Hit and run

Just for fun, I’m going to veer from the usual and start this post off with something a little bit different: a poll. Ready? OK, here goes:

Have you ever witnessed a motor vehicle accident?

Note: When I first wrote this, I was under the assumption that I could embed an actual poll question— with results computation and everything—into the body of this post. However, I am apparently too technologically inept to crack the code (pun intended) on Internet polls, which I find slightly worrisome considering that I work in digital media. Hopefully I did not list “Internet poll administration” as a skill on my resume. I must make a note to confirm that. Anyway, I’m too committed to this intro to revise it now, so let’s just think of this as a rhetorical poll. But feel free to write down your answer or say it out loud or even leave it as a comment.

My follow-up question to that inquiry would be: Have you ever witnessed a motor vehicle accident 4.8 miles into a 5-mile run in 100-degree heat? What’s that? You haven’t? I didn’t think so. I win. (Yes, in my ultra-competitive world, you can win at polls.)

I had been running for approximately 35 minutes when it happened. As you might imagine, I was extremely sweaty and even more extremely thirsty. I only had another two blocks to go when I approached the last intersection before my apartment. The light was green and the walk sign was illuminated, so I picked up the pace to make sure I got through the crosswalk before the light changed. (Remember, I was sweaty, thirsty, and definitely in no mood to stop for an entire light cycle.)

Just as I was about to step into the street, I noticed that there was a vehicle in the left turn lane. It was creeping into the oncoming lane of traffic, and I wasn’t entirely certain that the driver saw me. So, despite being in a fire-ass hurry to get across the street—and I say that in a completely non-figurative sense, because it was 100 degrees out and my ass was quite literally on fire—I jolted to a stop to let the driver execute her turn.

Just as I came to a halt, she saw me and slammed on her brakes—at which point a car in the oncoming lane zoomed through the light and smacked right into her driver’s side headlight, smashing it to smithereens and sending a confetti of automotive shrapnel flying through the air. I drew my sweat-covered hands to my sweat-covered face and gasped.

Here is what went through my head in the first few seconds after the wreck:

1. Holy shit!
2. I hope no one is hurt.
3. What do I do?

At that point, another witness to the accident pulled up to the sidewalk next to me and got out of his car.

“Did you see it too?” he asked.

I nodded, still in shock. He then sprung into action, checking to make sure both drivers were OK and offering to help in any way he could. I just stood there like a dumb-dumb.

In my defense, I was incredibly dehydrated and a little light-headed. I noticed goosebumps forming on my arms and legs—a sure sign of heat stress. Still, despite clearly being in the early stages of heat exhaustion, I knew I had to stick around to give a statement because I’m a good citizen and it was the right thing to do. On a more selfish note, I knew this story was going to make for a super entertaining blog post.

By the time we had established that no one was injured, my dizziness had subsided and I started to get my wits about me. My mind raced with thoughts, questions, and concerns—many of them slightly inappropriate in the context of the situation at hand. Here are the highlights:

1. Are those firemen ever going to offer me some water? (They did not.)
2. Oh my god, I ran through two giant gnat swarms and I probably have insect carcasses plastered all over my disgusting, sweaty face.
3. What if I have to give a statement to the police? What if they send a really good-looking cop and he’s totally grossed out by my disgusting dead-bug face? What if I smell? (At this point, I performed a discreet armpit check and discovered that I only smelled a little.)

The cop who did show up was not only inexcusably late to the scene (it took him about 40 minutes to get there), but also inexcusably dickish. As he took the left-turner’s statement, she indicated that she couldn’t recall all of the details and that he should probably ask me about it because I had the whole thing recorded in my memory in perfect slow motion. We’re talking iPhone 5s-quality.

So, I launched into a very animated, incredibly accurate account of what had occurred, and this cop—who, by the way, looked like the goddamn missing link in human evolution—put up his hand and cut me off mid-sentence with, “We’ll get to you. Let her finish talking.”

I wish with all my heart that I had come up with a clever retort right on the spot—something like, “OK, right after I let you finish evolving, Officer Cro-Magnon!”—but instead, I simply raised my insect-dotted eyebrows and shot him the most disapproving glare I could muster. I cannot be sure if he saw said glare; it is possible that his field of vision was obscured by his frighteningly prominent brow line.

After talking to both drivers, he retired to his air-conditioned cruiser to spend 20 additional minutes entering the information into his computer. We continued to stand in the hot sun. He did not seem the least bit concerned about this.

Then, much to our relief, an angelic Mexican woman who lived in the apartment complex immediately adjacent to the scene of the accident yelled down to us from her balcony: “Would you like some water?”

“Yes! Please! Por favor!” we shouted from below.

She proceeded to drop several ice-cold bottles of water into our hands, thus restoring my faith in humanity.

