TriGingahTri

When I first started telling people that I was training for my first triathlon, I always found myself qualifying it: “It's ‘just’ a sprint tri” or “It’s a mini-sprint tri.” I didn't want to feel like I was conning people into thinking that I was doing a full Ironman (140.6 miles) triathlon, since my triathlon was a considerably shorter distance (250yd swim, 7mi bike, 2mi run). Before learning much about triathlons, the Ironman was my only point of reference; I figured that was the case with most people.

Having finally gone from a TRYathlete to a TRIathlete on September 17, 2011 at the Women’s Triathlon for the Cure at Portage Lakes, Ohio, I can confidently attest that no qualifiers or minimizing adjectives are necessary. Regardless of the overall distance, a triathlon is hard. It was the most difficult physical test I’d ever subjected my body to...and I'm excited by the prospect of doing it again. (But I'll stick to sprints or perhaps an Olympic-distance tri at most.)

Make no mistake: I have a lot of training to do, especially incorporating what I learned from my experience at Portage Lakes. I saw women from age 10 to age 70+, in every shape and size, with everything from a cruiser bike to a fully equipped tri bike, completing this body-, mind- and soul-empowering event. Major kudos to HFP Racing for organizing these events; I just wish they offered events closer to New York State. (I am hoping to revisit my collegiate home of Morgantown, WV, for the Women’s tri next year.)

I had a lot of expectations about this event, and since I knew it would be one of the most challenging experiences of my life, I made both time-based and a non-time-based goals. My time-based goal was to finish between an hour and fifteen minutes to an hour and a half. My non-time-based goal was to complete the course, fully embrace what my body and will are capable of, and enjoy and learn from the experience.

I was incredibly fortunate to be accompanied by my friend and tri mentor, Ironman Tiffany, who is also the most awesome race sherpa one could ask for. She provided invaluable bits of tri wisdom that I wouldn’t even have thought to ask about, she carried a lot of my stuff, helped me set up my transition area for maximum efficiency, and she took pictures to document several parts of my race. She also came equipped with a cowbell and a barely rested voice (from being a race sherpa for friends at the previous weekend’s triathlon) to cheer me along.

I’d tried to prepare myself as much as possible mentally for the event, but a funny thing happened on the way to the tri: expected challenges fell away to unforeseen challenges.

For the swim, I expected that feeling my feet touch the river bed would skeeve me out, or that the water would be too cold on this cool mid-September morning. In reality, the river bottom was soft but not overly squishy (and no lake critters touched me, thus staving off imminent critter-induced cardiac arrest), and the water was actually warmer (about 73 degrees) than the air (low 60s) or the sand on the lake shore (brrr...). The big surprise during the swim was the sudden and quite unwelcome discovery that I couldn't see once I put my head in the water (accompanied by an almost audible reaction of Oh, FUCK! upon making this discovery), since lake water is murky. I, of course, had done all of my swim training in an indoor pool. Lesson learned. I went slightly off-course, and when I brought my head up to sight my location, I saw most of the swimmers to my left and I had to adjust. In the process, I swallowed some lake water (yum...NOT), struggled to find my breathing and get into a rhythm with my stroke. I fatigued remarkably easily and a couple of times I ended up walking in the (thankfully) waist-deep water for a few moments until I could catch my breath and get back to swimming. I had managed to avoid the rapid heart rate reaction to the start of the tri that Tiffany had warned me about; I think having a two-by-two time-trial start (swimmers went into the water in pairs, with each pair starting about 15-30 seconds after the previous pair), which greatly reduced the likelihood of being accidentally kicked by another swimmer, enabled me to focus on my swim stroke. Too bad much of that focus initially got redirected to thoughts of OMG, I can’t SEE!!!

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but if that had occurred in training instead of a race, I can honestly say I would have bagged the whole thing. The public pressure of a race is often the only thing that keeps me going when I’m not having a good run or ride (or, in this case, swim). I admire the training discipline that my runner/triathlete friends have. My own discipline tends to wax and wane; another work in progress for me. I’ll get there, one baby step at a time.

I hoped to finish the swim leg in seven minutes, but that was my anticipated time in the water; the swim split is timed from the moment you go into the water until you enter T1 (first transition). My official split was 7:35, which included chugging uphill from the lake shore to the transition area, so my time in the water was probably around six minutes. And that's with the challenges I experienced. Yay me!

Once I was out of the water, I was headed to my strength: the cycling leg. I expected my cycling time to be strong. In reality? Well, the course had these little things called hills (well, maybe not so little) that slowed me way down on the ascent, but were far more forgiving on the descent, which enabled me to make up a bit of time. I completed the seven-mile ride (two loops of the course) in 31:24—not even close to the fastest I’ve ridden, but damn near lightning-fast for me when you consider how much the hills slowed me down. I’ve never liked courses with multiple loops, but in this race I used it as a learning experience: whatever I encountered the first time around, I’d have an opportunity to learn from for the second loop.

The race's biggest surprise (yes, even more than all the hills) was the fact that my feet were absolutely freezing from the jaunt to T1 from the lake, and within the first quarter mile on the bike, my feet were numb from the cold. As if cranking my carcass uphill wasn’t challenging enough. (I found myself wondering how on earth Ironman triathletes deal with a situation like that and was very thankful I was “just” doing a sprint tri.) The numbness didn’t fully dissipate until I was nearly finished with the run.

Oh, yeah. The run. Even with the still-rehabbing-but-trying-to-be-game Hammie on the roster, I figured I could muddle through the two-mile run without too much effort. (Insert fate’s maniacal laughter here.) Again, I didn’t anticipate that there would be hills. Or that my feet would still be numb from being cold. Or that the course would be predominantly trails, not asphalt. And I’d never done a single trail run training session. All of my races had been run either entirely or predominantly on asphalt. While trail running helps strengthen you for running on asphalt, the opposite is not true. At one point during the run, I threw all thoughts of time out of my mind and focused on finishing.

One benefit of the multiple-loop course was the fact that every time I passed near the transition area, I heard Tiffany (my “mentor from Mentor”) cheering me on. When I finally came around to the final turn, I was smiling with the knowledge that I was almost to the finish line—yes, I actually was going to do this! I even managed to do the awkward turtle hand gesture as I chugged along the final hundred yards.

Remember my time goal? Given all the walk breaks I needed to take on the run, I figured I’d be lucky to meet even the slow end of my time goal. I was all set to celebrate the accomplishment of finishing
my first tri. I caught up with Tiffany after the finish and she showed me the elapsed time on her watch: 1:12:20. I was stunned. I asked if that included both transitions. She said she turned on her watch when I entered the water at the start of the swim and didn't turn it off until I crossed the finish line at the end of the run. I’d managed not only to finish the tri, but somehow beat my time goal by more than two and a half minutes. The official time posting confirmed it.

I rode the endorphin rush all the way back to Mentor, where I embraced a two-hour post-tri nap, followed by a much-needed shower (hellooooooo, icky lake debris in my tri-suit and inside my running bra) and a celebratory lunch at Melt in Cleveland.

So before I attempt another tri (which I’m hoping to do this spring), I have a lot of work to do. Perhaps the biggest mistake I made was to train for each of the three disciplines separately; even if you’re a strong swimmer, cyclist or runner, doing all three disciplines in succession is what separates a tryathlete from a triathlete. Doing an occasional brick ain’t gonna cut it. I need to work not only on building up my base endurance, but also tackling hills on the bike and on foot. And I absolutely must do some periodic trail running, even if it’s only every other week. Finally, I need to build my swimming endurance, practice sighting more effectively and get in some open-water swims so I can get used to swimming blind. (I’ve already started practicing swimming with my eyes closed when I'm in the pool.) Now let’s all just hope Hammie decides to work with me.

If you’ve ever accidentally gotten magic marker on your skin, you know that it seems to take forever to wash/wear off. The ink marking my race number (193—PRIME!) on my left upper arm faded a lot faster than I wanted it to—it was gone in about three days, not even long enough for it to be visible when I got back to New York. I kept my green Tyvek race bracelet on for a week before cutting it off, punching two holes in it and inserting it in my bibfolio. The matching bike band is still wrapped around my bike’s frame and will remain there until it falls off. The accomplishment of finishing my first triathlon will last even longer.

(Re)Learning to Crawl

Aaaaaaand now we’re back to the extended verbal dysentery you’ve come to know and love from La Gingah...

One of the biggest differences between children and adults is that adults often ask “why” with respect to running. (One of my favorite graphics from I <3 to Run says, “There’s no Y in running.”) Kids don’t ask why; they just run. They do it because they enjoy the feeling of moving their bodies through space, because they want to see how fast they can go, because it’s fun. Frankly, they just run because they can.

In a way, just about all of us have been runners at some point in our lives. And no one had to teach us how to run. We started off scooting around, then crawling, then taking our first tenuous steps, then we were off and running, often to the exasperation of our parents. At some point, we grew into adulthood and, for most of us (including me), the closest we were likely to come to running was running late for work.

When you become a runner in adulthood, especially in <ahem> middle age <cringe>, you tend to embrace running the way any convert embraces a newfound faith: headlong, passionately, completely, with arms wide open. You become engrossed in the minutiae and theory and inspiration of running. And when something comes along that takes running away from you, you often find yourself acutely vulnerable psychologically and emotionally to the sudden loss of your pursuit. In my case, the something that came along was an injury—not from running, but from an action as mundane as walking the dogs. A trip on the sidewalk landed me facedown on the concrete and left me with what would later be diagnosed as a proximal hamstring strain.

