I just wanted to go to the gym, not start a class war

I got shiny new running shoes over the weekend, in the exact same size and model as my old, beat-up, beat-out, beaten down, stained pair. I pulled the new ones out of the box this morning, and pulled the factory insoles out of them so I could put my trusty special custom orthotic/Spenco insole combo in. The custom orthotics are essential to my running life to make sure I don't get any more stupid shin splints/plantar fasciitis/Achilles tendonitis due to my stupid flat overpronating feet. The Spenco insoles add cushion on top of my rigid leather orthotics to prevent the most hideous arch blisters known to mankind. It took me MONTHS to come up with this combination, and I give due credit to Phil Fenty at Fleet Feet in Adams Morgan for suggesting I put the Spenco insoles on TOP of the orthotics. I was almost in tears over my blistered feet when I walked in to Fleet Feet, and I was ready to give up running. I could have kissed Phil Fenty, but that seemed undignified, since he's the mayor's dad and all.

But because I am a dumb ass, I forgot to put my orthotics/insoles into my new damn shoes before I left the house. So I got all ready to hike through the pouring rain to the gym at lunch and realized....no insoles in my shoes. This. Is. A. Problem. But never fear! CVS is here! Right across the street, on the way to the gym! I'll just buy some cheap insoles that I can use to work out today. Great!

I'm innocently browsing the "Foot Care" section at CVS in peace, and deeply pondering the relative merits of some "Sport Link Extreme" insoles when I am tapped on the shoulder. A 40-ish(?) skinny black guy sticks a laminated card with writing on it in front of me. I read it. To paraphrase: "I am deaf and I have a wife, an ex-wife and a girlfriend and eleventeen children to support and due to The Man and the inequalities of society in general I cannot work to support them and so I must ask kind strangers like you to give me cash to feed and clothe my destitute family so please give me money." I look the guy right in the eye, and I say politely,"I'm very sorry, but no. I don't give money to individuals." He immediately gets very hostile and starts waving his hands in the air and yelling something about "You white women are all alike! [Incomprehensible ranting] white women....all alike!" He continues to wave his hands and stomp around and wave his laminated card angrily at me and yell all the way down the aisles of the CVS and all the way out the door.

I just stood there blinking for a minute or so, because, jeez, man, I'm just shopping for some goddamn insoles here. You don't even know me, or anything about me. Because I'm a white woman shopping in CVS I should be your personal Social Services? Learn to take "no" for an answer, man, because your future panhandling/sales career is not going to get far with that attitude. And no, I don't know anything about you either, other than what's written on that card (which I, in my jaded city realism, am going to take with a grain of salt) and that you are rude and hostile. I only give money to close friends and family as wedding or birthday or holiday presents. Why on earth would I just hand money to you, someone I don't even know? You want to hang around while I explain why I don't give individuals money? Or what charities I do give money to in DC that feed people and clothe them and give them job training? Want the names of any of those organizations? No? You just want to yell at me and scare me and stereotype me? OK, then. Fine. I'll stereotype you as another aggressive panhandler who just wants a handout, and doesn't want to do anything to change his situation, and hey, we've really made impressive social progress here! Great.

I chose my goddamn insoles, realized I would have to cut them to fit the shoes, and decided to go back to my office to cut them and get a sandwich because I was ravenous, and it was pouring rain anyhow. So much for the gym - thank you, please try again later. With less verbal assault this time, please.

It's all in your head

In my last post, I talked about a question to myself after finishing the NYC Marathon: How much harder could I push myself? This article in Thursday's NY Times asked that very question, and discussed how the mind can push the body to its limits and beyond. In sum, it really is all in your head.

After 26.2 Miles

http://www.wvec.com/sharedcontent/health/fitness/stories/121206ccdrHEALTHmarathon.389f3c2.html

26 Tips to Recover from 26 Miles

I ran across a link to this article on the Runner's World website. A few of them really captured the way I felt immediately after the NY Marathon (see #2 on the list, especially) .

