Progress (?)

I just spent my morning pushing the browser "Refresh" on a client page at a bank website, waiting for 2 trades to settle to cash so I could then wire the proceeds to another account for a time-sensitive real estate closing. It took substantially longer than I thought. In fact, just all I did between 8:30 and 12:30 today was call the bank to expedite, refresh, refresh, call the bank again, refresh, refresh, placate client with a call saying we'd get back as soon as we knew more, refresh, explain to my manager what was happening and ask for opinion on next steps, call the bank for an update, refresh two more times, pace around my chair trying to decide if I can afford to leave to go to the bathroom, call the bank to make, sure they were expediting, refresh, refresh, and finally, breathe out.

A small error (not mine) accounted for this last-minute tomfoolery under deadline; while I paid the ulcer-inducing time-suck price, the client got the money eventually. I'm not mad....these things happen from time-to-time. Although I do wish if an ulcer were to be induced it would be for a reason involving money that was actually mine....

Several times during this period I was tempted to come on here, or to log onto Facebook, and proclaim that I was good and ready for Happy Hour. Or a Makers Mark & ginger. Or a Guinness. Knowing that saying "it's time for a drink" is one of the great cliches in response to stressful situations kept me from doing so.

In the meantime, two things happened:

1) I remembered I need to run 5 miles today, and I could do that now instead of later. I am now sitting in my tennies and shorts and leaving in 5 minutes

2) I remembered that Julie Andrews sings this song from The Sound of Music:

With each step I am more certain
Everything will turn out fine
I have confidence the world can all be mine
They'll have to agree I have confidence in me


I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me Strength doesn't lie in numbers

Strength doesn't lie in wealth
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers
When you wake up -- Wake Up!


It tells me all I trust I lead my heart to
All I trust becomes my own
I have confidence in confidence alone
(Oh help!)
I have confidence in confidence alone
Besides which you see I have confidence in me!

I'd say there could be worse things than turning to running and self-empowerment before drink.

Thanks-Essay 1: Friends Who Run

Saturday was being one of those days.

Yes, even a Saturday can start out being one of those days, when it involves a mid-morning landlord visit requiring finding and eliminating every kernel of stray cat litter (and hair) from premises, followed by an impromptu 3-hour nap (3-hours! as if a sick toddler!) complete with sweaty nightmares that not only left me more tired than before I started but sucked up 3 of the 4.5 hours of available afternoon sunlight. (And 4:30 p.m. sunsets suck, people. Even if they're pretty.) Followed by a trip to Family Dollar Store confirming that because there are now 15 aisles of stupid, cheap Christmas decorations, there is no longer room for 30-cent cans of cat food.

It was in this moment, while rounding the corner of Dorchester Street and Broadway and muttering about stupid, cheap Christmas decorations and overgeneralized holiday commericalization, I was blindsided by the blaze-orange sprinting shoes and the figure of my dear friend Chris. Indeed sprinting by. A friend who runs like the wind, but lives in Roxbury and wouldn't generally be in this hood this hour. 

As he quickly explained:

"I just stopped by your place. I was headed out and realized today I wanted to run to Southie, but didn't think to call you until I was on my way.  Wanted to see if you wanted to go for a run."

It was 3:30 p.m. and I was still in my pajamas, drowsy and bed-headed. But had I been in Family Dollar Store for 30 seconds longer or shorter than I had, Chris and I would have missed each other. The day was crying out for a divine kick-in-the-pants ... and it appeared.

By 3:45 I was in shorts, tech top and Asics and he and I were jogging west towards the other side of town. Chris is a much (taller and long-legged and) faster runner than me .... even with him cutting 2-minutes-a-mile off his pace, I chugged hard to keep up and not feel the guilt of boring him.  But I kept up. We conversed in that necessary way friends who get too busy need to converse, passing the 4 miles to Roxbury in no time.

By the time we reached his home and I set out for the return trip (in the end, 8.75 total), the sun setting behind me in the cool afternoon, I was glad and grateful.  To have shifted my day's attitude so thoroughly.  To have run faster and longer than I would have ever done by myself.  To have the privilege of such an awesome, selfless friend in my life ...

....especially one who runs.

Eleven-o'clock run...