Hamstring strains are curious and often stubborn little buggers: some are minor and require a little rest or ice or ibuprofen; others are more acute and require extended rest or even physical therapy. In my case, the strain was acute (but, thankfully, was not a rupture, which would likely have required surgery) but aggravated by its location: everyday activities like walking, sitting down and standing up all engage the proximal end of the hamstring and, therefore, prolong recovery. I tried periodically running through the injury, testing what it could handle. (It managed to handle a few 5k's, including the Freihofer's Run for Women, but one could argue, At what cost?) I cross-trained on the bike and in the pool to keep my endurance up, preparing for my upcoming sprint-distance triathlon, without aggravating the injury further. Finally, not long after completing (running some, but mostly walking) the Peachtree Road Race (10k) in Atlanta, and with invaluable advice (which finally became the kind of noodging/nagging I needed to take the bull by the horns) from a physical-therapist friend, I ultimately, though reluctantly, agreed that the only workable solution required a moratorium on running (and any high-impact cardio) for at least four weeks.

So for four weeks, I didn’t run. I swam, I cycled, I did my PT stretches, I tried to embrace weight training (I know...but it’s just beyond boring), I read ChiRunning, I watched the ChiRunning DVD, I practiced ChiRunning base skills (aside from the actual running aspects), I tried (and repeatedly failed) to avoid cognitive/emotional (over)eating. For four weeks, I counted down the days until the end of my sentence. Every day of those four weeks, I doubted whether I even deserved to keep the “gotta run” and “runner girl” magnets on my car. (So it’s probably just as well that my car has been in the shop with a warranty-covered transmission repair since the beginning of August.) For four weeks, I told myself, “Not never; just not now.” For four weeks, I tried to be philosophical, tried to embrace my Zen, even though most days it felt like an act (and some days it was out-and-out fakery on a grand scale) and often materialized as bitching/moaning/kvetching/whining. What is truly miraculous is that I managed to go four weeks without killing someone in the midst of massive running withdrawal. (In fairness, though, all I'd need is one runner on the jury and I’d have gotten off scot-free anyway. But I digress.) Yeah, I still got cycling and swimming endorphins, but they’re just not the same for me.

Once I got paroled from the prison called No Running, I started with relatively short runs: a mile, two at the most. I didn't care about speed or pace. There weren't tempo runs or fartleks or speed drills or hill repeats. These were, for me, LSDs: Long Slow Distance runs. With the emphasis on slow. I won't add any distance until I can do three of these runs consecutively (three sessions, since I don't run on consecutive days at present) without needing to slow to a walk. Once I've slowly built back up to 3mi by adding 1/4mi per session each week), I'll start extending the LSDs once a week and using the other two runs per week for tempos or fartleks or hills.

My first attempt at a "block" workout (cycling for a given distance, then going straight to running--basically emulating in training the bike/running legs of the triathlon) was supposed to happen yesterday, but I opted to do it in reverse, with the running leg first. In doing so, I clearly insulted the triathlon gods, since I ended up running the most weak-ass mile of my life and had to walk the remaining mile back to the car. It wasn't until I was almost to the car that Hammie started whining again. And I've learned that when it comes to Hammie, you can pay him now or you can pay him later. And later is always worse. So I bagged the bike leg and opted to rest for the remainder of the day and try again the next day. (On the way home, I realized that I'd managed to put on the wrong running shoes--I was wearing my first pair of Mizunos, which are used only for bumming around now, not for any mileage.)

That brings us to today...and not only my first block, but my first workout in my triathlon suit! A triathlon suit, if you've never seen one, looks like a sleeveless running top sewn to a pair of cycling shorts. Imagine what Capt. Jean-Luc Picard would wear while working out on the Enterprise. Like the Star Trek: TNG uniforms, a tri-suit also forgives nothing in the figure department. I'm convinced that one of my biggest challenges in triathlon is getting over the potential embarrassment of wearing this skin-tight outfit in public.

Aaaaaaanyway, I completed my 7mi (race distance) bike leg, then quickly stowed the bike in the rental car (God, I miss my car--especially the bike rack!) and started off on the 2mi (race distance) run. Like Saturday's attempt, the run was very slow and certainly nothing inspiring, but my only goal for this workout was simply to complete the brick. Despite two brief walking intervals in second half of the run, I was able to run after cranking for 7mi. I stretched well afterward and then sat in the car eating my post-workout banana, just reveling in the fact that for the first time since the Peachtree (which was more about ambient temperature and humidity than exertion), I was sweating like a pig. Oh, and I reeked to high heaven. It was like napalm in the morning: it smelled like victory. I drove over to the fitness center and did three race-distance (250yd) swim intervals, feeling for the first time like an embryonic triathlete.

So now I have my "magic" tri-suit and my trusty Mizunos and my Maia sports bra. I have to say that the cut of the tri-suit was clearly not designed with me in mind. The back is designed for female athletes who wear racer-back bras--or female athletes who are endowed, er, differently than I am--and therefore shows the straps of my Maia sports bra in the back. I would have fit right in at W@lmart. Only way sportier.

Southern Sojourn

I really have been meaning to blog about the Peachtree Road Race and accompanying über-relaxing vacay at Kitteh’s Zen Palace and Porch Rockery in Stone Mountain, but it COMPLETELY got away from me. With the prospect of auditions (and, God willing, roles) popping up on the horizon, I doubt any additional time will avail itself for my blogging purposes. But all is not lost: YOU actually get treated to a BRIEF blog entry!!! <Insert dancing, singing, drunkenness and assorted revelry amongst the rabble who unashamedly call themselves my friends and blog followers HERE.>

What follows is not poetry, not even haiku (seriously, my brain is THAT fried lately), so it's just a random free-association list of various and sundry stuff that I remember from my awesome trip to Georgia...

Race- (and expo-) specific memories:

• WAY too many people in a comparatively small space (expo)--Gingah NAWT laik
• “More beer” version of Auld Lang Syne
• Watermelon!!!
• Running/walking with YMCA arms
• “Lookin’ GOOD, y’all!”
• Stopping to pet the goggle-clad chi a spectator was holding
• High-five-ing 2 AFD and 1 APD personnel, as well as a couple of spectators
• Thank God for the medical tent
• Probable mild heat exhaustion (aka mountainapalooza)
• “Needle in Cotton” (God bless you, Danny Dreyer, author of ChiRunning...)
• TOE CRAMPS!!!
• Daily mountain climbing--it’s a good thing! 
• No hip pain AT ALL for 8 days--wait, WHAT?!?!?
• 60k registered, 55k finished...including ME (a record for the Peachtree...and me)!
  

Non-race-specific memories:

• Frank in my Peachtree shirt
• Kitteh the Crazy Cat Lady <3 : “Dog person, my ass.”
• Princess: “Ai killz yoo wif mai eyez--PEW! PEW!”
• Camille: “Ai don’tz hatez yoo, ai wuz jus’ feelin’ a might poorleh”
• Mackeh: “Wai yoo awlwehz wakez meh up tuh scwatch mai hed? An STAWP CAWLIN’ MEH ‘SAMMEH’!!!”
• Nitteh: “Ai wuvz yoo, Aunteh Gingah!”
• Corkeh: <Zooms through room too quickly to be heard>
• Phoebeh: “Wai yoo keepz aksidentulleh cawlin meh ‘princess’...ai nawt killz yoo!”
• Scattered, smothered, diced and capped
• Rockin’ on the screened-in porch with a glass of Kitteh’s awesome iced tea
• Three words: STUFFED. PORK. CHOPS.
• Three more words: PICKED. OKRA. AWESOME!!!!!!!
• Feeding the fishies in the widdle fishie pool (pond) and giggling at how Shy Baby shakes her tail

Give yourself 10 points for each reference you fully “get”...

Gingah Goes Yahd

Runners have one course that is nearer and dearer to their hearts than any other, one that speaks to them in a way that no other course does. It might be a quiet, peaceful course they frequently run in practice; it might be a race course they only run once a year, or maybe only once in their lives. Mine used to be the course in Albany that's used for the Freihofer's Run for Women and the Komen Race for the Cure (still a great course and definitely in my top five). But in Boston, I found MY course, my race: The Run to Home Base 9k. I love this race. I love the venue, the course, the people and the cause. It was the most fulfilling experience I've ever had as a runner, as one of the best experiences I've had as a human being.

The road to this particular race was unexpectedly fraught with more challenges than my first road race, the 2010 Freihofer's Run for Women. And on that road, I was, as usual, my own worst enemy.

Stress can be a pesky adversary. It's a tenacious little bastard to whom most of us (me especially) tend to afford more power than it deserves. My stress-reducer, my anti-depressant, my meditation, my medication of choice, is exercise: running, cycling, using the elliptical machine or the summit trainer at the gym. They're better than any medication I've ever been prescribed, since they fill in the lows without leveling off the highs. (Hell, they make the highs even higher!) So when I get sidetracked from "taking my meds," missing exercise (due to crappy weather or being overextended, stressed, injured, lazy or any number of other pathetic excuses), the stress compounds and builds on itself. And, as they say, it never rains but it pours. Just as my injured hamstring started showing some significant improvement and "Hairspray" wrapped, I had to go to DEFCON 1 against a tenacious potential cold. (For once, Gingah was victorious!) What little exercise I got was all cross-training, no running. I was barely able to run at all for two weeks before the Run to Home Base, so as my weekend in Boston approached, I was filled with trepidation.

