All this week, my body has felt like this:
(Not the elephant, or the woman, or the bag. Well, maybe the bag.)
(For the record, I don't wear tighty whities.)
Next step: Acupuncture. Ahhh, acupuncture, the porcupine quill-filled topical elixir of the gods. Needles in my legs, needles in my arms, needles in my head and face. A lot of needles in my head and face. So many that it makes me feel like this:
Only hairier. And not so bitchy.
Have you ever turned your keyboard upside down and banged on the bottom of it, like you do with a stubborn bottle of ketchup? Who knew there was so much stuff in there? So that's where those two scrunchies and my toothbrush went. (Yes, I do brush my teeth while surfing the internet for porn scientific articles on the mating rituals of the Amungmebootyoofishy tribe of New Guinea.)
If a good-looking guy started up a conversation with you in a friendly, non-creepy manner, what would you do? You'd smile and talk to him like a normal human being. Unless you're me.
If this guy approached you in one of your favorite stores, Whole Foods, that tends to attract the kind of person with whom you’d likely share a similar lifestyle, what would you do? Your interest would be piqued, and you'd flirt a little, maybe even a lot ['tis much better than being hit on in the Doritos aisle you were taking a short cut through on the way back from the TP at Random Groceries, no?] Unless you’re me.
If it turns out that Good-Looking Whole Foods-Shopping Guy approached you because he saw you at the run that morning, and lo and behold you're both members of the same training group, what would you do? You'd mention you were there with another Gazelle for breakfast, and ask him if he'd like to join you – easy, beautiful, casual, no pressure opening. Unless you're me.
If you're me, you would revert back to your fifteen-year-old, tongue-tied, going through the ugly phase of an ugly duckling life-self who has all the social grace of an amoeba around anyone to whom you're attracted. You would make an idiot of yourself by mishearing his question. You would recover badly. You would stammer out a few inane sentences, and then in the middle of it all you would just… walk away. And you would spend the rest of the day kicking yourself in the right ass cheek, because you still can’t kick yourself in the left one.
I recently got the latest issue of Austin Runner in the mail, and I did a double-take when I looked at the front cover. On it was a guy popping a squat on Town Lake Lady Bird Lake Our Lady of the Birded Lake Town Trail, arm elevated, finger pointed in some sort of "heyyyyyy, dude!" gesture, sweaty hairy pit exposed. The figure was topped off by an unkempt beard and a head of hair that a head band did nothing to tame, and it all reminded me of this:
Only scruffier.
By now you must be wondering, "who was this Neanderthal hippy?" It was Matthew McConaughey. Dude, it's time to put down the bong and pick up a razor and scissors.
It's such a shame: I can still remember when I found him seriously hot. It seems though that the hotness has been in decline, probably ever since the Nude Bongo-Drumming Incident. Now, after seeing this picture, I will never be able to look at him without thinking of a Geico cave man commercial, and I don't like roast duck with mango sauce, so there's this whole guilt-by-association/reverse Pavlovian response thing happening, and it's just, ick. Ick. However, I think if I close my eyes, I can still listen to his voice and be taken to a rapturous place. Hopefully he'll consider a career doing voice-overs.
You know you're a crazy committed runner when you get up at 4:40 am so you can make the 5:45 workout. And you like it.
Today we did intervals at Zilker. For the non-running readers, intervals are where you run fast, then slow down, then run fast, then slow down, then run fast, then slow down, then rinse and repeat. The run fast parts were 1 x 2k & 4 x 1k. 1k = 0.62 of a mile, for those of you who are metrically challenged.
On the last 1k, we were told to "drop the bomb". Apparently what kind of bomb we were supposed to drop was open to interpretation. One of my fellow runners dropped not one, but several bombs, four laps prematurely. I don't know if I would have called them "bombs", exactly; more like little propulsive explosions. I was happy I was running beside and not downwind of her. As for myself, I fully expected to drop the F-bomb on the last lap. I thought I would be struggling to finish, rubber-legged, desperate to stop, crying "Fuuuuuuck!" as I ran the last 100 meters, for I and any kind of speed work have been estranged for the past year or so. However, I've been surprising myself on these workouts. I'm stronger than I realized. That last lap was hard (as it should have been), but not painful. I can't say I dropped the bomb, but I did manage to lay it down gently on the ground.