... on a Sunday night
of a 3-day weekend
at the start

of a new (school) year,
through the streets
of the downtown
of a college town,

is

a cool breeze and
no homework yet,
the pure smell of hormones
and too many girls
waiting in line at
too many bars
and looking
too young
to be facing down
bouncers that big
and wearing
heels that high.

And brother,
do I feel old.

Sunday numbers

Proof 

that I rose from the dead at 

6 a.m. 

and drove to Gloucester to 

(alongside Anne and Chris)

complete a

7-mile road race at

8 a.m. in

62 minutes flat and in

80 degrees and 81% humidity,

that produced approximately 

8 liters of sweat

(from me alone).

Pretend fisher(wo)men

Then,

as I dodged the
100s of tourists
to get out of town for
the 43-mile drive home,
my car stereo quit.
One minute on,
one minute off.
Forever.

Should have seen it coming:
for 2 weeks
I couldn't switch stations;
( WUMB 91.9 Folk Radio,
all the time, baby!)
it was original to the car,
and the car is 20.

I can't decide why I'm
10 times more upset
over this loss than
the impending demise of
the rest of the vehicle.

True statistics

2/24/11:  date of most recent Asics Landreths purchase.

406.01: running miles logged on most recent Asics Landreths as of 8/17/11.

29:  roughly estimated number of pairs of Asics purchased since the year 2000.

499.02: running miles logged in 2011 to date.

7.4:  training weeks, out of 18, completed for Marine Corps Marathon.

0:  current number of running injuries.

246:  number of times I will knock on wood for the rest of the day because I commented, in the middle of marathon training, that I currently have no running injuries, a statement that traditionally results in me getting an injury shortly thereafter.

7.18:   average minutes-per-mile pace achieved Tuesday, over 3.1 miles, running half-mile repeats at a TMIRCE track workout.

(7.50:  personal record road race average minute-per-mile pace, over 4 miles, in 2007).

12:  number of times Tuesday I headed west, while looping the Harvard Stadium track, and thanked God for the gorgeous sunset.

172:  my weight, in pounds, when I moved to Boston in 1999.

100:  estimated total miles run in the 26 years of life prior to 1999.

132:  my weight, in pounds, today.

Infinite:  number of times per day I thank God for the ability, desire, and health to run.

May Monday

Got home last night at midnight, grabbed a popsicle and turned on my computer to see the announcement that American forces had killed Osama bin Laden. Woke up today to the blanket coverage on the BBC and NPR on the clock radio. Got to work by 9, to find the New York Times (hard copy edition, sitting in Starbucks in Boston) featured upwards of 100 articles on the subject, all produced in the early hours.

(The scope and speed of the reaction by the public -- and the journalists and politicos, for that matter -- is almost as impressive as the raid.)

Anything I did this weekend (ran a relatively fast 10K, for example) or will do this week (help open this pretty awesome show) will pale in comparison to this news. In 10 years this weekend will matter .... although it will not because I scrubbed my bedroom windows on a Saturday evening or had a Guinness at Foley's (still the best poured Guinness around, IMO) with someone other than C-2 at 2 a.m. Sunday or came to a realization that I really do enjoy talking to Piano Man but we are probably just going to be phone buddies and I'm totally OK with it.

It's a beautiful sunny morning that feels like spring. It's set to be a busy day at the office. It'll be a busy night of rehearsal, again. It's all good.

Day 1 of 31: 6.2 miles

May Total: 6.2

2011 Total:  218.4

(No) excuses

Don't suppose
you have
any interest
in reading
another post
in which
I admit
I haven't
been running
for days
(even though
I said
I'd run
every day
in this
blasted,
cold,
wet,
sloppy
month).

Oh well.

Sorry.

I've no excuse.

Not even the
blasted,
cold,
wet,
sloppy
month.

Off to the treadmill I go ....

Day 18 of 31: 2.99 miles

January total: 25.35

Unbold

Riding the #9 up East Berkeley today, I watched as, 3 times, a man heading the same direction on foot leapfrogged the bus whenever we slowed for stoplights.

He was reedy and tall in tights, hat and a windbreaker, Camelbak strapped on.  Sprinting with the ease of a professional.  Giving a proverbial f***-off to this morning's temperatures.  Going faster than the bus.

