I loathe treadmill running. So much, in fact, that I tend to run as fast as I can just to get off the damn thing. Not wise, I know, but I do it anyway.
Over the past week, however, late nights at work, my everlasting hatred of getting up early to run and a winter blast over the weekend led to far too many miles on the mill.
Today after work I headed for the gym for four miles. As I shed my work clothes and pulled on running stuff I realized I forgot a headband. Fortunately I just got most of my hair chopped off so I decided I could handle a few sweaty strands in my eyes.
Then I reached for my iPod. Dead battery. Unacceptable. I depend on it to make the miles tick by. Depend completely. After contemplating bailing and going home to eat some chips and slug some beer I decided to do a two-mile time trial and then get the hell out of there.
Hopped on, cranked the POS up to a barely tolerable speed and stared at the clock on the wall in front of me. After a mile I was surprised that I felt like I was jogging -- I was running comfortably and my breathing did not sound like the normal sweaty beast I turn into. I picked up the pace a bit more. As I neared the two-mile mark I decided to go for a 5k treadmill PR. I was well on my way when I hit the 2.5-mile mark.
Then the gym started looking bizarre. A bit foggy. Smoky, you might say. "That's weird," I thought to myself. "Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunihatethetredmillhatehatehatealmostdonealmostdone."
And then, a smell. Sawdust mixed with campfire. Followed by quite a sound -- a squeal of brakes mixed with dial-up-modem.
The treadmill came to a grinding halt. Because it was on fire. Not a complete inferno, but smoke was pouring out from under the belt.
Hmm.
I looked around. People were looking at me. I pretended that nothing was happening. The treadmill screen alternated blinking "fatal error" and "no signal."
I hopped off and headed to the guy at the front desk. "The treadmill third from the end is ablaze," I said. But he knew that already. Ok, ablaze was overstating things, but there was some serious smoldering action happening.
Unsure of what proper gym etiquette called for in such circumstances, I thought about grabbing for the sanitizing wipes and making sure my sweat was off the machine. But that seemed dangerous. Instead I grabbed a magazine and hopped on the elliptical for a bit. While I ellipticalled I watched the guy at the front desk unplug the treadmill, squirt it with water from a squirt bottle, scribble "Out of order" on a post-it and stick it to the machine. I started to giggle. Then laugh. A lot. Like a weirdo. So I went home.
And yes, I am fully aware that the fact the damn thing caught fire had nothing to do with me running -- I am not so fast at all -- and everything to do with the fact that my crazy inexpensive gym is so cheap because the equipment is junk.
Showing posts with label dumbness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dumbness. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
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?
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.
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.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I HATE SNAKES
I love nature, I really do. Except for snakes.
I always thought I hated snakes but never really had an encounter with one to prove my theory. Until Monday. Bill and I went for a rather warm run in Yellow Creek State Park. The run started out fine for the first 12 seconds or so. Bill led the way and I was about 4 or 5 yards behind.
And then he yelled "Snake!" and jumped to the side. Before I even saw what he was talking about I apparently jumped in the air 88 billion times. "The less time I spend on the ground the less chance I have of actually touching the snake," I told myself as I jumped and jumped.
After I started jumping slightly less I remembered I had my iPod so we could time our run and also video any rogue snakes we stumbled upon.
Seriously, the thing was about five feet long. And scary. And it hated me and wanted to eat me, I just know it. I sort of wanted to punch it in the face but I try to be kind to nature and the snake was, after all, just being a snake. Hanging out, enjoying her Memorial Day, probably hustling down the trail to get to a barbeque, planning on having a few beers, maybe set off some fireworks.
But seriously, snake, please never come near me ever again.
Fortunately the rest of the running I did while visiting Bill in the boonies were uneventful and snake-free.
I always thought I hated snakes but never really had an encounter with one to prove my theory. Until Monday. Bill and I went for a rather warm run in Yellow Creek State Park. The run started out fine for the first 12 seconds or so. Bill led the way and I was about 4 or 5 yards behind.
And then he yelled "Snake!" and jumped to the side. Before I even saw what he was talking about I apparently jumped in the air 88 billion times. "The less time I spend on the ground the less chance I have of actually touching the snake," I told myself as I jumped and jumped.
