extensive inventory of every aching body part for hours; the last thing I wanted to do was think about my feet more, because nothing was going to take the pain away. Nothing was broken, twisted, or strained. There was nothing to be fixed - I was just weak. (Still, I was praying for some pixie dust, and I love you Allison, but "Yep - that's what happens when you run 16 miles" is a pretty far cry from "Abra Cadabra".)

Around mile 17, we came to a park near the ocean. Jinky, who lived in San Diego for a while, told us "Look - see that tower? That's where we're going. That's Sea World. That's the finish line." And off to the left, I could see it; a blue tower. And it didn't seem so far off. Not a hop, skip and a jump, but not too far, either. Hope glimmered. And that's when we turned to the right. Before that moment, I didn't realize Jinky had such a finely-tuned sense of comedic timing.

As we ran AWAY from our goal, I was keenly aware that every step we took meant another one we'd have to take on the return trip. I was in bad shape mentally when we saw coach Katie. Katie is a lovely person, but it was the same as with Allison - the first thing she said to us was "How are your feet, Zach? Do they hurt? Is it the heels or the balls or the toes? How badly does the right one hurt? How badly does the left hurt? DESCRIBE YOUR PAIN UNTIL IT BECOMES YOUR ENTIRE UNIVERSE!" (Obviously, I'm paraphrasing) What really makes me admire/hate Katie was that she had already run the marathon, and then returned to jog with team members! With a smile!!! Again, I like Katie, but I really hope I have a higher SAT score than her.

At mile 18, Katie handed us off to coach Joel, who had also run the marathon and wanted an itemized pain report. I don't think I said more than six words to Joel. Speed-wise, we might as well have been wearing skis. I felt like crying again, but for a wholly different reason.

At mile 20-21, we came to "the island." It was a small island over a short bridge that was basically the home stretch - we ran around it, and then we were home. All we had to do was go around the island.

At the reunion party a week ago, it was universally agreed upon: FUCK THE ISLAND. The island was a nightmare; my own personal Apocalypse Now. There were no buildings or trees for shade, and the sun was coming straight down on us. There was almost nobody beside the road. We saw one group of Spirit Girls, but the high-fives were placebos at this point. A breeze was blowing off the ocean; I know it's impossible, but I'm positive we were always running into it.

Delirium set in. The thought that just kept going through my head was "I don't want to do this anymore," over and over like a child's whine, but if I had said it aloud I would have broken down sobbing. It was no longer a question whether or not I would cry; it was just a question of whether I would cross the finish line first. The only way I could release the emotion was by short bursts of giggles at nothing in particular, just the silliness of the situation. Milica, on the other hand, was okay with crying. Out of nowhere, she would let out a sob, and just as quickly it'd be over. Jinky or I would go up and put a hand on her shoulder, and tell her we were going to do it.

Then I started singing. Nothing coherent or with words, though sometimes I'd sing the bit of "I want to be an air force ranger" that I remembered from The Breakfast Club. It made sense at the time. It was probably annoying to the others around me, but I didn't give a fuck. It was every man for himself. When Jinky had to stop and use the bathroom, Milica and I agreed to walk until she caught up, but we weren't stopping for anything. Jinky managed it, but if Milica or I had stopped we wouldn't have been able to start up again.

Once, after our first really long run, I spent the walk home thinking about all the things I couldn't have done at that moment. For instance, if I'd seen a baby carriage rolling into the street just 25 feet away, I wouldn't have been able to stop it, and if Wonder Woman had finally decided to give me that threesome I'd always wanted, I would have had to watch from the couch. At mile 23, I saw an old man start to teeter over across the road from me. I couldn't catch him. I couldn't even try - none of us made a move in his direction. Thankfully, there were some coaches nearby who came over to help him. I feel terrible thinking about it, but I also know that there was literally nothing I could have done for him. We just pressed on.

The last band, around mile 24, was playing John Mayer. I am not disparaging the man's music or his ability to have sex with amazingly hot women, but no one, in the history of mankind, has ever gotten charged up to do anything by listening to John Mayer. John Mayer could cover "Eye of the Tiger" and I would take a nap to it.

At mile 25, we saw coach Lisa. Of all the coaches who made it out to San Diego, she was the only one left, and she was the perfect coach for the last stretch. Allison was "the mom" and Katie and Joel were the camp counselors, but Lisa was the school principal. Throughout training, she always knew how to prod us with a mix of sarcasm and encouragement. Lisa told us we were looking "gooooooooood" in a way that said: "You don't look good at all. You look like ass, and you know you look like ass. What am I gonna do - tell you that? What you look is good ENOUGH, so c'mon - lets finish this together."

