Philly Marathon: Go Team Go!

I never thought a marathon was a team event. Until I ran one with Abby.

Leading up to the Philadelphia Marathon I had no goals. I knew I had the endurance to finish, thanks to a year of trail runs and adventure races. I knew, though, that I didn't have the speed to come close to a PR, let alone the new and improved BQ times.

Leaving me with what to shoot for? I was as aimless as humanly possible when it came to a goal. Prior to Philly, I'd run five other marathons -- Philadelphia in 2001, Steamtown in 2002 (at the time I had the goal of running a marathon a year, I failed), Columbus in 2009, Boston and New York in 2010. Goals were clear-cut to me (finish, finish faster than at Philly, qualify for Boston, have a shit-ton of fun at Boston, beat my Boston time at New York, respectively).

Abby was in it to enjoy it, and that didn't sound like too bad of a plan. We decided to cross the start line together and I had 3:45:00 in my head as a number to shoot for just to keep me moving forward -- a bit better than my average marathon time so I couldn't just mosey along but obtainable without feeling like hell, hopefully.

I didn't even hit snooze on race morning. I was up by 5, on my second cup of coffee by 5:15, decided against a third, stuffed an Eggo with peanut butter into my face, properly lubed, dressed, deoderized and was actually ready to go when Abby and her crew rolled by to pick me up at 5:40.

By 6:20 we were at the race site and were in the longest portapotty line in the history of the universe. Actually, the line itself wasn't too long -- the people in front of us were apparently giving birth and/or performing minor surgeries in there and were taking forever and ever. Finally I gave up, got out of line and peed between a rock and a tree while pretending no one could see me -- the start was getting close.

Abby and I parted ways with her people and headed to the start together. The plan? Run together until we didn't. Have a good time. And, for me, don't do anything stupid in the first half -- all my other marathons came with positive second-half splits of 7 to 15 minutes. Terrible. F.

We crossed the start about 7 minutes after the gun and dodged our way over, under, around and through other runners and walkers for the first mile -- hit the marker at right around 9 minutes. A little slower than I would have liked but, eh. The weather was great, the company was great, I was happy, the road was flat.

Just before mile 2 I had a cheerleader -- an old coworker from an old job out bright and early to push along the runners. I was amused and surprised to see her, so yay.

And then, another familiar face -- Abby's husband Brent. "Look, there he is," Abby basically whispered to me. Among the footfalls of a zillion runners on a packed course, he, oddly, did not hear her whisper.  "BREEENNNNT!," I yelled and then pointed at him and jumped up and down a bit. It worked -- he saw us.

Friends of friends who managed to recognize me and a drumline (my favorite thing during races) made the next few miles tick by. Abby and I chatted about nothing in particular as we weaved around more runners and held a comfortable 8:35 pace.

As we hit mile five, a thought popped into my brain. Should I share it? "Dare I say it?," I said to Abby. "I think I am actually having fun."

"I wasn't going to say it out loud," she said, "but I am, too."

As we approached mile 5, there was Brent again. This time he saw us and started snapping away with his camera.

I sort of love this picture -- we both look thrilled

to be running!

The crowd (that had already been pretty solid) grew thicker and louder. I knew that about mile 6, where I set up shop last year for my first cheering spot, would be the first likely mile where Bill would be on his bike. And sure enough, there he was.

"Bill! Bill! Bill! BILL! BILLLL!," I screamed (apparently I get very excited when I see people I know while running marathons). He saw us and waved. He knows better than to ignore my big mouth but we were so damn fast he wasn't able to get any pictures.

Motivated by the unexpectedly loud and large crowds, the next several miles flew by. We chatted about whatever -- mostly adventure racing, I think, and before we knew it we were smelling the Philadelphia Zoo. Barf. I don't do stink while running and the smell of caged elephants and monkeys and lions and tigers and bears and lemurs and aardvarks and whatever made me a bit gaggy but I kept that to myself. Plus, I had more important things to think about -- the only significant hill of the course was right in front of us.

Abby and I didn't increase our effort as we steadily climbed the hill. Some runners around us started to struggle but we'd run this part of the course twice on two of our longer runs. We knew it wasn't that long, or that steep and that we'd be met at the top by about a mile of flat followed by a short, steep downhill so we kept things in control.