As marathoner Albert Salazar says, "Standing on the starting line, we're all cowards." You question everything: Did I train enough? Did I eat the right foods in the right amount? Did I hydrate enough? Did I get enough sleep? Even if you can answer all of those questions in the affirmative, you still wonder if you have it in you today to give it your best. They say "The difference between a try and a triumph is that little extra umph." The beauty of racing is that you never know whether or not you've got the "umph" until you have to dig down deep and bring it out.

When I registered for the Run to Home Base, I decided to run the race in honor of Louis Zamperini, 1936 Olympic runner, WWII POW and subject of Laura Hillenbrand's fascinating bestselling biography, Unbroken. I decided to wear a sign on my back with the name of every donor and every veteran in whose honor those donors contributed. Louie's name was the first on the sign. As donations came in, more veterans' names were added to the list of honorees and donors I would wear on my back throughout the race. One donor, Nancy Schramm, sponsored my run in memory of her son's best friend, Marine Corps Sgt. Michael Kashkoush from Chagrin Falls, Ohio, who was only 24 when he was killed in action in Anbar province, Iraq, in 2007. Nancy later sent me a photo of Mike, and it was my honor to wear his photo on the front of my running jersey.

This race was different from all the others in so many ways: new distance, new course, new emotional environment. It was also the first time I've ever walked so much the day before and the day of the race (both before and after). When I added up all the miles I'd covered on race day (between walking to the race venue, running the race itself, walking back to my hotel after the race and then making the roundtrip again for that evening's BoSox-Cubs game), I'd gone more than 12 miles. Add in the 4 or 5 miles I'd walked the previous day and you could say I'd already done my first Boston half-marathon.

Among my many pre-race routines is the iron-clad rule, "No alcohol within 24 hours pre-race." Well, finally getting to meet my Facebook friend Terry caused me to break that rule. In the interest of full disclosure, I obliterated that rule with two bloody marys at lunch and three cosmo's at dinner. The two bloody marys left me with a fun little light buzz as I strolled through Boston's Back Bay on a sunny, temperate afternoon. The cosmo's left me, well, to be honest: shitfaced. (Sorry, but inebriated just doesn't cut it here.) When I got back to my hotel room just before midnight, I guzzled down nearly a liter of water and fell asleep for four deep, glorious hours. (No pre-race crappy-sleep-inducing jitters here, thankyouverymuch!) When I awoke, I was (thankfully) not hungover, but I was ravenously hungry and the closest thing I had to food in my hotel room was a shot of 5-Hour Energy. That plus another liter of water plus ibuprofen would be my only defense against sleep deprivation, a questionable hamstring and a rumbling stomach until I would get to Fenway Park for the race. (Note to self: 5HE on an empty stomach is not advisable. And it was the grape flavor, so it was like guzzling a shot of Children's Dimetapp. Yeah. Euw.)

Between the 5HE, the bottle of orange juice and soft pretzel from the concession stand at Fenway, the emotion and electric raceday vibe (and possibly some lingering effects of the previous evening's libations), I felt like I was a little tipsy and yet simultaneously hyper-aware. I thought, Wow, I may have made the biggest mistake EVER here. I don't know how much I can credit to those factors and how much I can credit to the preemptive dose of ibuprofen I took, but my rehabbed hamstring did not offer any significant problems during the race. In fact, I ran the first three and a quarter miles before I had to slow to a walk for the first time.

After the very emotional and inspiring opening ceremonies at Fenway, the race began in three waves; I was in the second wave. We started on Yawkey Way, turning onto Van Ness and then to Ipswich before heading up Boylston Street toward Mass Ave as Phish's "Foam" set my early pace. (Thanks to Fleechman for introducing me to that song, which he used as the soundtrack to a video of his pet, Mrs. Turtle. As La Tortue Enflamme, I figured it was apropos.) As we turned onto Mass Ave, Zombie Weekend's "Walcott" turned up the tempo a bit, giving me a nice peppy cadence. I high-fived one of Boston's Finest as the field thinned out approaching Harvard Bridge, where Terry was waiting to cheer me on with coffee and pastries (for him).

Not long after Great Big Sea's "Walk on the Moon" started near the one-mile mark, I saw Terry. Yup, big-ass cup o' Joe. I smiled, waved and gave him a "WOOOOOOOOT!!!" as I jogged by. It was only the second time anyone has ever (to my knowledge) come out to a race specifically to watch me run. As I continued along the bridge, the Standells' "Dirty Water" came up next on the playlist, and I breathlessly sang the chorus ("I love that dirty waterrrrrr...oh, Boston you're my home!") at the top of my lungs as I neared the end of the bridge and prepared to turn east onto Memorial Drive in Cambridge.

All this time, my legs felt fine. They felt pretty normal, actually. My hamstring not only wasn't nagging at me, it really wasn't bothering me much at all. While it wasn't operating at 100%, it was definitely in the mid- to upper 90s. I trotted along Memorial Drive toward Longfellow Bridge, near which the course would turn around and follow Memorial Drive in the opposite direction, across the front of the MIT campus: for me, what would be the longest and toughest single stretch of the entire race. I hoped I would be able to run the full distance, but I was also realistic enough to know that the odds weren't in my favor; I just wanted to run as much of the distance as I could. I was still running at the 3-mile mark and was actually moving at about a 12- to 13-minute pace, but my energy was starting to fade. A quarter of a mile later, my whole body needed to slow to a walk. Usually it's one part of you that needs to slow down: maybe your legs are fatigued, maybe your lungs can't get the right breathing cadence, maybe your head is up your arse. I couldn't pinpoint the problem, so I just let my body have the brief respite it was begging for. For once, though, slowing to a walk had an unexpected side effect: the emotion of the event really caught up with me and some of the tears I'd shed during the opening ceremony came back as I walked. I allowed myself to walk for one minute, then tapped Mike's picture and said, "OK, Mike, help me out here." I started running again. The next couple of miles would be run/walk intervals, but I was pleased that most of them were running, especially since every time I slowed to a walk, the tears would come again. I called on Mike and Louie Zamperini to get me through, and drew strength from the runners around me, who would quickly lend encouragement, and the spectators who gathered at various points along the course. After the second turnaround just before Vassar Street, I headed back east along Memorial Drive and toward Harvard Bridge. After the final walking interval before the bridge, I saw the Boston Duck Tours' Red Sox Nathan and the Run to Home Base supporters on board (positioned to be able to cheer runners on both sides of Memorial Drive, and I'd seen them on the westbound leg). As I ran toward them, I veered slightly out of the running lane to approach the duck boat, and reached up for some much-needed, energy-inducing high-fives. Everyone on board enthusiastically cooperated, and, my physical and emotional batteries recharged, I turned onto Harvard Bridge and back across the Charles toward Boston.

A couple more brief walking intervals were required to get me across Harvard Bridge and along Mass Ave, but a little more than half a mile from the end, I committed to running all of the remainder of the race. I saw a fire engine and a ladder truck up ahead, blocking the side street, lights flashing, and six or seven firefighters (some of them in their turn-on--um, I mean turn OUT--pants) were gathered near the cones delineating the running lane. As I approached, I said, "Can a girl get a high-five gauntlet here?" and reached out my hand. They smiled and dutifully lined up, and once again, the connection with generosity and gratitude--a connection as simple as the touch of a hand--energized me, propelling me forward as I shouted my thanks and threw in "Be safe!" for good measure.

As we turned onto Boylston Street, Avril Lavigne's "Runaway" cued up on the iPod and I fell into a comfortable running cadence. I was finishing stronger than I would have expected back on Memorial Drive when I had to go to run/walk intervals. Avril got me around the corner onto Ipswich before Neil Diamond took over with "Sweet Caroline" and, being a die-hard Red Sox fan, I sang along with the chorus and the obligatory "bahm bahm bahm" and "So good! So good! So good!" chants that are de rigeur for the Fenway Faithful during the 8th inning.

As I came around the corner and Fenway Park came into view, Bon Jovi started singing "I Love This Town". I only heard about half of the song before I pulled out the earbuds as I entered the ballpark. Once onto the warning track, I saw some runners ahead of me touching the Green Monster. Not to be outdone, I attempted a kiss--only to be comically bounced off the wall by the bill of the red Home Base Program cap I'd forgotten I was wearing. I laughed to (and at) myself, but once across the finish line in front of the box score, I was able to lay my head against the Boston plate in the AL East standings--one of the few benefits of the team being in third place at the time; if we'd been on top, I wouldn't have been able to reach it with my head.

We waited in a long but fairly quick-moving line to cross home plate, after which there was a line of folks there to shake our hands, including Red Sox president Larry Lucchino (I resisted the urge to offer advice on our bullpen), the president of New Balance, and several military officers, including the Air Force officer who'd obliged my request for a hug at the start line. He smiled when I told him the hug was a big help.

As I entered the concourse, I accepted the bottle of water and bag of food offered to me by the R2HB volunteers, then searched out an uncrowded spot near one of the field entrances, leaned my head against the wall and just let every ounce of emotion flow out of me on a river of sobbing tears. I was thankful for those few minutes of solitude among the crowd and the cathartic release of everything that was left inside me. I thought of Mike, I thought of Louie (who is still going strong at 94), I thought of everyone who contributed to my run, I thought of everyone who gave me encouragement--back home, via Facebook, along the race route, and among my fellow runners. The gratitude came over me in wave after wave, and just when I thought I was done crying, I cried a little more: for those who are helped by the Home Base Program, for those who were lost and the families who grieve, for those who still serve and the families who eagerly await their return. Despite my qualms about the political aspects of the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq (and my view of war in general), I proudly support those who selflessly place themselves in harms' way in service to this country and emphatically encourage our political leaders to bring them all home safe and sound--and soon.