After I started jumping slightly less I remembered I had my iPod so we could time our run and also video any rogue snakes we stumbled upon.
Seriously, the thing was about five feet long. And scary. And it hated me and wanted to eat me, I just know it. I sort of wanted to punch it in the face but I try to be kind to nature and the snake was, after all, just being a snake. Hanging out, enjoying her Memorial Day, probably hustling down the trail to get to a barbeque, planning on having a few beers, maybe set off some fireworks.
But seriously, snake, please never come near me ever again.
Fortunately the rest of the running I did while visiting Bill in the boonies were uneventful and snake-free.
See? Snake-free and beautiful.
Monday, February 28, 2011
We Didn't Get Shot at the Gun Club, Nor Eaten by Bears, and Also Happy Birthday to My Mother-In-Law
Here's a song for my mother-in-law who turned 60 today: Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to our guest! Happy birthday, happy birthday, ChiChi's wishes you the best! Ole!
To celebrate my mother-in-law turning 40 shy of a century we surprised her with a weekend in the Poconos. My father-in-law convinced her that it would just be the two of them hanging out in a rented house for the weekend. Except on Friday night all four of her sons and her two daughter-in-laws showed up at the front door. SURPRISE! In the six of us traipsed with our cases of beer, tequila, Scrabble and Guess Who? for a weekend of hanging out.
I was happy to learn that Hickory Run State Park (we'd been there a few times before) was only a few miles away -- a weekend that could have been spent eating cheese by the block and drinking beer by the dozen instead turned into a weekend of eating cheese by the block and drinking beer by the dozen with intermittent running and hiking thrown in.
After planning a route by looking at an old map haniging on the wall that basically looked like this we thought our run on Saturday would be simple -- two or so miles on the road followed by a brief duck into a neighborhood to a trail head that would lead us to Hickory Run.
Except that none of the roads had street signs. At all. We wandered around for a bit before venturing into the woods, hoping that a brief, snowy bushwack would lead us to the trail. After about 40 minutes of bickering about where to go and how to get there we stepped out of the thick cover of bushes, trees and snow onto a trail. Success! We could see the trail head about 50 yards away and Bill suggested that we take a look just to make sure we were where we thought we were.
We weren't where we thought we were:
Actually, we were where we thought we were, but our bobo map did not indicate that our desired trail was, in fact, the main route through the Silver Bullet Gun Club. Lesson learned. We headed back on the roads, deciding to save Hickory Run for the next day.
As we began our hike on Sunday we discussed our last trip to Hickory Run.
It was 2005 and we were on bikes. Weeks' worth of food was hitched to the back of my bike in a simple canvas bag. Getting hit by cars, sweating our asses off, not finding a diner with apple pie for lunch had been pressing concerns, but not bears. Until we got to Hickory Run.
Lady Working at the Campground Check-In: (looks at us, looks at our bikes, looks behind us for our car) We are telling people to keep their food in their car but you don't have one, so be on the lookout for bears. We have had some issues with them the past few weeks.
Me: Uh, ok. This should be a great night's sleep.
LWATCC: You are really going to sleep here with your food not locked away? Really? What about the bears?
Lady, what did you want us to do? We'd ridden 100 miles in two days in the sweltering heat, lugging tents, water, food, extra bike crap, clothes and travel Scrabble every inch of the way. Where were we going to go? Plus, the scary motels we passed along the way were more terrifying to us than the possibility of being eaten by bears. So we snagged some rope from the camp store and slung our food bag over a tree a bit away from our tent and hoped for the best. To make a short story long we didn't get eaten by bears.
Fast-forward to Sunday. "I am sure there aren't actually bears that would eat us," I speculated as we bushwacked along a deer-carved path.
"I am sure that they are," Bill countered.
"Nuh-uhh."
"Yuh-huh."
"Nuuuuuuuuuuuuhhh-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhh,"
"Yuuuuuhhhh-huuuuuuuuuuuh."
Then, before our argument got juvenile, Bill won -- I looked down and, stamped in the snow, was a bear track. Yay. We quickly worked our way back to the trail most traveled, not wanting to encounter a damn bear.