"Man, I can't believe we've already run what, like 8 miles?," I commented. I hadn't been paying close attention to mile markers and would check in only occasionally with Abby and her Garmin about our pace. "Try 10 miles," she said.

Yep, the miles were flying by. We were running solidly and comfortably and were right on pace for a 3:45 finish.

As the course dropped us along the Schuylkill River, Bill found us again. This time he was ready with the camera.

We also saw something crazy -- people dressed like bacon, grilled cheese and pizza dancing around. Silly! Soon signs were directing people running the full in one direction, the half in the other. I couldn't believe we were almost at the 13.1-mark. As we peeled in one direction and the half runners peeled into the other, we hit the middle at about 1:52 and some change.

At the mile 14 water stop I was bolstered by two friends handing out cups. Damn, they were loud. Just past them a dude dressed like Batman was playing the theme song to Rocky on a trombone. Abby was absolutely thrilled by this. I, however, have never seen Rocky despite living in Philly for more than 15 years so I didn't know what was happening.

As we chugged along on the out-and-back I realized Abby was in for a huge PR unless something unhappy happened. I tried to be extra-careful to knock her down, trip or kick her or punch her -- didn't want to ruin her day.

Outward bound. Can you spot us?

Next up was a detour from the main out-and-back -- about a mile across a bridge, down a hill, around a cone, back up the hill and back over the bridge. I'd been mentally dreading this part all morning -- not sure why, but I was. Just as we were about to reach the bridge a friend of Abby's let us know that Brent was waiting for us at the turnaround cone. Yay! Something to look forward to. I zoomed down the hill and was eager to see another familiar face.

I don't remember feeling as dead serious as

I look in the top picture. 

As we spun around the cone I was elated. "I was dreading that part! And now it's over!," I must have repeated enough times to make Abby want to sprint far, far away from me. Mostly I was just happy that both brain and body were still into the race.

We both started to get a bit bored about a mile or so later. "Talk to me about something," Abby requested. Do you know how hard it is to think of things to talk about when someone asks you to say words? Uhhhhh...

All I could think about was racing. I peppered Abby with questions about the race she was most scared of at the start line, her favorite race, her first race, her last race, her thoughts on race relations, race race race.

As we slogged into Manayunk the crowds grew louder and drunker. And we started to pass a lot of runners. People were starting to struggle. I felt a bit bad too, but, surprisingly, only a bit -- Abby started to pick up the pace and I was happy to tuck behind her. Then we passed a group of people handing out little cups o' beer and I dry-heaved. I like beer as much as (ok, probably more than) the next person, but not at mile 21.5 of a marathon.

"Oh, God, there's beer, I am going to puke," I said, as I darted as far away from the beer as I could. Fortunately, I didn't actually barf.

The course dumped us back alongside the river and I realized we only had four miles to go. Four miles? That's a prologue in an adventure race, a distance I can manage on a treadmill, 32 minutes and some change until the finish, depending on how well I was able to keep it together.

Let's go! I was feeling better than I ever had at mile 22 of a marathon. Usually at mile 22 I am wanting to cry and contemplating burning all running shoes/shorts/shirts/tights/hats/gloves/gus/water bottles/etc. and never running again.

This time ,though, was different.

I started to run a bit harder, not so much that it hurt yet but enough that I knew that it would before I crossed the finish line. Gradually, Abby and I began to pull apart. I peeked over my shoulder a few times -- she was still right back there but I decided I wanted to be done and I knew she would finish with a nastyhuge PR with or without me so I dropped my pace into the high 7s/low 8s, hoping to hold that for the duration.

Bill found me again. I wasn't smiling quite as big as I had been -- slowly but surely I was starting to hurt but I really thought I could hang on. I was actually passing people and the fact that I didn't seem to be hurting as much as many of the runners around me gave me a bit of motivation -- I apparently wasn't going to shit the bed with only three miles to go.

I passed my buddies at the water stop again -- they seemed to be having the most fun of all. Bill rode on the path just off the course and snapped a few more pictures.

 So many spectators!

I have no idea who I am smiling at in this picture.