I don't remember much about that last mile, but the four of us were together when we came to the last fifty feet, and that's when I saw my wife and my family. Again, my dad came out and ran a last stretch with us, though he broke off at the very end. Milica, Jinky and I wanted to cross the finish line the way we had started - holding each other's hands.

For a victory cry, I screamed: "Someone give me my fucking medal!" Two seconds after it was around my neck, the tears were POURING out of me. I'm misting up thinking about it.

POST RACE

My time: 6:24:49. That's a ridiculously slow time, but ask me if I care. (Okay, I care a little, but at least I came in under 6:25, right? I mean, how embarrassing would THAT have been???)

As an added bonus, I even ran into the woman with my hat at the medical tent! What the hell are the odds! I found out her name is Gayle, and from the ten minutes I spent with her, I couldn't have given my hat to a bigger sweetheart. And I'm saying that because it's absolutely true, and not because I'm trying to butter her up because she told me that she works for a Napa winery.

On the downside, my cousin broke her ankle, which absolutely sucked. She comes all the way out to San Diego, then breaks her ankle WHILE TRYING TO HELP ME TIE A BAG OF ICE ON MY KNEE. (You know what no one needs after a marathon? Irony.) I felt terrible. Even worse, Wonder Woman and I needed to hitch a ride with my brother back to LA, and he needed to leave right after the race. So she breaks her ankle, and instead of going along to the hospital and taking care of her, I have to skip town. I'm really, really sorry about all of that, Lisa.

Alright, time for me to wrap this thing up. As grueling and miserable an experience as the marathon was, I actually think I'll do another one in a year or so. (Wonder Woman and I gotta have a kid first.) With a little more mileage on my feet to toughen them up, I think I could shave an hour off my time (maybe more.) And I remember the experience a lot more fondly, now that I'm stationary.

ENDLESS GRATITUDE

First of all, I want to thank the coaches, mentors and everyone in my Team in Training group. The first day, I told coach Allison that I literally did not know how to run. While I still don't know how to run, I can now shuffle for really long distances. Thank you for pushing me.

Second of all, I want to thank my family. I will always remember seeing you at the end. (Lisa, gets an extra "Purple Heart" thank you, and Wonder Woman gets a special thank you because she's pregnant, which I'm told makes everything she does special.) I also want to thank my mom, who couldn't be there for the actual race, but drove 3 hours each way the day before, just to make sure the clusterfuck of herding my family to one location went smoothly.

Lastly, thank you to all of my friends and family who helped me raise $2,887.40 so far (with more donations on the way as soon as the checks clear.) It's no longer the "Ah Crap, I Guess I Gotta Go Through With This" Club - it's now the "Well Slap My Ass And Call Me Sally - I Did It!" Club:

Wilfrid Roberge
Karen Weiss
Amy Clark
melissa whitehouse
Abby & Dan Jaffe
John Militello
johnlaw
Adina and Kurt Karst
Bill and Pat Wasserman
My TNT group
Google
Mom
Mary Donahue
Sarah Gordon
Lisa Rhodes
Sara Hall
Laura Powell
Eric Peltzer
Cameryn Erickson
Leah Wasserman
Rachael, Paul, & Jules Jaffe
Laura Slabin
Rebecca Pearl
Adam Abrahas
Michelle Rodemers
James Winkler
Ed Gotfredson
Seth Barron
Adam Koch
lauren siegal
Rose DeSiano
Kat Donahue
Suzanne Spence
Sue McCauley
Jeffrey Eisenberg
Emily Del Greco
Lauren Goody
Jon Cruz
Tooth Fairy
Kevin Fried
Noah Wieseneck
Caitlin Murphy
Charles Jang
Jamie Berkowitz
Jane Yu
Elizabeth, James and Jonah

26.2 enormous thank you's to each of you.

THE LONG ROAD - A cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):

Y'know what? Screw the blisters and chafed unmentionables. There's only one number that matters. MILES: 232.3

A marathon post for a marathon recap. Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed it.

Update #6: No Safe Word

2010-05-31T11:47:00.002-04:00

One week from now, I'm going to be in pain. Hopefully I'll also be reveling in personal glory. Until then - and at the moment I'm writing this - I'm on ice and anti-inflammatories.

It's been a while since my last post, (which will surprise no one familiar with my previous writing endeavors.) When I left off, things were going well. Each week I ran longer and longer distances, and my confidence grew with each passing Saturday. I spent months in disbelief at how good my body felt throughout the training, given the...hm..."disrepair" it had fallen into over the years. Well, two weeks ago the honeymoon ended, with pain that started in my shins but has since built a comfortable tree fort in my knee caps.

This wasn't entirely unexpected. In that time, my training group has begun to taper off our workouts. We run for shorter time periods, with less effort. The idea is to let our bodies rest and recover before the race, and the coaches warned us that - counterintuitively - this is the time when the aches and pains show up. According to them, it's nothing to panic about.