Next time on Running With the Gazelles: The Long Run. For the non-running readers, this is where you run for a long time. According to Gilbert, "it's going to be wild!" Can't wait to see how that's interpreted.
I’m a serious recreational runner, which is an oxymoron used by those who have no hopes of running professionally, but still consider it as much a regular part of their lives as brushing their teeth, or flushing the toilet (only much more enjoyable). So yeah, that’s me. I am, therefore I run. For the past six months though, I’ve been… not struggling with my running, exactly, but not progressing. I’ve been stuck at casual runner level, farting about on three to five mile runs a few days a week at a really slow pace, with some seven to ten mile long runs on the weekends, and it has made me feel like Hypoactive Toad. Or Hypoactive Slug. It’s been frustrating; a far cry from where I want to be. I'll never be Speedy Gonzales, but I know I can do a lot better than Hypoactive Slug. So I decided I needed a kick in the pants.
Austin is blessed with being a fit and active city with a large running community, and as such it has a number of really good running programs. The one I decided I would use to kick me in the persqueeter is Gilbert’s Gazelles. Gilbert’s Gazelles is coached by – you guessed it – Gilbert, who is an elite athlete, running icon, and local celebrity. His story is both horrific and inspirational. He came from the African country of Burundi, where he became a victim of the conflict between the Hutus and the Tutsis. One day when he was at school, Hutus forced Tutsi students and teachers into a room, and set about hacking them with machetes. They were then doused with gasoline and set on fire. The only survivor was Gilbert. Somehow he managed to come out of it with his spirit intact, and is just as renowned in the local running community for his generosity and big heart as he is for his talent as a runner. And he is definitely talented. Many people at his level only coach elite athletes, but he chooses to coach not only the super fast, but slowpokes like me. Blessed indeed. By the way, I highly recommend his book, This Voice in My Heart: A Runner's Memoir of Genocide, Faith, and Forgiveness. It's a great read, and you don't have to be a runner to appreciate his story.
I had my first workout with the Gazelles this morning, and I arrived feeling a bit trepidatious -- newness, uncertainty, and all that. I introduced myself to Gilbert, and he told me what the group would be doing. “Do you think you can do that?” he asked. “Uhhhh…” A friend of mine jumped in and told him what my longest distance runs have been. Gilbert spoke. No seven-mile tempo run for me! Off I went to join the beginner’s group. It’s not about where you’ve been: it’s about where you are.
The beginner’s workout consisted of a two-mile warm up, drills, and a two-mile tempo run. For those unfamiliar with running drills, I’ll explain them to you. There are crossovers, where you run sideways while putting the trailing leg alternately behind and in front of the leading one. The goal of these is to not to trip over your own feet. You also skip, the purpose of which is to release your inner child. There’s backwards running, where you try not to run into things. With butt kicks, you literally kick yourself in the ass. I can kick my right butt cheek, but not the left. Apparently my ability to self-flagellate is half-assed. There are also strides, where you run fast but relaxed over a short distance of a hundred meters or so. You’re supposed to do these at your own pace, but secretly you’re trying to beat the person next to you. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Except me. Drills will make you better… stronger… faster. But not bionic.
I loved the run, and felt great when I was done. It was awesome, and fun, and everything I’ve been missing about running. I'm happy to have the camaraderie of a group, and the structure of a coached workout again; running is one of few areas where I like being told what to do. You be my coach, I'll be your bitch. I’m hooked.
One run does a Gazelle make.
Read More......
The price of gas yesterday evening when I decided I would wait till the morning to fill up my car: $2.67. The price of gas this morning when I filled up: $2.75. The price of gas this evening on my way home: $2.69.