And, yes, some of those tears were for myself--tears of accomplishment and thanks to Providence for the strength and determination to enable me to go the distance.

Ever since the 2010 Dunkin Run, I've made it my mission to run with an attitude of gratitude (something I learned from my friend, Ironman Tiffany). My expressions of gratitude--encouraging other runners and cheering them on; thanking the spectators, police officers, firefighters and volunteers who support the runners and keep us all safe--might cost me a few measly seconds during my race; maybe they even cause me to expend energy that some would say I should focus toward running. But what I get in return is an energy that comes from a source that has nothing to do with training or nutrition or physical ability: It comes from the simple connections with other human beings in the course of this highly solitary sport.

I will run this race again in 2012. I sincerely and humbly thank everyone who sponsored my run, and if you didn't get a chance to do so this year, I hope I can count on your support in 2012. You'll even get your name on my sign!


For Mike, thanks for running with me. For Louie, thanks for the continued inspiration.

Shock and Awe

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us. (Albert Schweitzer)

About a week before this past Christmas, I took a deep breath and signed on to a double challenge as I registered for the Run to Home Base 9k (my longest distance race to date) and committed to the accompanying $1,000-minimum fundraising goal. This was no small undertaking for me, and the prospect of running 5.6 miles was nothing compared to the daunting task of raising $1,000. I've never been good at asking for money, even for a good cause. I dreaded the thought of becoming one of those people who did nothing but eat, sleep, breathe and shill 24/7. I've read plenty of stories about folks who are champion fundraisers, but I've never been one of them. I just wanted to reach my goal.


As I began training for the longer distance of this race, a significant increase from my usual 5k, obstacles popped up: a horrendous winter, my near-constant dread of running on a treadmill (okay, so that particular obstacle is ever present for me), an acute proximal hamstring strain and then, this week preceding the 9k (as I write this), I'm at DEFCON 1 valiantly fighting off an imminent cold that wants to derail my plans. And, still, my greatest concern was the ability to reach my fundraising goal.


Today, through the generosity of a treasured group of people, I reached that goal...and even exceeded it. When I saw the thermometer graphic reach all the way to the $1,000 mark, I sat at my desk, my hands shaking, holding back tears, simply and utterly in awe. Donations came in amounts large and small, every single one tremendously valued not only by the Home Base Program, but particularly by me. I have always known that the people I am honored to call friends are generous, as they have proved time and again with their support of my running efforts, lending encouragement during trials and cheers during triumphs. I searched for words that would adequately express my sincere and profound appreciation, and found nothing that would fit. I gave one of the highest compliments for which I'm known: YOU RAWK! and hoped it would encompass my appreciation in my own inimitable way.


Running is, by its nature, a solitary sport; yet the running community is warm and inviting and filled with wonderful camaraderie. Every runner was a newbie at some point, and when you begin your running career in (gulp) mid-life and at something (gulp) significantly higher than anything on the ideal-weight chart, it can be particularly nerve-wracking to try to run a 5k. But at every race I've attended, I have been warmly welcomed and encouraged by complete strangers, predominantly runners who know what it is to stand at the start line and struggle with self-doubt about the prospect of running a distance most people can cover (even walking), yet most don't.


And yet, as I stand on the start line at Fenway Park this Sunday morning, I will not be alone. In addition to being accompanied by a couple thousand runners, each of us running in support of the Home Base Program, serving veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, I will be carried along by something as simple, humbling and powerful as sheer gratitude. How I get to the finish line, in what amount of time and in what kind of physical condition I cannot say. But I know with certainty that I will be riding a current of gratitude as I cross over and run along the Charles River between Fenway Park and Cambridge, counting smoots as I cross the Harvard Bridge and finishing in front of Fenway's famed Green Monstah.


For everyone who sponsored me in the Run to Home Base 9k, I am grateful beyond words. I'm still shocked that we reached (and exceeded!) the fundraising goal, and I am awed by their tremendous generosity.

5k’s and Stage Shows and Hammies—OH, MY!

Grab a beverage, honey. We've got some catching up to do! There's a lot to cover, but I'll do my best to keep it short and sweet. (Yeah, good luck with that, Gingah...)

Remember when we were kids? We played outside every chance we got, often coming inside only when Mom called us in to dinner. I always liked playing outside, particularly splashing around in puddles during a heavy rainstorm, but somewhere along the journey to adulthood, I became an “indoor” girl. I’ve tried in the last few years to embrace my inner outdoor adventuress, but it’s in my adult nature to consider “roughing it” to consist of being without a blowdryer, or being further than a five-mile radius from Starbucks. I would be perfectly fine with camping, as long as there are walls and indoor plumbing, preferably none of which smells like mildew or is reminiscent of Deliverance. The absolute worst conditions for me, though, are the ultra-miserable double-whammy: cold and wet. Outdoor humor writer Patrick McManus notably described his myriad outdoor misadventures as “a fine and pleasant misery.” While his hilarious descriptions have often left me doubled over in convulsive laughter, trying desperately not to cause bladder leakage, I have always been thankful to be viewing his adventures from the sofa. Survivalists will tell you that “cold hurts, but wet can kill”...well, cold AND wet, even when it’s not bad enough to kill you, might just make you wish you were dead.

April’s Lake George 5k didn't improve my opinion of the cold-and-wet combo. As I’ve mentioned (ad nauseam) previously, winter has a nasty tendency to overstay its welcome here in the Great Northeast, and spring (especially this spring) seems the have some kind of passive-aggressive complex. (For the record, summers can be unbearably hot and humid, while autumn is what makes this area ideal. Sadly, autumn seems to be the shortest season of all.) Welcome to New York State, where experiencing all four seasons within a single 24-hour period is not entirely unheard of.


For all the trials and tribulations involved with the Lake George 5k, it still managed to involve a prime number: 73 runners (and I, of course, finished 73rd, crossing the finish line in just under 44 and a half minutes). Since I was running on a recently incurred, slowly-beginning-to-recover acute proximal hamstring strain, my goal for this race was just to run some of it; the fact that I managed to run all but one minute of this hilly race course--despite the cold and the rain and the sleet pelting my face and what seemed to be the entire volume of Lake George's supply of dihydrogen monoxide in my Mizunos—was in itself a victory. If I can run with all of those obstacles in my way, I can do damn near anything.


Keep in mind that I managed to get rather spoiled by the occasional favorable whims of Northeast weather with some of my earlier road races of 2011: It was in the low 50s and sunny for the Lowell First Run 5k on January 1st, and started out similarly (before turning overcast and a tad windy) for the Rás na hÉireann USA 5k in Somerville, MA, the weekend preceding St. Patrick's Day. I and two friends (Mic and Stasia, whom I’d met at the Lowell First Run) joined over 6,000 other runners trotting along the streets (cleverly disguised as rolling hills) of Somerville; the majority of the runners were significantly younger than I and, according to their attire, impromptu Sharpie tattoos and behavioral indicators, running primarily for the free beer. Thanks to Mic’s energetic pace, I got through the first mile at nearly PR pace, which was particularly surprising, considering that most of the first mile was uphill. Unfortunately, there would be many of these “rolling” hills in the race, but since a speed bump looks like a hill to me, those rollers certainly seemed more than sufficiently challenging to my legs and lungs. My goal was to run the whole distance, which I accomplished, but even a bottleneck at the finish line (which cost me at least half a minute) enabled me to finish about a minute and half shy of a PR. I picked up my finisher’s medal and met Mic and Stasia for some victory ribs. One benefit of not chasing the free beer is that you wait in much shorter lines for your post-race fare.

The weekend before the Rás na hÉireann, I'd actually managed to run my first-ever five-mile long run, filling me with tremendous hope for the Run to Home Base 9k coming up on May 22nd in Boston. That long run had come on four days’ rest, which helped dispell my concerns about losing my base. But then most of the training runs after that were all junk. Welcome to the life of a runner: some days are damn near miraculous, while others are, sorry, pure shit. Some days you just cling to the fact that you actually got out there and ran. Even junk miles are better than no miles. There’s no shame in run/walking a race, but try telling me that sometimes. My frustration threshold, especially with myself, is notoriously shallow. If I'd wanted patience, I'd have become a doctor. ;)

I experienced a new venue at the Schenectady Firefighters’ Run for Your Life 5k, held at Central Park in Schenectady (my hometown). The cold was reminiscent of last Thanksgiving’s Turkey Trot in Saratoga Springs, and with almost as many hills (though, thankfully, not nearly as steep). My friend Chandra came out that morning to run with me (a warm-up for her). She was dressed like a runner in the cold; I was bundled up like I expected to be hanging out with the Sherpas at the Mt. Everest base camp. I ended up needing to peel off a couple of layers by the time I got to the finish line nearly 40 minutes (and a few walking breaks) after we started.