Intellectually this makes sense, even though I've been presented with no medical rationale for why that would be. Intellectually, I can remind myself that my coaches have been doing this for years. They've coached hundreds of people, many of whom were probably in even worse shape than me. A few of them may have even been wimpier, too. Intellectually, I know that I'm going to get through this.

What's that? Why do I keep saying "intellectually"? Oh, well there's two reasons for that. The first is that smart people say "intellectually." Presumably, the more a person says it, the smarter they are. Second, I need to distinguish that it's my intellect that thinks I'm going to be fine. My knees, on the other hand, are men of faith, and that faith is in the belief that we are fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked.

It's tough to describe the sensation I'm in, because it's not quite pain. Perhaps an analogy will work. From 1996-2003 I drove an '89 Acura Integra. Overall, it was an amazing car (thanks, Aunt Pam!) but once or twice a year it would develop some new "personality trait." Most were innocuous: when I made right turns, the right speakers would go out, but they'd come back in upon the next left turn (and/or sudden swerve if I happened to like that song.) Other times... not so innocuous. I'd suddenly be aware of a "tink" sound down low in areas of the car that I imagined were rather... "suspensionish." It still ran, but until I could get it into the shop I was anxious for the inevitable moment when "tink tink tink tink" would suddenly become "TONK" and my car would become a tricycle.

That's what my knees feel like: tinks that feel like the precursors of TONKS.

My runs also begin with my right shin stinging for the first two or three miles. It goes away, but those first twenty-thirty minutes suck. In terms of a bad start to a long day, it's like showing up to work on a Monday and seeing emails with headers like "URGENT", "Where are you???" and "Re: Discrepancies in your expense reports."

As I said, the coaches assure us that we're going to be fine. They've told me that I look good in training, and that they're confident I'll be able to finish. Still, it's not surprising that these unpleasant sensations are having an affect on my mindset. I can't help but notice that the longest I've ever run in my entire life has been 14.5 miles, and at the time I wasn't of the opinion that it had been 11.7 miles too short.

Luckily, this is where other people come to my rescue. All along we've been told that when things got challenging, we were to remind ourselves of why we were doing this - all the people with Leukemia and Lymphoma out there, and their families. Every week, someone in the group tells us about a friend or family member, some of whom are survivors, and others who didn't survive. Some of the runners are survivors themselves. This weekend, a woman told us about a friend of hers who passed away without anyone around her knowing about her condition. She found out that for months, the LLS had arranged transportation so her friend could get to and from her treatment. It's services like that that we're all raising money for, and somewhere around mile 15 I'm going to need that warm and fuzzy feeling.

Even still, I'm probably going to need something else around mile 22 or so. I've said it before, but I'm very lucky in that no one close to me has suffered from Leukemia or Lymphoma, so the emotional connection to the cause is nowhere near as visceral for me as it is for many of my teammates. Positivity is well and good, but I know myself, and if I had the ability to strive through hardship because of the rewards on the other side I'd weigh fifteen pounds less and know how to play the clarinet. This is going to sound like a joke, but I'm being honest when I say that it won't be the good of mankind that keeps me putting one foot in front of the other. It'll be guilt.

I've said all along that through donating, you guys have become members of the "Ah Crap, I Guess I Gotta Go Through With This" Club. It was a cutesy little joke when I first wrote it, but I also knew that there'd come a time when the only thing keeping me in my shoes would be the shame of admitting I'd given up. I expected it weeks ago, but now I know that it's going to come down to a moment (or several) this coming Sunday, when I will be tired, I will be in pain, and I will still have a long, long way to go. And it won't be any survival story that keeps me going, or my usual consolation of "at least this will make for a funny blog post." It'll be because the idea of saying to each and every one of you, "You donated your money, your enthusiasm and your time, but it hurt too much for me to even walk," would be unbearable.

So let me thank you in advance, because in the privacy of that moment, "thanks" is probably not the word that will be coming out of my mouth. Thank you all, for each and every bit of support you've given me.

FUNDRAISING - The latest members to the "Ah Crap, I Guess I Gotta Go Through With This Club" (in chronological order):

John Militello
Abby Wasserman and Dan Jaffe
Melissa Whitehouse

THE LONG ROAD - A cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):

Blisters: 2.
Chafed Unmentionables: 4. None since my last post! This may be because I wear Body Glide every day. I put it on toast.
Miles: 206.1. (Admittedly, that does a bit for the confidence)

Wish me luck, everybody. I'll see you here in a week, and I'll warn you now, I will have complete and total whining rights at that time.