It's interesting, because only the completion of the race itself evokes these kinds of thoughts and emotions. A grueling speed workout or a 20-mile training run doesn't even come close to dredging up the mental extremes that hit you during and after the marathon. I've also done a lot of very physically challenging things in my life so far, and I can think of only one (a 12-hour, 14-mile round trip bushwhacking "day hike" to bag the 3 trailless peaks of the Dix Range in NY's Adirondack mountains) that was even close to the marathon in pushing the limits of my body and mind.

Not that I'm now an expert from one marathon, but I now consider myself a moderately experienced runner, and the marathon was quite a bit more difficult than I ever thought it would be. I do think that if you don't feel crazy and emotional and dreadful and wonderful and exhausted and elated all at the same time when you finished, then you didn't push yourself hard enough. (Perversely, it also made me wonder how much harder I could push myself -at what point would I actually collapse or my heart burst like Pheidippides.) I have an entirely new respect for the 26.2 distance, and for the incredible elite athletes who run the whole thing at a sub-5-minute pace. What supermen and women - I look at them and see a different human species than myself.

[Especially Paula Radcliffe, who is my new idol for running all during her pregnancy (with no ill effects on her or the baby), and winning the NY Marathon a mere 10 months after giving birth - this definitely qualifies her as a bad-ass.]

For a more humorous look at the aftermath of a marathon, this video is also worth a viewing - I think most marathon runners will recognize themselves as the guy just staring up that flight of stairs...

New York City Marathon - The Story

4:42:24.

My first marathon, the 2007 New York City Marathon. My friend Melissa was right with me, finishing in 4:42:25. Melissa knocked about 7 minutes off of her previous marathon PR [that's "personal record" to the non-running world]. We were satisfied and pleased with our overall performance. Our average pace was 10:47 per mile. Could I run a marathon faster? Probably. I'd have to train differently, make some adjustments.... I can't believe I'm even considering the vague possibility of doing this again.

The marathon experience really starts on Saturday, at the Javits Center on the West Side of Manhattan where we picked up our numbers and checked out the expo. Every race volunteer that we spoke to was enthusiastic and helpful. They all seemed excited for us - I wondered if I was naive to be so excited at the prospect of punishing my body over 26.2 miles. We cruised the expo, and of course were suckered into buying NYC marathon merchandise, tangible proof that we were here. (It's also motivation to finish, since it's just embarrassing if you wear the stuff later, someone asks you if you ran the marathon, and you say, um, well, no, not quite.)

Not wanting to spend too much time on our feet, we bade farewell to our friends Elynn & John (NYC residents and fellow Team Caveman runners). They were so helpful in giving us hints about marathon logistics, since they've done this thing several times before. We planned to meet up with Elynn and John at the start, and again after the finish.

Miriam & Irwin (my aunt and uncle in law) were kind enough to invite us over and make us a spectacular pre-race pasta feast. At dinner time, Irwin produced a clawfoot tub-sized bowl of pasta, laden with grilled chicken and vegetables. One glass of wine, chocolate pudding and fruit for dessert, and we were on our way back home by 8:30. (The food and bed schedule the night before a marathon is much like the Early Bird Special at a retirement home).

Set the clocks back one hour, make final decisions on which pair of socks to wear, pin numbers on shirts, lace chips onto shoes, lay out all the race clothes, check the weather one more time, make sure you have enough BodyGlide, give Seth maps of the racecourse and a schedule of times per mile, fill the water bottles on the Fuel Belt, pack two - no, three - Espresso Luv GUs, drink Gatorade, try to memorize the mile markers where our friends will be waiting, pack clothes to wear after the race, pack snacks for the wait before the start, sunscreen, lip balm, reading material, toilet paper (they sometimes run out), do we have everything? I hope so.... Set three separate alarms for 5:30 a.m. (four, including Melissa's cell phone), get into bed by 10:15, try to sleep.