The rest of the hike was similarly bear-free, void of other people and, surprisingly, perfectly flat. A fun change of scenery before heading back to Philly.
To celebrate my mother-in-law turning 40 shy of a century we surprised her with a weekend in the Poconos. My father-in-law convinced her that it would just be the two of them hanging out in a rented house for the weekend. Except on Friday night all four of her sons and her two daughter-in-laws showed up at the front door. SURPRISE! In the six of us traipsed with our cases of beer, tequila, Scrabble and Guess Who? for a weekend of hanging out.
I was happy to learn that Hickory Run State Park (we'd been there a few times before) was only a few miles away -- a weekend that could have been spent eating cheese by the block and drinking beer by the dozen instead turned into a weekend of eating cheese by the block and drinking beer by the dozen with intermittent running and hiking thrown in.
After planning a route by looking at an old map haniging on the wall that basically looked like this we thought our run on Saturday would be simple -- two or so miles on the road followed by a brief duck into a neighborhood to a trail head that would lead us to Hickory Run.
Except that none of the roads had street signs. At all. We wandered around for a bit before venturing into the woods, hoping that a brief, snowy bushwack would lead us to the trail. After about 40 minutes of bickering about where to go and how to get there we stepped out of the thick cover of bushes, trees and snow onto a trail. Success! We could see the trail head about 50 yards away and Bill suggested that we take a look just to make sure we were where we thought we were.
We weren't where we thought we were:
 |
| We are not members of the Silver Bullet Gun Club. Just to clarify. |
As we began our hike on Sunday we discussed our last trip to Hickory Run.
It was 2005 and we were on bikes. Weeks' worth of food was hitched to the back of my bike in a simple canvas bag. Getting hit by cars, sweating our asses off, not finding a diner with apple pie for lunch had been pressing concerns, but not bears. Until we got to Hickory Run.
Lady Working at the Campground Check-In: (looks at us, looks at our bikes, looks behind us for our car) We are telling people to keep their food in their car but you don't have one, so be on the lookout for bears. We have had some issues with them the past few weeks.
Me: Uh, ok. This should be a great night's sleep.
LWATCC: You are really going to sleep here with your food not locked away? Really? What about the bears?
Lady, what did you want us to do? We'd ridden 100 miles in two days in the sweltering heat, lugging tents, water, food, extra bike crap, clothes and travel Scrabble every inch of the way. Where were we going to go? Plus, the scary motels we passed along the way were more terrifying to us than the possibility of being eaten by bears. So we snagged some rope from the camp store and slung our food bag over a tree a bit away from our tent and hoped for the best. To make a short story long we didn't get eaten by bears.
Fast-forward to Sunday. "I am sure there aren't actually bears that would eat us," I speculated as we bushwacked along a deer-carved path.
"I am sure that they are," Bill countered.
"Nuh-uhh."
"Yuh-huh."
"Nuuuuuuuuuuuuhhh-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhh,"
"Yuuuuuhhhh-huuuuuuuuuuuh."
Then, before our argument got juvenile, Bill won -- I looked down and, stamped in the snow, was a bear track. Yay. We quickly worked our way back to the trail most traveled, not wanting to encounter a damn bear.
 |
| Looking out for bears. I spied none, fortunately. Unfortunately I forgot my gloves and had to borrow a gigantic pair from Bill. |
 |
| Me and my best "I don't wanna see a bear" face. |
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Lady On the Treadmill Next To Me at the Gym Ate Chicken While on Said Treadmill
See post title.
Seriously, she was eating chicken out of a bag while on the treadmill.
Eww, gross.
This is yucky to me for many reasons. First, chicken fat residue on the treadmill controls. Second, the smell of chicken while trying to run a hard 5k sort of made me want to barf. Third, why even go to the gym if you are going to eat fried meat while exercising? At least she was multitasking?
The upside was that the chicken smell made me want to get away so I ran the 5k almost at race pace.
I apologize if this post seems mean, but the surprise at seeing someone eat fried food while exercising is just too bizarre not to share.
Has anyone else encountered anything this strange (or this counterproductive) while at the gym?
Seriously, she was eating chicken out of a bag while on the treadmill.