Update #5: Trail of Tears

2010-05-05T12:43:00.000-04:00

I've said before that what amazes me the most about how well Team in Training operates is that after each of our long runs, I don't hurt the way I would have thought. Each week we up the distance, and each week I finish it feeling like I've worked, but that I could do a little bit more if I had to. Well, for the first time in my life, I hit my ceiling. (It's funny because I'm 5'3", you see.)

On Saturday we ran from Prospect Park, which is near where I live,to Coney Island, which is nowhere near I live. Round trip distance? 14 miles. Gah.

Everything about this trip seemed like it was going to be awesome. We were running down tree-lined Ocean Parkway to the beach. When we left, it was a pleasant 79 degrees. None of my usual running partners were there that morning, but that was ok - while running is nicer with a buddy, I also want to practice running by myself, as there's a good chance that's how I spend most of the race. (I plan to entertain myself with my signature diatribes on current events and/or popular culture. Personally, I find me to be HILARIOUS.)

Getting out to Coney Island was a breeze, and I was feeling so well that I turned into a tourist. I snapped pictures of the Welcome to Coney Island sign (and my finger):

I snapped pictures of the beach (and much more of my finger):

I snapped pictures of the Aquarium, trying to frame it with the famous Cyclone in the background, for an overall terrible photo:

(Notice a theme? This is why my brother is the photographer in our family.)

I got so cocky I seriously considered stopping to get a hot dog. This would have been like Icarus saying, "Well, as long as I'm going to be up here, I might as well hang around and work on my tan."

I thought things would be just about as easy getting back. It'd become a good deal warmer (getting up towards 84), but whatever: I had Gatorade. (Gatorade > Sun. Duh.) I had even picked up a running partner, who coincidentally has the same name as my wife. Good omens, all around! (Unfortunately, as I have been instructed to not use my wife's name in my writing - referring to her as "Wonder Woman" - I now have to come up with a similar-but-different comic book character. Let's go with Spider-Woman.)

As far as pleasant company goes, Spider-Woman was excellent. Turns out she's a TNT Mentor, so she had some good tips for me. She was also nice, laid-back, and seemed interested in what I had to say, which is the first thing I look for in a conversation partner.

The first problem was Spider-Woman's watch. There's no other way to say it: her watch was an asshole. The asshole watch in question was some kind of fancy-shmancy time piece and running coach rolled into one. It knew how fast we were running, and how far. More to the point, it knew how fast Spider-Woman's average pace was, and whenever we dropped below that, it would give this little "MOOP-moop" that dropped down a few notes, to convey the proper tone of disappointment in our lack of effort. Good; I've always said that my electronics are too forgiving of my sins. (You should see what my computer lets me get away with watching...) To be fair, the watch did give a up-beep to let us know once we were back on pace, but the more I heard it, the more I became convinced that the tones weren't exactly reversed; the drop in tones ("You suck") was much more pronounced than the lift ("Way to merely meet expectations.")

And yet somehow asshole-watch wasn't capable of picking up that we tended to slow down - hell, come to a COMPLETE STOP - every couple of minutes, without fail. If I had to come up with an analogy to describe the regularity with which we had to stop, the closest one I can think of is TRAFFIC LIGHTS, YOU STUPID F--KING WATCH! STOP JUDGING ME FOR EXCELLING AT "RED-LIGHT/GREEN-LIGHT"!!!

With about 3 or 4 miles to go, Spider-Woman and I started to get a bit tuckered. The heat was getting to us. Sweat was dripping down into my eyes. My bald spot was starting to get burned in the sun, and so were her shoulders. With two miles left, small talk had ceased, and we were down to trading pure encouragement ("you can do it"), positive visualization ("two miles left, and then you don't have to move for the rest of the weekend") and Jewish guilt ("I'd never be able to do this without you...")

With one mile left, we saw our coach, who was making sure everyone was getting in ok, drinking enough fluid, stuff like that. She jogged with us for a bit, and somewhere in there she must have decided I still had a bit too much spirit left, because out of nowhere she says, "You DO remember you have to do six miles tomorrow, right?" See you later, Will To Live. Thanks for stopping by.

We made it home. It wasn't easy, but (if you'll forgive me the cliche) we just kept putting one foot in front of the other, and we got through it. I didn't realize it at the time, but I'd hit a significant milestone. I could tell, because all weekend long, whenever I'd whine about my quads or feet aching, Wonder Woman (my wife) would give me the incredulous tone of voice and half-raised eyelids that I recognize so well. I know what follows after that, but I'd head it off. I'd look her in the eye, and in level voice I'd say, "Fourteen miles." And that would be the end of it.

Somewhere along those fourteen miles, I stopped being a Pussy.