I doubt he was giving a f***-off to me or anyone else, sitting warm and sedentary, observing.  He was keeping up with his training.

But I couldn't help but take it personally .... the girl who has run 2 times in the last 19 days ..... who looks at a person displaying chutzpah and boldness and perserverance towards a goal and remembers vaguely what it feels like to do that, but only vaguely.

Dateline 8/4/10: My table

He:  up from the Garden State. 

She: over from the Back Bay.

90 degrees.

(And almost that much humid.)

4.25 miles run, 38 minutes, 8:50 pace.

Stop at the

Southie Stop-n-Shop.

Find filet of sockeye.

Air-conditioned apartment. 

Agneta's 2000-calorie salmon recipe

(heavy cream, parmesan)

totally earned, no?

(Counter with light

via Chenin Blanc.)

No need to shower

or

lose the sweaty clothes

or

stop checking e-mail

when

dinner is with an old friend

at

9:36 on a Wednesday night.

Good times.

Cease whining

Alright.
Bull by the horns.
Casually
Dropped 3
E-mails to 3
Favorite guys of previous
Good repute, asking each to (at least think about)
Having a drink this weekend,
If possible, with me.
Just didn't say I have no other plans, really,
(Keeping clean the facade of being cooler and
Less available than I really am.)
Maybe we could watch the Spain/
Netherlands final on Sunday, I asked the sports-minded one.
Or, I teased the second,
Perhaps this is the weekend to
Quaff that beer we talked about quaffing back in June.
Really, the third is
Someone I've quaffed dozens of beers with,
10 times out of 12 during last call on a weeknight,
Usually followed by further hijinks.
We'll see who bites.

(I'm skipping XY & Z, sorry, and just showing you the Charles River skyline that I'm going to head and run with right now before the sun drops.

It's been too long.

And besides.  I'm a better runner than poet.)

Bikini Challenge BV: Whew

On Memorial Day afternoon I biked over to the Savin Hill hood of Dorchester for a picnic at the home of my friends Eric & LaToya.

I know several superb chefs in Boston and have eaten many platefuls of their superb grub in my time here.  And maybe I was just super hungry on Monday, but Eric & LaToya's BBQ spread wins my heart:

Chicken legs fired up crusty with tangy sauce and char residue.  Back ribs even tangier and crustier.  Corn cobs done just enough al dente that they don't stick in the teeth.  One potato salad done South Carolina and the second potato salad done Trinidadian, with peas and carrots.  Tiramisu (yes, tiramisu).  Chocolate cake.  A second helping of chicken, slathered with sauce.

Weight Watchers, be damned.

So you understand my justifiable fear of stepping on the scale yesterday.  Fear enough that I succumbed to the old tactic, just prior to weigh-in, of running several miles in humid temperatures to sweat out every ounce of excess water.

Which is why I was relieved to see another 3 pounds gone, the magic 130 barrier hurdled.

May 4 Poundage: CXXXVII
May 26 Poundage: CXXXI
June 2 Poundage: CXXVIII
June 20 Goal Poundage: CXXI
(Poundage to go: VII)

Whew.

Upon reflection, I shouldn't be as surprised as I am.   For the purposes of this blog, I just tallied this week's physical activity.   (OK, Weight Watchers, you do not be damned, since you help me track these things.)

Admittedly substantial:

Running:  6 runs totalling 30 miles
Biking:   2x everyday, totalling 100 miles
Walking:  5 jaunts totalling 10.6 miles
Elliptical machine:  90 minutes
Yoga: 1 Vinyasa Power Class
Weightlifting/core strength:  4 sessions totalling 120 minutes

So it figures that if I can maintain this routine for the next 2 weeks and don't have to contend with the food baby that comes via Eric & LaToya's BBQ skills ....

.... time to order the bikini?

Seven random words of Wednesday

1) My most recent status update on Facebook, still up to date: 

"Karin would like to invent the button that will take her back to 7 a.m. and allow the day to start over."

2) My last 3 visitors on OKCupid were named as follows: Devilboston, Chuckydestructo (from Kokomo, sorry, local ladies), and ChrisRiot. Last night at 12:16 a.m., a guy named SexyBamBam wrote as follows: "Hey, wad up brat! =D"

3) Today's random primary moment of happy: realization that I haven't earned a  parking ticket in 2010. Yet.