Around this time, the driver of the other vehicle struck up a friendly conversation with me. As we talked, I took stock of his nice teeth and his toned, muscular physique. He was very attractive and very personable. When he asked me for my phone number “for insurance purposes,” I briefly fantasized that he actually intended to use it “for cocktail invitation purposes.” Later, after returning home and discovering the true gravity of my dead bug situation, it became indubitably clear that he would do nothing more with my digits than pass them along to his Allstate agent.

When Deputy D-bag finally emerged from his climate-controlled environment, he half-heartedly asked for my “version of events.” Was this guy serious? What I was about to describe was not my “version” of what happened—it was what fucking happened! What in Tim Tebow's name would I gain from distorting the truth? Furthermore, I had just spent the last hour of my life standing on a street corner in a sweaty sports bra while making small talk with total strangers and completely sabotaging my weeks-long effort to even out my tan lines in preparation for an upcoming wedding.

I gritted my teeth and somehow managed to keep my composure. I gave him a detailed play-by-play, speaking slowly and using small words so as not to confuse him. And then, thankfully, I was dismissed to return home—which meant recruiting my stiff, electrolyte-depleted muscles to plow through another quarter-mile.

Still, despite the inconvenience, I took pride in my good citizenry. Don’t worry, I won’t let my heroic exploits go to my head—although I might wear a cape for a couple of days.

One for the birds

I love baby animals. And if you don’t, well then, you’re a heartless asshole.

That being said, I realize that not everyone cares about baby animals as intensely as I do. Some people prefer to focus their attention on other, similarly important things like war and disease and human starvation.

Perhaps you tear up when you see one of those Christian Children’s Fund commercials—as well you should, because they are very, very sad. But nothing tugs at my heart strings more than those Sarah McLachlan animal cruelty commercials, which I cannot bear to watch for fear of developing a serious drinking problem. Whenever one comes on, I instinctively close my eyes, cover my ears, and sputter out sentence fragments like a Tourette’s patient until I can locate the remote and change the channel.

Now that you have a bit of context, I’ll get on with my story. It all started a few days ago when my friend Kim and I headed out for a run on a particularly breezy afternoon. The sidewalk was covered with windblown leaves, fallen branches, gum wrappers, flimsy Dairy Queen napkins, Taylor Swift concert tickets, and other worthless bits of debris.

As we turned onto the main road, I caught a scurrying blip in the far left corner of my peripheral vision. Upon closer examination, I realized that it had tiny legs. And a tiny beak. And tiny wings. I gasped in horror as my brain caught up to my eyes. It was a baby bird—an itsy-bitsy panic-stricken ball of fluff trying desperately to jump over the curb so he could make his way back to the tree from which he had fallen.

He was obviously too young to be out of the nest, and my heart broke as I watched him fail—over and over again—to scale the towering curb. Every few steps, his tiny bird feet lost their footing, sending him crashing into a precious little heap of yellow fuzz. It was the most pitiful thing you could ever watch—besides, I’m told, The Hangover Part III.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that all of his efforts were in vain—that he would never be able to climb the tree and rejoin his little bird brothers and little bird sisters in their happy little bird home. (Also, I don’t speak bird.)

I stared pleadingly at Kim. The look of distress in her eyes matched my own. What could we do? If we left him to fend for himself, he would die—either from starvation or by the heavy paw of a feline predator. If we tried to rescue him, he would die. (Anyone who’s anyone knows that a mama bird will reject any offspring tainted by human scent!)

We paused for several moments and debated what to do.

“What should we dooooooo?!?” I whined.

“I don’t know, what do you think we should do?!?” Kim squealed back.

“I asked you first!” I retorted.

“Ooooohhh…look at him—he so cute!” She said.

“We can’t just leave him—he’ll starve or get eaten!” I wailed.

“I know, but what can we do?” Kim replied. “If we touch him, his parents will smell us on him and reject him anyway.”

“Well, we could put him in a box and raise him ourselves,” I reasoned.

“But what would we feed him?” she asked.

“Well, we could, like, chew up worms and spoon-feed it to him with tweezers,” I suggested.

I could tell from the disgusted look on Kim’s face that she was not down with my worm-mash idea. In fact, she probably thought I was a huge freak for even saying it out loud.

At this point, I knew I had to put a lid on the conversation before I word-vomited any more repulsive comments. I lamented the poor bird’s fate one last time before restarting my watch and resuming the run. I felt a pang of guilt, like I’d just witnessed a pedestrian hit-and-run and was now fleeing the scene of the accident as the victim lay in the street, bleeding profusely and clutching a broken femur.

I tried not to let on, but the truth was that for the remainder of the run, my mind was consumed by the memory of that poor baby bird. The look of sheer terror in his beady little eyes haunted my every thought. But there really wasn’t anything I could have done, right? RIGHT???

As much as I wanted to believe my own words of consolation, I could not shake the feeling that I was, in some yet-to-be-identified way, a miserable failure. There was only one way to settle this—to free my mind of its guilt-wrought shackles: consulting The Google.