FUNDRAISING

Two new members to the "Ah Crap, I Guess I Gotta Go Through With This Club" (in chronological order):

My Tanta (Aunt) Adina and her husband, Kurt
Michael Sew Hoy

Thank you both.

THE LONG ROAD

A cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):

Blisters: 2. Extra bit of fun, there.
Chafed Unmentionables: holding steady at 4. My thighs have achieved detente.
Miles: 131.8.

I want to mention that when I originally started TNT, I only planned to do a half-marathon. As much as Saturday sucked, I've already hit my original goal. Now if you'll excuse me, I can't type and pat myself on the back at the same time.

Update #4: The Warlock's Nuts

2010-04-14T10:55:00.000-04:00

We had quite the full week of training this week. Last Wednesday we had our usual training run, where we work on a specific part of our running technique. Last weeks' featured technique was the method of lengthening our stride as we crest the top of a hill to maintain a consistent effort throughout the race. At least, that's what everyone else was working on. I was working on a different part of my game: trying to sweat through my tongue.

It's been a pretty chilly Spring so far in New York, but last Wednesday Mother Nature tried to overcompensate. It was something like 88 degrees. Most of you probably think that sounds nice. I certainly would have agreed with you. The coaches tried to warn us that we shouldn't go out too hard, especially since we were doing hills. Unfortunately for me, doing ten miles the weekend before had given me the impression that I was something of a bad-ass. I mean, shit, I'd done ten miles IN PANTS, and now I was wearing shorts.

Honestly, I was acting as if my penis had not only grown ten inches, but also a series of fins for more efficient heat exchange.

Ten minutes in, my strength was gone. Sweat was pouring off of me and my mouth was hanging open, if only because that seems to work for dogs and I was willing to try anything at that point. I had brought some Gatorade with me, but that's a real risk/reward sort of thing. If I carried it with me, I'd get to drink it, but I'd also have to carry another 5 pounds up a hill over and over and over. Not to mention that Lemon-Lime Gatorade gets a bit... shall we say... "urine-ish" when it's warm out. (Note to self: bring Orange on the hot days.)

As you can probably imagine, the worst thing one can do when you're running is to focus on all the things that are making you uncomfortable, but I couldn't help it. I spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out the polar opposite of the saying, "colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra." I decided on: "Hotter than a warlock's testes in a wool Snuggie." (The reason why it took me so long was because I was trying to decide whether the polar opposite of a witch is necessarily a warlock. One could argue that a witch, being stereotypically emaciated and evil, is more accurately opposed by something like a bulldog, or a manatee. I went back and forth on this for a while. One could also argue that I was suffering from hallucinations due to dehydration.)

Still, it's all worth it. A) we're fighting cancer. B) Saturday, I ran* to and over the Brooklyn Bridge. Why is that so awesome? Because the Brooklyn Bridge is pretty friggin sweet, and I don't see it nearly enough. It's an engineering marvel, and as I jogged across it, I started to see why. After all, it breaks the laws of time and space, by being the only place in the world where one can travel a horizontal distance by traveling STRAIGHTFUCKINGUP. That bridge is one serious hill, and two months ago, trying to jog across it would have made me a big advocate of dynamiting the whole thing and returning to good ol' (flat) ferries. But then I'd never get to see views like these:

Tough to see, but the Statue of Liberty is in that second one. Not a terrible way to spend a Saturday morning.

FUNDRAISING

Big week in fundraising. New members of the "Ah Crap, I Guess I Gotta Go Through With This Club" are (in chronological order):

My cousin Lisa, her husband Scott, and her kids (which gets into that whole "first cousin, once removed"/"second cousin" grey area) Erin and Alex
Sarah Gordon (whose Mom also hosted Wonder Woman and me for Passover, so double thanks there)
Mary Donahue (who is 'Super' in my book regardless of donation size)
My mom
Google
My TNT Team
Billy and Patty Wasserman

Two notes on fundraising.

1) I work for Google, as most of you know (and many of you do as well). I want to take a second to recognize their donation match program, which is pretty amazing. I've received roughly a third of my fundraising from co-workers, and Papa Goog is going to match almost all of that, out of the kindness of their hearts. So: Yay Google. (So in a way, every time you search on Bing, you're saying you're a fan of Leukemia. Think about it.)

2) We had an optional strength training "boot camp" workout on Thursday. The entry fee was $5, and at the end, everyone's names were thrown in a hat, and someone's name was picked out of the hat to win the pot for their fundraising. I was the lucky winner - $50!!! That's because I cheated. I didn't mean to. They were passing around note papers and a pencil to write our names down on, and I didn't realize everyone was tearing the pages in half. As I"m folding my page up, I go to toss it in the hat and I see that everyone's little scraps are smaller than mine, and in my head I'm thinking, "ah crap, I'm kinda cheating here - I've got a bigger piece and therefore better odds. Ah, everyone's tired, and I'm not about to take my note out and do it over again. Fuck it." Sure enough, after the coach reads my name, this one chick says in a low, flat voice: "That's a big piece of paper." She gave me shit about it the whole walk home. I felt bad about it at the time, but that was then. HOW DO THOSE GRAPES TASTE NOW, CASEY!?! STILL SOUR????

