Sunday, September 6, 2009

A discussion on boredom…

I have been asked on multiple occasions, “Don’t you get bored running on the treadmill?” My answer typically is fairly honest, no. But people look at me in disbelief as if I had just tried to pass of my knock-off Prada as the real deal. So I will attempt to take you through the process of an average treadmill run’s thought process.

Stage 1 – the warm up: First thoughts have to do with whether or not I have to go to the bathroom, do I have sufficient reading material, does my water-bottle rattle distractedly in the treadmill’s cup holder, what is my hair doing, what garment has the highest potential for chaffing, and most importantly are my shoes tided?

Stage 2 – actual running begins: Pain. Odd random pain in either foot, shin, calf, or hip. Nothing that lasts more than 15 seconds. My body’s way of saying to me, “Fuck you and all your damn running!” Again more thoughts on possible bathroom usage. Legs and hips are stiff and will remain so until mile 2 is complete. I find that I am continuously flipping through my magazine looking for something pretty and distracting (articles about shoes are the best). I must keep the red flashing numbers covered at all times, or I will watch them with the fever of watching paint dry.

Stage 3 – My profuse sweating is making my hair stick to my head and my shirt to my body. I look around for one other woman who is by chance as sweaty as I. A sister or a comrade in our sweat-dom. No such luck. My looks around the gym have caught the attention of the older woman in perfecting matching track suit sweat band combo. The look of utter disgust on her face as she sees my sweaty appearance is enough – apparently her gym clothes are not meant to be sweated in. I then start to visualize that I am running in NYC on marathon day. I am running through the barrows so excited and pumped. This little dream last about 5 minutes, before it feels stale. I check my running posture and the time. I still have approximately 30 more minutes ahead of me. I flick through the songs on my IPod and find that song. You know that song that back in the day you would dance to in the clubs with your girlfriends using your sexiest moves. The same song that if anyone you knew today heard you listen to, would mock you endlessly for having it on your play list.

Stage 4 – Make your self utterly deaf and do not make eye contact. A fellow gym member has decided to take up residence on the treadmill next to me. They causally glance at me and start their run. They are running faster than me, but that is fine. I have a distance race ahead of me, not a speed race. For some reason they pound their treadmill like a drum and the beat of their foot strike is utterly distracting. I turn up the IPod. It appears that the fellow runner has drunk a tall glass of milk. I assume this because they are now coughing and hacking something fierce. I continue my run hoping that they will finish soon and leave me in peace. What’s this? The runner has a friend! Great! Fantastic! Now he and his buddy (obliviously a milk lover as well) are loudly chatting, hacking, coughing and pounding the treadmill as if was pizza dough. Better yet, new runner has decided to wear lots of cologne. Its times like these that I wished I had a terrible case of gas. I get them. And they are the stuff of legend. But no, I can even muster up a burp at the moment, let alone a toxic gas event. I use my frustration to power me through my last 1 mile.

Stage 5 – Cool down: Total time on the treadmill 60 minutes. Now I have a cool down of 10 minutes. The guys have left their treadmills after their 15 minute runs. Too bad, I really wanted to know how the Blazers were going to make it to the final four this year. As my sense of smell starts too slowly return to normal – who still wears, no make that bathes in Drakkar anymore? Really! I realize that I am starving and think of dinner. Mmmm, I do love me some din din.

And that my friend, is what I think about when I am on the treadmill. No, I am not smashing atoms. It’s boring and repetitive. But you try doing complex thought on the treadmill. I have tried to do simple math and you would think I am trying to calculate the amortization schedule of my loans. That is how Chris end’s up falling off the treadmill (twice). No thank you.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Time to play is not for today…

Labor Day Weekend has arrived. The last days of summer are upon us and for many here in the Pacific Northwest it’s a last rush to enjoy all that is bright and beautiful about the summer before the drizzly days of winter are upon us with their relentless grey skies and wet chilly mornings. You can smell that crisp cool air coming in from the ocean almost 100 miles away, a sure sign that winter is sure to follow.