The all-knowing power of The Google never ceases to amaze me. I am especially mystified by its crazy-accurate psychic powers. Like, I can type the word “If,” and it will autocomplete the exact question I was thinking: “If I had 7,856 nickels, how much money would that be?” (Answer: $392.80)

So, I brought up The Google and began typing “Can I,” and of course “touch a baby bird” popped right up in the search field. (I wish I could marry you, Google. You just get me.)

I hit enter, picked the most legit-looking search result, and cupped my hand over my mouth in disbelief as my worst fears were confirmed.

To put it lightly, whoever told you that mama birds will reject their human-scented babies—your mother, your babysitter, your kindergarten teacher, that guy Steve from Blue’s Clues—was a dirty liar. Because guess what? It’s A MYTH! The Internet SAID SO!

I probably would have spent a lot more time being upset and angry about this revelation had it not occurred as a result of stumbling upon the coolest fun-fact website of all time. And thanks to my adult-onset ADD, the whole baby bird fiasco quickly faded into the annals of history as I clicked my way through a series of incredibly-entertaining-but-ultimately-useless trivia items. Well, useless to a normal person anyway. As a rambling blogger with adult-onset ADD and a horribly disjointed writing structure, I know just how to use them—as my concluding paragraph!

So, here you go: Chickens have earlobes. Chickens with white earlobes lay white eggs, whereas chickens with red earlobes lay brown eggs. In an average NFL football game there are only about 12 minutes of actual play time. Nine-banded armadillos always give birth to identical quadruplets. Cashews are related to poison ivy. “Pepsi-Cola” is an anagram for “Episcopal,” which some people believe the drink was named after. “Britney Spears” is an anagram for “Presbyterians,” which no one believes she was named after. The end.

Running “Mom”eries

Back in my competitive running days, I did a lot of post-race interviews of both the formal (i.e., newspaper reporter) and informal (i.e., curious spectator) variety. The question I received most frequently—besides, “Really? There weren’t any other sports you could do?” and “Um, is that a dead bug stuck to your forehead?”—was, “So, how did you get into distance running in the first place?”

The short, gracious response: My mom.

The longer, less endearing answer: I used to watch my mom run when I was a kid, and I somehow developed an unshakeable inner resolve to beat her at it.

My mom hustling like a mofo in a half-marathon a few years back.

Either way, the bottom line is that without the inspiration I gleaned from watching my mother log lap after lap at the local college track all those years ago, I never would have discovered the sport I have come to love so much. So, in honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to present a timeline of running-related milestones I’ve shared with my mother throughout the years. Thanks for always being there, Mom. Even though I can beat you now, you’ll always be a winner in my book.

My Mommy-and-Me Timeline of Running Memories

1994 – I see my mom running laps at the local track and decide that I will stop at nothing to beat her, even if it means wearing out the heel lights in my pink L.A. Gear high tops.

1996 – I enter my first 5K road race. My mom enters the race for moral support. I show my gratitude by totally crushing her. Mission accomplished.

1999 – I run the timed mile in my sixth-grade P.E. class despite having a pounding migraine. After nearly passing out, I call my mom to pick me up early from school. Thirty seconds after we get home, I projectile vomit all over her immaculately clean bathroom floor. She rubs my back and tells me it’s OK.

2000 – I get stuck in a Porta-Potty at the middle school cross-country championships. In my panic to free myself from this poo-scented prison, I cut my hand on the jagged, negligence-suit-waiting-to-happen corner of the metal latch. I bleed profusely, miss the race, and cry like Tony Romo all the way to the emergency room. My mom hugs me and tells me not to worry—there will be plenty of other races.

2004: My mom gets sixth place in her age division at the Governor’s Cup 10K. This gives her legit bragging rights for the next eight years, at which time she discovers that her name is still on the list of the top ten fastest milers of all time at her high school (which is actually pretty badass).

2005 – My mom takes me to Spokane so I can run in a really big cross-country meet that my school won’t pay to send me to. I am driving and forget to check the fuel gauge before we ascend a huge mountain pass. The gas light comes on mid-climb, and my mom nearly has a heart attack as we coast on fumes to the first gas station at the bottom of the hill. She refrains from scolding me until after the race because she doesn’t want it to affect my performance.

2006 – State track is in Butte, Mont., a city known first for its giant toxic water hole and second for its Yukon-esque climate. But I’m an optimist, and as such, I pack like it’s going to be 75 and sunny. When we get there, it’s 30 degrees and snowing sideways. My mom rushes to a nearby sporting goods store to buy me a long-sleeve Under Armour shirt. Even though I know I am a huge idiot, she does not call me stupid. Instead, she lets it go and focuses all her energy into cheering me on. I win three state titles.

2007 – I’m about to make my college track debut in the 800 meters, and my mom has driven two hours to watch me run two laps. I trip and fall 150 meters into the race and get last place by several seconds. My mom hugs me and tells me I did great. It’s a boldfaced lie, but it makes me feel better anyway.