We're 85% of the way there. Thank you, everyone.

THE LONG ROAD

A cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):

Blisters: 1
Chafed Unmentionables: 4. As awesome as Body Glide is, it seems to wear off after about 2 hours. Walking like a cowboy is my new Sunday ritual. I'm gonna feel like a tremendous dork when I have to pause two or three times during my race to reapply sunblock and thigh lube.
Total Miles: 92.2

*As always, the verb "ran" is being used in its most loosest of definitions.

Update #3: Bring a book

2010-04-01T20:40:00.003-04:00

This past weekend, I ran ten miles. If I had a microphone, this is when I would hold it out at arms length, drop it to the stage, and walk off with my arms raised, Chris Rock style.

Okay, maybe "ran" is a strong word. It would even be a stretch to say that what I do is jogging, but "oldmanshuffle" isn't a verb. Still... ten miles!!! As far as I'm concerned, I'm officially an athlete.

It wasn't easy, either. Wonder Woman* joined me for the first 3.3 miles. Along with being good for her, Im sure she thought this would be a supportive gesture, waking up early on a cold Saturday morning to go jogging with her husband.

You'd think that having company on my runs would be a good thing. It is. You'd think that having the woman I love as that company would be even better. It was not. You heard it here first: I hate jogging with my wife. First of all, she goes too fast. Second of all, she doesn't understand that it can take me a few miles to get settled in. Everything feels wrong at first - my calves tighten up or my knees ache, so I'm extra careful. Sometimes I stop to stretch, or walk a bit. This is a very SENSIBLE thing to do. I'm setting out to run 26.2 miles. I gotta pace myself, and I gotta be smart. But nothing in the look she gave me said "sensible" or "smart". No, that look said "pussy."

Think I'm exaggeurating? Being needlessly vulgar for a cheap laugh? I'm not. The only thing that makes Wonder Woman happier than a chance to call me a pussy is a diamond ring. If I don't eat as much her in a restaurant? "Pussy." If I think it's too cold outside? "Pussy." I know she was thinking it. She didn't explicitly call me a pussy this time because that's probably her way of supporting Leukemia and Lymphoma research.

Then to make it worse, as I head off for the last 6.7 miles, she tells me she's going to go get bagels. Because the best motivation to get someone to run a bunch is to tell them they have much more cozy and delicious options available. Well, you won't stop me that easily, temptress!!!

I chugged onwards. 2/3rds of the way through, I felt suprisingly good. I'd really found a good rhythm, and my legs had settled in for the long haul. Sure, people were passing me left and right, but I'm okay with that - I'm not trying to finish fast, I'm just trying to finish.

Then the marching band showed up. I'm not kidding. A middle school marching band came on to the path. I'm sure that sounds bizarre, and it was: I figured I was having some kind of low-blood-sugar induced hallucination. Apparently there was some event around inspiring people to get in shape, and the band had come out to support. That was nice of them. And thank goodness it was a middle school marching band, because otherwise I may not have been faster than them.

Even still, that band was with me for a while. It took me about 30 minutes to get out of earshot, and nothing says "your wife may have a point with that whole 'pussy' thing" quite like a gaggle of pre-teens who manage to stay in your rear-view mirror while wearing full-dress uniforms and playing wind instruments.

The incident inspired me to do some math. According to the training calculator on Runners World, at my current pace, it will take me 6 hours, 51 minutes and 40 seconds to complete my marathon. Add an hour for lunch and that would be a full work day of oldmanshuffling! What the hell am I going to do for that long of a time? Mp3 players will run out of batteries. I could talk to people, but I'd need to injure them first to make sure they don't leave me behind, and then I'd probably get sick of them after an hour or two anyway, especially if they were constantly complaining about the injury I had caused them.

My family has been talking about coming down to watch me. I can just see it now: they're all gathered around a campfire. Some of them are finishing off their hot cocoa and s'mores, and others are already tucking into their sleeping bags for the night as I shuffle into the firelight, horrifically sunburned. I had to find them via a GPS, as the roadside markers were taken down hours ago. After a few minutes of hearty congratulations, there's a silence. I can hear the fire crackling. A pine cone bursts, and Wonder Woman adds:

"I told you guys he was a pussy."

