Finish a 10K? Check. What else you got?

Yes! I finished! And we'll talk about that in just a moment. But first I have to note that after I posted that absurd rhyming ditty yesterday I couldn't stop coming up with additions to the poem. Last night in bed, just before slumber took over, I thought of a really great stanza that I wish I had thought of yesterday:

The bib number pinned to the tech tee with care,
laid out by the running shorts (with built in underwear).

Sweet, right?

So, back to the whole race thing.

I finished! Maybe I already mentioned that. But it's kind of the whole purpose of this entire blog so I s'pose I'll just keep saying it. I finished!

The official results don't seem to be online yet, but the clock read 1:09:something when I crossed the finish line. The final time while change depending on how long it took me to cross the start.

UPDATE: Final time: 1:06:22. That's 4336th place. More importantly, I beat 812 people. All race results on beachtobeacon.org.

See, not everyone can cross immediately. There were 5,500 runners jammed into the starting corral. It takes a while for that mass of people to get moving. Pretty cool looking view, though.

Wanting to avoid the traffic and ensure a parking space at Cape Elizabeth HS, I left my house at 6:00 a.m. this morning. Note to runners for next year: that's unecessarily early. But the morning went breezily. Easy parking, easy onto a shuttle bus, easy to the start. In fact my bus was one of the first to arrive, so I was able to take in the starting line.

5:00-minute mile. Riiiight. I mean, I could, but I prefer to take in the sights while I run. You know, get the full experience. These elite runners - sure they're fast - but they're really missing out on life, don't you think?


At any rate, there was plenty of time to kill before the 8:00 starting gun (which, as it turns out, was a horn instead of a gun and was at 8:10 as opposed to 8:00. But I didn't know these things at the time). People were pacing around, stretching, warming up. I didn't see the point in walking when I could be sitting, so I sat. I thought about napping but I didn't trust that anyone would wake me before the start and getting trampled didn't seem like fun.
So I people watched. Lots of fit people. Lots of people like me, just hoping to get it done. And then there was Sir Canada.

I don't even know what to say.

I have issues with Canada that I don't care to get into now, but let it suffice it to say that I found the Canadian flag/maple leaf on the rear concept wildly disconcerting. Is it a tribute or an insult? Who knows!

But I was amped. I was confident. I was ready to get this party started. I snapped a photo of myself right as Ann, Anna and I were officially crossing over the start. I clearly look enthused. Maybe too enthused. My smile is kind of creepy. Is it always like that?


I decided to take a photo of myself at every mile marker. As it turned out they all pretty much look the same. Me, sweating a great amount but still smiling. This one is at mile three. You may recall mile three from last year - I sure as hell do. It's the place where injury compelled me to stop. It's the place where I sat with an ice pack and a some shame.

As we ran by I noted, "Here's where I died last year." A stranger nearby responded, "And look at you now - you're good to go." Good to go is right. As we ran past the mile marker I told mile three to eat it.

And now I'm not bitter any more.

See? The whole "photo at each mile" thing didn't doesn't work when it's humid and sweaty. The lens gets clouded and you end up looking like an Edvard Munch practice painting.

Around mile four we passed under the American flag draped from two fire engine ladders. It's an image of the race you may have seen before - but for me it was the first time I'd witnessed it in person.

Sure beats the Canadian flag from earlier - no one wants to run under this flag, am I right people? That'd just be uncomfortable for this guy and everyone else involved.

Mile five had a banner that read, "It's no jive, it's mile five!" Reminded me of the movie Airplane, when they're in court and someone asks, "Does anyone here speak jive?" and the old white lady does. Ha ha. Airplane. But I digress.

I've also failed to mention all the spectators and woohooers along the way. I tried to get pictures but all the sweating and the jostling hindered that attempt. But the cheers came from everywhere.

I got "Go Shannon!" from a few people I knew. I got "You can do it" or "You look great" or "Almost there" from a bunch of people I didn't know. And that was cool. Strangers out there dishing support and encouraging you along for no other reason than because you're there and you're running and they want you to finish.

I have family members that aren't that nice to me (not you, mom, don't get offended!).

Particularly on that last mile, just coming into the park, there are so many people just shouting, just clapping or telling you that the finish is just ahead and to "finish strong!" If you'd had any inclination to walk or slow down or forfeit you wouldn't be able to for fear of letting all those people down.

Besides, the finale is just ahead and the adrenaline has come flooding and dammit you're going to finish this thing because you said you would and you know you can and besides, the sooner it's over the sooner you'll find yourself at breakfast with an empty plate, a belly full of hash browns and a warm mimosa-induced haze.

And the sooner you'll get to take a stupid-looking photo of yourself at the finish line.

It's a ridiculous picture, I know. It looks like I'm trying to show off my guns but I'm too lethargic to actually lift my arms up any higher.

Okay, you're right. I was trying to show off my guns but was too lethargic to lift my arms any higher.

So I'm an idiot - what of it. I ran a 10K today, cut me some slack!