The alarms all go off within 30 seconds of each other, and I jump out of bed, take a quick shower just to wake up, and pull on all of my clothes, heart pounding already. We make toast with peanut butter and honey, and grab out pre-race caffeine out of the fridge (Melissa prefers Coke; I like the Starbucks chilled espresso drinks). Seth is awake and surprisingly chipper. We load ourselves, our stuff, and the dog into the car and drive down the NJ Turnpike to the Meadowlands, where an official marathon shuttle bus will take us to the start on Staten Island.

5:45 am - getting ready.






Roberta and Melissa, ready to board the shuttle to Staten Island. (No, Rufus did not run the marathon - he just went with us to the shuttle.)

There are plenty of buses, and we don't have to wait at all. We hop on, sitting across from a 20-something guy with a low race number - he looks fast. We chat with a guy from Minneapolis who has been in town for several days before the race, sightseeing with his girlfriend and family. He's run a few marathons before. He plans to do more sightseeing on Monday and Tuesday after the race, the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty. It sounds like a packed schedule - we hope he knows what he's in for. We hope we know what we're in for.


We arrive at Fort Wadsworth, on Staten Island. There are runners camped out everywhere - on the grass, on the curbs, on the asphalt. The best part: more port-a-potties than I've ever seen in my life, which equals no lines! Impressive - definitely the best port-a-pottie to runner ratio I've ever seen at a race. We wander around the start area, and try to connect with Elynn and John. I have a Green start number, so when we wander by the Green area, I take the opportunity to check my bag. They load them on UPS trucks, and the bags will be waiting at the end of the race. Again, the volunteers are cheerful, and kind, asking about our pre-race eating, and how we feel. We finally find Elynn & John, and camp out with them for awhile, eating a few snacks, and reading some trashy People and US magazines that I picked up just for this occasion.

It's getting close to race time, so we go to check everyone else's bags. This is a total nightmare. Out of all the excellent organization of this race, for some reason, the Blue baggage check area is a total horrendous, packed mob scene. You can't move, can't get to the trucks, it's cramped and confined. Melissa and I barely make it out alive. We run into another runner later who never got to check his bag, and actually carried it in the race to Mile 5, where he handed it off to his girlfriend.

We've all elected to start in the Blue Corral area, because it goes over the top of the Verrazano Bridge - the best view! We're all pretty far back in the pack, so no one really cares what we do. Melissa and I consume our caffeine; and we start shedding our "disposable" sweatshirts and pants. I lose my visor in the fray - oh well - I regard it mostly as a hair & sweat control device anyhow. It's still chilly, but we know when we start running, we'll be warm soon enough. The detritus left behind by 39,000 runners is almost unfathomable. Piles and piles of sweatshirts, hats, pants, gloves, t-shirts, garbage bags, and god knows what else. It all gets collected later by various organizations (Girl Scouts, etc.) and given to charity. Which is where most of it was destined for anyhow - people wear some ugly stuff to the start.

We hear the starting gun, somewhere on the bridge. It's 10:10 am, the official start. We can't even see the bridge yet. It will take us several minutes to get over the starting line. Suddenly, the pack starts to move. We walk down a road, down a grassy hill (please don't let me turn an ankle!), around a sharp curve, and there it is - the bridge, the start! Everyone starts jogging. I hastily chuck my sweatshirt, and start running, hitting the button on my watch as we step over the starting line.

We know the first mile up the Verrazano Bridge is the steepest hill of the course. We try not to go to fast, but our hearts are pounding, our breath comes fast, and it feels effortless up the hill. The view is amazing - it's a crisp, clear morning, and we can see Brooklyn glinting in the silvery morning sun. Many of the European runners are running to the side of the bridge with cameras, frantically snapping photos, then running ahead to another spot. I'm just trying to take it all in. Odd gloves and hats still litter the roadway ahead. But we have plenty of room to run - the runners are on both sides of the bridge, and on the lower level also.