I wasn't sure what to do -- most of the people around me were grumpy and many were walking. A few were crying and a few were saying "fuck" a lot. I needed someone ungrumpy and unhurting to motivate me. I scanned the runners around me and settled in on Purple Shirt. She looked like she'd been at mile 24 of a marathoon before, and looked like she wanted to finish strong. I made myself promise to myself that I wouldn't let her get more than 15 feet in front of me.

And then she picked up the pace a bit. Purple Shirt, were you trying to kill me? I hung on, barely, and managed to convince myself that I could hang on for the 18 or so minutes of running still ahead of me.

Thank you Purple Shirt, whomever you are.

I am not going to lie -- mile 24.5 to about mile 25.5 sucked. My lungs were unhappy, my legs were tired and my brain was starting to go. But then the crowd got huger and louder and I started smiling like a bobo. Suddenly I was so happy again. I didn't notice the last little incline as I rounded a bend to find the finish line staring me in the face. I ran as hard as I could for the last 100 meters or so, and that was that.

Chip time: 3:43:46. Fine by me. I worked my way to the gear check truck, threw on some warms (although the day was actually sunny and quite warm for Philly in mid-November) and met up with Bill, Abby, Brent and Abby's family before slogging about a mile to brunch/beer/breakfast/coffee.

Abby had a 9-minute PR. Nine minutes. NINE MINUTES. I would sell my soul for a PR like that. And she seemed to have fun while doing it, too. My big achievement for the day was a negative split -- only by a few seconds, but I fianlly didn't crash and burn in the second half of a marathon.

A nice little Sunday.

THE END

Well That Was Nice

Don't worry, I will bore you with a rambling race report in the near future.

For now, though, I am lazy and have a few too many (ok, three) hard ciders flowing through my person and there's a soccer game on so here's the abridged version of the Philly Marathon:

• I finished. But forgot to properly stop my watch. I knew I crossed the line in 3:43:XX but wasn't sure about the XX part. After no race results posted on the race site for me for a few too many hours, there it was. A 3:43:46. Not a PR, not a PW. A bit faster than my average marathon pace. I will take it.
• Even better? I had fun! Like, actual good times, complete with smiles, high-fives, a few giggles and happiness. I ran most of the way with Abby. Neither one of us wanted to lay down on the sidewalk and curl up into a fetal position at any point. Even though I started to feel sort of junky during the last mile I was smiling like a freak. I never once was surly, either. WTF?  
• I didn't really hit the wall and I am pretty sure I ran dead even splits. Unheard of for me. Abby did a great job of not letting me sprint away like an idiot -- in every other road marathon I have run my second half was anywhere between 7 and 15 minutes slower than the first half. Sort of pathetic but hopefully I've broken that habit.

That is all!

Marathon Eve Eve

Twas two nights before Philly
And I had nothing to fear
Except, for maybe, my belly full o' beer.

Ok, not really full, but there was a delicious microbrew on tap at dinner tonight and I just had to have a sip(s). Probably not the best idea, but bad ideas love company so now I continue to taper while on the couch with a glass of wine. Hooray!?

After a shitstorm of a workweek (bookended by some good stuff on Monday morning and Friday afternoon, fortuantely) I booked fast and hard away from the hospital by 1 this afternoon to head to the race expo. We have a wedding tomorrow evening and I hated the idea of braving the expo on a Saturday afternoon so I fought like a honey badger to get the afternoon off.

I did well at the expo -- it took two seconds to get my number and then I wandered around with Abby and a friend or two of hers while we drank free chocolate milk (wahoo!), free coconut water (sort of nasty) and purchased headbands made out of, I swear I am not making this up, velvet.

WTF? A velvet headband? For $15? Did I really just purchase a $15 (plus tax) headband made out of mofoing velvet? Yes. Yes I did.

But the sign said it wouldn't slip. I am holding the sign to its word -- my hair is sort of short right now and every headband I own either doesn't slip because it is so tight that my skull feels like it is being crushed or so slippy that it's on the ground before I make it to the end of the block so I was suckered.

The race shirt was fine -- I will wear it but I won't snuggle with it in bed or anything. I also picked up my Ronald McDonald House race shirt. I sort of love it. Nice and plain without, like, a giant Big Mac or a scary clown on it. And, although I am generally against wearing new stuff on race day, it is the softest thing of all time. Can't you see the abundant softness bursting through?