Eww, gross.
This is yucky to me for many reasons. First, chicken fat residue on the treadmill controls. Second, the smell of chicken while trying to run a hard 5k sort of made me want to barf. Third, why even go to the gym if you are going to eat fried meat while exercising? At least she was multitasking?
The upside was that the chicken smell made me want to get away so I ran the 5k almost at race pace.
I apologize if this post seems mean, but the surprise at seeing someone eat fried food while exercising is just too bizarre not to share.
Has anyone else encountered anything this strange (or this counterproductive) while at the gym?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Race Schedule Goddess is not Cooperating
January 22, 2011
Dear Race Schedule Goddess Up There In the Sky Somewhere,
I understand that it is not realistic for the universe to plan around my world when it comes to scheduling races, but so far 2011 is sucking in terms of getting races on my calendar.
First, you move the location and change the date of a race I was looking forward to. Terrible. Then, you plan a half-dozen other races that I would like to do when things like mandatory weddings, family fun time and other minor life events are already set in stone.
Second, you try to tempt my husband by placing a race that is probably beyond my abilities three feet from where he lives in the summer. He, the non-planner between us, is trying to get me to register immediately for a race that is six months away.
In an attempt to make me hate you less, you schedule a duathlon close to where one of my awesome cousins lives. Family fun, plus a race! Sweet. But you jack up the price for 19 miles of on-road racing to $97.33. Seriously? The Boston Marathon costs only $40 more and it is the freakin' Boston Marathon.
You are leading me to consider options that I am not so sure I want to do -- the New York Marathon, for example. I know that I might not have the chance to do it again so maybe I should get it while it's hot, but 2011 was supposed to be the year of off-road fun. The 26.2 miles through NYC are awesome, but that race is the most on-road thing I have ever encountered.
In conclusion, please be more considerate when scheduling 2012 races. In return I promise to be good and to train hard for (just about) everything that I enter.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Laurie C. Stewart
Dear Race Schedule Goddess Up There In the Sky Somewhere,
I understand that it is not realistic for the universe to plan around my world when it comes to scheduling races, but so far 2011 is sucking in terms of getting races on my calendar.
First, you move the location and change the date of a race I was looking forward to. Terrible. Then, you plan a half-dozen other races that I would like to do when things like mandatory weddings, family fun time and other minor life events are already set in stone.
Second, you try to tempt my husband by placing a race that is probably beyond my abilities three feet from where he lives in the summer. He, the non-planner between us, is trying to get me to register immediately for a race that is six months away.
In an attempt to make me hate you less, you schedule a duathlon close to where one of my awesome cousins lives. Family fun, plus a race! Sweet. But you jack up the price for 19 miles of on-road racing to $97.33. Seriously? The Boston Marathon costs only $40 more and it is the freakin' Boston Marathon.
You are leading me to consider options that I am not so sure I want to do -- the New York Marathon, for example. I know that I might not have the chance to do it again so maybe I should get it while it's hot, but 2011 was supposed to be the year of off-road fun. The 26.2 miles through NYC are awesome, but that race is the most on-road thing I have ever encountered.
In conclusion, please be more considerate when scheduling 2012 races. In return I promise to be good and to train hard for (just about) everything that I enter.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Sincerely,
Laurie C. Stewart
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Half-Moon
For the past few weeks I’ve been staying off the roads for running. The snowy trails have proven to be much more entertaining than boring asphalt and sidewalk. Today though, I hit the road for a few sloppy miles through Germantown and Mt. Airy.
Apparently I’d forgotten about yesterday’s ice storm. Instead of proper footwear for slush and ice I tied on a pair of marathon flats. Brilliant. Within a few feet of my front door the slipping commenced, my feet were soaked and my toes started freezing.
I worked my way down to a main road, dodging dirty snow and small sheets of ice, occasionally thinking that skis would have been more appropriate footwear. As I plugged along, the sidewalk went from regular boring cement to slate. Broken, chipped slabs for a few hundred yards.
I hadn’t run on this section of road for months, maybe even a year. I thought back to the last time I could remember running there -- last winter after the feet of snow stacked for months in Philadelphia began to melt.