We hit Mile 1, and fly down the other side, and hit mile 2 quite a bit faster than our planned 10-minute mile pace. There are the crowds, holding signs that say "WELCOME TO BROOKLYN." We high-five little kids on the side of the road. We can't believe the noise, and people are yelling our names! Wow, this name on the shirt thing really works! Melissa says we should slow down, and she's right, it's just hard, because I feel so good. But there are many miles to go before we sleep, so we try to ease off our pace.

There are live bands, DJ's, kids handing out water, candy, paper towels, oranges. Everyone is cheering. We hear our names in Spanish accents, British accents, Asian accents. We see the river of runners, myriad and bright, rolling down 4th Ave. ahead of us.

Around Mile 7 I look up, see St. Mark's Ave. Hey, my childhood friend Jaclyn lives on this street, I know she planned to come out. I scan the crowd, and there she is, with son Noah on her shoulders! I can't quite get over to give Noah a high five, but I yell and wave like mad, wishing I could stop to hug them and chat, but we have a race to run. I can't believe I saw them.

We look for our friends Marlene and Joey around miles 3 & 4 [actually Mile 8 - see below]. They plan to wear yellow and carry a SpongeBob balloon. We see them walking away, behind the crowd, and yell - a reverse cheer. They see us, jog to us, ask if we want anything. We say no, we're great. We'll see them later on. [Errata: Joey corrected me and told me this actually happened at Mile 8 - those Brooklyn miles just flew by!]


Mile 11, we're supposed to see Seth and his friend Dan. We scan the crowd, but don't see them. It's OK - their most important duty is at Mile 20 or 21, where they'll give us whatever we need in the Bronx for the last push into Manhattan. But we do see Marlene & Joey again, and stop for a few words of encouragement. They're our relay running teammates, and New Yorkers, and have run plenty of marathons themselves, so they know how to get around, where to best see runners, and know what we need, whether it's water or a kick in the butt.

We're in Williamsburg now, and the Hasidic Jews stand reservedly, smiling curiously at us. There are fewer crowds here, and quieter ones. Some Hasidic girls stand quietly on one side of the street, politely holding out baskets full of candy for the runners.

The street narrows, our pace slows considerably due to the congestion. I'm frustrated - I don't want it to be so slow.

At about Mile 13, I see my favorite sign so far: "Your only choice now is to fucking finish!" And we're at the halfway mark.

A DJ on the left side of the road thanks us for coming to the borough of Brooklyn. "Your next stop will be the borough of Queens." We go up, over the short Pulaski Bridge. I tell Melissa that it feels good to run uphill. "Uh huh," she says. I'm not sure she entirely agrees.

We have to stop for a minute so I can adjust the insole of my shoe. It's not sitting right, and I'm afraid of blisters. Melissa takes the opportunity to stretch.

A quick jaunt through Queens, with plenty of loud, cheering crowds. Then we head onto the Queensboro Bridge for another climb. They're routing us onto the bottom level of the bridge, which I did not expect. It's really dark - like moonless night dark, and very disorienting. I'm trying to get my bearings, when splat! I do a full-out belly flop. I have no idea if I tripped, if someone bumped me, or what happened. I jump up and do a quick check: no skin lost, no blood, nothing seems to really hurt. I landed right on my chest and stomach, and I was going uphill, all of which probably saved me. No one tramples me, and lots of people ask if I am OK. I am, so we keep running. More daylight is coming in now, and we can see glimpses of Manhattan through the sides of the bridge. Runners dash over to the openings in the bridge to stretch, take photos, or just look.

Downhill, the other side of the bridge, and we are entering Manhattan, the powerful roar of the crowd drawing us around the hairpin turn off the Queensboro Bridge, and up First Avenue.

The street is wide, and there is plenty of room to run here. But I'm not feeling so great - I think the shock of the fall and its resulting tensed muscles are taking their toll. My hip flexors and back feel very stiff and tight. I tell Melissa I have to stop and stretch so it doesn't get worse. We stop around Mile 18, and take the opportunity to suck down some GU as well. I'm dismayed - I didn't anticipate feeling this bad until about Mile 20. Still 8.2 more miles to go. I tell myself that I can run 8 miles with no problem.