I love plain stuff, especially plain black and white stuff. So yay. Something else fun is that today the Philadelphia Ronald McDonald House marathon team reached its fundraising goal of $25,000. Thanks to all who contributed. This is the first year the PRMH had a team and I am glad it wasn't a disaster and that we didn't, like, just raise $1.67 or anything.

Race goals? Not a ton. I am going to go out at a 3:45 pace and see what happens from there. Uh, what's a 3:45 pace anyway? 8:38 miles or something? I guess I should figure this out pretty soon.

Sweatfest 2011

Sorry for the lack of blog action as of late. I've been too busy turning myself into a date or a prune by sweating every ounce of hydration out of my person.

Bill and I headed down to my parents' in Maryland for a large chunk of the weekend. With Storm the Shore two weeks away (shit!) we knew we had to get some training in between sleep, tailgates, Navy football and play time with the fam and the friends.

Bill is well on the mend from a foot booboo and wants to stay that way so we lugged the mountain bikes down with us to get some time in the saddle. I hadn't sat on that saddle since the finish line of the Equinox almost two months ago.

POP QUIZ:
What kind of an adventure racer am I? Circle all that apply.
     A) The awesome kind.
     B) The short kind.
     C) The lazy kind.

I know you leaned toward A but, in fact, the correct answer is both B and C.

We headed down to a small park about 20 minutes south of my parents' digs near Annapolis. Only one real trail -- a 9.5 mile loop. We thought it would be boring and, based by the quality of the riders and bikes in the parking lot when we rolled into the park bright and early I was worried I was in for a day of hot mess technicality.

Instead, an awesome roller coaster of buttery single track, some short climbs, tight turns and only a few rocks and roots. I always forget that the Wissahickon, my usual riding spot, is one of the more technical spots to bike within a few hundred miles.

It was pretty stellar. We did a lap and a half and then found ourselves unable to stay away from the awesome -- we headed back to the park the next day for a few more hours of riding.

Bill likes to mountain bike, a lot. He also happens to be pretty good at it -- pushing the pace and the more technical, the better. This park was a bit beneath the technical junk he prefers so we decided to make the ride a bit more of a challenge for the both of us. I'd get an 8-minute head start on the first lap and then the last one to the end had to buy gas and Wawa hoagies to get us through the ride back to Philly.

I was off, zooming the best that I could up and around switchbacks, through tight turns, wedging between trees and splashing through a few streams. I could ride the whole thing -- only had to unclip when I'd go around a turn to find another rider zooming right toward me.

So yeah, I suck at mountain biking. Just past the half-way point I heard someone come up behind me, fast. It was Bill. We rode together for about two miles and then he was off, making it to the parking lot almost 20 minutes faster than I did.

I was a drippy, muddy, sweaty mess as we sat in the parking lot for a few before heading out on the trail again. Sweating so much that the sweat was actually rinsing off the mud on my legs. How damn nasty is that?

My new bike shoe make my feet look extra gigantic!

We rolled back to Philly at around 9 p.m. and I was up again at 8 to meet Abby for a longer trail run in the Wissahickon. As we chatted about whether our run counted as marathon or adventure race training, my new found obsession with The Hunger Games and whether we should really try to race the Philly marathon or just make sure we cross the finish line I found myself basically melting.

My entire person turned to sweat. I had a small pack on with about 60 ounces of water that I was chugging. It might have been more efficient just to dump the water directly onto my person. Every few minutes I'd grab the sides of my shirt and wring them out, sweat leaving a trail behind me. My hair looked like I'd gotten caught in a downpour. My shoelaces were so drippy they started whipping my ankles as I meandered along the trail. Blisters? I got them on my feet, thanks to the fact that my socks were so wet that I wrung them out when I got home.

How effing disgusting is that? On a scale of 1 to 10, please leave your score in a comment. Personally, I think it's a 9.

I don't weigh myself a lot, maybe a few times a year to make sure I don't have a tapeworm or that I haven't secretly been eating Big Macs and tubs of Crisco in my sleep, so I am not entirely sure what I weigh at any given point in time. But, I hopped on the scale once I got home from our 17.5 nasty (and, for me, sort of painful) trail miles.

I weighed 2 points less than I ever have in my adult life.

Not good. Kidneys, I apologize. Heart, I apologize to you, too.