2012 – Even though I am now a full-fledged has-been, my mom continues traveling around the state to watch me compete in fun runs. She and my dad take me out to dinner the night before the local St. Patrick’s Day race. I order a carafe of house wine that I would estimate as one step below Franzia in quality, if that is even possible. The next morning, my mom wakes up with a terrible headache and is unable to make it to the race. Still, she manages to cheer for me through my kitchen window since the racecourse passes right by my apartment. She does not blame me, or my poor wine judgment, for her troubles.

2013 – My mom continues to read my silly running blog religiously and always has something nice to say about each entry. So, it’s about time one of my entries had something nice to say about her. Thanks for everything, Mom. You're the best. Much love.

Treadmill time machine

I recently moved to a new apartment complex. For the most part, it’s pretty modern. We have high-speed Internet, covered parking, and even a free cappuccino machine in the main office.

But the first time I walked into the fitness center, it was immediately apparent that the majority of the landlord’s budgetary surplus was going toward complimentary espresso drinks. The purchase of updated exercise equipment clearly has been on the backburner ever since Americans stopped winning the Boston Marathon.

The first day I went in there, I stopped dead in my tracks and just sort of stared at the treadmill for a while. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to use it. I mean, it looked like it belonged in a Museum of Early Running, somewhere between a Kalahari bushmen hunting spear and Bill Bowerman’s waffle iron.

In case you don’t believe me, or you think I’m exaggerating, here is some photographic evidence:

As the daughter of an avid antiquer, I know that people don’t buy antiques to use them. People buy antiques to display them.

For some reason that I have yet to figure out because I was born after the Kennedy administration, filling your shelves with old, obsolete crap like hat pins and oil lamps creates an air of sophistication in your home that new stuff simply cannot provide.

So at first, I thought maybe this treadmill was meant to be a really big, really impractical decoration. But the more I thought about it, the less likely this hypothesis seemed. If it were a decoration, it would be presented as such—with a giant glass case or a perimeter of velvet rope or, at the very least, an informational plaque.

Also, a 30-year-old treadmill does not exude sophistication. It exudes cheapness. Not that I live at the Waldorf Astoria or anything, but you’d think my landlord could at least get some cardio equipment from this century.

Once I had determined that this relic from the running days of yore—the Landice 8700—was meant for actual use, my train of thought moved on to a new conundrum: was this thing older than me?

The more I puzzled over this question, the more it escalated from innocent curiosity to urgent quandary consuming my every thought. There was no possible way I could go on with my life until I knew for certain whether I predated the Landice. (This is a side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Another side effect of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies is my constant need to fold things that are not folded, so please excuse me for a moment while I take care of the blanket that has been left on my couch in an untidy mess of microfleece…OK, much better. Now back to the story.)

I considered the possibility that the number 8700 indicated that the machine was manufactured in the year 1987, in which case it would, indeed, be older than I am. But a logical guess wasn’t good enough—I needed corroborating evidence.

As I searched the rest of the treadmill for more date-related clues, I was struck by yet another conundrum: what if we were both “born” in the same year—1988?

Luckily, I realized that this question had an easy answer. My birthday is January 2. Therefore, to be older than I am, the treadmill’s birthday would have to be January 1. And since January 1 is a global holiday, the chances of anything being manufactured on that particular date are very slim.

Furthermore, if the treadmill had been produced on January 1, 1988, it likely would have been assembled by a bunch of hungover factory workers, in which case its structural integrity almost certainly would have been compromised, and the probability of it surviving 20-plus years in workable condition would have been very, very low.

Anyway, after inspecting every square inch of the Landice, I found no further evidence of a manufacture year. So, like any good detective, I considered my context clues.

The treadmill is surrounded by fitness posters that obviously were inspired by the music video for Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical.” I could ridicule them at length, but really, the photos say it all:

The copyright date on the posters: 1986. Aha! I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere. I felt like I was smack dab in the middle of a classic mystery novel. (Nancy Drew #61: The Secret of the Old, Decrepit Treadmill)

Like Nancy, I am very observant—which is why I noticed that there is something not quite right about those ’80s fitness posters. In fact, they are downright creepy. Here, take a closer look at these shots and see if you notice it too:

I hope I’m not the only one who is bothered by the fact that THIS PERSON HAS NO FACE UNLESS SHE IS PICTURED FROM A SIDE PROFILE PERSPECTIVE, AND EVEN THEN SHE DOES NOT APPEAR TO HAVE OCULAR CAVITIES!

Now this was beyond bizarre, and it was more than I could take. I had to get out of there. Maybe if I ran fast enough, my dreams wouldn’t be haunted by faceless aerobics instructors in Reebok high-tops.

Alas, I never cracked the case. Although it is difficult for me to accept the treadmill's symbolic victory over my wit and skills as an investigator, I have grown to appreciate the air of mystery surrounding the true age of the Landice 8700. It’s like Joan Rivers, but with less plastic. 