This week's new members of the “Ah Crap, I Guess I Really Have To Go Through With This” Club (listed in chronological order):

Cami and Justin Erickson
Eric "Rhubarb" Peltzer
Laura and Diallo Powell
Sara Hall

Thank you all, very, very much.

And now, for a cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):

Blisters: 1
Chafed Unmentionables: Holding steady at 3. Whoever came up with Body Glide is my hero.
Total Miles: 64

*For those of you not familiar with my previous online adventures, my wife is a legal professional who has requested her name not be used anywhere where I might also be discussing my nards. Something about a "professional reputation." For comparison, by professional reputation could charitably be described as "surly."

Update #2: My ankles must taste like veal...

2010-03-22T23:24:00.000-04:00

...because my calves are DEAD.

Wednesday, we celebrated St. Patricks day with hills training. Now, if I'd read the emails that went out and showed up on time, I'd have spent an hour running up and down a hill... like a CHUMP! Luckily I'm a genius, so I didn't read the emails that would have explained what hill in Prospect Park we would be running down, then I showed up five minutes late, after the group had left our meeting spot. There are two hills in Prospect Park. I chose the wrong one, meaning that before I started with my hills training, I had to run almost the whole 3.3 miles around Prospect Park. It got me thinking, and I've since decided: there's no need for a park that goddamn big.

If only that was the dumbest thing I'd done around my training in the past seven days...

Saturdays are training days. I know this. It's been that way every week. I have a schedule to remind me of it, just in case I forget. I also get heartburn. Do you know what those two things have in common? Both represent really good reasons why someone shouldn't leave work on a Friday and spend the rest of the evening watching college basketball, drinking beer and eating pizza. Unfortunately for me, there was an even better reason to go ahead and do it anyway: there were Cool Ranch Doritos there, too. I'm only human.

This particular Saturday we were getting up EXTRA early (7:45 AM, or as I like to call it, a quarter to too-fucking-early) to run from Prospect Park into Manhattan for a special seminar, which I'll get to in a moment. By all accounts, the weather was amazing. The first day of spring. The sun was shining all across the city just as we ran across the Manhattan Bridge. The view was incredible, I'm told. I couldn't tell, because I was in agony. My feet kept swelling up until my shoes got too tight and they'd fall asleep. I can only guess it had something to do with excessive water retention from massive salt intake the day before. I'd loosen my shoes, which would help for about 5-10 minutes, but then my feet would be asleep again. 6.1 miles to Times Square, with pins and needles the whole way. Imagine playing a 90 minute game of Whack-a-Mole, but you can only use your funny bones.

Here's why it was worth it. The seminar was called "Connection to the Cause." We ate some bagels and listened to a couple trainers, but then this woman came out. Her name was Beth, and years ago she'd been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Her doctor apparently called it "The second-best cancer you can get," and everyone had a laugh at that. As she told us what she'd gone through in her treatment, she showed us a slide show of pictures she'd taken along the way. She showed us pictures of her without her hair, and pictures of the stacks of medical bills she'd had to deal with. She showed us pictures of her son, and told us how she couldn't go near him for a little while after each of her treatments because she was radioactive, and that the best way she could describe it to him was to tell him she was like Spider-Man.

I can't remember how long Beth said she'd been in remission for, but this was now her second go-round with TNT, and she kept saying how grateful she was that there were so many terrific doctors - those that treated her, and the others that did the research so that those first doctors could do the treating. All those doctors need money, as do the people who don't have insurance to pay those stacks of medical bills. There weren't a lot of dry eyes in the place. All you guys, whether you support me through donations, encouragement or kicking me out of bed so that I get to my run on time (thanks, baby) are doing the world some good.

This week, we had a huge number of people join the “Ah Crap, I Guess I Really Have To Go Through With This” Club (listed in chronological order):

Kevin Fried
Milton Oberman (Official Father and 50% genetic provider of some shitty, weak-ass calves)
Anonymous (Really??? I can't believe someone I know donated anonymously. The mystery is kinda driving me nuts.)
Jon Cruz
Lauren Goody
Emily Del Greco
Jeff Eisenberg
Sue McCauley
Suzanne Spence
Kat Donahue
Rose DeSiano
Lauren Siegal
Adam Koch
Seth Barron
Ed Gotfredson
"Big Game" James Winkler
Michelle Rodemers
Adam Abrahams
Becky Pearl
Laura Slabin
Rachael Jaffe nee Schoenbaum (not my Rachel Jaffe; another one)
Leah Wasserman

Holy crap. Turns out, when you actually ask people for donations, you're much more likely to get them. Thank you all. With your help, I'm already over 50% towards my fundraising goal! Hooray!!!!! [does Muppet-like dance around apartment]

And now, for a cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):

Blisters: 1
Chafed Not-so-un-mentionables: 3. My nipples are almost back to their original pristine-but-biologically-pointless state. My thighs continue to hate each other. I've named the left one Hatfield; the right is McCoy. The only thing keeping the peace these days is a heavenly, magical substance called "Body Glide".
Total Miles: 51.2

Tomorrow night is "boot camp". I'm not exactly sure HOW I'm going to soil myself - I just know it's gonna happen.