4) Today's not-so-random fun fact:   Wednesday, June 2 is National Running Day? Did you know?  Coincidental that it is 70 degrees, cool breeze, blue skies? Doubtful.

5) Today's second moment of happy: coherent OKC e-mail from a 33-y-old runner who wanted to discuss Reach the Beach Relay, lives locally, advocates for social justice causes, said he is in the process of "putting behind me the stupidity that is a man in his 20s" and who was cheeky, but only just enough.  He might not be real, but we'll see.

6) Today's indulgence: salon pedicure refresher.

7) And you know what?  I realized I don't really have a 7th.  Hope that's OK.

Two-date fadeout

So today's Tuesday.

For a couple weeks on Tuesdays, you may remember, I hauled tail along Carson Beach with Erudite Runner and his buddies, later gathering at Boston Beer Garden for grub.   Last week I did not get an invite.  And obviously, not this week either.  In fact, I haven't heard a peep out of Erudite Runner since our goodbye that night on Broadway, 2 weeks ago.

Hmmm. 

Well, I haven't written him either .... which means we're not missing each other ... which is how it should be, considering that at our last outing I spent majority time engrossed in a yoga conversation with someone who was not him.  Nevertheless, half of me thought he and I would keep hanging out and running, friend-like. Although the other half of me realizes he probably already has enough running friends .... friends who actually run at his speed.

No heartbreak here. Sometimes, it's an actual relief when you go out on 2 dates with someone and know it's over.  (Friday-night man, Southie Med, for other recent examples.)  To just know. It is so rare in relationships and dating to ever just know.  And almost a gift when you do.

Soldier on.

Sunny day (II)

For inquiring minds:

1) We (3) ran 7 miles along the South Boston waterfront, around UMass and the JFK Library. Quickly. He wants to run the Los Angeles Marathon this weekend in under 3 hours and 20 minutes. And it certainly felt like we were doing sub-8 miles. Although I know he held back his pace to be nice.

2) Later in the evening, we hung out at a pub with some more of his running friends and talked about running. Exclusively about running. 

3) Except ... for a brief foray into political interests.  He worked once with Joe Biden's campaign, so we talked about Joe Biden. I had to spend a couple hours between our run and our drink at Mike McGee's campaign meeting .... so we talked about Mike, too. He thinks Mike would win the election hands-down if he became (wait for it) a runner ....and conducted "running debates" in which the winner would be the one who could be most articulate while short-of-breath.

4) So we dutched on the beers and nosh and shook hands to part.  I thanked him for the invite. He promised to let me know how the race went. We agreed to touch base next week after his return from the other coast.

5) And that was that.  It was, indeed, a nice evening.

Sunny day

Tuesdays are not universally better than Mondays, but today already beats yesterday by several miles. In part, because of the sun (duh!) after 4 days of none and 10 inches of rain. Shocking how that helps.

I am also jazzed at this perfect weather for my initial outing with Erudite Southie Runner -- who last week suggested I join him and his buddies for their Tuesday-night run out of the L Street gym. I'm in the mood to run. I'm in the mood to make new friends. The extra evening sunlight, plus the sun itself, makes this baseline foolproof.

(I hope.)

Meeting with a group -- including unattached men my age -- to work out and drink a few beers after: I should have aspired to this activity long, long ago. That my first chance came via unsolicited invitation from a man who, in a week of e-mails, has Not. Once. Mentioned. Either. Sex. Or. My. Legs. and is running his first marathon this weekend and just today admitted he co-wrote a musical (a musical!) about Watergate .....

.... not putting any eggs in any basket on this, other than I'll be disappointed if this doesn't turn out to be a mildly nice evening.

Game on.

Proposition of a different sort

My favorite type of message request on OKCupid is cryptic, direct, intelligent, and in no way uses the words "cutie" or "hot."

So, last night:

Subject: equally obsessed
Message: runner. running. run. I run with friends in Southie, generally on Tuesday nights. Might be a nice way to meet. What do you think?

