Running to Stop the Runs -Week 3.1...already!?

Monday - Off

Tuesday - Lifted for the first time since I started training and it was awesome!  Hurrah for weights!

Wednesday - So. Effing. Sore.  And I think I feel the inkling of a cold.  Convince myself that it will only get worse if I run.  Spend twenty fabulous minutes in the sauna.  Mmmmm....

Thursday - Still sore, though not as much.  And I'm nursing not only a cold, but also a raging hangover.  Also, my legs are apparently filled with cement.  Yet another day off...

I did go to a seminar about lifting for distance running.  It was informative, plus I got 15% off at the store and bought the stick.  It's the best thing ever and everyone should own one.

GO RED SOX!

Week 2.2 Harrisburg's Not So Bad

After bitching about suburban Harrisburg's lack of sidewalks, I ventured within proper city limits to see if, like other blossoming metropoli (is that a word?), the city was less pedestrian-hostile than the surrounding area. And actually, it was.

There's a trail that runs along the Susquehanna and it's actually very scenic. You almost forget that an errant step could send you plummeting into a river so polluted it's been known to cause hallucinations and UTIs. But I kept my footing and actually enjoyed the 1 hour, 10 minute run our coaches had generously dolled out. And the domination continues...

Back in NYC, I ran the fabulous Central Park loop yesterday, and was able to fully appreciate the mix of people on the trail. There were hipsters sporting red-headed mullets while they drove pedi-bikes, Italians in sequinned half-shirts, VERY SERIOUS speed walkers (their fanny packs screamed "INTENSITY!"), and, of course, the career distance runners who blew past me while pushing their jogging strollers with one arm. Bastards. But this is New York, after all. There is no judgement. Only enjoyment...thorough enjoyment.

And for the record, my dad came to visit me for the first time this weekend. I've been in NYC since April, but his Crohn's had prohibited him from coming any earlier. Finally, after a grueling July surgery, he made it up. So, let's keep progress going and DONATE!!!!!!!!

Running to Stop the Runs, Week 2.1 - I Hate Harrisburg

Well, well, well.... After last Wednesday's declaration of domination, I got a little too cocky about my distance-running abilities. So cocky in fact, that Wednesday was the last day that week that I partook in any kind of physical activity. So, I only ran two days last week instead of the requisite four. Apparently I'm lazy and think I know my body well enough that I can prescribe a workout of boozing and couch-warming to turn myself into a (half) marathoner. I didn't workout at all and chose to sleep, drink and socialize instead of running. Don't judge me, I haven't give up!

I'm on "sabbatical" from TV right now as I look for my next job, so I came home to good ole HBG, PA for a little R and R and abbreviation abuse. Tuesday was my first run since Wednesday's awesomeness and I was excited to jaunt through my old neighborhood since jogging was definitely not a favored pastime growing up.

This is why I hate Harrisburg, or at least hate this aspect of Harrisburg. I was about 5 minutes into a one-hour run when I realized why suburban sprawl is such bullshit. THERE ARE NO SIDEWALKS!!!!! I was jogging along, listening to my Britney, when the safe, little pedestrian strip I was on decided to end and spew me out onto the shoulder of a truck-happy backroad. Seriously, this is not how Shel Silverstein described the sidewalk ending. So I ended up on the shoulder of this road, 18-wheelers flying past, and decided to turn around in search of a more people-friendly environment.

Here's the deal - I'm running 5 or 6 miles here. I can't just find a quarter mile loop to do several laps around. That's horribly boring and reason number 465,298,482 why I wasn't a distance runner in college. So, I start gallivanting through the neighborhood looking for a consistent path...but there was nothing...anywhere. I had to run through strip mall parking lots and over church lawns. I did find one path around a playground, but it led me right to an effing parking lot. Seriously, this is why our kids are fat. There is no where to run. You have to drive everywhere if you don't want your face on a fender.

It is impossibly hard to get into a rhythm when you're running to survive. Also, I don't know if it was the lack of water or abundance of Hershey's Kissables that I consumed before this run, but during the first thirty minutes every section of my abdomen decided to cramp up...at different times...for seemingly no reason (besides the aforementioned Kissables, of course). Maybe it was the stress of Survivor Jogging, but I thought I was going to throw up three or four times, and that doesn't include the times I thought it was going to come out the other end (ironic for a Crohn's run, right?). All this, coupled with the fact that my shoes are so worn down I'm practically running barefoot, and apparently all the roads here are made of steel and pain, made this an overall unpleasant experience.

Yesterday's run wasn't much better. I went through the neighborhoods to avoid traffic, but every road I took just ended up coming to a halt at someone's house. Literally - running, running, running - front door! Today is my off day, but if I'm sticking around tomorrow, I gots to find another way. I'm not leaving my spine here.