I spent several hours sipping on blue-flavored Powerade, lemonade-flavored Nuun, water and chocolate milk. I never felt entirely terrible or death-like -- I just felt like the most dehydrated person in the tri-state area.

When I got on the scale this morning I'd put on five pounds. I felt fine today -- not sore, not dehydrated, not particularly tired, so I guess I didn't do any real damage.

But, fall, roll in soon. Please and thank you.

The 1/2 Sauer, 1/2 Kraut 13.1: A Timeline

Sunday, June 26. Bright and early.

5:22 a.m. -- Alarm goes off. Hit snooze. Roll over and briefly think that there's something I have to get up for. Fall back to sleep.

5:29 -- Alarm goes off again. Remember that I have a race, and that I have to get three other people out of the house by 6. Freak out a bit, pull on my running clothes and hop downstairs to K-Cup the first of three pre-race cups of coffee.

5:33 -- Stare at fridge in a sleepy stare while coffee brews.

5:33:30 -- Hear Kate shuffling around upstairs. This is a small miracle because if there's anyone who hates mornings more than I do, it's Kate.

5:34 -- Make Kate a cup of coffee. See?

5:35-- Bill comes downstairs dressed and ready to go. Yay! Steve (Kate's husband) slept in his clothes so things were looking good for a 6 a.m. departure.

5:36 -- Bill decides he smells and takes a shower. Steve goes back to sleep.

5:38 -- Steve is awake! Bill is clean! Kate and I are fed! I have my second cup of coffee!

5:44 -- We all stand around and stare at each other. I have another cup of coffee.

6:07 -- We realize that we've been standing around staring at each other for a while so we decide to leave.

6:37: We get to the race site. We park 8 feet from the start line. With almost an hour to go before the scheduled gun time we stand around and take pictures.

This was Steve's first time seeing Kate run. Clearly, they are both
quite excited for their big day.

We met in preschool and look exactly the same as we did in 1980, I swear.

6:42 -- Realize the boys aren't as excited as we are about the race. See above for proof. At least Bill is faking a smile. Steve just looks like he wants to stab someone.

6:43-7:47 -- Do nothing other than realize that the race will be starting late. Finally the gun goes off (or someone just yells "go" and we all start running) about 17 minutes behind schedule.

7:53:40 -- Try to keep up with the girl in front of me. Hit the first mile marker at 6:40, a pace that I would be content to hold on a track. Knowing that I will crash, burn and then blaze bright enough to be seen from outer space if I try to stay with her I slow down quite a bit. She zooms away. But I am feeling nice.

7:53:31-- 8:28 -- I run. The course goes up and down a bit. I hate the ups more than I should.

8:29 -- The course zigs and zags through a small parking lot and field about 7 trillion times. I realize that there's a woman right behind me that is sort of flying and I know that she will pass me soon. Along one of the zigs I hear Kate cheering me on. I am starting to feel a bit gross so I shout a supportive "Grerrmpfhfaaaakk" in reply. I think about what a good friend I am. I am awesome.

8:35 -- The course had been along a paved bike path but now meanders onto actual trials. I love trails and I pick up the pace a bit. I pass a few dudes.

8:45 -- I am dumped back onto the paved path and am passed by the woman behind me within 800 meters. I don't care as much as I probably should. Mostly because I am happily surprised with my pace. I'd been aiming for about a 1:40 and realize I should be able to come in a bit under that if I don't shit the bed.

9:08 -- I hit the 11-mile aid station. "Only two miles left!" they tell me. I realize I am getting bitchy. "It's really two-point-one," I correct. "And that seems really far right now."

9:20 -- I haven't seen another runner in a while and the course is starting to feel long. Or I am just starting to feel tired. I contemplate slowing to a jog, then slowing to a walk. I peek over my shoulder every few strides. I see no ladies, no dudes. Am I off course? I don't want to be passed at the line just because I get lazy. I try to pick up the pace.

9:23 -- I see a friendly looking dude with a medal around his neck, sipping on a bottle of water with his feet in the creek, cheering me on. "Shit, dude, am I almost there?," I ask. "You are, I swear," the dude says and slaps me five. I decide to believe him. Because it is either that or I just flop in the creek and call it a year.