The 2009-2010 winter in Philly was epic. Storm after storm pounded the area and I got most of my exercise shoveling snow. Finally, enough snow was gone that getting in an actual run became possible. I remember running along the broken sidewalk at a good clip, happy to not have to worry about leaping over snow piles, vaguely aware that I was zipping past cars stopped in rush hour traffic.
And then, suddenly, I was on the ground. Not even a flash of “(Fill in your favorite expletive here)!! I am falling!” went through my head. I banged my knee and skidded to a stop on my side. I knew right away that I had bloodied my knee. Fortunately I was freezing and couldn’t feel much and I was otherwise okay. I got up, took a moment to feel embarrassed that I had bit it in front of a line of cars and then had no other choice than to continue on my way home. Fortunately, it was only about a mile so I sucked it up and ran as fast as I could, eager to get home to survey the damage.
I stepped into the front door and rolled up the left leg of my running tights. Sure enough, a bloody knee, but it didn’t look too bad at all. Limped over to the medicine cabinet, smooshed some gauze onto the booboo and the bleeding easily stopped.
As I began to thaw I noticed that my left buttoxical region felt weird. A bit naked.
“Uh, I think I hurt my butt,” I thought and decided I’d figure it all out in the shower.
And then I walked past a mirror in our bedroom … got a glimpse of what I apparently put on display for a large chunk of Germantown for the last mile of my run.
My entire left butt was hanging out. Like, half of my entire ass, complete with a nasty cut with a few small pebbles in it.
When I fell I managed to tear my running tights but, because I was already so cold and freezing, I didn’t notice.
I thought I was pretty embarrassed when I fell. Realizing I ran home unintentionally and unknowingly nekkid wasn’t too fun, either.
As an added bonus, I couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. I cleaned it, put pressure on it, laid on it, called my doctor friends who suggested a trip to the adult ER, was amazingly late for work and finally wrapped my lower half in enough gauze to make a cozy quilt for the entire Duggar family before deciding what to do next. I didn’t want to spend the day sitting in an ER while some 25-year-old resident decided whether they needed to stitch my badonkadonk (sp?). Instead I called a friend who is married to one of the attendings in the pediatric hospital where I work.
“Think your husband would mind looking at a cut I got out on a run today to see if I need stitches?”
“Nope. Just go to his clinic when you get here. Where’s the cut?”
“My butt.”
“Ok. He’s in clinic until noon.”
The definition of a good friend is someone who doesn’t hate you when you ask their spouse to check out your butt.
The doc said I could get stitches if I wanted less of a scar but that it would soon stop bleeding on its own and would heal mostly okay. A few of the nurses I work with gave me some sort of magic tape and, sure enough, the bleeding stopped. Still have a scar that is pretty gross but knowing I ran around the ‘hood with my ass hanging out is even nastier.
Apparently I’d forgotten about yesterday’s ice storm. Instead of proper footwear for slush and ice I tied on a pair of marathon flats. Brilliant. Within a few feet of my front door the slipping commenced, my feet were soaked and my toes started freezing.
I worked my way down to a main road, dodging dirty snow and small sheets of ice, occasionally thinking that skis would have been more appropriate footwear. As I plugged along, the sidewalk went from regular boring cement to slate. Broken, chipped slabs for a few hundred yards.
I hadn’t run on this section of road for months, maybe even a year. I thought back to the last time I could remember running there -- last winter after the feet of snow stacked for months in Philadelphia began to melt.
The 2009-2010 winter in Philly was epic. Storm after storm pounded the area and I got most of my exercise shoveling snow. Finally, enough snow was gone that getting in an actual run became possible. I remember running along the broken sidewalk at a good clip, happy to not have to worry about leaping over snow piles, vaguely aware that I was zipping past cars stopped in rush hour traffic.
And then, suddenly, I was on the ground. Not even a flash of “(Fill in your favorite expletive here)!! I am falling!” went through my head. I banged my knee and skidded to a stop on my side. I knew right away that I had bloodied my knee. Fortunately I was freezing and couldn’t feel much and I was otherwise okay. I got up, took a moment to feel embarrassed that I had bit it in front of a line of cars and then had no other choice than to continue on my way home. Fortunately, it was only about a mile so I sucked it up and ran as fast as I could, eager to get home to survey the damage.