During most of these runs and a lot of training sessions, a nagging achiness in my right hip had been gradually creeping in for a several weeks, leading to sciatica-like symptoms. (The jury’s still out on whether it’s sciatica per se or piriformis syndrome, whose symptoms closely resemble sciatica and also involve the compression of the sciatic nerve.) It finally came to a head the day before I was scheduled to run the St. Peter's Keys 5k in Saratoga Spa State Park. I tripped on the sidewalk (doing something as banal as walking the dogs) and landed on all fours, straining the proximal (top) end of my left hamstring in the process. The good news was that said nagging achiness in my right hip was gone immediately; the bad news was that it was quickly replaced with acute pain in my left hip. The official diagnosis of a proximal hamstring strain gave me the information I needed to address the problem, but the fact that strains like this can take months to heal fully suggested that my notoriously small supply of patience would be taxed heavily. The injury required me to DNR the St. Peter's Keys 5k, only the second DNR of my running career.

In the midst of all this, I was rehearsing two stage productions: playing “big, beefy” landlady/upstairs neighbor Eunice in Confetti Stage’s production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire,” which opened on April 1st (no foolin’!); and the Gym Teacher/Matron in Capital Area Productions’ staging of “Hairspray,” in mid-May. Just as running back-to-back 5k’s last year taught me the folly of my ways, so did being in two shows at once. As a result, my stage performances will need to be put on hold until the fall. Despite some extremely tempting audition notices (including a local production of George Bernard Shaw’s “Mrs. Warren’s Profession,” which I would have feckin’ RAWKED), I vowed that I would not get involved with any shows that begin rehearsals before mid-September. I have a 9k, a 10k and a mini-triathlon to take care of before I tread the boards again.

So I started with one of my more recent races, and I’ll conclude with the most recent race, the Sean’s Run 5k in Chatham, which was held on a picture-perfect spring day. I couldn’t have asked for better running conditions, even though it meant I had to learn the hard way that fair-skinned redheads must wear sunscreen. I hoped my performance in Sean’s Run would be at least as successful as the Lake George 5k, but even with a more favorable course and vastly better weather, my hammie insisted on keeping me extremely humble. Still, I managed to finish that race—running/walking after the first mile—at just under a :15 pace, which is the pace I will need to maintain for my next race, the Run to Home Base 9k on May 22nd, in order to be able to cross home plate at Fenway Park.

So now we’re all caught up. I’m looking forward to blogging about the R2HB and my weekend in Boston! Stay tuned!

Ice, Ice Baby

In my last post, you received a glimpse into the absurd mindset that is La Gingah. Well, on March 4, 2011, I received another opportunity to sing the National Anthem at an Albany Devils  game. As far as the singing performance itself, that was a bit better than the previous performance, since I wasn't nearly as nervous the second time around. Of course, this is Gingah’s World, where there simply must be a twist—nothing can ever go exactly to plan; that would be far too mundane.

One of the benefits of singing the National Anthem is that very few (if any) people are actually looking at the singer. (They might occasionally look at the image of you on the scoreboard during the song, but for the most part, everyone’s looking at the flag.) Yes, this is a benefit. A Godsend, in fact. Why? Read on...

After the Zambonis complete their Zen-like ice ballet, the players come on the ice and the goalies rough up their respective creases. Meanwhile, a little carpeted runner gets rolled out onto the ice. That rug—my rug, in this particular instance—provides, as one would expect, a secure surface upon which the singer of the National Anthem can stand while belting out the tune. I always thought the hardest part of walking out onto the rink would be the ice itself. However, decades of living through Upstate New York winters have taught me the “Penguin Walk”—the best way to traverse an icy surface when one is equipped with neither ice skates nor a traction device of some kind. It turns out that if you step on the rug in just the wrong way—which, of course, is how I managed to step on the rug this time—the rug will actually start to slip a little. An ice rink provides an excellent physics lesson in the principle of inertia: an object in motion tends to stay in motion; an object at rest tends to stay at rest. Despite holding the arm of an Experienced Rink Dude on the Devils’ staff, I managed to take that misstep, which caused the rug to slip, which caused me to slip more, which then began a vicious Gingah-slipping/rug-slipping cycle that, despite Rink Dude's best efforts, resulted in the object in  motion (La Gingah) to remain in motion, albeit in a 90-degree downward trajectory. The whole experience had a rather sublime Looney Tunes quality to it.

My knees decided that they were best equipped to provide a sudden interruption to said downward trajectory, but despite any concerns about the unquestionable hardness of ice, they were apparently unaware of ice’s other famous quality: As my collegiate friends who hailed from the Pittsburgh area would put it, it’s quite “slippy.” While my knees were effective in curbing one form of downward trajectory, they failed to send the message to all parts of my body due north, so I ended up prone on the ice. But to my credit, I never once dropped the wireless microphone; it never even touched the ice. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the sign of a professional performer!

The more Rink Dude and I tried to work out a way to get me back to verticality (with the rug providing zero assistance, thankyouverymuch), the more difficult it got—oh, and ever since I hit the ground, I’d started laughing, which doesn’t help matters. At one point, our feet got hooked around each other’s and I was afraid of pulling Rink Dude down with me. After two other Rink Dudes (well, Rink Dude #2 and Zamboni Driver #1—sans Zamboni) got hold of the other side of me, we all managed to get me onto the rug. Then, after giving myriad assurances of my well-being to the Albany Devils folks who were all concerned about me, I took my careful Penguin Walk to the logo end of the rug. (Because, as any performer will tell you, the show must go on!) I don’t recall hearing any applause as I got to my feet, so I’m taking that as a sign that no one (other than the rink folks behind me at the Zamboni entrance) even saw my floor show (which, though it seemed endless, probably lasted for all of 10-15 seconds).

A few moments later, the air horn sounded and the PA announcer introduced me. The players went toward center ice and, like the audience, faced the flag. All I wanted was to sing well and not have the rug slip or have my knees buckle. As much as I had just encountered My Worst Fear Related To Singing In Public, I knew full well the influence of Murphy’s Law on La Vie Gingah—and I didn’t want to jinx myself further.

So I sang the National Anthem and was very pleased that this time my inner dialogue didn’t encroach on my performance. That’s because said inner dialogue was too busy chanting, “Ow, ow, ow, FREAKIN’ OUCH! ” (You see, hitting your knees on the ice like that is like hitting your funny bone: it hurts like H-E-double-hockey-sticks—I’m going with the euphemistic spelling because of the context of the story, not excessive modesty—but any actual physical damage is typically limited to a little bruising at most.)

I got through the song, the crowd cheered (Seriously, who doesn’t cheer at the end of the National Anthem? If nothing else, it means that it’s time for the game to start.) and I carefully walked, penguin-stepping, half-jokingly with my arms outstretched like a tightrope walker, back toward what was now nearly half a dozen Albany Devils staff ready to help me off the ice. The Devils staff were great, as usual. After a barrage of concern for my well-being (including an inquiry from the EMT on staff), I assured everyone that I was fine. I did, however, ask the EMT if he had anything for an acutely bruised ego and a terminal case of embarrassment.

A friend had hoped to make it to the game with his video camera, but ended up having to work later than expected. I counted this as a blessing, since I really didn’t want video evidence of me flailing around on the ice like a beached orca. (But rest assured, if he had been able to get there and caught everything on camera, I would have plastered it all over YouTube. In show business, they say, there’s really no such thing as bad publicity.)

I guess more than anything else, this emphasizes the importance of learning to ice skate from a very young age...which, of course, I didn’t. Learning at my, ahem, “advanced” age isn’t impossible; it would simply involve a highly skilled and patient teacher...and lots of padding. Maybe the goalie will let me borrow his next time.

Fear not, in my next post, I will return to blogging about running: The Rás na hEireann USA 5k brings me to the Boston area next weekend. WOOT!!! ’Til then, just keep putting one foot in front of the other...just watch out for ice and “slippy” rugs. ;-P

O, Say, Can You Sing?

(I'll warn you here at the outset: This post has absolutely nothing to do with running.)

Have you ever wondered what goes on inside a singer's mind during a performance of The Star-Spangled Banner? I've certainly wondered that at times (hello, Roseanne Barr--WTF???), and Christina Aguilera's recent Super Bowl rendition lit up my Facebook feed like a Roman candle on crack (apparently, I was the only person not watching). 

I'll admit to being a bit of a purist when it comes to singing the National Anthem: no dramatic/diva-like vocal riffs, no creative license with the melody, not even the (in)famous "land of the free" octave jump. I just sing it straight. Of course, until recently, the only place I sang it was in the shower or in the car. So on Friday, February 18th, I was put to the test, singing the National Anthem at Albany's Times Union Center before the Albany Devils - Worcester Sharks AHL hockey game. I had already sung in this venue ("God Bless America" at the Albany Devils' season opener in October 2010), but that's a bit like saying if you've driven 85mph on the Thruway without getting nailed by the State Troopers, you're a shoo-in to win the Indy 500.

Coco Chanel famously said, "Dress shabbily and they remember the dress. Dress impeccably and they remember the woman." In a similar vein, there are three basic rules for singing the National Anthem:

1. Sing the notes that are written.

2. Remember the lyrics.

3. Start at a comfortably low pitch.

Or, as one of my dearest friends so eloquently put it: "Just remember the words and don't f*cking f*ck around with the f*cking melody. That's all I got. Other than start really really f*cking low."

Seriously, this shouldn't really be so hard. This is our National Anthem. Who didn't learn this song as a kid? Well, um...apparently, between school and adulthood, an average of 61% of Americans managed to forget the lyrics, according to a Harris Interactive Poll in 2004. And keep in mind, we're just talking about the first verse, which is pretty much all we ever hear sung.