This is so not right.
This is great.
But this is brilliant.
What's ten shades of awesome is playing them simultaneously.
Spoilers and such. 19 Years Later The little family moved towards the train through the hustle and bustle of platform nine and three-quarters. As Lily and Albus, the younger children, sought out friends, Harry found an empty carriage and helped his eldest son James lift his trunk onto the train. James, who was never one to do anything quietly, peppered Harry with questions as he struggled with the heavy load. “When you fought Voldemort for the - how many times did you fight him?” James interrupted him impatiently. “So you came back to life, like Jesus?” “Why did he leave?” “He got scared that he wasn’t going to see a square meal for several more months, and there was also the very real danger of developing asthma from all the cat dander in the tent. Weasleys are prone to it” Harry explained. “So he took to his feet and chickened out?” "Well, he was actually brave, in a breath-focused, stomach-loving way." “So he bravely ran away! When danger reared its ugly head he bravely turned his tail and fled.” “Yes, but to give him his due, he was not afraid to die, oh brave Uncle Ron. He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways. Now that’s enough questions, James Dobby Potter; the train will be leaving soon.” “Just one more, dad!” James begged. “Tell me about Snape. He was actually good?” Harry grabbed Lily as she tried to sneak on the train. “Lily Hedwig Potter, I wasn’t telling you to get on the train! You won’t be going to Hogwarts for another two years." Tears welled in Lily's eyes, and Harry's expression softened. "Tell you what, Lily. When we get home I'll conjure some empty coconut halves, and we can play that we're King Arthur's men riding our horses out on a quest!" And there was much rejoicing. ********************************
“Ninety-six, give or take a dozen.”
“Right. So when you fought him for the ninety-sixth time, you died?”
“Yes. No. Well, sort of. I thought I was going to die, then I died, but I wasn’t really dead, only everyone thought I was. You should have seen it: Hagrid was carrying me, and someone said ‘Bring out your dead!’, and then I popped up and said ‘I’m not dead! I’m getting better!’ and then a Muggle came along and said ‘She’s a witch! Burn her!’, and then I said ‘I’m not a witch. I’ve got all my bits, see? I’m a wiz—‘“
“Who's Jesus?”
“I forgot, you didn't take Muggle Studies at when you were at Hogwarts.” James paused for a moment while he grabbed his owl’s cage. “And Uncle Ron ran away and deserted you?”
“Yes. No. Well, sort of. He left, but then he came back right away, only he didn’t come back right away because he couldn’t find us.”
"You named Albus after someone who's a git?"
"There's a little git in all of us, son. Now it’s time to get on the Hogwarts Express, it’s going to leave any minute.”
I'm watching a National Geographic documentary [you may bow to my dorkiness now] about a polar bear's quest to find food in the arctic despite melting polar sea ice caused by global warning. I'm finding this show very disturbing. I'm a sucker for suffering animals, and the damn narrator isn't helping things.
Binna has gone fifteen weeks without food. Desperate for sustenance, she roams hundreds of miles from the only home she has known. She is facing death by starvation if she doesn't eat soon.
For the love, National Geographic narrator, don't just stand there calmly reading doom and gloom off of cue cards, do something! This isn't Star Trek; there is no Prime Directive. Club a seal and feed it to the bear!
Wait, now he's saying seals pose potential dangers as a food source because they can store pollutants in their fat. Damn global warning and pollution.
So what to club? Maybe Al Gore would take one for the team.
I'm going to be really pissed - and weepy - shut up - if Binna dies. I've had all I can take of that sort of thing after reading Deathly Hallows.
Binna continues to be on the brink of dying a slow, painful, lonely death. I can't watch this anymore. I'm switching to a Discovery Health Channel show: Hypersexual.
I peaked (Hypersexual has proven to be hypostimulating). Binna is feasting on a dead whale! National Geographic found something to club! It's a happy ending. Except for the whale.
Next up on National Geographic: Whales of the Arctic: A Slaughter at Sea.
Crap.