The gentleman is mid-40s. Definite serious runner's physique. OKC's compare-o-meter suggests we "both like Watergate, and All the Presidents Men" and that we are a 67% friendly match.

I liked his response for I spend a lot of time thinking about ...

"Making a difference from this moment on. Not repeating the same stupid mistakes again. Avoiding making new stupid mistakes when possible. Accepting that making mistakes comes with committing to life. Admitting and correcting the mistakes I make ....

Getting faster (and smarter) when I race.

The incredible – and beautiful – improbability of it all. (Who the f*ck knew, and why wasn't I told when I was younger?!)"

Kind of a nice change of pace for this scene, eh?

Over No Hill (thank you very much)

Yesterday I worked through lunch until 6:30 p.m., after which I ran 4 miles and then stopped off at a friend's house to rehearse some songs, before riding the B Line to Allston to hang with a friend and a bunch of his friends while imbibing some truly smooth Atwater Vanilla Java Porter, before riding the B Line to the Red Line to the 15-minute walk home ....

So. By the time I dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor and kicked off my shoes, the hour was approaching late and what more could I possibly have been in the mood for after such social frivolity.... but a hop onto OKC to see if anyone was up and in the mood for more social frivolity.

It was a fruitful choice. An acquaintance I'd chatted with a couple times last fall appeared and we fell into a benign, amiable conversation about our shared interests: running (he's an ultra-marathoner) and blogging (which because of his running success, for various reasons, is also a success). At one point, he was talking about a 125-mile run (you read right). I was feeling small potatoes:

Karin: So my 5 miles yesterday is really impressing you, I can tell...

Runner-Blogger: It actually is... I'm always impressed when people get out for a run. Its one of the hardest things to do

K: It's very exhilarating to me .... running, when it feels good. It doesn't always. These last couple of days have felt fabulous, which is always great, because it makes me want to do more.

R-B: I wish I was older. I feel like if I was.. I might actually have a chance with you.

We really hadn't been talking about chances of any sort. Or anything other than running and blogging. Tone-shift 180.

K: ? Do you feel as if you don't?

R-B: sorta..

R-B: I mean.. I'm just a young 28 yr old with a babyface

R-B: still a student, no steady job

R-B: I live an hour from you

R-B: ....

So then, I'm thinking .... why did this man, 28, start talking to me in the first place? And why was it only after talking and determining we had some real points in common, that he decided age was indeed a factor? And why had he already decided that I would never consider him?

OKC's site hosts a blog called "OkTrends," in which they "compile data from the hundreds of millions of user interactions on the site to explore the data side of the online dating world." One of their more recent studies, drowning in data, is called The Case for An Older Woman.

It's a good read and contains many beautiful rainbow charts. I'll leave it to you if you want to. But I like their findings which, as the blog's author and researcher states after a lengthy introduction of men's proclivities to find younger mates:

"I will show that an older woman's attitudes, both about sex and life, are just as good if not better than her younger counterparts', and hopefully I'll convince more guys to venture north of their current age-limits."

Sunday at the BPL

For the second week straight my Saturday night featured 90 minutes of sleep, and that punctuated by heinous dreams of random scary bar encounters with undesirable men whose profiles I'd seen on OKC, and this whole week has, as articulated in an e-mail just composed to my friend Chris, kicked the emotional shit out of me, and there seems no way to turn the brain off and let the tranquility catch up and, even though online Scrabble helps and so do friends like Chris (as well as Girl C, Boy B, the other Choir Boys and Girls, Ben's band, the Southie for McGee volunteers, etc., etc.) and so does finding a toy car on the bus and, this afternoon, listening to Gregori Allegri chants and checking projects off the checklist .... yet I can't help but be so damned unsatisfied with things that maybe the only thing to cure the restlessness is to put on the Asics and iPod, get the legs churning towards the Charles River Esplanade, buck the wind tunnels and capture the last 47 minutes of sunlight before sleep wins this battle.

D'oh!

I'm convinced that this blog would not exist if I wasn't such a general f@#$-up, on occasion.

Yesterday, I scheduled an 8-mile run in the hours between the conclusion of church (12:30) and the beginning of rehearsal (2:30). Since my rehearsal was in Davis Square, near Tufts University, I decided to drive up and park near the rehearsal site and run in that neighborhood, grateful for the change of scenery.