It has been called a "notoriously unsingable song," mostly by pundits who want to substitute the "militancy" of The Star-Spangled Banner with a "prettier" song, like America the Beautiful or God Bless America. (Don't get me wrong, the latter two are lovely patriotic songs, but if you read the lyrics to The Star-Spangled Banner closely, you'll find that the anthem isn't about war and militancy; it's about courage under extreme trial and the endurance of a banner that represents principles like freedom and independence; the battle of Ft. McHenry during the War of 1812 just happens to be the backdrop that history provided to Francis Scott Key.) Despite its "notoriously unsingable" reputation, I have personally heard countless excellent renditions. Perhaps it's "notoriously unsingable" for people who can't carry a tune or don't sing much at all. Perhaps the bugaboo for some folks is the presence of long sentences with subordinate clauses. (In the latter case, reading just about any of the letters of St. Paul in the New Testament will provide ample opportunity for practice. Clearly, St. Paul didn't know from Strunk & White's The Elements of Style.)  Granted, the lyrics are from 19th Century poetry, but it's not as though we're singing words we've never heard before; the average high school graduate should be able to define most of the words in the song (yes, even "rampart").

Musically, the song seems to have a very challenging vocal range, but it's really only an octave and a half. Most "non-singers" can easily handle an octave, while elite singers often have ranges of three octaves. I haven't really checked my range in ages, but I'm somewhere around two octaves and a bit...on a good day. (The tune, incidentally, comes from an old British drinking song, so you'd think people would be able to sing it better after a few brewskis; perhaps we should start singing it during the seventh-inning stretch.) 

Of course, all kinds of things can happen when you're singing the National Anthem in front of a live audience. For every notorious "Barr-Strangled Banner" or the more recent woes of Christina Aguilera (who experienced what every singer dreads and often has flopsweat-inducing nightmares about), we have a more pleasant rendition, such as Whitney Houston's legendary rendition for the 1991 Super Bowl (a performance so moving that I don't even care that she was lip-synching to her own recording--and Whitney was one of the few singers who could do the octave jump without sounding vain). For many, Jimi Hendrix's landmark guitar version at Woodstock captures the "less conventional" patriotism of an entire generation in the midst of the Vietnam Era.

So when I was asked to sing the National Anthem, the first piece of advice that everyone gave to me was, "Don't pull a Christina." I lost count of the number of times I rehearsed the song between Wednesday (when I received the request) and Friday (when I was scheduled to perform). I vowed I would hit all the notes right and remember all the lyrics correctly. Oh, and to add just a teensy bit more pressure, AHL rules require the National Anthem to be sung in 90 seconds or less. (I typically come in around 80 seconds...WHEW!) If I was going to screw something up, it was not going to be the tune or the lyrics or the timing. This, of course, simply increased the likelihood that I would manage to fall on the ice and break my heinie. (Yeah, they had a rug for me to stand on...but I had to get to it first. Kevin, the Albany Devils representative who escorted me out onto the ice, told me there would be "like, one or two steps on the ice itself," but that I shouldn't worry, since he'd extend his arm for me to hold. I only half-jokingly informed him that I would have a death-grip on his arm.

So there I stood on my rug atop the ice as the announcer bade the audience to rise and face the flag. It's a good thing not to be Christina or Roseanne or Jimi or Whitney. I'm just me. Unless someone managed to remember me from singing "God Bless America" at the season opener, my performance probably came with a maximum expectation from most audience members of, "Don't screw up." If you know me or you've followed my blog, you've probably figured out already that my brain is wired, well, just slightly askew. My inner dialogue basically never shuts the hell up. On the plus side, that might just be the most interesting thing I have going for me.

So here's what was going through my mind as I sang the National Anthem. In real time. Over the course of 90 seconds. I only wish I were making this up.

‎"O, say, can you see..."
(Whew! I didn't start too high.)

"...by the dawn's early light..."
(Euw, did that sound a teeny bit shaky, and not with intentional vibrato?)

"...what so proudly we hailed..."
(Oh, CRAP, I totally popped that plosive on "proudly"!)

"...at the twilight's last gleaming..."
(What did I say? What is it supposed to be? Beaming? Streaming? No, doofus, you had it right. GLEAMING. Now, focus!)

"...whose broad stripes and bright stars..."
(Do NOT look at the big board. You already know you're up there. Just keep looking at the flag. Your hair looks fine.)

"...through the perilous fight..."
(DON'T PULL A CHRISTINA!)

"...o'er the ramparts we watched..."
(Move the damn mic away a bit, you popped another plosive!)

"...were so gallantly streaming..."
(Where did I leave my jacket? Oh, that's right; it's in the executive office. I need to remember to go back there and get it after I'm done singing. Oh, sh*t, what line am I on?")

"...And the rocket's red glare..."
(Remember how when Roger Clemens played for the Red Sox that the Fenway Faithful always cheered at "The Rocket" during the National Anthem? Even after he came back to Fenway in a Blue Jays uniform! But not after he became a f*cking Yankmee! Hey, I hit that high note pretty well!)

"...the bombs bursting in air..."
(Damn, more plosives. But better. That's a good distance for the mic. I wonder if C was able to get the video camera to work.)

"...gave proof through the night..."
(Wow, I'm almost done and haven't f*cked up. Sh*t! Don't jinx it!)

"...that our flag was still there..."
(BIG BREATH, BIG BREATH, BIG BREATH! I don't want to have to break the next line!)

"O, say, does that star-spangled..."
(CRAP! I didn't take a deep enough breath. I'm going to have to breathe here to get through "wave". CRAP. I hate it when I do that!)

"...banner yet wave..."
(Don't hold that last note too long; you've only got 90 seconds. But don't rush it, either. Wow, I really like that note.)

"...o'er the land of the free..."
(BOOYAH! NAILED that high note! Thank you, God!" No octave jump, thankyouverymuch! Hey, the crowd is starting to cheer. I'm almost done! Did somebody just say, "Sing it, Joan!"? Nah, nobody remembers the singer's name. Maybe he shouted, "Bring it home!" Or maybe I'm just hallucinating from insufficient oxygen. Yup, that's probably it.)

"...and the home of the braaaaaaaaaaaaave!"
(WHEW!!! I DID IT! Hey, the opposing team's goalie looks kinda cute. I wonder what he looks like without the mask? Ooh, time to get off the ice! DON'T FALL DOWN!)

Incidentally, after I finished singing, said opposing team's goalie said, "Nice job, eh!" (Ah, hockey...) 

Next, I'd like to drive the Zamboni.

The Winter of Our Discontent--Saved by a Tropical 5k

For those of you who are fortunate enough to have no knowledge of the dark, cold, bitter and blustery months in these parts, allow me to introduce you to my least favorite season. Winter is relentless in the Northeast, and this winter has been more tenacious than most in recent memory. For a while, it seemed as though each week brought another significant winter storm. Snow on snow, as the song goes, and this midwinter was feeling increasingly bleak indeed. When we weren't being pounded by yet another Nor'easter, we were enduring arctic blasts courtesy of our overly generous neighbors in the Great White North. (Seriously, must those Canadians be so insistent on sharing? They bestow their arctic air on us like your friend's Italian Nonna or Jewish Bubbie gives you "just another bite of food.") Given all of this, it's no wonder so many Northerners like me get downright belligerent about escaping winter's tenacious grasp. (As the e-card from one of my favorite Facebook friends put it, it has turned me into a "raging snow bitch.")

Last winter, which was nearly as brutal as this one has been, I promised myself I would escape next time, even if only briefly. The opportunity to see a college friend for the first time in 25 years meshed with a 5k that was scheduled to precede the ING Miami marathon: Ah, serendipity! Faster than you can say "Effing snow!" I booked a flight and started counting down to my sanity-saving D-Day.

The week before the flight, I rode a roller coaster of uncertainty as a major winter storm threatened most of the eastern half of the country. I spent that week desperately praying, bargaining with Providence, whining incessantly, and damn near willing the storm to move far out into the Atlantic. I was scheduled to fly out of frozen Upstate New York on Louis Zamperini's 94th birthday, so I hoped the Good Lord would do me a solid and let this very non-Olympic runner fly to her warm weather 5k without disappointment or delay. Although the storm would end up skirting south of Albany, for once sparing the Capital District, flight disruptions anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard  inevitably result in cascading delays, and the US's (and world's) busiest airport, Hartsfield-Jackson International in Atlanta, Georgia, will damn near always be affected. (But in fairness, they also seem to be the best able to deal with cascading delays, so I'll pretty much always try to connect through Atlanta.) My flight from Albany was delayed by an hour, which necessitated a change in my connecting flight from Atlanta to West Palm Beach--a change that Delta Airlines made automatically, saving me from the last headache I needed. I was ready to don a parka and slip some flight line dude a twenty to bungee-cord me to the wing of any aircraft headed to Florida.

I almost didn't want to leave Albany International (ha ha) Airport, between the pleasant ticket agent who informed me that the temperature in West Palm Beach was 74 sunny degrees, and the fairly handsome TSA security worker who complimented me on my driver's license photo.

My flights went smoothly, despite the erratic cadence of my seatmate's sleep-apnea induced lullaby. What would normally have annoyed me beyond belief barely registered on this flight, as the blue sky beyond the window hinted at warm weather in South Florida as the we cruised above the clouds, oblivious to the meteorological mayhem below.

As we landed in Atlanta, I waived in what I hoped was the direction of my dear friend, Kitty Whitty (she of the most effing awesomest name), who was working near the airport that day. I knew that she was waving back, even though I couldn't actually see her. As I waited during my brief layover in Atlanta, I was rather stunned to hear a woman's voice on the loudspeaker announce that my connecting flight would be operated by what I considered to be a rather dubious "Delta Partner" to West Palm Beach: Alaska Airways.

