My subconscious goal for 2010 is, apparently, to gain 88 pounds between November 1 and January 1. So far I have had two Thanksgiving dinners and it is only Wednesday. Sloth world, here I come.
Sunday marked the sixth (or so) annual Fake Thanksgiving, so called because it 1) does not involve Thanksgiving day and 2) does not involve meat. Our friend Lori is a vegetarian, as am I*, and our husbands (hers is called Dave) are not but they indulge us by having a turkey-free pseudo-Thanksgiving dinner. What nice boys they are!
We had a very beige, but very delicious, dinner, topped off with Billy’s Best Pumpkin Pie. Hooray!
Wine, people and beige food.
Kevin eats some mashed potatoes. Don't worry, we
will wash the dish before you come over for dinner.
*Except on marathon days and on the occasion when I eat a giant pile of fish.
Would you like to see an incomplete list of people/things that have a better sense of direction than I do? No? Ok, then, here it is:
• The DVD case for North Shore
• My 21-month-old cousin
• George Donner
• This cat
• My copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare from college
• Kale
• Etc.
I missed an entire day of high school toward the end of my senior year because I got lost driving to school. I wasn’t the new kid or anything – I’d lived in the same house since 5th grade yet I took 8,897 wrong turns and ended up in front of the Washington monument, 20 miles from my school.
Things did not, unfortunately, get better as I got older. In college, with the help of a good friend, I went over the Ben Franklin Bridge six times in attempt to find The Spaghetti Warehouse, three whole miles from where I lived at the time. Total necessary trips over the bridge to get to The Spaghetti Warehouse? None.
Often, I contemplate which makes me more sad – the fact that I spent a Friday night going over the same bridge six times by accident or the fact that I spent a Friday night trying to go to The Spaghetti Warehouse on purpose.
Things haven’t changed. Whenever I go somewhere new I have an atlas (I am not kidding), MapQuest directions and at least one GPS ready to go. Yet still I get lost.
I am extremely fortunate that my lack of internal compass carries over to foot-based activities.
A few years ago I hung out in Oslo for a week or two, mostly because I am a dork and thus became mildly obsessed with the Vigeland Park. I went for a run one day through the park and toward some hills in the distance.
After about 30 minutes I reached the hills and ducked into the woods. Not too smart and no proper trails but it was beautiful and I wanted to explore. I reasoned if I went straight ahead and up I could easily find my way back by turning around and going straight ahead and down. Incorrect. Four hours of running/jogging/hiking/uh, will I ever see another human again/if I do will they have Gatorade?/I wonder if I can survive on the moss growing on that log over there/maybe I will at least find Viking bones later I made it back to the hostel.
Best unintentional long run ever.
A year or two later Bill was on a kick for a bit that I should know how to navigate in adventure races so we spent many early weekend mornings orienteering. We were surrounded by dudes with names like Thorbjorn and Vedmundr who wore outfits like this…
…and this …
I won't lie ... at first I did a bit of internal mocking. And then I realized that these peeps could crush me in all sorts of sport.
… while I wore running shorts. Each time. I never learned my lesson and ended up looking like Edward Scissorhands and Freddy Krueger played Pirates of the Caribbean swordfight on my legs. The lack of appropriate wardrobe was the high point of my orienteering career. Low point? Getting so lost at one meet that the dudes with names like Thorbjorn and Vedmundr had to come looking for me.
The fun continues. Last week I and my friend Christine headed to Columbus, Ohio, to meet my friend Annemarie’s new adorable kid.
Columbus, home of a marathon so flat with so few turns that even I can eek out a time just good enough to sneek into the Boston Marathon. The course is basically a couple of straight out-and-backs and a few loops and goes within a block of Annemarie’s house. The course markers are left up year round giving locals or bobos visiting from out of town the chance to train on the exact race course.
See? Doesn't that look easy?