An any rate, thanks again to all the cheerers (in person, via e-mail or via this blog). It's nice to hear "way to go" now and then.

And thanks to those of you who stopped to say "hello" to me today. I can now confirm to my boss that there are other people reading besides my mother (no offense, mom!).

Congrats to all of you who took on the challenge - and congrats to all of you who killed that race today.

You all deserve many beers. As do I.

Thus, I'm off to get started on that.

And, of course, the comments are still broken. Why wouldn't they be?

Some love from 207 and my new B.F.F.

I've wanted to update sooner, I really have. But in case you haven't noticed, our servers are...um...well...messed. Sorry for that. And by "sorry" I mean "I'm apologizing because I don't know what else to say and I feel badly but I really have no control over the server issues so really my apology is essentially useless, but I'm trying to comfort you anyway because I care and doesn't that make us all feel a little better?"

It's been a while since I've included any entertaining images in my blog (remember months ago when I had that entry with the turkey photos in it? I bet you didn't think turkeys had anything to do with running. Well they do. They have a lot to do with it. Just wait. One day you'll see).

At any rate, I dedicate this entry to the less literate out there. You know, those 'readers' who tend to stick to the newspaper comics without a lot of words. Those readers who skim magazines and pause only at the pretty pictures. Those readers whose Sunday morning reading consists only of the "Back to School" promotion on the side of the Lucky Charms box.

To you I vow to keep the words to a minimum.

Wait. I'm sorry, I can't do that. I have to use words. And lots of them. Probably double what is necessary. I'm kind of a talker. But then, maybe you sensed that already.

Nevertheless, you're still free to do what you normally do - ignore me altogether and look at the pictures.

The 207 piece on Maine Running Company's Reach the Beacon program aired last night. I missed the show, but thanks to the technology of the internets anyone - that's right, men, women, children alike - can watch it online.

Yesterday I watched the segment with a hand over my eyes, two fingers split just enough to peek at the footage. I was ready to cringe. I think at first maybe I was cringing.

Then suddenly, there I was! Running! "That's me!" I shouted from my cube (loud enough to cause one spilled coffee, three dirty looks and what later turned out to be a mild heart attack).

A few moments later, in the background, me again!

Me!

Sure, no one but me would ever notice. I'm in the back of the pack usually, hidden from view (remember my "run ugly" issues? Me being hidden is definitely for the best). But I noticed. And even though I was there and I know how it all really went down, I was proud of that segment.

Oh yea, I guess it's good promotion for John's running store, too.

But anyway, back to me.

Last night I went to the last Hannaford run - partly as a last ditch effort to train, but mostly because Joan Benoit Samuelson was going to be there.

I admit it - I'm a little bit star struck. I mean, it's Joan Benoit Samuelson!

Before we set out on our slated 5.5-mile run, Joan offered up some race-time words of wisdom. I think they included "run your own race," "don't watch the mile markers," and "it's easier to pass other people than it is to be passed." But really I just stood there going, "It's Joan!" over and over in my head.

Just like a couple of weeks ago, we were split into pace groups. Anna and I opted to stick in the last one, but as I scanned my fellow runners I felt suddenly very…um…slow.

No offense to these fine older fellas, but I'm a little shamed that at 29, I can't run faster than them. Or that my lack of running confidence makes me think I can't. I don't know which is worse.

But Anna and I kicked arse. We lingered at the water stations, it's true, but were able to maintain a steady run for nearly all 5.5 miles.

5.5 miles - that's nearly a 10K.

There wasn't much of a reprieve from the sun, either, but it's expected to be warm and sunny on race day, so we might as well get used to it.

Plus, just prior to the halfway turn around point near East End Beach, we happened to catch Joan on her way to the finish. She was offering up "nice jobs" and high fives. And I made sure to get me one.

(A high five from Joan Benoit Samuelson! Highlight of my year! And the birth of what will be a long and 100-percent hallucinatory friendship! Three cheers for delusions! And three cheers for Photoshop for further enabling said delusions!)

Last night was surely a confidence builder. We kept it slow in an effort to not overdo it before Saturday and timed in at just over an hour. Fine with me.

It never was about the time. It's about NOT limping to the first aid station at mile three with an overwhelming sense of failure.

And really, I don't think that's too much to ask.

The comments section isn't cooperating this morning, but bless you kind folks for e-mailing me anyway!

JC says:
Hey Shans,

I think you're going to do great!!

One thing though, well actually a couple. I once met Joan Samuelson, well,
I stood behind her at a funeral, and I've met you once. I seem to remember
her being significantly shorter than me, whereas you, not so much. Also, I
don't remember her head seeming quite so, well, BIG, in relation to the
rest of her body.

Maybe I just haven't had enough coffee yet.