PS - I'm baby-stepping my way to my goal but I need more money. only $3400 to go. DDDDDOOOONNNNAAATTTEEE!

Running to Stop the Runs - Week 1, Part Monotonous Details

Monday - Off
Tuesday - Unscheduled off - shoot days are hard m-fers, so I don't feel bad about limiting my physical activity to that which I am paid for.
Wednesday - Yay 50 minute run! Longest time ever run (by me) ever. Didn't quite dominate as much as Sunday, since I'm a pussy and ran on the treadmill. There was a strong drizzle! But I got to watch The Daily 10 and part of Top Model, so that made it worth it. Suck it, Clark!
PS - Why has no one given me money yet? If you're reading this and haven't donated yet, you better get your wallet out. The ONE person who's contributed thus far has colitis, so if you've got fully functioning intestines, you have no excuse. Do you think maybe if I stopped threatening potential donators I'd get more money?
PPS- I talked to Kimmy and she got the email situation figured out superquick. She's my new favorite person. I know you were all on the edge of your seats about that one, so breathe easy now that I'm able to get emails from the Crohn's coaches...croaches?

DONATE!

Running to Stop the Runs - Week 1, Part 1 - Am I Really Doing This?

So, I'm almost done setting up my email list to ask every moderate acquaintance I've ever emailed about anything ever to give me money to fly to Miami. And I don't feel guilty at all. Seriously, this cause is awesome and I'm excited to raise some funds.

But potential monetary gain aside, earlier this week I got an email from "Kimmy," the perky, blonde, french-manicured event organizer for the CCFA's NYC chapter that said my coach would be emailing about the first team run on Saturday. While the likelihood of a Saturday morning hangover might've limited my will to participate in this first run, it was, after all, the first run. So, if I was going to do at least one, I was seriously considering number one (as opposed to number two - yay poop jokes!). That is until I never heard anything from the coach. Nothing. It's like I didn't exist. Coach McNeglect might've gotten my email wrong though - Kimmy did mess up my address when she registered me (everyone always forgets the underscore) - but in my fragile, lazy state, it doesn't take much for me to fall off a wagon I have yet to jump on. I haven't mentioned this to Kimmy yet, but rest assured, she will be receiving a cheerful, inquisitive, passive-aggressive email this week.

So I said eff-you CCForgetfulA, and did my 30 minute run on my own. Then I did the second workout on Sunday as directed, a 45 minute run. And, dare I say, I dominated. I've been running off and on for a half hour for awhile now anyway, so I shouldn't be surprised that the 45er wasn't that hard, but seriously, I felt awesome. And I have never felt that good on that long of a run ever. Like, seriously, ever. Yes, I walked two or three times, but one of them was uphill, and I still covered 4.2 miles, so I'm feeling pretty damn good. Today is a rest day and the rest of the week I'm "personalizing" because I have a weirdo shoot schedule but, don't worry, I'm getting my shit done. We'll see how the rest of the week goes because right now my legs are a little too sore from dominating. Viva la Crohn's.

Running to Stop the Runs - Preseason Part 2 - Cheerleaders and Fundraisers

So, after attending my fabulous CCFA half-effing-marathon meeting, I got the real scoop. In order for CCFA to train me, fly me to Miami (where the race is actually taking place), hotel me up in said race locale, and "cover" my race fees, I have to raise a grand whopping total of $3700. That's thirty-seven hundred effing dollars, for those of you who prefer your numbers qualitative form. When I ran a CCFA 5k - for which I spent almost two months training so that I could actually run 3 miles without stopping - I raised $1700. That was pretty sweet and I was proud of it, but that's not even half of what I need for this one. Sweet Baby Jesus, I'm gonna have to throw a party.

The other thing about the meeting that irked me, was something I expected. I've had friends who've done the whole Team in Training, etc, charity run circuit, so I knew the whole "yay morale, you can do it!!!!" factor would be omnipresent. Now, obviously I have nothing against cheerleaders, but if I'm already psyched to do something, or if I'm volunteering for 16 weeks of labor-intensive physical activity, I do not need exclamation points. I'm signing up for the freaking race, you don't need to be all perky PR to convince me. But, I am NOT running at 7am on Saturdays.

Which leads me to my next point - the workout. It doesn't look too bad, pretty typical for these kinds of races. I'll be running 4-5 days a week for incrementally increasing amounts of time. Of course, the downside is that the only team workouts are, like I said, Saturday morning at 7am. I like drinking on Fridays way too much to let this stop me, so it looks like I'll be running on my own.

Running to Stop the Runs - Preseason Part 1

I am not a runner.  I am a sprinter.  The difference is vast.  The thought of anything over 200 meters makes me nauseous, not to mention winded.  Even a 200 is a little too long for me.  So why the hell did I sign up for an effing half marathon?