How to put the ‘man’ back in ‘marathon’

Let’s face it: compared to testosterone-fueled contact sports like football, ice hockey and Jujitsu, long-distance running just isn’t that manly.

As a man, it’s one thing to idolize famous athletes who look like this:

Photo courtesy of blacksportsonline.com

But anyone with a pair of testicles is going to have a hard time explaining why their hero looks like an adolescent girl with a bad haircut:

Photo courtesy of Marcio Jose Sanchez/bigstory.ap.org

Look, a community 10K is never going to be as effortlessly macho as a backyard game of pigskin on a crisp fall day. That’s why Brett Favre—not Galen Rupp—is the poster boy for Wrangler jeans. And that’s why Brett Favre—not Galen Rupp—had the audacity to text photos of his junk to a woman who looks like this:

Photo courtesy of news.lalate.com

But you don’t have to be a retired NFL star in grass-stained Five Star Premium Denim to exude masculinity and win the approval of your fellow XYs. You just have to follow a few simple rules to avoid coming off as a bird-legged sissy in short-shorts.

1. Have facial hair. Nothing says, “I own a power drill” like a little bit of mug-scruff. But beware—too much of a good thing will leave you looking more hobo (i.e. Tom Hanks in Castaway) than hunky (i.e. Brad Pitt in Moneyball).

2. Either wear sleeves, or don’t. Manly men do not slip removable spandex tubes over their forearms in case it’s a bit chilly (or a bit balmy) on the course. Sensitivity to temperature fluctuations is a known side effect of estrogen, which is why arm sleeves—like half-tights and battery-powered mini fans—should be reserved for female use only.

3. Listen to classic rock. Before you head to the starting line, make sure your iPod is loaded up with AC/DC, The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. When the dude to your right asks what you’re jamming to, your answer should not be, “One Direction.”

4. Wear black. Johnny Cash was just kidding when he said he’d love to wear a rainbow everyday. At least half of your outfit should be black or gray. If you want to rock a lime green shirt, go for it. You just couldn’t resist those bright blue shorts on the clearance rack at Sports Authority? Fine. But please, for the love of all that is holy, do not wear them together. Because when you look like this:

Photo courtesy of perfectionjourney.org

Other guys see this:

Photo courtesy of rumorfix.com

5. Win. A man does not engage in a competitive activity—be it a sport, a video game or a checkers match with Granny—simply to participate. He does it to destroy his opponent and thus prove his superiority to the rest of the male race. If that means vomiting blood for 20 minutes after out-kicking a slightly overweight teenager in a homestretch sprint for 41^st place in the local Turkey Trot, so be it. Bloody oatmeal barf is a small price to pay for the preservation of your masculinity.   

One night stand

Most hotels nowadays have some sort of fitness facility. They range in size from “a rickety treadmill and two partially inflated exercise balls” to “a handful of various cardio machines and a set of mismatched free weights” to “a miniature health club with several machines, a spa and a trainer named Rick.”

For the past couple of months, I have been staying at a hotel with an above-average exercise room. There are no deep-tissue massages available post-workout, but as far as I can tell, all of the equipment was manufactured sometime in the last decade. There are three treadmills, two elliptical machines, a recumbent bike, a set of weights and medicine balls, and a rack of clean sweat towels (bonus!).

I’m staying in the middle of a very urban area, which means there aren’t many outdoor running options. (Unless your idea of a workout involves dodging the unsavory characters lurking in city bus stops.) As such, I have become somewhat of an early morning fixture in the hotel gym.

It’s not a bad place to get in a workout, especially if, like most hotel guests, you’re only in town for a couple of nights. The problem for extended-stayers like myself is that everyone else walks through the door knowing that they are probably not going to see you—or anyone else in there—ever again.

It’s kind of like going out in a city where nobody knows you—for one night, you can act like a total ass without having to worry about showing up in your boss’s Facebook feed the next morning. In a hotel gym, you can act like a total ass without having to worry about running into the stranger on the other treadmill at next week’s kickboxing orientation.

Once gym etiquette goes out the window, it’s total anarchy. In this dog-eat-dog, every-man-for-himself kind of atmosphere, you better snag the equipment you want the moment you see it open.

The way to do this, apparently, is to wipe your sweaty head with a fresh towel and then drape said towel over the piece(s) of equipment you wish to use later. That way, you can hop on the treadmill for another 30 minutes knowing that the 25-pound dumbbells will be waiting for you whenever you’re ready.

While you’re at it, it’s probably a good idea to reserve one of the two benches in the room using another rag soaked in your own perspiration—you know, just in case someone else is thinking about using it sometime in the next half-hour.

Oh, and heaven forbid that you screw up your circuit due to lack of floor space for your burpees. You should definitely go ahead and dibs some real estate using a stretching mat topped with—you guessed it—another damp sweat towel.