On Sunday I headed out for a quick run. “I will be back in 20 minutes,” I told my friends. I quickly found the 25-mile marker for the race and decided to head to the finish line and then back to their house. Impossible to screw up.
Fourteen miles and 109 minutes later I made it back.
From the 26-mile marker I headed right when I should have headed left and ended up seeing most of Columbus on foot. At one point I ran onto the entrance ramp for a highway but realized my mistake before I had to merge.
“Columbus is the size of a pea,” I kept telling myself. “I will stumble upon their house sometime soon.” Thirty minutes went by. “Well, as long as I don’t see signs for Cincinnati I am ok.” I looked up and saw a sign for Cincinnati.
“Um, hmm,” I thought. “I am still in marathon recovery mode. This might not be good. Even more tragic, my iPod battery is low.”
Eventually I saw the mighty Columbus skyline and headed toward it reasoning that at least I knew I was in the right city. A half-hour later I saw signs directing to a landmark only a mile or so from Annemarie’s and finally wove my way back. I felt like a champion!
My buds admitted they were starting to get worried, but here is why I love them: “Well, I just guessed that you found the marathon route, followed it for a while, tried to come right back but went in the exact opposite direction,” Christine said. “I thought you would eventually come back.” And I did.
I hit the 14-mile mark and, as I usually do at this point in marathons, realized that I still had a lot of running ahead of me. I also realized that I was still cold, it was still windy and my knees and hips randomly hurt. My pace slowed significantly but I knew I could still meet my goal time. My brain felt stronger than my body and I kept reminding myself that I would get where I was going as long as I kept moving. I have no idea what my pace was and I hadn’t looked at my watch in miles but I was sure I was slowing. People started passing me in droves but this was also the point where people started walking.
And then there it was. The Queensboro Bridge. I wanted to cry before I actually stepped foot on it. A mile and a half across the East River. Mr. or Mrs. Bridge Designer, why did you build this thing with a mile of uphill followed by 800 meters of narrow, steep, left-leaning downhill? The climb went on forever. People were staggering all over the place, stopping, falling over, sitting down. I’ve never seen anything like it in any race I have ever done. Added excitement came from drunk people swinging from the beams of the bridge. Odd times. I kept running, being passed by as many people as I was passing.
Finally, finally, we bottlenecked down a tight left exit ramp and plopped out onto First Avenue.
Um, CRAZY TIME!
Crowds were at least four deep along the entire 3.5 miles on First Ave. Handing out bananas, beer and brownies, dressed in nothing, dressed like Spongebob, dressed like GreenMan. A zillion kids wanting high-fives, a zillion adults jumping and yelling. Even though I felt like crap I yelled and laughed out loud a lot along this stretch. A giant, miles-long party.
The First Avenue insanity carried me through until mile 19.5, home of another damn bridge. I can’t remember what it was called or what it looked like, only that it was steep and I sort of hated it from the core of my being. A dude racing in a handcycle bike with zero legs and one arm was rocking it, though. The uphill. The uphill with one arm. You go, BAMF. The only other awesome thing along this not-so-fun part was a dude filling up little cups with Franzia and yelling at us in Spanish to drink his wine. At least I think that's what he was saying.
The damn bridge dumped us into the Bronx. How do I know we were in the Bronx? A large dude with a megaphone screaming “Welcome to the Bronx, bitches!” over and over again made it clear. That had to be more tiring than actually running the race. He was dancing all around, yelling and yelling, with YMCA playing in the background. A happy church choir tossed some motivation my way and on and on I went. Practically, I knew the finish was only getting closer. Physically, I knew I was going to be thrilled to stop running the second I crossed the finish.
At about mile 21 there was this, stolen from the interwebs:
The video doesn’t quite do the drummers justice – in person it was much more fun and much more motivating.
The next few miles are notable by how terrible felt. My feet hurt. Maybe this seems like an obvious thing to say about miles 22 through 24 of a marathon but it felt like the bottom of my feet were being hit with hammers. Awesome!