Good luck, you'll do F-A-B

JC

SJO says:
KICK SOME ARSE THIS WEEKEND HON!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'll be thinking about you!

xoxoxoxo

Karen says:
Wow, Shannon! You are so ready for the 6.2 miles come Saturday. I bet JBS
will be cheering you on again as you sprint to the finish line with all the
old men. Just don't piss her off by bring a beer and a sandwich on the
course to keep you going. Run hard, run fast, run to the finish knowing your
BFF is waiting up ahead. So jealous!
SYN2F

Ah, that world. It's a cruel, cruel sadist sometimes

Sometimes the world seems to go out of its way for you.

Sometimes it aligns the pieces of your life in just the right way or at just the right time.

Sometimes it puts a person or an open door in your way - I mean flagrantly in your way - when you were distracted elsewhere or not even looking up. And with a jolting thud you walk right into it, curse it momentarily and then smile because it was exactly what you hadn't thought to look for.

The world really does work that way. Sometimes.

But like everything, there's a flip side. A less talked about side. An overcast, blurry, greenish-gray side.

It's the world that also likes to screw around with you. Have a laugh at your expense. Make you look and feel a supreme fool.

That world - it's got a healthy sense of humor, that's for sure.

Allow me to elaborate:

Yesterday WCSH's 207 crew came out to do a bit on Maine Running Company's Reach the Beacon program. (You know, that little running group I've been yammering on about for the last four months.)

I had hoped to get to the run early to maybe shove myself in front of the camera to chat up the training group - and perhaps plug this here blog, too.

But slow servers at the office and a bad news phone call at the end of the day hindered that attempt.

But I made it to the Maine Running store in time for the run - and to spot the cameraman panning the group pre-sweat.

After the group was sent off to Fitzpatrick Stadium I lingered at the store to pick out my official Maine Running Company Reach the Beacon tech tee (it's plum and loverly and not nearly as tight as those dreadfully sized shirts from last year). Thus, by the time Ann and I headed out the door the camera crew was long gone filming the rest of the group.

No problem - we'll get on film racing like demons around the track, right?

Not so much. Every time we ran, the cameraman was filming in the other direction. But when we walked a lap - there he was. My group (yes, yes, the slower people) had to laugh. We were destined to look like dopes if he didn't get some dang footage of us running. (We looked horrendous anyway thanks to a little thing called torrential downpour.)

After the workout we headed back to the store via the same side streets we'd taken on the way in. We also knew that the cameraman was planning to get some final shots of runners headed back in. So we ran.

But there was no cameraman.

And it was raining, remember? And we were exhausted.

So after a few minutes we agreed the camera was likely long gone and we could walk it in to the store.

So we started walking.

And then there went a white SUV with a cameraman hanging out the back, filming.

Filming us walking. Again. Awesome.

So we decided to film ourselves running and send a tape into 207 - you know, to balance out the footage they have.

If you catch the spot on 207 (tentatively scheduled for Tuesday) and you see a group of jerks walking the entire time, please believe we do actually run.

Sometimes anyway.

You mean the race is in 10 weeks, right?

Okay, okay. I admit I missed the Tuesday night Hannaford run - but it's cool. I already ran in the a.m.

That's right, you heard me.

I got up at 6:00 in the morning and ran the good old Back Cove (a.k.a. "The Boulevard" or "Boolie" as I like to call it when I've had a few drinks and that warm 'I love everybody' haze settles in and I get to thinking we're better friends than we really are).

Of course the only notable haze Tuesday morning was settled solemnly over the water - and the rising sun quickly shooed it away.

I had been running Macworth Island in the mornings (remember, way back when, when I was full of naive enthusiasm?) but the recent rain had likely turned the trail into a mud river and the island into a mosquito birthing factory.

Besides, the short Macworth loop makes it too easy to skimp out after only one go-around. And it's too close to race day ("race" - I have to laugh) to risk cheating.

So I ran the Back Cove - well, walked some. I'm still no Olympian, people. But it felt good to get moving in the morning before heat consumes the air and before the 5:00 p.m. sugar crash drops me into walking coma.

It's good practice for the race anyway, which starts at 8:00 a.m. Training in the evening is great to a point, but it helps to get your body used to waking up, eating a bit o' grub (or "fuel" as a real athlete might call it) and being ready to run.

I typically start of the day with a cup (or six) of coffee and don't think about food until noon or so when I catch myself absentmindedly gnawing my own thumbs. But running on an empty stomach ain't good - no matter what that "Lose 50 pounds in one week!" diet plan said.

By the way, did you know the Beach to Beacon is in 10 days? Seriously, I just counted.

Shit.

Redeemed by the running gods

You were privy to my three-week trek through gluttony and indolence. It was a sorry sight, I'm sure, and I don't blame you for averting your eyes (I did, too, with a little help from a well-practiced skill called 'avoidance').

But inevitably I returned to the Thursday runs last week - and that was rough. A well-deserved kind of rough.

Tuesday was an improvement - the running gods were pleased, but understandably skeptical.

But yesterday - oh the joy that was yesterday!

It was hot - you know that, you were lying around in your own sweat all afternoon just like everybody else. It was hot and all day I bemoaned the run and the sun and secretly wished it was August 3rd and I was resting lazily in a raft on the Saco with my feet skimming the top of the cool river water and my hand happily clutching a chilled beer.