I stepped into the front door and rolled up the left leg of my running tights. Sure enough, a bloody knee, but it didn’t look too bad at all. Limped over to the medicine cabinet, smooshed some gauze onto the booboo and the bleeding easily stopped.
As I began to thaw I noticed that my left buttoxical region felt weird. A bit naked.
“Uh, I think I hurt my butt,” I thought and decided I’d figure it all out in the shower.
And then I walked past a mirror in our bedroom … got a glimpse of what I apparently put on display for a large chunk of Germantown for the last mile of my run.
My entire left butt was hanging out. Like, half of my entire ass, complete with a nasty cut with a few small pebbles in it.
When I fell I managed to tear my running tights but, because I was already so cold and freezing, I didn’t notice.
I thought I was pretty embarrassed when I fell. Realizing I ran home unintentionally and unknowingly nekkid wasn’t too fun, either.
As an added bonus, I couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. I cleaned it, put pressure on it, laid on it, called my doctor friends who suggested a trip to the adult ER, was amazingly late for work and finally wrapped my lower half in enough gauze to make a cozy quilt for the entire Duggar family before deciding what to do next. I didn’t want to spend the day sitting in an ER while some 25-year-old resident decided whether they needed to stitch my badonkadonk (sp?). Instead I called a friend who is married to one of the attendings in the pediatric hospital where I work.
“Think your husband would mind looking at a cut I got out on a run today to see if I need stitches?”
“Nope. Just go to his clinic when you get here. Where’s the cut?”
“My butt.”
“Ok. He’s in clinic until noon.”
The definition of a good friend is someone who doesn’t hate you when you ask their spouse to check out your butt.
The doc said I could get stitches if I wanted less of a scar but that it would soon stop bleeding on its own and would heal mostly okay. A few of the nurses I work with gave me some sort of magic tape and, sure enough, the bleeding stopped. Still have a scar that is pretty gross but knowing I ran around the ‘hood with my ass hanging out is even nastier.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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 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?
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
At Least the Gym is Cheap
To me, a bad day running/biking/training/playing outside is better than a good day at the gym. But, sometimes the reality of being an adult on planet Earth necessitates that I don’t have time to be outside during daylight hours (the whole employment thing) so I head to the gym.
Here’s the highlight of going there: It is $18 a month.
Here’s the lowlight: Pretty much everything else.
I don’t know what to do at the gym. Lifting? I sort of make it up as I go along while simultaneously boring myself to death. Elliptical? I swear that sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine burns more calories. I sometimes break out the dusty rowing skills from college and erg a bit but it’s just not the same without a coxswain screaming.
That leaves the treadmill. When I am on it the only thought in my head is this: When in the hell can I get off of this thing? I run 5ks at race pace, do 800 repeats faster than I can on the track and, during the 7 feet of snow last winter, did long training runs at sub-marathon pace. Such a chore. The motivation of getting the miles in as fast as possible in order to be able to stop keeps me going.
That, and the entertainment of the whacks who run/do something vaguely akin to running near me. Take tonight, for example. I was doing a quick 2 miles (after doing 6 crunches and 2 bicep curls) before going home to eat tons of home-made pizza Bill was making. The gym I go to has approximately 6,879 treadmills, all in working order, all exactly the same. Only 3 were in use at the time.
A dude stood in front of me just about the whole time I was running, asking me every 45 seconds if I was almost done because he wanted to use the exact treadmill I was on. I could have easily moved to the one next to me, but I didn’t wanna. Apparently the treadmill I used was the one he uses every day at the exact same time and now he thinks he owns it. Weirdo.
My other favorite thing: Dudes who are really, really concerned with the pace of people around them. Especially if the people around them are girls. My favorite: The guy who checked out my pace, jacked up his pace higher, and then STOOD ON THE SIDES of the treadmill. He didn’t run one step. After about 5 minutes he turned the machine off and went away. Ok, sir. Good exercising there.
Until I am willing to build my own gym in my pea-sized house, though, I will try to be a good citizen of the gym.