Important: I had to leave all my belongings in my locked car. Since my bundle-o-keys is substantial, and I didn't want to have that bulkiness in my hand for 8 miles, I removed the Mazda key from the ring, better to carry in pocket. And off I went to enjoy the Mystic Valley Parkway, Arlington Heights, Mass Ave through Cambridge and lower Somerville on a sunny, cool afternoon -- thusly:



This was all well and good. It was a good run. Nine-minute miles, even, which I'll certainly take.

So, I chugged back into my start point and checked in at rehearsal, pulling iPod out of shorts pocket to turn it off, only to realize that my car key, supposedly in same pocket, was no longer in same pocket, or on my person at all.

Dropped somewhere along those 8 miles.

Shit.

Must. Be. Found. Now.

Go.

So I left my start point and backtracked. For 6 miles and 2 hours, thusly:



At least it was a lovely afternoon. I mean, it isn't nearly as enjoyable when walking slowly with head down, scouring among the acorns and leaves and cigarette butts and pebbles, trying to remember if I ran on the sidewalk or the street and if so, which side of the street, and when I crossed Highland Ave not at the crosswalk, exactly where was that?, and what about that moment I took my iPod out to replay a song, exactly where was that?, and wondering if the kid on the trike I passed on Cherry Street maybe saw the key and thought it would be fun to play with .... and on and on.

By the time I re-hit the Alewife Brook Parkway my feet were swelling out of my shoe tops, I hadn't had food or water since breakfast, and losses had to be cut. I walked 2 more miles back to rehearsal, asked a cast-mate for $5 to take the Red Line back to Southie to pick up my spare keys .... so I could take the Red Line from Southie back up to Davis and drive the car home.

The time was now 7:30 p.m. And it was time for a beer.

Here's the best part of the whole sordid tale: back at 2:30, at the moment I first realized the key was lost, our rehearsal's stage manager informed me that, due to a late change in the schedule, I didn't have to be at rehearsal ... at all. There was zero reason I needed to be up by Tufts or in Davis or changing clothes out of my car ... at all.

Hmm. I had not known this.

To this the stage manager replied: "Didn't you get my message? I called you earlier today to tell you not to come."

No, I hadn't gotten the message. I had forgotten my cell phone at home.

D'oh! Indeed.

Relief in the run

For years I've been defined by myself, and by many standards, as a runner.

In periods where I can't run when my body doesn't cooperate, I'm impossible.

Thirty-six hours ago, I e-mailed my physical therapist, demanding he tell me how to fix the creeping groin issue that kept me from sitting comfortably, much less walking wince-free, much less anything stronger.  He returned fire to advise that flare-ups are normal, even when a condition is improving, and that I should just keep stretching as we had done for many weeks ... and furthermore, I should chill out.

Thanks, Ian.  But this I most certainly could not do.  Insomnia the last 2 nights would attest to it and the restless eating of much Kashi GoLean, always the tell-tale sign, would seal it.

A relief, then, to enroll in a race like tonight's Corporate Challenge and just. do. it. 

To remember what sub-8:30 miles feel like. To sweat in streams, soaked-through and smelly.  To skitter in gutters and on and off curbs and dodge past walkers.  To trample boulevards on Commonwealth Avenue in order to stay unfettered by those slower runners, maintaining a tempo that feels good in the thighs and the knees, with no trace of the ankle complaints that have dominated these last 7 weeks.  

(Where did they go, pray? Did the sunshine -- appearing just before race time after weeks of cold damp -- loosen and soothe the joints?  Will they show up tomorrow, and a stiff back too, when the clouds roll back in?)

I'm a runner, but I'm also known as a pianist. A singer. A writer.  A biker. A soother of wealthy individuals who don't like paperwork or down-markets. A yoga-craver.  A rambling public speaker.  A flake, constantly 6 minutes late for everything and constantly apologizing.

Yet it is running (and sort of losing the ability to do it before sort of getting it back, at least for 29.2 minutes tonight) that produces more of a high than any of these.  

Scary how much I've come to depend on it and crave its benefits to feel worthwhile.  Especially when I know bodies do nothing but get older, and how definitely finite such physical splendor can be.