When you go to the stores, Halloween decorations are now in full display. Halloween is typically one of my favorite holidays, but not this year. This year Halloween has put sheer terror in my heart. For Halloween is the day before my 1st marathon. The race is less than two months away and my panic is really starting to set in. I yearn to get out of my apartment to do something else other than buy supplies, work or run. But now is not the time to play hooky. Marathon training, to me is a kin to a prisoner work release program. You go and work then dutifully return back to you cell (apartment) to continue on the next day. Hopefully at the end of the program you’ll get some time off for good behavior. Don’t get me wrong I am so ecstatic that I have somehow managed to get into the marathon and that I am moving along in my training. But after almost two years of training for one race or another, I could use a break and a martini.

The height of my excitement this weekend – I went to a movie. Oh I know what you’re thinking “you, rebel”, but you see, if it weren’t a three day weekend, then I would have had to run my long run today and then I would have been too tired to do anything the rest of my weekend. Friday night I would have had to go to bed early so that I could do today’s long run and Sunday would have been reserved for recovery and prepping myself & the apartment for the next week. Yep, I am a real ball of fun right now. Woo freaking woo, people.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Melvin, Atomic or Hanging – at mile 5 it all feels the same…

That’s right – I am talking underwear people. I have been fighting a battle now for over two years. A silent battle of wills - so to speak. I will that my underwear will stay in its intended place while I run. However, the underwear has repeatedly refused to remain decent. The underwear appears to know where to “wear” on my last nerve. I have tried brief, bikini, thong, boy-cut (worst decision EVER), high-leg and so many other options that my drawer looks more like the discount bin at Victoria Secrets than an underwear drawer. My more “earth mama” friends have suggested commando, but that is ultimately just not me. I prefer that protective barrier between me and my clothing. I just prefer my undies to have some measure of manners.

Confuse by this rant? Let me detail to you my worst experience ever. I have a typical outside run ahead me. Not my long run, but I have at least an hour + ahead of me outside. Without thinking about it, that morning I put on the cutest pair of boy-cut undies. They matched my bra, why wouldn’t I have picked them? Oh, let me tell you why! Boy-cut or boy shorts cover your tushie more than let’s say a bikini would, but not so much that you feel your wearing granny panties. Herein lays the problem. You see, cotton granny panties cover you butt, but they follow the shape of it completely. As you sweat they just stick to your butt – completely, but respectful. Boy shorts allow a little tushie to hang out below. As you run that butt of yours moves, really moves and those cute little boy shorts start going for a ride. Now if let’s say your on a public and popular trail where attractive people are and mothers are walking their infants, its perhaps bad form to pick your underwear. So I continue on thinking and hoping that at some point I will dislodge - what now feels like yards of fabric from my buttocks. No rest for the wicked, it is apparently “Everyone Be Outside On This Damn Path Day”. 30 Minutes have passed and I am almost ½ through my run. I decide that perhaps if I run faster the underwear will dislodge themselves or at the very worst I’ll get back to the privacy of my car that much faster. WRONG. My underwear feels as if its convinced my innocent track pants to participate in this torture. My wedgie has now transformed so some sort of hybrid Melvin/Atomic wedgie. Did I mention that even at my top speed I am also the slowest runner on the planet? The old, weak and infirm taunt me as the wiz by me on their Rascals. Bastards! Not only am I my normal sweaty self, but I am about 99% certain that I am sporting a fashion faux pas – starts with a camel and ends with an –o-. Thank god my running pants are black!  I arrive at my car, blessing the stars that there is virtually no one in sight and I immediately adjust myself with no subterfuge. Ah the relief…and the giggles. Not my giggles, no that would be from the local high school track team that has just passed my car to start their nightly run. Go ahead and laugh my pretties. I can see your panty-lines from here and I have a pretty good idea where there going to be headed.