Here's the deal.  To condense a long, fairly common story - I miss physical competition.  Since graduation, I've struggled to find something I enjoy as much as track that I can actually compete at.  Sadly, there are no pick-up track meets.  Coaching doesn't exactly fill the void, and I really just straight up miss having something to train for, achieving a goal and, of course, winning. 

Marathons, and any other kind of road running, are a seemingly natural progression for the retired NCAA athlete.  It's one of the few athletic events that not only satiates that competitive drive, but is also pretty accessible to anyone with a pair of trainers and sadistic tendencies.  Goal - Check.  Training Program - Check.  Kick Ass Sense of Accomplishment - Check.  Crippling Guilt if You Don't Accomplish Said Goal - Double Check.  And for the record, this is a predominantly American phenomenon.  In Europe and the Caribbean, where they appreciate their track stars, pick-up track meets actually exist.

And now I'm way off topic.  The second, and most important reason that I'm running 13.1 effing miles (I'm really not at the point yet where I can quote the race distance without the "effing" qualifier), is because of the cause - The Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America.  Yes, I'm doing a cheesy team half-effing-marathon, but I wouldn't be doing it for any other cause.  My dad and two of my cousins suffer from Crohn's, and I know first hand what a shitty (pun absolutely intended) disease it is.  I've witnessed the surgeries, the toilet lockdowns and the threat of colostomy bags, and know enough to know that we don't know enough about this disease to be close to a cure.  If I can get off my ass and run 13 effing miles to fund research so that these people don't have to deal with this shit (again, pun absolutely intended) anymore, then that's what I'm going to effing do.

Little Shop of Ebay

Oh Ebay, you suck me in. I can’t deny your endless vaults of designer discounts and (formerly) discontinued discoveries. Just like my own Little Shop of Horrors, you are the carnivorous plant to my Seymour Krelborn. Only, unlike the meek Seymour who finally finds the courage to stand up to you (spoiler alert: his courage was WITHIN – who knew?), you swallow me whole past your teeth made of Marc Jacobs wallets and Earnest Sewn jeans. But it’s worth it. Because as you gulp me down, leaving only my ankles dangling free to the outside world, I know I’ll be able to find a kick-ass pair of Louboutins in your bowels, so at least my feet will still look good.

Pictured kick-ass Louboutins available at (you better hurry, the sale ends SOON): http://cgi.ebay.com/CHRISTIAN-LOUBOUTIN-BLACK-PATENT-IOWA-SHOES-38-8_
W0QQitemZ370044345709QQihZ024QQcategoryZ63889QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrd
Z1QQcmdZViewItem

On Moving to New York

Two weeks ago I was driving a Jeep stuffed with five years' worth of crap, following a Budget truck crammed with the remaining 22 years, on a road of which I have yet to learn the name. But, I was going north - I think - along the East River and to my left was that infamous skyline. And so it was that I was finally going to where I always planned to be.

The excitement crept up and I developed an urgent need to call someone, anyone, and really share how momentous this move was. But then I smiled, calmed by a singular thought that almost pulled the corners of my mouth into my hairline. The only person that could truly understand how meaningful this life point was, how emotionally significant this transition is, would be eleven-year-old Annalisa.

I was that age when, for the first time, my parents brought me to New York to see the Rockefeller tree, the Macy's windows, and everything else that made Christmas in the city special. But I didn't care that much about the tree, and I don't really remember the window displays. All I knew was that as soon as my Sam and Libbies tapped the sidewalk, something felt right. The skyscrapers were sheltering me, and I could feel their windowed gaze ushering me onto a path to make the city my home. I wanted to keep the daily pace on the concrete, breath in the frigid air to wake my morning lungs, surround myself with strangers harboring eclectic tales, none of which I would ever learn, but all of which I would dream up. But, most importantly, every so often I wanted to be able to stop and, just like a tourist, glance skyward at the endless stories. Not looking down on me, but looking over me. I felt so secure in my structural forest - and I still do. After the countless subsequent visits, I still felt the buildings yanking me back, asking me to stay.

And so, looking at those very structures across the river en route to my shiny, Long Island City apartment (I know I should be following my dreams, but even my eleven-year-old self is telling me that I can't afford Manhattan), I smiled because I was finally accomplishing the first definitive and longest-standing objective I had had for myself. Eleven-year-old Annalisa was smiling like a cheeseball too. Fifteen-year-old Annalisa was too busy being pouty about something to care. Twenty-year-old Annalisa was drunk and sentimental, gushing about how cool it was. And twenty-three-year-old Annalisa was just excited to be in a city where she could get a job that really does use her degree. At the risk of sounding creepty, we were all in agreement. And that alone made me beam.

I may not be where I want to be professionally or, for the time-being, romantically (my boyfriend is still in DC). But, at least I am finally where I want to be, literally.

Pic source: www.jaylichtman.com