But all that in good time. First, there is a race to win. Er, run. Er, finish.

So off to the track at Fitzpatick Stadium we went. My face flushed from the effort. Sweat dampened my running shirt and my hairline…and then everything.

And while my pores drained, the running gods watched:

"She's still running," the running god Mizuno said, watching Portland from a great height.

"You don't say," Asics replied, barely looking up from his outdated copy of Runner's World.

Saucony walked over to join Mizuno on the balcony and smiled to see a small Shannon below, wiping her forehead with her shirt - almost like a professional.

"Looks like she's determined to really finish the race this time. Perhaps we should give her her spirit back, eh?" (Running gods all talk like Canadians, though no one really knows why.)

"Asics?" Saucony questioned again. "Is it okay if we stop punishing her for her tremendous slight against us? It's getting kind of depressing to watch."

After a long pause, Asics finally mumbled, "Oh, all right. Our time is better spent crushing the dreams of Olympic hopefuls anyway."

And so, back in Portland, I ran from the Maine Running store to the Fitzpatrick track and, funny thing, I didn't feel awful.

We ran once around the track and, strangely, I felt pretty damn good.

We ran it again and - holy crap - I was sightly faster than the last time.

We ran it again and (I think you see where I'm going with this) I felt strong, fast-ish even (until that REALLY fast chick blew past me - but let's not dwell there).

Four times we went around and I improved my time from 1:56 to 1:54 to 1:53 to 1:52.

"Nice job guys," John Rogers says. "You're consistent and that's good."

That is good. You know what else is good? Optimism. I used to be flooded with it, but the last few weeks it seemed Optimism had packed it bags, befriended a trucker, hitched a ride north and settled down in a quaint Canadian fishing village (where, let's face it, it'd probably be much happier). But I tell you what, I got a bit of it back and I'm going to run with it (literally and figuratively).

Those feckless days are history - there is hope for me yet.

Get your pride back in just four easy miles!

And if you call now, we'll throw in a 5-hour supply of endorphins and an improved self image FREE!

Think you can't run? Doesn't matter! With the Pride Back program you can run, jog, walk your way to inner bliss.

Okay, okay. "Bliss" may be a slight overstatement. I think maybe I meant "run, jog, walk your way to decreased self loathing." But you get my drift.

And maybe I'm a little off about the four "easy" miles. "Easy" is a word that's wide open to interpretation, kind of like "alcoholic" or "murder."

I did go to the Hannaford training run last evening - thankfully fellow Reach the Beaconer Ann was going as well, and having a running cohort is good incentive.

It took some time to get the large group organized - and I think we irked a good number of other Back Cove runners/walkers by taking up a portion of the trail to do stretches and line up.

The group was divided into four smaller groups based on pace: the freakishly fast, the less-fast-but-still-fast, the not fast and the walkers. (Those are my ingenious naming conventions. The trainers aren't that moronic.) Each group had a few pacers to lead off, with signs on their backs proclaiming their speed.

Ann and I opted for the 10-minute mile group (that'd be the "not fast group" - no offense to other runners in that group who are sure they're running at lightning speed).

And with all the talk about how there was "no humidity" yesterday I figured it'd be a good 4.5-mile jaunt around the cove. But that sun - she's a killer. She's a melter of enthusiasm and a drainer of energy. She's an unrightful punisher.

And the sun is most brutal at the tail end of the day - like one last "I'm the sun, dammit!" before disappearing for the night. She hovers there in your line of vision, blindingly, kind of like when you're dragged downtown for questioning and the cops shove that light in your face.

And the sun makes you sweat just like being in that small, cinder block room with the one-way mirror does.

My point being, yesterday's run left much to be desired. During the points where we hit shade, it wasn't awful (though, no wonder, my energy level isn't exactly at an all-time high these days). But trudging up that incline toward the 295 bridge was painful. Totally exposed to the pounding sun and the similarly intense reflection off the water - plus the heat from the traffic - it was tiresome.

But Ann and I moved along, determined to get back in line with the training we'd let slide.

We walked a couple of times, which was a bit frustrating since we'd both run all the way around not three weeks ago.

But hey, if you don't maintain, you're going to lose it. It's a learning I've known since the third grade, when I'd worked my way up all year long to a 25-minute tripod - a gym class record. But summer came and the tripod training went by the wayside. The following year imagine my surprise - Suzi Benson usurped my title with a pitiful 15-minute effort. I'd lost my gift.

The key now is to keep motoring and not fall off the training wagon again. I can't bear to relive the Tripod Collapse of 1987.

If I run tonight, will you please flip on the A/C?

Most days in a Maine summer are idyllic.

But some feel like you've been locked in the cramped trunk of a Dodge Neon, wrapped in damp fleece and lit on fire.

You and I have had first-hand experience of those heavy sweating days recently. And while I appreciate the opportunity to get a real feel for the temperature in Hell, I'm ready to get back to the way summer should be.