Somewhere in here, we are passed by a guy wearing a snowman costume. We think, I don't want to get beat by a guy in a snowman costume! Turns out we didn't. We were, however, beaten by a guy in a cape and a clown.

We get a boost when we see Seth's Aunts Miriam and Johanna, and family friend Sheila at 120th Street. They are so excited to see us. Miriam snaps pictures, and they have water and Gatorade for us. And we're off, still running.

We see Joey and Marlene again before we go over the Willis Avenue Bridge to the Bronx. I get one last GU, they tell us we're doing great. We believe them, and we keep running.

Over the bridge, which is creepy, because it's metal grating. They've put an orange carpet down on one side for the runners. Melissa opts to run on the metal grate where there's more room, but it feels too bumpy and slippery for me, so I run on the carpet. We're approaching Mile 20, the infamous "Wall" of all marathons. We step past 20, and I am running farther than I have ever run in my life.

We scan the thinning crowds for Seth. We see him on the right, on the Madison Avenue Bridge, frantically waving his arms. We don't really need anything, but Melissa ditches her water belt, and it's great to have the moral support, and to see him. Seth says he knew I'd finish when he saw me there, just before Mile 21. I wasn't so sure. I wasn't counting on anything until I saw the 26 mile mark.

And we're off again, over the bridge, onto Fifth Avenue. Wow, is everything starting to hurt now. Miriam, Johanna and Sheila apparently see us again, just past Mile 22, but we miss them. I think we see Marlene and Joey again, but this is where it starts to be a blur.

I know the crowds are huge, and people are calling our names, and there are just 4.2 more miles to go. It's supposed to be uphill in this stretch, but I can't differentiate the labor that it takes to go uphill from the labor it takes to just move. But I hurt, but I can't stop running. I think, "one mile at a time." Our conversation is terse now - mostly: "Are you OK?" "Yeah." Oh my god, Mile 23, only 3.2 to go, just a 5K, which somehow sounds shorter. And we're alongside Central Park. One mile at a time. I want to cry. I want to stop running. I want to stop running and cry. (Melissa told us later that her mantra at this point was "I want to take my broke ass home." That about sums it up.)

One mile at a time. Those mile markers cannot come soon enough. We're entering Central Park, and the crowds are huge and roaring. I wish I could appreciate them more, I wish I could smile, but I'm in my own bubble of effort and pain. I hear my name, go Roberta, you're almost there, you can do it, go Roberta! A guy yells at Melissa: "PORTER! You own this race! Take it! It's yours!" That perks us up. It is ours!

One half-mile to go!

The road through Central Park is narrow and winding and crowded with runners, and the hills roll up and down. I'm sure the downhill hurts, but I don't care, I just fly down as hard as I can. I can't stop running now, not in front of all these people! Melissa looks strong, she's speeding up, I have to keep up with her, we have to finish together. We hit Mile 25. Melissa says, "Anyone can run a mile." She's right. The marathon organizers have thoughtfully marked a countdown, so you know when you've knocked off that .2, and you have ONE MILE TO GO. Then it's 1/2 mile, then it's 500 yards, it's all uphill to the finish line (how cruel!), 200 yards, 100 yards, I'm supposed to smile and look for the camera somewhere in here, but we just kick it as hard as we can to step across the finish line!

Melissa actually throws up from the effort. We hope the photographers got a good shot, because that's hard core! She spent the money! A medical volunteer grabs her and leads her off to the side to make sure she's OK. Melissa is fine. She feels great, apparently better than I do, and she's smiling. We keep walking and get our finisher medals. They hang, heavy and triumphant, swinging around our sweaty, aching necks.

Walking hurts - I can barely move. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts. Everything. I had no idea I would feel this bad. I want to lie down. Or cry. Or lie down and cry. And sleep for about 3 days. Melissa says I should feel like this - it means I pushed my body and my spirit to its utmost. I have nothing left.

The volunteers give us heat sheets to keep us warm. We get several photos taken by the race photographers. Posterity.