9:24 -- The finish. Tadaa. I stagger a tiny bit and then, instead of removing my chip, remove my entire shoe and hand it to the volunteer collecting chips. I snag a banana and some water and then realize I have one less shoe than I should. I find my smelly shoe which is nice.

Bill missed me crossing the finish line but got me
taking off my shoe.

9:31 -- Kate finishes in just under 1:45. (1:44:44 I think). I am impressed. Here's why -- Kate has several PhDs, got a 2400 on her SATs back in the day where the highest possible score was a 1600 and was published before she was old enough to drink. The only B (actually, she just emailed me to remind me it was actually a B+) she ever got in her life was in fourth grade gym. She thought her academic career was over. But she really sucked at kickball, a lot. Kate apparently got winded in high school marching band and also runs with an inhaler. The first time she ever ran more than a mile at a time was about a year ago and then she busts out a 1:45 in her second half marathon. Silly overachiever.

9:45 -- Results are posted. I am 33rd overall, 3rd for the ladies and 1st in my age group. Kate is 7th for the ladies and second in our age group. Hoorah. But before you go around thinking I am fast please be aware that this was a small local race. And that the Philly Olympic-distance tri was at the same time so that's where all the fasties were.

11:10 -- We go to the weird German club (what's with Philly-area races and their affiliation with German clubs) for free beers and/or bratwurst (racers got either two free beers, two free bratwurst or one of each, how fun).

11:22 -- Best race awards of all time. I got another one of these at the last race I did put on by the same company. So now I have two Bavarian thermometers/barometers.  How fantastic.

This guy rocked out hard on his accordion(s). Just like
every other race out there.

THE END

Why the Philadelphia Ronald McDonald House?

When I started to get semi-serious about running I promised myself I'd only run for me. No running clubs, no teams, no fundraising. Just me. If I happened to make a friend or two, or a husband (we went for an 8-miler on our second date) along the way, fine, but heading out for miles on the road or on the trails was something just for me.

No sharing. ALL FOR ME!

Except I lied to myself, apparently. A few months ago the social worker at the Ronald McDonald House on the grounds of the children's hospital kind enough to employ me called to say that the house had been chosen as an official charity for this year's 2011 Philadelphia Marathon.

Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Ok, thanks for sharing that.
Her: Well,I know that you run.
Me: Yes, I do.
Her: And I know that you've run marathons.
Me: Not, like, every day or anything.
Her: Want to join the team? You only have to raise $900** and it will be fun. And the fundraising is for this specific house, not all of them.
Me: You mean you don't have to share the money with any of the other houses?

My interest was piqued. My hospital (like I own it) serves all sorts of kids from all sorts of places and all sorts of socioeconomic backgrounds. The Ronald McDonald House, as you probably know already, houses families who have to come from a distance of at least 25 miles in order to have their child receive necessary medical care.

Some babies in my unit remain inpatients for a year, if not longer. The RMH asks for a fee of $15 a night per family but never turns away anyone who is unable to pay. Some families pay $10, some $5, some nothing--whatever they can afford. All are given a giant private room, bathroom, meals and a beautiful house with a small staff of professionals and volunteers equipped to familes through what is likely the hardest time of their life.

I work specifically in the NICU. The average length of stay in our unit is more than a month -- we've even had first birthday parties for kids who have been too sick to ever leave the hospital. The RMH gives familes the opportunity to be with their kid every day, to not have to worry about housing, or food. These expenses add up, even for families who were financially stable before welcoming a sick little one into their family.

Take one family, for example (I am sort of changing some of the stuff because I like my job and don't want to lose it in fear of violating HIPAA). Mom and Dad couldn't wait to welcome their first child into the family. His nursery was ready, pregnancy, labor and delivery were as boring as could be, apparently. But as soon as the little guy tried to take his first breath, well, he couldn't. He was scooped up and brought to the NICU where I work when he was just a few hours old.

His parents stayed behind, choosing to come to the NICU to meet their son for the first time together as soon as Mom was released. The Ronald McDonald House immediately made room for them and Mom and Dad were able to spend hours and hours every day with their little guy. Mom and Dad got to know us, we got to know them and their kid.