It's a risky time of year for runners, too. I'd always thought that the crazies who run outside in January where the ones to be weary of. But this week I found myself throwing psychotropic drugs at runners on the Back Cove trail (from the cooled comfort of my air-conditioned car, of course).

Let's not ask questions about why I had so many psychotropic drugs at my disposal. Instead, let's work together to help as many of those maniacal runners as possible.

Luckily Mother Nature has turned the furnace down a few clicks and today wasn't nearly as frizz-inducing. But I'll still be feeling some discomfort during tonight's group run.

The discomfort will come in three forms: First, as exhausted panting. Second, as cramped calves. Third, as shame.

I still haven't run - not since my last posting, not since I got back from vacation, not since I ran the Back Cove in its entirety (remember those good times!) three weeks ago.

But nevermind that now. It's time to move on, get back in the saddle, or running shoes or whatever. This time last year I found myself in a similar predicament and I vowed to Kick July's arse [see: 'I'm sorry July, but I'm going to have to kill you']

So I say it again. July, it's time I tied you to a parking meter and slapped you around.

Back to life, back to reality

And back to the running...tomorrow, I promise.

I think we can all agree that vacation recovery time is about 48 hours, give or take. And since I pulled back into Portland around 3:00 am on Sunday, I figure I'm good to coast through today without the pressure of being in any way functional.

But tomorrow, tomorrow. I have to get back on the wagon. Get back on the schedule. Get back on my Mackworth Island trail. The B2B is four weeks away and I don't feel anywhere near prepared. I wonder how much was lost during my time off - and I think I'm afraid to find out.

In my defense, I did go for a run last week back in Illinois. I found a well-groomed neighborhood park with a short bike path near my brother's house. I laced up the ol' Mizunos, gave each leg an honest stretch, checked my watch and started off.

My goal was to run for 40 minutes.

Instead I ran for 15, decided I was too tired to run, grabbed a blanket and book from my car and passed out under a tree.

I'd say, "At least I tried, right?!?" but you're not that gullible.

Nevertheless, I have no more excuses. At least I should avoid using any, since I'm only damning myself.

But the enthusiasm levels are admittedly low. The key is to do it anyway. I remember reading once that too many people expect to get amped on the idea of starting a running/exercise routine. And when that excitement doesn't come flooding, would-be runners/skinny bitches opt to just forget the idea.

The truth is, said article claimed, you need to start the routine first - fight through those initial painful/boring/difficult sessions. The enthusiasm comes after - once you've got some hard work under your belt.

I know, I was there a month ago. And now it seems I need to fight my way there again. So I'm ready to get back to it - preferably sooner rather than later. I see a "Woohoo, I kicked that trail to death" entry in my future.

Right round, baby, right round

Like a slow moving record, baby.

I ran the entire Back Cove last night for the first time during this training.

I was psyched. I am psyched. I'm telling anyone who will listen (there aren't many) and I'm telling those who won't (who can't help but hear me anyway because I'm kind of loud).

The responses I've gotten: "That's nice" and/or "You haven't already done that?"

No, I haven't. I've GONE the entire way around with some running here, some walking there. But last night was the first all-the-way-around-without-stopping-or-walking jaunt around the Cove. Woooiiee!

So nobody else gives a damn. That's cool. Doesn't take away from the bright, sunshiny feeling I've had all morning. I suppose it isn't all that big a deal for most - but for me, it's big. Really big.

The irony is that I've still got a lingering tendon issue. John Rogers said, "Take it easy" last night. So I did - I slowed my pace. And that, my friends, made all the difference. I wasn't breaking land speed records, but let's be honest, I'm never, ever going to be fast. Maybe the aching tendon is just the world's way of telling me to slow the hell down.

After the run I stuck around to hear a local chiropractor talk about running form. He had videotaped some of the runners in the group last week (not me - I don't need to be seen running in slow motion. I am not Baywatch material) and he used the footage to point out some common running form issues.

He even had some of the people recline back on a massage table so he could test out muscle strength and lord knows what else to try and pinpoint whatever problem he suspected was occurring.

It was much-needed information right when it mattered. It ties directly back to my ankle - and the fact that I'm probably lacking strength in other muscles in my legs, which then puts undo pressure on the weaker muscles, causing them to strain.

A few years ago I trained for a half marathon back in Chicago. I was much more diligent about my training then - a real stickler for the schedule. But I also weight trained twice a week. Nothing too intense, but I meddled with the leg presses and leg extensions and calf raises and whatnot.

Last year I didn't incorporated any strength training - and I ended up with an injury. This year, again, I've failed to incorporate any strength training and, again, I'm hurting.

So, looks like somebody has to get her round-the-Cove running arse to the gym.

My Achilles is a-killing me

After last Thursday's run, my right Achilles tendon was noticeably sore. I didn't think much of it - chalked it up to the aftereffects of a good run.