The trip would have its share of unwelcome surprises, including the unexpected hospitalization of one of my close relatives (who was also going to be taking care of my dogs during my vacation) and the ensuing juggling of a friend and another family member to make sure Las Bitchitas' basic needs were met. Thankfully, everything essentially worked out in the end, but it brought to mind for me the absolute necessity of having a contingency (and even tertiary) plan in place. Imagine being an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, perfectionist control freak like me, helpless to do anything about the situation because I was 1,500 miles away.

Once we landed in the South Florida night, I drove my bright school-bus yellow rental subcompact econo-box toward Delray Beach, where my friend Caroline waited with alcoholic beverages and "snacky-snacks." (And let me tell you, I'm a girl who loves herself some snacky-snacks.) We talked and laughed into the wee small hours, as if trying to cram 25 years into just a few hours. I have no doubt we broke some long-standing records for speed-talking.

Delray Beach is a beautiful, very clean, vibrant and upscale city by the sea, yet its tone is down-to-earth and friendly, with beautiful architecture and denizens whose dispositions seem as warm as the Florida sun. No wonder everyone was so friendly: this was their idea of "winter"; I could get used to that!

Over the next several days, there would be daily sunrise vigils, a lot of town and beach walking, excellent food, a few easy jogs, mansion-gawking up A1A and, of course, the Tropical 5k. The biggest treat for me, though, was getting to play model to Caroline's professional photography skills. With Vizcaya Museum and Gardens as the backdrop, she took the most stunning photographs ever taken of me. Some of the photos were more whimsical:

...while others were downright breathtaking (if you'll indulge me that bit of hyperbole--very few people have ever taken flattering photographs of me...including me):

After wandering through the hacienda-style Vizcaya mansion and exploring its extensive grounds, we drove over to Miami's famous Coconut Grove district for lunch at Lulu's, where I was introduced to fried green tomatoes and fish tacos. If you've never tried fish tacos, I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing. Caroline assured me I would enjoy them, and she was absolutely right. We coined a new term: "Fish tacos...who knew???" After lunch, we headed over toward the Miami Convention Center to pick up our race packets for the next day's Tropical 5k. This jaunt included some lovely scenery as we crossed several beautiful little islands, but also included a particularly wayward turn (because sometimes the GPS says "turn now" when it means "turn at the next intersection"), leading to my very own real-life "The Birdcage" moment as we got delayed on the same drawbridge Christine Baranski gets stuck on in the movie.

Saturday morning, we rose very early to drive down to Miami Beach, where the Tropical 5k would start in front of the Children's Museum. We arrived in darkness across the water from the berths of several large cruise ships. Our early arrival scored us an excellent parking spot and we watched the sun start to appear on the horizon as about 2,100 runners gathered near the start line. This would be my 21st 5k and Caroline's first. Race time temperatures were in the upper 40s--temperatures I would have killed for in Upstate New York in January, but apparently I'd subconsciously "gone native" and shivered through my raceday T-shirt.

The race began just after sunrise and as we ran toward the sun, its warmth quickly did away with the chill. The course was fairly straight and flat, except for a long, moderate bridge incline just after the second mile marker. I was puttering along at about a 13-minute pace, just glad to be running in warm weather. Once again, the reward of a uphill slog was the joyful downhill run--one of the few times when being a heavier runner works in my favor. There's a certain joie de vivre in scampering past a younger, slimmer, more experienced runner. Perhaps half a mile from the finish line, we were nearly waylaid by a fire engine that had to cross the street in front of us, but the Miami PD officers at the intersection maneuvered us expertly in a finely choreographed pattern that enabled the firefighters to get their engine through while we barely broke stride. (It probably helped that those of us on the road at that time were the slower runners.) I cheered and applauded Miami's Finest, called "Be safe!" to Miami's Bravest, and headed toward the last leg of the race.

As I turned the corner, I saw the finish line ahead and kicked in what little afterburners I had in me, crossing the finish line in 38:29. My time was nothing extraordinary, but I'd run the entire distance and hadn't run outside at all since the Lowell First Run 5k. While a PR would have been nice, my finish was good enough to give me a Wave M qualifying time for July's Peachtree Road Race.

I received my finisher's medal and headed back to the chute to watch for Caroline. When she came around the corner, she beamed and even worked a few poses in as I tried to snap a picture. Sadly, I'm no professional and the only shot my little camera ended up capturing was of part of her back.

By Monday, my South Florida sojourn was ending. There would be no more walks to the beach, no more sunrise vigils, no more sand between my toes for the foreseeable future, but there would be photographs and laughter and memories and a race with a revolving-palm-tree medal to help keep me warm and tide me over until the warmth returns to the Northeast.

I am convinced that there is very little that a palm tree and an ocean breeze and the surf's rhythm can't cure.

Please Support the Run to Home Base to Benefit Our Brave Veterans and Their Families

One of the great things about distance running is that it provides a lot of opportunities to run in support of some really great causes. In my first year as a runner, I ran more than a dozen 5Ks that supported a broad range of causes, including AIDS awareness and prevention, breast cancer research and literacy promotion.

In 2011, I am not only expanding the geographical locations where I'll run, I'm also increasing the distances. One of the races I am most excited about is the Run to Home Base 9K sponsored by New Balance.

The Run to Home Base program is an initiative supported by philanthropy from the Red Sox Foundation and the Massachusetts General Hospital Home Base Program, serving New England by identifying, motivating, and clinically treating service members, veterans and their families who are affected by the invisible wounds of war. The Home Base Program serves the nation as a successful model for private-public collaborations; a source of new communication and education; and a leader in finding and implementing new treatments or post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and traumatic brain injury (TBI).

The Home Base Program works in cooperation with the Department of Veterans Affairs and the Department of Defense to address some of the unmet health and rehabilitation needs of veterans and the unmet health needs of their families.

In New England, an estimated 50,000 combat veterans who served in Iraq and Afghanistan are affected by TBI and/or combat stress. These invisible wounds of war are extremely complex, highly individualized and extraordinarily difficult for all those affected. Families of veterans suffering from combat stress and/or traumatic brain injury often need support and guidance as they seek ways to better understand and support their loved veteran.

Many veterans struggle with the stigma associated with these injuries and the so called “invisible wounds” caused by battlefield experiences. While anxiety and distress may not be as obvious as the physical wounds of war, the scars are just as painful and deep. Such injuries require attention and treatment by a team of providers who are familiar with and experienced in the complexities of combat stress and traumatic brain injury.

Through a range of activities and events, the Red Sox Foundation and Massachusetts General Hospital Home Base Program informs and educates the community about combat stress and/or traumatic brain injury, while seeking to help mitigate the stigma and encourage veterans and their families to get the support and care they deserve.

The Home Base Program also supports research of the complexities of combat stress disorders and/or traumatic brain injury with the goal of identifying better treatments. Since the number of professionals specifically trained to diagnose and treat these injuries is inadequate to handle the growing demand, the Home Base Program also offers opportunities for health care professionals from across New England and beyond to increase their understanding of how to help veterans. Bringing together related efforts in clinical care, family support, education and research under a synergistic and cohesive program will advance the care and treatment of our veterans.

(Thanks to the Run to Home Base Program for the information above.)


How can you help? Please follow this link to my fundraising page and sponsor me by making a contribution to the Run to Home Base Program: http://www.runtohomebase.org/runtohomebase/JoanMeyer. I have committed to raise at least $1,000 for the Run to Home Base Program. YOU can help me go the distance with your contribution. I am thankful for every donation made by my sponsors, and donations of any amount are needed.


Just as I did for the Komen Race for the Cure, I will proudly wear a sign on my back throughout the Run to Home Base featuring the names of every single one of my donors (regardless of donation amount), as well as the names of any veterans you wish to honor or memorialize with your donation.


I am particularly honored to be running this race in honor of Louis Zamperini, a former Olympic runner (1936), a survivor of Japanese POW camps during World War II and the subject of Laura Hillenbrand's fascinating bestseller, Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption. Louie and his story are absolutely inspirational, and the book is compelling and practically impossible to put down.


Please consider supporting the Run to Home Base. I'm including a long-term link in the upper right area of my blog to provide easy access for anyone who wishes to make a contribution. Please share this information with your friends and families. For your support and sponsorship, please accept my sincere thanks.

Building Community...One Run at a Time

A trip eastward along the Massachusetts Turnpike almost always takes me to my favorite American city, Boston. But on this last day of 2010, it was leading me toward the historic mill city of Lowell, just to the northwest, to run my first 5k of 2011. Despite a wicked pissah Nor’easter the preceding weekend, not enough snow remained to give the Berkshires much of James Taylor’s dreamlike frosting.

Lowell sits along the Merrimack River and reminds me of a larger version of Saratoga Springs, NY, with quaint shops, appealing restaurants and art galleries. The main difference between the two cities is Lowell’s huge old mills contrasted against Saratoga’s historic and seasonal Thoroughbred race track. While Lowell has repurposed those mills and has not only outlived them but thrived in their wake, Saratoga is still significantly dependent on the success of the summer Thoroughbred season.

And so it was to this city on the Merrimack that I came for the Lowell 1^st Run, which is comprised of a 5k and a 10k race. Mother Nature decided to relent on the meteorological brutality she all-too-recently unleashed on New England and offered race day temperatures near 50 degrees.