One morning I came to work and the first person I saw was Dad crying in the hallway. His son had just died after two months in the hospital. I spent most of the morning with him and Mom. All they kept saying was that they were glad they got to spend so much time with their son, thanks to the Ronald McDonald House. Mom and Dad had cut back drastically on their work hours in order to be at their baby's bedside. Dad soon began to worry how he was going to pay for his son's funeral.

The RMH paid for everything.  

If this was the only family the RMH ever helped, I'd still run as part of their team. In 2010 the house assisted more than 535 families, all coping with caring for a seriously ill or critically ill child.

So what the hell, I finally figured. If so many families are helped by the RMH, how can I not suck it up, raise a few bucks and run 26.2 miles to help ensure that this help remains available?

If I get less lazy than I currently am I hope to have families who have stayed at the house write guests posts about the help and support they received. I probably won't get any less lazy or any less creative though so I will probably just sporadically post the link to the fundraising page I will eventually create in case anyone has extra dollaz that they don't know what to do with.

** Everyone on the team had to pay $100 to join. The Philly Marathon has donated 25 entries to the RMH team with the caveat that team members pay the entry fee as a donation to the house. I dig this because I like to run ... why should other people's donations pay for something I'd be doing anyway? The money raised by the team goes directly to the RMH.

Don't Ask Me What a Mummer Is

Bill and I welcomed 2010 by waking as the sun rose, having a cozy breakfast at our motel and heading to the Olympic Sports Complex in Lake Placid. Essentially the only people there, Bill went for a bobsled ride. We followed up his slide with a “group” cross-country lesson (our group included Bill, me, our teacher and no one) for $10 and then 20k of skiing through the trails where we saw about six other people the entire time.

We eventually made our way back to the cross-country lodge where a few dozen skis sat outside waiting for their owners to finish their muesli before padding back outside for a few more laps. We ran into our teacher, sipping a cup of tea.

“God, this is the most crowded I’ve ever seen it here,” she said.

We loved it.

Can you pick me out of the crowd?

But, we also love Philly (most of the time) so we welcomed 2011 in opposite fashion of 2010. This morning we hopped on the train for a 15-minute ride downtown. A backpack packed not with Powerbars and Gu this time, but with a few beers. Why?

The Mummers parade.

What’s a Mummer? There’s quite the history (read about it here if you wish) as to how they came to their current state.

I came to Philadelphia in 1996 for college and basically never left. Here I sit, 14 years later, and I still can’t quite figure out what a Mummer is. On parade day, first the clubs of drunk people walk by. And then the string bands come, each with a different theme and the groups are judged at different points along the parade route.

The part of the parade where Mummers walk down
the street smoking, drinking and being merry.

People pack onto Broad Street hours ahead of the parade start, kids and beers in tow, and love every minute of it.

I’ve been to the parade about 4 times in my 14 years here. I never know what to make of it and sometimes want to run away from the whole thing... some of the Mummers groups are occasoinally a bit, well, stuck in 1952. Some of the groups don’t allow women (seriously) and some of them sometimes have themes that make me cringe.

In college a friend and I wrote a column for the school paper. New to Philadelphia, we questioned the Mummer tradition. Hate mail poured in (well, as much as mail can pour into the paper of a college with 2,200 students). Philadelphia loves its sports teams (try being a Redskins fan in this town … another reason I should wear a helmet at all times), Philadelphia loves its cheesesteaks and Philadelphia loves it some Mummers.

But, I will admit, I do think the whole thing is intriguing and mostly entertaining. I find myself asking a good friend who is a Mummer months before New Year’s Day what his group’s theme is and how rehearsals are going. Impressive people-watching. Impressive spectacle.


I stood atop of a giant planter. Bill looked short.



I looked scared.




Except when I didn't.



Is this scary to anyone else?

Larry, our Mummer friend.





What I Am Doing In My Winter

It is fianlly snowing. Sweet. Went for a run for about an hour on the trails. Aside from the rando dude on a road bike barreling down a technical hill (like, on a Scott road bike, on rocks and roots. I was impressed. And bewildered) I had the park to myself.

Outside our door looks like this right now:

The advantage of living across the street from the popo
station is that our street is plowed early and often. Meaning
I have no excuse to not go to work tomorrow.

Happy snow.

Reading Is Hazardous

After a brief hiatus from playing outside I am a much happier person after my trail run this morning. The rain went away and I voluntarily got out of bed at 7 because I needed some sunshine to burn the grumpy off of me.