Update #1: 1 Month Down

2010-03-15T12:59:00.011-04:00

Hi Everyone!

I ran my first run (3.3 miles) on Feb 13, which means that I have now completed one month of training. I am now up to 6.6 miles! Don’t lie – you’re impressed.

As most of you would expect, I have plenty of stories of pain and misery. I’ll get to those in a moment, but first I want to take a moment to update you on my fundraising. It’s arguably the most important part of this whole endeavor, and so far, I have raised $275 for Leukemia and Lymphoma research. Watch your ass, blood cancer! I'm coming for you!!!!!! (Slowly.)

Big, grateful hugs to the following generous souls (in order that they were received, because I don’t play favorites):

Elizabeth Macanufo (First!)
Jane Yu
Jamie Berkowitz
Charles Jang
Caitlin Murphy
Noah Wieseneck

You guys rock. You six are the charter members of what I’ve come to think of as the “Ah Crap, I Guess I Really Have To Go Through With This” Club. Thank you for your support.

Here are some things I’ve discovered in this first month, about running, TNT, etc.

TNT is absolutely full of women. Did I mention my wife ISN’T joining me on all these runs? I was throwing mad game at this girl just the other day, like when I introduced myself to her, shook her hand, and then immediately apologized for my sweaty palms. Remember: you never get a second chance to make a first impression. The day that women start to find wheezing and complaining sexy, I am going to be the Mack Daddy of TNT.
I love watching my body try and process sensations it has no familiarity with, such as physical exertion. For example: a couple weeks ago, we had a strength-training cardio workout on a Wednesday evening. It took a few hours, involving agility drills, resistance training, and stair climbing. By the time we left, it was a little after nine P.M., my legs were wobbly, and I felt like I was going to puke. The parts of my brain I’m not in direct control of must have just assumed I was drunk, because out of nowhere my words started coming out slurred.
The coaches all keep telling me that I have nice running form, and that I look really good out there. I’m sure they say that to everyone, but they REALLY mean it when they’re talking to me. I can tell.
There are certain types of people who help themselves get through difficult workouts by shouting “woohoo!” really loudly. One day I hope to be one of these people. Until that day, I want to kick them in the shins. Unfortunately they are all much faster than me.

And now, for a tale of self-imposed hardship and woe (NOTE: these will probably involve unpleasant things happening to parts of my body you may not want to think about. This one definitely does. Read on if you’re curious, but consider yourself warned.)

This weekend, I ran 6.6 miles on Saturday, starting at 8:15 AM. As if that weren’t enough hardship/woe, it rained on Saturday. Y'know... the cold/wet kind of rain. For the most part, it wasn’t as bad as you’d think: running kept me warm, and I had a good running partner who I chit-chatted with, which made the time go by better. With ¾ of a mile to go, I was feeling surprisingly good (though I was soaked to the bone and I really had to pee.)

We rounded the bend at the southern tip of Prospect Park. For the last stretch, we’d be running into the wind. As we come around, the wind pushes my shirt back onto my chest, and MOTHER NATURE GIVES ME A PURPLE NURPLE.

When white-hot needles of pain are shooting up from your nipples, you don’t have a lot of wherewithal to figure out the whys and wherefores, but being an engineer, I pieced together the sequence events later:

Turns out, cold weather makes one’s nipples hard, causing them to jut out. Now, instead of the weight of one’s t-shirt being distributed across the entire chest area, it is supported upon two tiny (for me at least) points. Stress, being inversely proportional to area, is subsequently increased.

At the same time, wet clothing weighs more than normal clothing. Friction, being a linear function of weight, subsequently increases. That increase in frictional force, when applied to a much-smaller surface area, creates a stress that- oh, screw it:

Nipples + Polyester Belt Sander = Zach Screaming Expletives In Pain While Coaches Howl With Laughter

Later, my coach and I had this exchange.

Coach: I hate to tell you this, but… when you get in the shower later, you’re going to see the face of Jesus.
Me: But I’m Jewish.
Coach: I am too.

Good times.

And now, for a tally of how things are going so far (brought to you by Tallyzoo):

Blisters: 1
Chafed Unmentionables (which I will nonetheless mention): 2 - You already heard about one. The other was your standard "my thighs don't play nice with one another."
Miles: 39! That's practically a marathon and a half!!!!

Thank you for your support, everyone, and I’ll see you here again soon.