That is all.
Here’s the highlight of going there: It is $18 a month.
Here’s the lowlight: Pretty much everything else.
I don’t know what to do at the gym. Lifting? I sort of make it up as I go along while simultaneously boring myself to death. Elliptical? I swear that sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine burns more calories. I sometimes break out the dusty rowing skills from college and erg a bit but it’s just not the same without a coxswain screaming.
That leaves the treadmill. When I am on it the only thought in my head is this: When in the hell can I get off of this thing? I run 5ks at race pace, do 800 repeats faster than I can on the track and, during the 7 feet of snow last winter, did long training runs at sub-marathon pace. Such a chore. The motivation of getting the miles in as fast as possible in order to be able to stop keeps me going.
That, and the entertainment of the whacks who run/do something vaguely akin to running near me. Take tonight, for example. I was doing a quick 2 miles (after doing 6 crunches and 2 bicep curls) before going home to eat tons of home-made pizza Bill was making. The gym I go to has approximately 6,879 treadmills, all in working order, all exactly the same. Only 3 were in use at the time.
A dude stood in front of me just about the whole time I was running, asking me every 45 seconds if I was almost done because he wanted to use the exact treadmill I was on. I could have easily moved to the one next to me, but I didn’t wanna. Apparently the treadmill I used was the one he uses every day at the exact same time and now he thinks he owns it. Weirdo.
My other favorite thing: Dudes who are really, really concerned with the pace of people around them. Especially if the people around them are girls. My favorite: The guy who checked out my pace, jacked up his pace higher, and then STOOD ON THE SIDES of the treadmill. He didn’t run one step. After about 5 minutes he turned the machine off and went away. Ok, sir. Good exercising there.
Until I am willing to build my own gym in my pea-sized house, though, I will try to be a good citizen of the gym.
That is all.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
I Am Dumb
I like to get to races early, never less than an hour before a race starts. Waiting around chills me out and gives me time to figure out what I am doing with myself.
Today, though, was absurd.
The Dirty Bird was what we thought we were waking up to do this morning. We drove and drove to French Creek State Park (about an hour away) and when we got there it was us and a bunch of hunters and shotguns. Did we sign up for The Most Dangerous Game by mistake?
When we got to the start area, nothing except an empty tent. And worms for sale from a vending machine.
We thought that we had maybe gone to the wrong part of the park so we drove around for a few minutes and I got out of the car to go pee behind a tree. During my misdemeanor, Bill (who was in charge of this outing) checked the race Web site on his phone. I got back into the car and he looked at me like he was a bit worried I would hit him with a hammer.
Bill: Hey, I love you.
Me: What did you do?
Bill: The race is tomorrow.
For about 4 minutes I was pretty pissed. And then I got over it.
Since we drove all that way we decided to run anyway. We ended up doing about 6 miles and had the entire park to ourselves except for the hunters in trees shooting at things.
When we got home, Bill checked his planner. In giant letters under Saturday, November 27, it said this: DIRTY BIRD 15k TRAIL RUN.
Why did we insist this race was on Saturday? Why are we dumb?
Tomorrow: The Dirty Bird. For real this time.
Today, though, was absurd.
The Dirty Bird was what we thought we were waking up to do this morning. We drove and drove to French Creek State Park (about an hour away) and when we got there it was us and a bunch of hunters and shotguns. Did we sign up for The Most Dangerous Game by mistake?
When we got to the start area, nothing except an empty tent. And worms for sale from a vending machine.
 |
| Thanks to this convenient machine we grabbed lunch after our run. |
 |
| Looks like something fun might occur here at some point But not on November 27. |
Bill: Hey, I love you.
Me: What did you do?
Bill: The race is tomorrow.
For about 4 minutes I was pretty pissed. And then I got over it.
Since we drove all that way we decided to run anyway. We ended up doing about 6 miles and had the entire park to ourselves except for the hunters in trees shooting at things.
When we got home, Bill checked his planner. In giant letters under Saturday, November 27, it said this: DIRTY BIRD 15k TRAIL RUN.
Why did we insist this race was on Saturday? Why are we dumb?
Tomorrow: The Dirty Bird. For real this time.
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