The next morning it was still sore but I don't recall spending much time worrying over it. By yesterday morning I had forgotten it had bothered me at all. That is, until I got home from my morning run and realized it really hurt.

Crap. Flashbacks of last year's Beacon-killing ankle injury come thundering.

Is it the shoes? My form? Just a random act of tendon transgression?

I e-mailed Reach the Beacon trainer Michael Gaige about it - he suggested I massage it (to stimulate 'the body's natural healing process') and stretch the Achilles frequently by flexing my ankle & holding for 3-4 seconds. I did that often yesterday.

This morning it was better, though the soreness seems to have crept over to the outside of the ankle instead. Damn.

Reminds me of a comment a friend made to me recently after gazing upon my absurdly thin feet (I think we were talking about our flip-flops at the time - nothing kinky). "How do you run on those razors?" she asked. And I laughed, of course, because if you get the visual right it's pretty darn funny.

But now I think maybe these razors ain't made fer runnin'.

But I also think maybe I'm being melodramatic. I sustain regular - and harmless - injuries on a routine basis. They're always lame, barely visible scrapes and bruises that don't amount to anything despite my attempts to build up the injury by thrusting the scabbed knee or scratched elbow into everyone's face and talking about it incesstantly.

The most recent of my physical calamities is an eyelash-sized cut on my finger given to me courtesy of a yogurt lid. Yes, a yogurt lid. How does that even happen? I don't know. I suppose that's what I get for going probiotic.

At any rate, I ditched the run this a.m., figuring that if I didn't aggravate the tendon it'd likely quit it's yapping in a day or two.

Having Fitz(patrick)

I've been a bad blogger, for sure. Only one entry all week and and then one at 2:00 p.m. on a Friday when - let's be honest - you've already mentally checked out for the day. And so have I.

But while I've been remiss in the blogging, I've been doing just dandy with the running (see, I bet you thought I wasn't blogging because I was ashamed of my poor adherence to the running schedule. Well, you're wrong. But thanks for the confidence. Sheesh).

I ran Monday and Tuesday on Macworth Island (love love love that place) which was a momentous achievement considering I hadn't run on my own in weeks. And that sure makes showing up (and keeping up) on the Thursday runs a hell of a lot harder.

So last evening I was feeling altogether proud of myself and ready to charge ahead. Trainer Michael Gaige directed us to Fitzpatrick Stadium (you know, that joint next to the Sea Dogs stadium) where we'd run 400s around the track. Yes, more 400s. I'm actually longing to get back onto the Back Cove again.

As evidence of the training group's hardcoreness, I snapped a picture of the runners climbing (or crawling) a fence that was blocking our entrance to the track. You may try to keep us elite athletes off your training ground - but your attempts will fail. We cannot be stopped.

Michael led us in some stretching on the field, which we'd never really done before. And it elucidated flashbacks from my high school years - things long suppressed. Like when I joined the soccer team and begged to be a goalie so I wouldn't have to run. My soccer career ended the following year. The laziness is with me still today.

After coming to terms with the surroundings and getting the muscles loosened, we were ready to start our four laps of 400 yards.

But first! John Rogers says, "I want you to run pick-ups up and down the field - get warmed up."

Um, warmed up? It's 80 degrees out here, feels like 90 in the blinding sun, and we just ran mile or whatever to get here. I think we're warmed.

But alas, you can't deny the trainer. So we ran the length of the field, paused, ran back, then ran down again, then paused, then ran back. I wouldn't have classified it as a "warm up" but more of a "prison torture method," but then, I ain't the expert.

We finally moved onto the track and started the first of our four 400-yard laps. Each one is followed by a 400-yard break (we walk it rather than run it). We run 400, walk 400, run 400, walk 400. By the end of the third run, most in my group were feeling the pain. I wasn't doing well either.

I usually hit a point during the run when I feel like everything's working. I feel fast and strong and smooth and in control. It only lasts 10 minutes, sure, but it happens.

Last night, though, I never had that feeling. My legs felt heavy. I felt like I wasn't moving smoothly and I might topple over at any minute. Not fatigue exactly, but more like I just had no control over my body. I know that can happen with severe dehydration, but I think my issue had more to do with the fact that it was just dang hot out.

At any rate, John told us that the fourth lap was optional. Who wanted to do it? I did.

Yea, that fourth lap was crazy slow. But hey, I did it so give me a little credit, OK?

Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to get back to the project I was working on this morning. And by "project," I mean "sandwich."

It burns, burns, burns. The run of fire

You, too, may have flocked to the sea yesterday. And while I'm only regurgitating information you already know, I must at any rate remark that it was (and still is) ridiculously hot. A thick, spreadable kind of hot.

So yesterday I met up with a friend of mine in Saco to bike to the beach (you know, cross training...plus I'd rather save the 5-$15 it costs to park and get a drink or two instead. It's called having priorities).

So we bike in and grab some grub on a restaurant deck and eventually meander over to the sand. Here I put on the almighty sunblock to protect my pale skin from the sun's late-morning lashings. Because that's what you do at the beach.