When you see another guest circling around “your” bench with a confused look on her face, it’s best to just stare straight ahead and pretend not to notice. She’ll go away eventually. And if she doesn’t, you can always play dumb. (“Oh, oops! I didn’t mean to leave that towel there. Silly me!”)

If she calls you a jerk and storms off, who cares? You’re checking out in 45 minutes, and you don’t plan on returning anytime soon.

Before you leave, though, you should stop by the front desk and lick every apple in the dish of complimentary fruit—just in case your plans change and you end up coming back later.

Liar, liar, spandex shorts on fire

Fifty percent of runners admit to occasionally fudging their PRs, and the other half are liars.

Actually, I guess that makes all of us liars. Which is why it should come as no surprise that my opening sentence was, in fact, a lie. I totally pulled that statistic out of Sarah Palin’s brain thin air.

Some might argue that lying is simply part of human nature. When was the last time you made an honest statement about your weight? What about your age? Your salary? Average number of drinks per week? The number of fun-size Milky Ways you’ve eaten today?

But seriously, how many times have you rounded down a race time when someone asks you how you did? I remember the day I finally broke 2:14 in the 800 meters for the first time. Well, technically I didn’t break 2:14. I ran an altitude-adjusted 2:13.98. But that didn’t stop me from telling anyone who would listen that my PR was 2:13.

I ran my first half-marathon a couple of months ago. My real time? 1:28:34. But that didn’t account for water stops. Or my infamous Porta-Potty fiasco. Or time lost on turns. So really, my time was closer to 1:28. And if you adjust for heat and altitude…

I’ve learned that all Facebook statuses relating to run/race times must be taken with a grain of salt. I’m sorry, but when you claim to have run three miles in 17 minutes when I know for a fact that you gave birth two months ago, I’m going to call bullshit.

When I see you at a local 10K three weeks later, a teeny-tiny-intsy-weentsy-itty-bitty part of me will wonder whether your claim was legit, and I will momentarily fret over the possibility of being beaten by someone who, mere weeks ago, was carrying a full-grown human infant inside of her body.

Then I will beat you by four minutes and feel good about it. Later, I will feel guilty and stupid for celebrating my victory. (Although the real victory is that I can celebrate with a post-race beer without having to worry about it tainting my breast milk.)

The bottom line is that numbers are a slippery slope. But there are certain people in this world who aren’t afraid of testing that slope, even if it means collecting a few mud stains along the way. And those people are politicians.

Political figures are always up for a good lie. I think it’s their way of gauging the intelligence of their constituents. Some lies are vague and inconsequential. Nobody seems to care when politicians vow to “do the right thing,” or “fix the system in Washington,” or “create new jobs.” We all know that these guys, if elected, won’t make much headway on any of these promises.

Instead, they will probably father illegitimate children, misappropriate campaign funds or have extramarital relationships with White House interns. And then they will lie about it.

So, by way of deductive reasoning, if runners are liars and politicians are liars, then politicians who run must be ultra-super-duper-mega-liars.

When vice-presidential candidate Paul Ryan claimed that he had run a “two-hour and fifty-something” marathon in a recent radio interview, runners everywhere perked up their ears with great interest. And skepticism.

If you’re reading this blog, you probably know why Ryan’s statement raised so many eyebrows: because running a sub-three-hour marathon is hard. I mean, I barely dipped below 1:30* in my half-marathon, and I’m a pretty good runner**.

Unfortunately for Ryan, confirming the falsity of his marathon time was even easier than confirming the paternity of the Schwarzenegger housekeeper’s son. If Ryan really were a sub-three-hour marathoner, he probably would have been aware of a little thing called race results.

Why he thought he could get away with it is beyond me. Contrary to popular belief, runners are interested in lots of things besides running—including presidential elections. It didn’t take long for the government watchdogs at Runner’s World to call shenanigans on Ryan’s claim. All they had to do was dig up some old race results.

What really gets me is the degree to which Ryan exaggerated his time. Knocking off a minute or two is one thing. I could even forgive rounding to the nearest five minutes. But misstating your PR by more than an hour? That’s just plain dumb!

Ryan’s only saving grace is that (1) most Americans don’t give a hoot about marathon times, and (2) his lie has been overshadowed by even more egregious fabrications, such as Rep. Todd Aiken’s imaginative take on the female reproductive system.

Ryan might lose a few supporters in the running population. He might even inspire a new vocabulary word in the running jargon handbook. (“You ran a 19-minute 5K last weekend? You’ve got to be Pauling me.”)

But, for most voters, Ryan’s stretch of the truth probably won’t be the deciding factor when they cast their ballots in November.

* Has been confirmed by documented evidence.

**Questionable at best.

This, not That

Five months into my half-marathon training, I have come to a terrible conclusion: I’m turning into That Lady.

You know the lady I’m talking about—we’ve all seen her, or her male counterpart, That Guy.

They’re the way-too-serious recreational runners who cruise down the local river trail dressed in head-to-toe tech gear: compression socks, arm sleeves, moisture-wicking visors, GPS watches, hydration belts, Breathe Right strips.