I have been hit by a semi and dragged onto railroad tracks where the semi stalled, where I was then hit by a train, which derails, and it happens to be the circus train, so all of the animals escape from the train and have stampeded over me, from the hard sharp hooves of the zebra to the flat pounding feet of the elephants.

The race volunteers give us plastic bags that have water, Gatorade and bagels in them. They're handing out apples. Melissa immediately starts scarfing down a bagel. I can't even comprehend a bagel right now. I try a sip of Gatorade, but it's some dreadful berry flavor, and sickeningly sweet. I toss it away. I tell Melissa that I feel like I have the flu. I have no idea what I need or what will make me feel better. The only thing that's comforting to me is that other people sitting on the curb around us look worse. They look shell-shocked and pale, stunned, wrapped in their heat sheets. I try some water, and sip it slowly. This seems OK.

I've been told that you have to walk it off for at least 20 minutes, to let the blood that's been displaced to your legs return to all of your vital organs. I do actually begin to feel better, especially after a quick stop at the medical tent for some Tylenol. I'm hoping this will enable me to get beyond a shuffle, as all of my leg muscles have locked up, from my waist to my ankle. We get our bags, the crowd thins out as runners stagger out of Central Park. Melissa calls Seth to tell him "we are alive!" I struggle to bend my legs enough to get my windpants on. Warm, dry clothes are a vast improvement. I might be capable now of making it to the bar. A beer is starting to sound good.

We hobble out of the park to where Seth and Dan are meeting us at 79th and Columbus. We gimp slowly down the street to the subway. Like a mountain climber, I use the handrails to lower myself gently sideways down the stairs. We're wearing our finisher medals proudly displayed. We cram onto the train; people look up at us, see the medals, smile and say, "Congratulations!" The euphoria is lasting, (is the Tylenol kicking in?) the pain is fading.

I just ran a marathon!

Melissa: dog-tired the day after the marathon.

Two Days to the New York Marathon

For the two of you who actually still bother to check my blog (I think that's Steve and my mom), you've probably noticed that I've been a complete slacker about posting lately. I blame it all on the inordinate amount of time it takes to train for a marathon. Yes, I'm running the New York Marathon in three days, on November 4th - my first marathon. This week is the final "taper" week, which is my favorite part of race training. You don't have to run a lot, you generally feel really good, and you're supposed to eat up and build your glycogen stores. Less running & more eating - I am made to taper!

So, while I'm in the lull of this week's carbohydrate-induced well-being, I'm reflecting on all of the training time I've put in over the last four months. I'd better do it now, because in a week when I can't walk downstairs or stand and sit like a normal person, I'm not sure how warm and fuzzy I'm going to be feeling about the whole experience.

I said adamantly for several years that I would never run a marathon. Too long, too much running, too much training time. Didn't sound fun.

Then my friend Melissa said earlier this year that if she decided to run another marathon, she'd want to run New York (she's done Marine Corps and Cleveland). Suprisingly, these words came out of my mouth: "I'd run New York." Unless you run with a charity, entry to New York is through a lottery system. What do you know, both of us got in through the lottery, so heck, we had to run it.

My marathon training started with a lot of anxiety, because I was recovering from a strained Achilles tendon. If all the timing worked out right, my Achilles healed enough, and my sports doctor gave me the green light, I'd be able to start marathon training on schedule on July 16. Three non-running weeks, and a lot of ice packs later, I started training with some depressingly slow 3 & 4 mile runs.

After one week of training, I had some weird lower calf tightness, and I was convinced I would not be able to train for or run the NY Marathon. I spent the weekend at my husband's family's home on Martha's Vineyard, and I don't know if it was the healing essence of the Vineyard, or the soft, sandy wooded trails on my favorite run to Sepiessa Point, but all the tightness disappeared, my Achilles felt stronger, and I kept training, icing my Achilles day and night, even gimping around my office with an ice pack strapped to my ankle.