Aside from the Gingah-friendly (read: reasonably flat) course and decent swag score, I also had a Marriott free night certificate that was only good through December 31^st. All of the cosmic tumblers seemed to fall into place to make my decision to enter this race that much easier.

After Christmas, I made a commitment to myself to “eat clean”: fresh foods, lots of fruits and vegetables and whole grains, and eschewing refined sugar, refined flour and processed foods. Before leaving Albany for Lowell, I packed a lunch bag with some fresh fruit, raw almonds and Gnu bars, but knowing how easily I can be tempted, I wanted to make sure there would be some dining options that wouldn’t wreak havoc with my efforts. Life Alive Organic Café came up in a search of restaurants in Lowell. I ventured briefly through the city center in search of Life Alive and was pleased to find it among the shops, galleries and other small businesses occupying the restored historic buildings along a brick-paved street. I ordered the “Adventurer,” subbing the non-Gingah’s-tummy-friendly tofu for some shiitake mushrooms. The veggies, quinoa and short-grain brown rice were deliciously accented with Life Alive’s zesty sesame ginger nama sauce (which I hastened to rechristen “Gingah Nummy Sauce”). If you’re ever in Lowell, Life Alive café is absolutely worth a stop.

My goal for the Lowell 1^st Run was an unusual one for my 19^th career 5k: to run the full distance. I hadn’t run outside since the Saratoga Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day, a race that involved sub-freezing temperatures and multiple hills (not my finest hour, by far). I had run a few sessions on the dreadmill, a very poor substitute for outdoor running. I hadn’t handled well the necessary organizational skills involved with my rehearsal schedule for “Mrs. Bob Cratchit’s Wild Christmas Binge,” and I ended up neglecting my training. A bad cold before Christmas and some nagging hip pain the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve didn’t help matters. Part of my purpose in looking for cold-weather races (not just practice runs) is to keep me running outdoors even when the weather is less than friendly. Cold, snowy winters are a fact of life in Upstate New York, so you either adapt or suffer. And throw on another layer. (Translation: Suck it up, Buttercup!)

I relaxed in my hotel room the evening before the race and went to bed a little after eight o’clock (yes, on New Year’s Eve…I’m such a party animal) with Rebecca Skloot’s The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks , a fascinating book that was almost as engrossing as Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken, which I’d read prior to Rebecca’s book.

My early bedtime turned out to be a godsend, given the New Year’s Eve-related events of the overnight hours, which included the hour-plus amorous adventures in the room on one side of mine, and a semi-lucid, partially clad young woman spending another hour-plus trying to get into her room on the other side of mine. (Once I’d made sure she was okay, I contacted the front desk; despite the young lady’s objections--whether from chemical impairment or simple embarrassment--and her sincere thanks for my concern, I wanted to make sure she got back safely into her room. I'd also like to go all Dr. Phil on her male companion for refusing to answer the door when she knocked repeatedly--for the better part of an hour--and for setting the phone to go directly to voicemail.)

After a light breakfast, I headed out to the race area, making do with my GPS’s old (and therefore, limited and occasionally very inaccurate) maps. After checking in and picking up my bib, hat and shirt, I headed back to the far lot where I had parked my car. One of the volunteers setting up traffic cones for the last turn of the race asked me where I was parked. When I pointed to the far lot, he told me about a much closer lot that hadn’t been advertised. It was right next to the fire station, which was right across the street from the Elks Lodge that was serving as Race Central. Well, who am I to doubt a guy with a New England accent? I moved my car to the closer lot…and that’s when serendipity stepped in.

As I was going though my final race prep and stashing any unnecessary garb in my car, I met Michelle, who had noticed my New York State custom license plates with the Red Sox logo and the personalization, LUVSOX. She called her friend Stasia over, and we all began chatting. We talked about various races we’d run and how great the weather was for today’s run. (Fifty degrees is considered practically tropical in New England in early January.) We parted about 45 minutes before the race, as I (typically) wanted to hit the ladies’ room one last time before the start.

I spied a few dogs as I went through my warm-up and dynamic stretching. I met a Scottish Terrier, appropriately named Mac, whose owner, Dennis, was participating in the 5k. Mac let me pet him extensively; he must have known this was part of my pre-race ritual.
As we gathered near the starting line, we received instructions specific to the 5k and the 10k (the 10k runners would run the course twice). I reminded myself of my goal (just to run the full distance) and to relax and breathe and enjoy the run. The race announcer sent us on our way, shouting “Go! Go! Go!” and “Happy New Year,” as many of us whooped in response and headed down the road.

The course itself was fairly mundane for the first half. Most runners passed me, and I passed a few of my own. As has become my habit, I applauded all the cops (there were no civilian course marshals in this race) along the course, thanked them and shouted, “Be safe!” I saw Dennis pass me somewhere around the one-mile mark; he was walking quickly (not even full-on race walking), and he was passing me as I ran. I laughed and said, “You walk faster than I run!” He replied, “I’m just an old man out for a little walk!” I noticed a car coming up from behind me and mentioned my concern to Dennis. Clearly the voice of experience, he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, yeah. They don’t actually close the roads, but most of the cars are pretty good about giving the runners some room.” Only one car actually got my Irish up a bit: the driver was signaling to turn right, but there was no road for him to turn down; he actually wanted to pull over to the curb…right in front of me. I just muttered, “Oh, hell no,” checked over my left shoulder and passed the car. Yup, couldn’t pass an “old man out for a little walk,” but I did manage to pass a Jeep Cherokee.

We finally emerged from the residential area that comprised the majority of the first half of the race and turned onto Pawtucket Boulevard, which runs along the Merrimack River. When my legs would start to tire, I would look over at the river and briefly watch a seagull fly over the river or see scores of his friends perched on the river’s melting icy surface. I looked over a lot, because we ran down Pawtucket Boulevard for what seemed like forever (the remainder of the race, save about two blocks). Finally, I recognized the lot where I had originally parked my car and knew I was only a few blocks from the finish line. I smiled, realizing that I was going to run the full distance. I didn’t feel like my speed would be anything to write home about (it rarely is), but I would make my goal: to run the full distance.

As I approached the finish line, the announcer, who named every single finisher (God bless him!) called out, “And here’s the pride of Albany, New York, Joan Meyer!” I whooped, raised my arm in victory and crossed the finish line, elated. I was handed my finisher’s medal and suddenly realized the tune playing on my iPod was “Walk on the Moon” by the Canadian band Great Big Sea. That song is on one of my motivational play lists from when I began preparing for the Freihofer’s Run for Women and it's a fairly emotional song for me. I fought back the tears as I listened to the song as I thought of the promise of this new year, starting off with a 5k. My 5k’s aren’t going to set any records or put me on the cover of Runner’s World, but in the spirit of that song’s lyrics, “This is my one small step. This is my walk on the moon.” Kudos, iPod Shuffle Gods!

I caught up with Dennis, whose wife had met him around the three-mile mark so he could finish the race with Mac by his side. Mac cut a fine figure in his very own finisher’s medal, but my efforts to take his picture with my CrackBerry‘s camera were dashed when I realized the lens was fogged up from being too close to my sweaty body. What a shame, since I would have loved making Mac's medal-clad photo the signature shot for this entry.

I stopped briefly inside the Elks Lodge, bypassed the beer and pasta alfredo and had a small cup of homemade chicken noodle soup, then headed out to the car to drive over to Life Alive for my victory lunch. As I got to the car, Michelle saw me and she and Stasia and I caught up and chatted a while. We talked of how well organized this race was and what other great races there are in New England. I mentioned my hopes for running the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta in July, a race that Stasia had previously completed. We laughed a lot, took some pictures, exchanged e-mail addresses, “friended” each other on Facebook, and hugged goodbye.

One of the most interesting and ironic things I’ve discovered about running is that it is a typically solitary sport that opens up to you an entire community. I headed off to Life Alive with a smile and a growling tummy. In the restroom at Life Alive, there’s a framed print called "How to Build Community"; I couldn’t help noticing how many of the things on that list tied in with the running community I have been so blessed to join. After a quick lunch, I headed back toward Albany.

The Lowell 1^st Run is not only my first 5k of 2011, it’s also my first run outside New York State, which fit my theme for 2011: increasing the adventure, running longer distances including the Run to Home Base 9k in Boston and the Peachtree Road Race (10k) in Atlanta, attempting multi-sport events (a duathlon and a sprint triathlon) and venturing farther from home. In addition to the Ohio Women’s Triathlon for the Cure (250-yard open water swim, 7k bike ride, 2-mile run), I also registered for the Tropical 5k in Miami, which will be held on January 29^th. That race also gives me an opportunity to visit with a college friend (as the Peachtree enables me to visit with another college friend) and to enjoy some truly warm temperatures in the midst of the Northeast’s often most brutal stretch. I was particularly pleased and, frankly, honored that my friend Caroline also registered for the Tropical 5k. And Caroline is gradually convincing other friends to join in. Yay!!! It’s such a thrill watching the community of fledgling runners-who-never-thought-they’d-ever-be-runners grow!

2010 had begun with tremendous hope for me, but by spring I experienced emotional loss I often wondered if I was really strong enough to survive. As a result, there were days when it seemed “this running thing” I wanted to do would be over before I really got it going. But overall, running was really what saved me from the worst of myself. In the final analysis, 2010 was filled with personal triumphs, thanks to running and the support of so many friends. Starting off 2011 with a 5k was just what I needed.

Yup, I think I’m going to like this 2011. After all, it’s a prime number. And y’all know how I love my primes!

Happy New Year!