I did a slow 4.5 miles, avoided chunks of falling bridges raining from the sky and was glad to be outside.

I have a mile on roads to get to and from the park where I do most of my running. Certainly not far enough to drive to the park. This morning I was about a quarter of a mile from home. The light was red as I approached an intersection so I danced around on the sidewalk trying to stay warm waiting for the light to turn. Green came, I looked both ways like my mommy said I should always do, ran off the curb and started to cross the street.

Then,

BOOKMOBILE! ON MY PERSON!

Like, a giant vehicle with books in it, clearly labeled with the Philadelphia library logo.

It blew by me, so close that my arms hit the driver’s side door as I slammed to a stop and tried to protect my brain with my hands.

Apparently bookmobiles are allowed to blow through red lights and turn left on red. The driver almost ran me over as cars from the opposite direction slammed to a stop to avoid a hot mess.

I. Lost. My. Shit.

Have you ever seen a bookmobile get told to go eff itself? Repeatedly? Followed by the bookmobile being told to go home and do dirty things with its mother? Repeatedly? If you were at the intersection of Walnut and Greene at 8:06 this morning you did.

A few seconds later I stopped being The Incredible Hulk and continued home.

When I got home, though, I was still feeling a little bit stabby. I seriously considered calling the library to complain. I am not making this up. I wish I was.

“Hi. Is this the library? You should know you have a (fill in your favorite obscenities here) driving your bookmobile. Goodbye."                                           

Instead, I have decided to boycott reading. That will show the bookmobile.

Seriously, is the mile between my front door and Wissahickon Park trying to kill me? Do I actually need to wear a helmet at all times?

I Like to Watch

Today was the Philadelphia Marathon, my favorite race that I never do. Philly was my first marathon in 2001 and I haven’t done it since. Haven’t even considered it and I am not sure why.

Because it starts three feet from my face though, I usually go watch and cheer until I sound like a couple of frogs have shacked up in my throat.



Best worst picture of me ever.
Danny is ignoring me.

I was up before the alarm went off this morning, quickly threw on the bike clothes I sat out the night before and pedaled to 19th and Chestnut to meet up with my friend April. Usually this part of the course is occupied by runners and the chirping of crickets, but this year it was sort of packed with screaming fans doing their best impression of 1st Avenue in New York. Good times!

Bill rolled along, and then his bro Danny. I was rocking the cowbell and rocking my big mouth like a pro.

After about 71 hours, none of the people we were expecting to see had gone by yet. We saw the usual people dressed like Mickey and Minnie Mouse, turkeys, a man running in only a flannel shirt and a “No Parking” cardboard sign. Philadelphia Marathon, when did you get so weird and fun?

We waited some more, and then – Claire! A familiar face! My sister-in-law seemed extra happy to see us and for a moment I thought she was actually going to hang out for a bit and grab a cup of coffee and a scone before continuing on her way in the half.

Danny went back to bed, Bill went to work and April and I rode over to the 14-mile mark. I was having a great time – mostly because I like playing cheerleader but also because I was glad I wasn’t running. Usually spectating makes me a bit jealous. This time I was thrilled to be on the sidelines with no marathon to train for any time soon.

April is good at clapping.

I made up a dance (bang cowbell against hand while jumping in circles around April) and gained a makeshift bullhorn. I yelled until I was dizzy.


Cones make good bullhorns. And I am upholding my vow
to wear a helmet even while standing still.

This morning, I don’t know who impressed me more – the winner who ran a 2:21 or the people who were plugging along at mile 14 four hours into the race.

The first time I ever watched a marathon it was by mistake. I was in college, visiting my parents who at the time lived in a land far, far away. We were going on a boat tour and didn’t know that there was a marathon that went near the docks. While we were waiting for the boat, the race leaders went by. I remember thinking that they looked like they were flying. “They must be running 8-minute miles,” I said to myself. I had no idea how fast people could actually go.

We got on the boat, went on a three-hour tour and, when we docked, I couldn’t believe that there were still people running.

I have to do that one day, I said to my mom. Four years later I ran my first marathon.

Anyway, April and I stuck around until the 5-hour pace group finished. We never saw anyone else we were stalking but sometimes cheering for rando strangers can be almost as fun.

Turkey!