Sepiessa Point

Through all the four months of training that it took to get here, I got to run in some amazing places. First, but certainly not least are all of the great places to run here in Washington, DC. I logged more miles on Martha's Vineyard, and miles on Jacksonville Beach in Florida, on the Leif Ericsson trail in Portland, Oregon's awesome Forest Park, on the wind-whipped beaches of Manzanita, Oregon, and a few key miles on a treadmill in an open-air gym at a hotel in Mexico City. In an effort not to be too long-winded, here are a few observations about all this crazy training time.

1. Since July, I have run at least 330 miles to prepare for the marathon.

2. Worst run: 12.5 miles, Sunday, September 9. We'd returned from Mexico the night before. I was still suffering from some, ah, intestinal issues, but I knew I just had to get the miles in. I dosed myself with Immodium, brought along water and Gatorade, and set out on the C&O Canal towpath. I wanted to quit at 6 miles. No, 3 miles. I was dead tired at 6, and wondered if I could hitchhike home. But that seemed too embarrassing, so I kept running. After turning around at 6+ miles, I allowed myself to walk a minute at every mile marker. Well, maybe two or three minutes, or four or five... but I just had to finish the run. And I survived. I chalked it up as good training for how tired I might feel during the marathon.

3. Best run: 20 miles, October 13. This was our longest training run, and it was the best one because 20 miles is the furthest I have ever run. And I felt good at the end.

4. Worst part of the best run: Snagging the barest end of my right toe at mile 11 on an uneven sidewalk in front of a Safeway in Old Town, Alexandria, and completely wiping out. I tore the palms of my hand and my knees up pretty good. But again, I just had to finish the run. The Safeway employees let us use their bathroom & first aid kit, so I patched myself up and ran the 9 remaining miles, with blood caked on my knees and lower legs. I went out to brunch afterwards with the gory knees too.

5. Best post-run breakfast: The Black Dog, Vineyard Haven, Martha's Vineyard, MA. I ran 8 miles from the Kaufmans' house to The Black Dog, where I met the whole family for breakfast. If I could run every run on the bucolic country roads and trails of MVY and end up at The Black Dog, I'd be a lot more excited to get up for those early-morning slogs. Especially because the last half mile to the Black Dog is downhill!
The Black Dog Tavern

6. The sand on Jacksonville Beach when the tide goes out is the perfect surface to run on. The sand is hard-packed, but it gives just enough, and the beach is wide and flat. Listening to Bebel Gilberto as the sun comes up, and jumping right into the Atlantic after the run aren't bad either.
7. Most scenic run: This is tough, but I'm going to have to go with the beach at Manzanita, Oregon.
The Oregon Coast near Manzanita

8. Favorite things about running in Washington, DC: You have Jefferson and Lincoln all to yourself at 6:30 in the morning; the sunrise over the Capitol is amazing; the Marines and Army guys running stairs by the Jefferson & Lincoln aren't bad either; it's really satisfying to listen to the Ramones' "Bonzo Goes To Bitburg" and Green Day's "American Idiot" while pounding down the Mall in view of the White House.
Mr. Jefferson

I didn't do all of this alone. All of my crazy running friends, especially the Team Caveman peeps, have given me encouraging words all along the way.
Team Caveman at The Relay in Napa Valley

I've logged so very many miles with my friend Melissa, and we're going to run New York together on Sunday. This is Melissa's third marathon, and she tells me I can finish this thing, so I believe her. There's no one else I'd rather be running with for 26.2 miles. And when my non-morning-does-not-speak-before-coffee-husband Seth wakes up in the pre-dawn darkness as I'm getting up to run to tell me he's proud of me, and that I can do it, that's everything I need right there.

I can't believe I've survived all the training, and that I'm going to run this crazy thing in three days. I've never even watched New York, so I'm not sure I fully know what I'm in for with the bridges, the hills, the miles, and the cheering throngs of five boroughs. I can't wait!

Next week: the post-marathon play-by-play and Catalogue of Aches.

My marathon outfit. I'm going with the orange traffic cone look, hoping it will be easier for the fans to spot me.