But - for the record - you can still get a wildly painful burn while on a bicycle - even if you're nowhere near the beach. So I just discovered anyway. All the sunscreen in the Americas couldn't save me by the time I was at the water. It was too late.

Stupidity ruled the day - I should have known better. I've been walking around in this easily burned skin for nearly 30 years. Yet each spring I fall victim to the same start-of-the-season flesh fry.

But I have been aptly punished. As a mark of my shame, I have been emblazoned with the mark of the devilish sun.

This morning I was treated to another learning: sunburn + sports bra = pure agony.

I've been slacking on my between-Thursday runs, so I was determined to get up early this morning and jog it out a bit.

I took the heavy humidity as penance for my procrastination and got dressed - well, started getting dressed. Soon into the endeavor I met with a screaming reminder of yesterday's burn. My skin was pissed. It was cranky. It was not happy to be burdened with the strap of a sports bra.

But when you're already awake, near dressed and determined to run...you run. Angry flesh or not. And that pleasant post-run feeling is my prize for the effort.

Life is full of punishments and rewards. Here's hoping my punishment doesn't linger more than a few days - and my reward lasts a lifetime...er, at least through the rest of the day.

Runners sprint...and so do I

I'm really bad at paying attention to the training schedule - and I apparently missed the announcement from Head Coach Michael Gaige last week that said we'd be doing sprints this week.

Yikes. Sprints.

I'm lucky, though. Having trained with this program last year I have a good idea what to expect (hence the lackluster effort to pay attention to the schedule).

But for other runners in the group who heard the "S" word last week, I imagine their thought process went just like mine did when I first heard the word last year: "Sprints? Say what?! Did he just say sprints? He couldn't have. I'm not ready for any damn sprints - that's obvious. Are they trying to KILL me? That must be it! The whole world is against me! Why, God. Why?!?"

Whatever they were thinking, it must have been bad. Half the group failed to show last night. Maybe they were frightened off by the chilly wind. Maybe they were scooping out avocados in preparation for a wild Cinco de Mayo house party. Whatever the reason, the ranks were thin.

But we hardcore folks jogged out to the the Back Cove and ran sprints around the soccer fields. Head Coach Michael said that including sprints in your training is a great way to amp up your breathing efficiency - quickly, too. It's also a good change of pace from the regular routine.

The faster group looped around both fields - mine stuck to running around just one. The short course was split into quarters: sprint a leg, jog a leg, sprint a leg, jog a leg. Like so:

We went around four times total, then huddled by the water cooler for some much-needed air and water.

As we stood there recuperating, someone pointed out the empty Geary's packaging lingering suspiciously close to the water cooler. "This IS water, right?"

Yeah, it was just water. But I wished - just for a moment - that it wasn't.

We were allowed to jog/walk the mile or so back to the store, but the sprinting had me too jazzed up to consider walking. So I ran the whole way back (alternating between a slow jog and a faster run the entire way...I like this interval stuff).

Yea, sprints are okay by me.

Take that hostility and run with it

I knew a girl in college who claimed to go running whenever she was stressed, upset or feeling crappy.

I could relate, since I did the same thing (except not so much "running" as "drinking").

She, of course, was in great shape. I, of course, didn't hang out with her much.

But since then I've wondered at how ridiculously fit we'd all be if we went out for a 5-mile run instead of a 5-glass binge when stresses crept up. I'd have a lot less jiggle in my walk, that's for sure.

And I'm lucky, my life isn't all that stressful. I hang with good people, the bills always manage to get paid and any children I may have had are now turning a profit through a little-known cattle ranch work program in the American Southwest.

I happen to love my job, too. And I'm not just saying that because my boss has spyware on my computer. This work suits me - and the "So this is what it's like to enjoy going to work" appreciation isn't lost on me.

But even good jobs have their moments. Or should I say, even happy employees have their breakdowns.

Yesterday afternoon I was on deadline with a project - and we all know deadlines are quick and easy ways to amp up the stress level. But I was feeling fine - plugging along with the work. Then - from nowhere - the spinning rainbow wheel of death! Nooo!

Mac users know what I'm talking about. It's that taunting (yet magically colorful!) spinning wheel that says, "Yea, that thing you were just working on...I didn't really like where you were going with it so I decided to just shut the whole process down. Go ahead - reboot. I'll be right here. I've got all the time in the world."

Maybe it's the moon's position in relation to the gravitational pull of Mercury's neoprimal subtuition (I just made that up). Maybe it was hyper-caffeination. Maybe it was delayed weekend detox. Maybe stress exists even in the best of workplaces.

Whatever. The point is I flipped a lid. I fancied giving my keyboard a chuck, but that's "frowned upon" according my annual review. I cursed at my monitor (sometimes in my head, but mostly out loud) and pressed my fingers to my temples to keep my skull from popping.

I was hostile. I was overflowing with angst.

"Well," I thought, "If it worked for that skinny broad I went to school with, maybe running off stress can work for me, too."