Just before we turned into Central Park the crowds were so thick that runners were basically relegated to a two-by-two shuffle. Words cannot express how thankful I was to these humans (especially to the woman with the sign that read "Keep Going! Keep Going! (that's what she said)) as it gave me no option but to slow my shuffling self down even more.
Once we hit the park I started to believe that at some point in my life I would, in fact, cross the finish line. We winded around and around, up and down, left, right, one more mile, zig, zag. Uh, where the hell were they hiding the finish line? Burkina Faso?
Finally, finally, I turned right and hit the 26-mile marker. I heard people screaming (it was Kate, Bill and Steve, although I was too tired to pick up my head and look around so I didn’t see them), some terrible song was playing, and then, tadaa, the finish. One of the more thrilling finishes of my life. I have never seen more teetering/falling over/crying/snot/happiness/emotion at a finish line, ever. I was sort of happy with myself. My body hadn't held up well but my brain sucked it up and got me there. I wasn't really close to a PR but I beat my Boston time by 9 minutes on a course that I thought was much harder.**
Bill and Co. were apparently yelling and yelling ...
...but I was so tired that ...
... a t-rex could have been marching around ...
... and I wouldn't have noticed.
I like this picture because I am sort of actually running to the finish.
Got my medal, got my hot potato blanket, and then got moving. I had to walk past 57 of 63 UPS trucks parked single-file through Central Park before getting my stuff. I’d mentally prepared for this hike almost as much as the race, though, so I tried not to be too sad. Plus, I got to see this: A woman got her bag and then promptly leaned over a fence and barfed on bags not yet claimed. Terrible.
Found my stuff, threw on my snuggly clothes (although I had a case of marathon brain and am pretty sure I stood in Central Park half-naked for a bit as a result) and then realized I had about 3 miles to walk to meet up with the crew for lunch. I wanted to weep but it was clear that getting a cab would be impossible. I pretended I was just out for a stroll. And then … Bill! Kate! Steve! Plus a David Byrne book someone was giving away! Wings! A cheeseburger! Success!
The end.
Me, my hat and my free David B. book
The first thing Bill asked? "What's with that book?"
Kate navigated us to the Land of Giant Cheeseburgers. And I geeked out and wore my medal until we got back to her house.
Marathon days are meat days!
** After being reunited with my cell phone, the first thing I said to Bill was this --> (edited for the sake of my mom) “This (femaleparentintercoursing) race makes Boston look like a (intercoursing) 5k.” Because it did. Well, maybe not a 5k, but New York was so much more difficult. At least for me.
About a minute after the gun went off I crossed the start line. I was expecting banners, flags, the Statue of Liberty to come to life … fanfare. But just a timing mat. As soon as I stepped onto the bridge proper a hurricane hit. Within the first 25 seconds of the race my hat blew off my head, over the railing and into the harbor. I realized I couldn’t feel my feet, I was still shivering, my person was getting blown around, I was running uphill into a headwind that was taking my breath away and I still had 26.17 miles to go.
Sweet.
While my hat blew off of my head these people were already at the 8.5 mile mark:
Lead women's pack, including a tucked-away Shalane Flanagan zooming toward a second-place finish in her marathon debut.
A gnocchi maker makes an excellent hammer.
Here come the boys.
I decided I wanted to get the hell off of that bridge and took off. Or at least I thought I did – I hit the one-mile mark and peeked at my watch which indicated a first mile at a blistering 10:02. Uh, WTF? I was out of breath and working hard for a 10:02? I didn’t really have a goal time for this race aside from running faster than I had at Boston, just to keep me moving. My Boston time wasn't exactly the speed of light so I know my arbitrary goal was within reach, but a 10:02 wasn’t going to cut it. Demoralizing, but after I crested the peak of the bridge I picked it up on the downhill and felt some feeling coming back to my feet.
And then the crowds started. From the bridge we headed into Brooklyn. Holy mother, was it loud. People were yelling from overpasses, swinging from trees, playing tubas, beating on pots with hammers and screaming their heads off.
I made a deal with myself that even if I felt terrible I would suck it up and run the entire race. No walking through water stops, no bathroom breaks, no whining, no crying, no stopping for an oil change. New Yorkers apparently take their marathon watching very seriously and I didn’t wanna disrespect by walking.
With that decided, the first 7 or so miles flew by. My pace was where I wanted it to be (a bit too fast, actually, and I knew I would pay for it later). The crowds were at least three people deep and the course was relatively flat. I felt good but also felt I wouldn’t be holding that pace for too long or PRing. I could tell I didn’t have enough in the tank and I also wanted to enjoy the ride as much as possible.
The police along this part of course were particularly awesome and looked happy to be there– high-fiving, taking pictures with runners, cowbelling it up, getting all dancypants to the random musicians sprinkled along the course. Good times.
My peeps were waiting for me at mile 8.5, rocking the “Go Edison & Laurie (and everybody else)” signs Kate (who also took all the pictures here) made. Right where I thought they would be, there they were. Bill, Kate, her husband Steve and some of their friends were under a tree where they’d nailed the signs using a gnocchi maker as a hammer (apparently hammers aren't allowed in Brooklyn). I yelled something, apparently made some weird faces (see below) and was on my way.
What am I yelling? What is the dude in the orange shirt doing with his hands? Mysteries of life.
Looks like I am missing some teeth here. Don't worry Mom, I still have all my chompers.
A mile or so later complete quiet replaced the screams of the crowd. We were in the ‘hood of Williamsburg, formerly known to me as the land of hipsters but now and forever known to me as the land of Hasidic Jewish people. 45,000 people were running by and the locals stared straight ahead. Occasionally a little kid would observe one of the few non-Hasidic people and mimic the cheers, high-fives and general absurdity or would run alongside a racer until a mom or dad convinced them not to. I tripped and rolled my ankles twice during these miles, too preoccupied with the change in crowd to pay attention to potholes and rutted roads.
Laurie's running tip of the week: Don’t trip or twist your ankles while running a marathon.
The 13.1 mark was on the Pulaski Bridge, a steep but short climb before a steep downhill and a jumbotron broadcasting the runners under it. Fun, except a few mofos decided that coming to a complete stop and taking pictures of themselves waving on screen was a brilliant plan. HONK HONK! Dudes, I know I am not moving at the speed of sound but get out of my way.
I have cool friends! And family! And husband! While most of them don’t geek out about running, biking or playing outside quite as much as I do, they are nice to me when I am excited about a race, training, piece of adventure racing junk or a new shoelace for an old pair of running shoes.
Bill, me and the crack of dawn for a race.
I’ve run the Columbus Marathon thanks to friends who live along the route and who came out to cheer me on even though the temps were below freezing, gone to my parents’ house for the weekend only to spend most of the time running, had them visit me in Philly just to see me go by a few times in a duathlon. Cousins-in-law and grad school friends took us in when we went to Boston and made sure I was properly fed and watered before the race. I am headed to New York this weekend for the marathon where a free pillow for my head awaits thanks to a friend I met in preschool.
And then there is Bill, cheerleader extraordinaire. He hopped on a plane to Columbus and then basically dragged me to the finish line so I could qualify for Boston, set up shop along the Boston route at 7 a.m. to see me go by once and has carried his weight in team gear in just about every adventure race we’ve done together. How nice is that? He’s been at almost every race I have ever done, either cheering me on or racing himself.
My current favorite nice thing is the hat my friend knitted for me to help keep me cozy during my weekend in New York. I can’t even floss without tying my hands together and she knits me a hat with runners on it with actual yarn. Fantastic. Having peeps like this makes gallivanting about way more fun than if I was in it alone!