In college, my teammates and I used to make fun of them. Of course, most of us were too poor to afford any sort of gear to supplement the oversized sweats and T-shirts we were issued at the beginning of the season. But come on, nothing makes you more legit than running a Division I college cross-country workout in a grey cotton T-shirt that was made for the world’s fattest cross-country runner.

So anyway, now that I have a real-ish job, I have been able to add to my gear arsenal. When someone suggested that I try GU in order to combat the “ugh” feeling that I experience at around mile eight of my long runs, I went to the store and bought a whole bunch of GU packs.

And just like that, I became That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts before long runs.

The only problem was that ingesting the GU mid-run caused an unfavorable reaction in my GI tract. My first thought was, “Shit—did I check the expiration date on that mayonnaise?”

Turns out, Best Foods had nothing to do with my mishap. I had completely overlooked the fact that GU is supposed to be consumed with water. Otherwise, you don’t digest it properly. Rookie mistake.

Soon, I was That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts and plans her runs around designated water stops. I even considered planting water bottles along my routes.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. If you’ve ever Googled “Public water fountains in [insert your town here],” then you most likely have played the role of That Lady or That Guy at some point in your life.

Right around the time when I was researching algebraic equations that could help me determine the water and GU intake intervals that would maximize my energy levels, I realized that I had gone too far.

When I started training for this stupid race, the goal simply was to finish. Once I got a couple of long runs under my belt and realized that I was definitely capable of finishing 13.1 miles, the goal was to crack the top 10.

By the time I was crunching numbers like a tax accountant with a meth problem, I was determined to win at all costs.

The thing is, I’m the kind of person who can drive herself insane over the most minute details of a race—stuff that has nothing to do with fitness or preparation.

The 800 meters was bad enough. During my warm-up routine, my mind was usually consumed by a continuous stream of ridiculous worries. Should I wear tights or not? Is my ponytail too high? Do I have a visible panty line? Is Dancing With the Stars on tonight?

And that’s only for a two-lap race. Multiply it by, oh, 26, and you can see why I so vehemently resist becoming That Lady. My obsessive personality can’t handle That Lady.

Therefore, I’ve decided that I shall henceforth be known as This Lady. This Lady eats GU whenever she feels like eating GU. This Lady doesn’t give a rip about VPL. And This Lady is going to kick some serious ass next weekend.

Lap of luxury

Last week, I had the great fortune of staying at a luxury resort on someone else’s dime. What I saved in dollars and cents, however, was negated by what I paid in pride and dignity.

Here’s the thing: different people have different definitions of “luxury.” Some might consider a lobby full of art galleries, designer stores and five-star restaurants to be “luxurious.”

I, on the other hand, feel that “luxury” implies that all possible needs and desires of each customer have been preemptively identified and addressed. This is why they sell $150 golf shirts 10 feet from the front desk; they anticipated the business executive who checks in and immediately realizes that he has forgotten to pack the proper attire for his afternoon “meeting” on the links. This is also why $5 bottles of Evian water have been strategically placed just steps inside of each hotel room; they anticipated that I would be thirsty after hauling all of my crap through the “luxury” lobby and up to the 12^th floor. (Luckily, I anticipated that everything would be marked up 500% at the resort, which is why I brought my own bottle of water.)

So anyway, you would think they would have anticipated that some guests might have reason to make a discreet entrance through a strategically placed side door, thus bypassing all of the ritzy mumbo jumbo going on in the lobby. Maybe they had a late night at the floating bar. Maybe they passed out on the beach and would rather not take a walk of shame past a five-star restaurant with sand in their hair and the faint smell of expensive liquor emanating from their pores.

Or maybe—just maybe—they are returning from a muddy five-mile lap around the park in warm, humid conditions. Maybe they sweated profusely while running said lap, and as a result collected several freshly killed insect specimens on their forehead. Maybe they would rather not walk though a pretentious “luxury” lobby in sweat-drenched clothes, with a gnat graveyard on their face and fresh mud splatters on their legs.

Trust me, I did my best to avoid the inevitable humiliation that comes with sporting a sweat-soaked T-shirt in a room full of rich people. I knew that there had to be an ultra-secret door for ultra-famous celebrities who didn’t want to cause a scene each time they arrived at the hotel.

Plus, there are plenty of celebrities who work out (or at least attempt to). I mean, come on—Oprah ran a marathon for Christ’s sake. Do you think Ms. Winfrey would have to drag herself through the lobby with a sweaty butt and a buggy forehead after going for a jog with her personal training entourage (and Gayle)? I don’t think so.

Oprah would be whisked away through some special entrance as soon as she arrived, and no one would see or hear from her again until she had been de-bugged and made-up by her 10-person glamour squad.

With few options to choose from, I went with the obvious plan: pretending that I was European royalty.