So off to the group run I went, head steaming, brow furrowed.

We were tackling the Back Cove in its entirety - my group expected to run 6 minutes, walk 2 minutes. A handful of us were feeling semi-confident that we could run longer portions, so we set off as a separate group to see how it went.

It went really well.

Ran from the store all the way around Back Cove with only 2 walk breaks. That's 4 miles people! 4!

Sure, carbs are great for instant energy. Energy bars and Goo and whatnot. But speaking from experience, hostility makes a decent fuel too.

It's about time

With yesterday's pleasing temps and sunshine, I was looking forward to the Thursday group run. I even sported some shorts for the first time in 2008 (legs, meet sun. You might remember each other from last year).

Not wanting to be late (and to hopefully garner a decent parking spot that wouldn't require too much walking on my part...yes, I see the irony) I headed out of my apartment at 6:15.

There were cars lining the side streets and the Maine Running Company parking lot, but I managed to snag a spot close to the building (thank you, Car Gnome, for keeping me ticket-free for five years and always managing to locate a parking spot for me when I really need it. Your presence on my rear view mirror brings a calmness to my heart).

But as I walked up to the store, I took note of the quiet on the street. No other runners fighting for parking. No one walking up to the door. No one stretching on the sunlit sidewalk out front. Strange.

The inside of Maine Running Company proved equally still and empty. Typically the store is packed with people - and now it stood quiet except for a saleswoman on the phone and another helping a customer.

I looked at the clock. 6:24. Where IS everyone?

Turns out, I thought the start time was something like this:

But it's really something more like this:

I have no idea where I got 6:30 from. But there I was, standing dumbly at the checkout counter, the training group long gone, feeling like a moron.

Training leader John Rogers said I might be able to catch up to my group, who had taken the Back Cove path toward Payson Park.

The moment of truth came when I had to walk past my closely parked car to get to the Back Cove.

"I can just leave," I thought. But my legs didn't turn toward the car. They didn't hesitate or slow down to give me time to ponder what to do. Instead, they started jogging. Jogging!

I ran (read: very slowly ran) to the Back Cove path and headed toward the park, figuring I'd eventually hit the group on their way back. I did - and Janice was kind enough to turn around and run the distance again with me.

"We're doing a 4:2 run/walk ratio today," she said.

"You know what, I've been running for 8 minutes already and I feel great. Let's just keep going." Damn straight.

We ran approx. two miles without walking. Ever. (Well, okay, a few blocks at the end to cool down. Why all the nit picking?)

It took me weeks to build up to that point last year, which means the runs at the gym really have paid off. Which also means that I'm feeling just a wee bit proud of myself today (okay, hugely proud of myself. You just don't anything go by, do you?).

The first group run, all over again

Last night was the Reach the Beacon group's first meeting - and man was the store crowded. I spotted quite a few of the runner's from last year's group, too, who had come back for another round.

Unlike me, however, many of them have been running all winter (which was evident just by looking at them). They looked svelte! They looked like runners! So that's what "in shape" looks like. Good to know.

I'm sure they could just as easily tell that I have NOT been running all winter. I have been semi-consistently hitting the gym since January. Nothing too intense, but it at least puts me ahead of where I was this time last year (but not by much).

Don't get me wrong, I still have issues with the pants (you know, that looming tower of too-tight trousers that's been illegally squatting in my closet for...well...a long, long time).

But this isn't about pants.

It's about taking that first step (for the second time) towards a goal that's four-plus months out.

Once John Rogers and lead trainer Michael Gaige spoke to the group about the program and what to expect, we broke out into training groups. Can't run 20 minutes on a track without stopping to walk? Right over here, folks.

The more capable runners did a 30-minute run on the Back Cove trail. We "less-capable" runners did a 20-minute walk/run. It was supposed to be an alternate of 2 minutes running, 3 minutes walking. Sounds like a cake walk, right?

But imagine having forgotten your watch, so you're reliant on the runners in front of you. And imagine that, five minutes in, they decide that the 2:3 ratio is too easy, so they just keep running.

You're plugging along, making conversation and trying to distract yourself from the fact that this seems like WAY LONGER than 2 minutes, but you don't dare stop before they do.

At any rate, 20 minutes goes by in a flash. It's a good welcome to the program run (especially for all those people who showed up thinking, "They won't make us run on the first day"). Um, yes they will. At least yesterday was precipitation free, kind of sunny and not bone-chilling cold.

Last year's first run was done in three inches of slush during a snow storm (uphill both ways and barefoot, of course).

It was one of those sloppy early spring days that kind of tick you off because you've been shoveling snow for what seems like eternity and while you like snow just as much as the next guy you've hit some sort of snow acceptance limit and the thought of scraping off your windshield one more time starts you twitching ever so slightly - nothing too wild or anything it's just the past few days were kind of mild and you thought all this white stuff was a thing of the past but now it's back and you don't know why because the calendar says 'spring' dammit!

You know, one of those days like today.

I'm not bitter.