I looked around nervously, trying to form a look of expectation—mixed with a tiny bit of impatience—on my face. In my mind, my facial expression said, Hel-loooo! Where are my special resort henchman? I need to be escorted to my room immediately. I cannot walk through those doors like a normal person, because I am not a normal person. I’m...uh...the princess of Liechtenstein!

In reality, I probably just looked lost and stupid, like I was thinking, Hmmm…maybe I was staying at some other really huge resort that looks exactly like this one. If only I knew how to read!

Once I realized that the whole faux-fame thing probably wasn’t going to pan out, I jumped right into Plan B: pretending that I was on the hotel staff.

I saw some workers going in and out of what appeared to be a door for maintenance staff. I decided that there had to be some kind of hidden network of hallways for hotel employees so they wouldn’t be traipsing through the luxury lobby all day long. The problem was that I needed what appeared to be an employee-only keycard to unlock the door. I knew I had neither the courage nor the sleight of hand to pull off a successful key heist.

Instead, I slowly moved closer to the door with the intent of slipping in unnoticed the next time it swung open. But of course, I forgot that I’m not smooth enough to pull off a feat like that either. Somewhere between awkwardly bumping into one of the valet guys and narrowly avoiding a door-to-face collision, I realized that I was just going to have to suck it up and speed-walk through a crowd of millionaires, pretending that I didn’t have a beachball-sized sweat splotch on my back.

With as much pride as I could muster, I marched through the revolving glass door, past the concierge desk, past the fancy art gallery with the snooty attendant, past the shop with the annoyingly perfect piles of folded golf shirts, past the posh cocktail lounge where all of the trophy wives were sipping on $17 appletinis.

By the time I arrived at the elevators, I was certain that most of the resort patrons were pointing and whispering about how disgusting I looked. I pressed my sweaty index finger on the “up” button repeatedly. I swear I stood there longer than it took Oprah to run that marathon.

When I finally got back to my room, I closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. I was pretty sure I couldn’t show my face downstairs for the rest of the night. Fortunately, they anticipated that, which is why there was a room service menu conveniently placed next to the phone.

Oh, to live in the lap of luxury! 

Farcebook

If you thought your biggest social media concern was deciding whether to accept your mom’s Facebook friend request, think again. Being careless with your privacy settings could lead to sharing your status updates with not only your mom, but everyone else in the world (and their mom) too. Even worse, you could end up becoming a subject of ridicule on this blog (see below).

Thanks to openbook.org, Internet users all over the world can search thousands of Facebook profiles for whatever keywords they wish. The results are often quite hilarious. It’s the cyber equivalent of spending an afternoon unabashedly staring at strangers at Walmart/a water park/a Willie Nelson concert. If you enjoy the rush of hilarity that comes with watching obese people negotiate inner tubes, you’ll eat up the jaw-dropping, for-eff's-sake status updates found on Openbook.

Recently, I logged on to Openbook and tried plugging a few running-related words and phrases into the search engine. Here are some of the top results (I have graciously blacked out the names of my subjects in order to protect the guilty/stupid):

I kind of have to agree with Xavier’s reasoning. People who run and speak Castilian Spanish are generally very gifted medical professionals.

No one. And it sounds like you might be having some pacing issues, Robyn.

This is a prime example of why the vast majority of dieting attempts fail. Honestly, I blame the Big Mac for being so juicy and satisfying. Meanwhile, on the other end of the spectrum…

She would, but Junior up there already ate it. Speaking of being judgmental…

I’ve heard cross-country runners described as “awkward,” “dorky,” and “sexually undesirable,” but “asshole” is definitely a new one. Thanks, Kevin. You have broadened my insult horizons.

 And I won't talk about what I call our next lucky subject...

Thanks for the clarification, Chel. I never would have guessed that cross country is not up your alley.

Referring to your middle school years as your athletic glory days? Jeez, at this rate you'll be a member of the washed-up townie club before you even graduate from high school. 

The minimalist movement has spread to MIDDLE SCHOOLERS?!? For the love of Vibram, this fad must be stopped!

 The only epic failure here is your blatant disrespect for the English language.

Seriously, did the government cut funding for spelling instruction or something?

This poor girl never had a chance. Just look at the way her parents decided to spell her name.

What, you couldn’t get a hold of anyone on your hand phone?

I know, right? Collarbones are so dumb. What, like providing structure for the skeletal frame of the entire upper body is important? Give me a break (pun intended).

What is going on at track practice these days?

At least everyone did not have poop all over their face and hands.

Complaining about the weather is an overarching theme of most track meets. It is always either too hot:

Or too cold:

OK, I have to comment on this one. This is a prime example of why sentence construction is so important, Destiny. According to your statement, Boomer and Gage got struck by lightening after they competed. Also, your Toddlers and Tiaras profile picture is totally creepy.

Sometimes, the weather is so extreme that meets have to be called off—much to the excitement of people like this lady:

By the way, NOWSHECANCLEANHERROOM.com is not an actual website. I checked.

And finally, my favorite track-related post: