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May 29, 2007

how do you spell poo-nah-nee?

Deb's Buffalo Marathon Report!!

It was only fitting that Madeline and I drove to the Nissan Buffalo Marathon in her brand spanking new car bearing the same name. The name Nissan, to me, connotes durability, toughness and reliability. As I write this just 25 hours after crossing the finish line, however, I feel less like a Nissan and more like a battered, corroded Hyundai with a badly knocking engine and a dragging muffler.

We arrived in style, with at least a half an hour to spare, and quickly made our way towards the Expo, which (stupidly) ends at 4PM. Following the Expo, we ate our faces off at the delicious free pasta dinner. Who knew that ten meatballs could go down so smoothly? (In my defense, they were meatballs of unusually small diameter.) I self-righteously warned Madeline away from the salad, as fiber and long distance running frequently result in a not-so-pretty aftermath, but she partook nonetheless. “Silly Madeline”, I smugly thought to myself, as I ate anything and everything that was NOT in the lettuce family. Unbeknownst to me, however, lettuce might as well be Immodium, compared to the evil Gu which I consumed the next day.

I had naively believed that the Gu would make me a running superhero, and that the caffeine would give wings to my feet and allow me to soar across the finish line, humiliating all the elite runners who were stupid enough to compete with me. Ha. It didn’t make my feet any faster, but it sure lent velocity to my traitorous bowels. By mile 13 I was compelled to make a port-a-potty stop, lest I soil my fabulous new turquoise running shorts. Imagine my horror, then, when said running shorts were down around my ankles and some JACKASS plows into MY port-a-potty head first, earning for himself both a noseful and an eyeful. I shrieked in a pitch frequently heard in horror movies, but rarely in real life, whilst Jackass slammed the door shouting “I’m sorry. Oh my God. I’m sorry.” “Oh my god”, indeed. Did I mention that prior to this very rude interruption I was experiencing severe technical difficulties with the toilet paper, and that my sweat soaked shaking fingers were just ineffectually leaving toilet paper balls all over my body? And that I have THE stankiest poo? And that I was scowling ferociously at my Garmin, (AKA “Vic” – don’t ask) which indicated that I’d never make my fantasy BQ time, and that I’d barely make my real goal of a sub-4 hour, if I didn’t immediately purge myself of the remnants of those ten tiny meatballs? [Editor's note: Deb's misfortune in the port-o-john is apparently a recurring problem at races. See Nytro's Ogden Marathon Report for another horrific example of poorly locking johns. Great. All I need--another reason to not be able to poo before a race.]

Immediately following this humiliating exchange, I seriously consider taking up permanent residence in the port-a-potty, because coming out of the port-a-potty and facing the CROWD of spectators sitting directly across from me is more than I can possibly bear. I have brief fantasies of Chuck and the kids coming to visit, and of quality family time conducted in the confines of our cozy shit hut. The stank of my own poo fermented with strange poo, however, brings me back to my senses and I burst out of there like a Kenyan off the starting blocks. A saner man would know better than to ever mention this incident again, but Jackass not only apologizes once more, he persists in speaking to me every time we pass one another. “Looking good,” he says, or “You’ve got it!” I don’t quite know if he’s referring to my speed or to my private parts (ok – formally private, now public. Very, very, very public), and so I do my best to ignore him.

The next thirteen miles pass in a haze of pain and fatigue. I talk occasionally to other runners, but mostly to myself. I wonder why Buffalo didn’t clean up the broken glass which litters the roads and which surely has cut the feet of the crazy barefoot runner I saw at the start line. I wonder how Madeline fared in her half marathon, and I wonder if there will be pizza left for me at the finish line. I wonder why it is that Gu is stronger than the double dose of anti-diarrhea medication that I take prior to the start of every long run. I wonder why they don’t just market Gu as the answer to your constipation problems, rather than as an energy fluid. I wonder if Jackass is even a runner at all or if he is just a dirty pervert who rips open port-a-potty doors to check out the poonanies of runners too weary and stupid to operate the lock. I wonder if we will make it back to the hotel before checkout, or if we will have to replace Madeline’s new car scent with the malodorous stank of sweat soaked pits, feet and other unmentionable body parts on the long ride home. With all of this wondering comes slow but steady progress, and I eventually see the obelisk which marks the near end of the marathon. A kind volunteer says. “You’re under four” and when he sees my skeptical expression he repeats himself with such sincerity that I know it must be true. I hear cheering around the corner, and through my sweat and tears I can make out Madeline’s orange shirt and the red numbers of the finish clock. Of the five numerals displayed, I note only the first, which is a beautiful, beautiful “3”.

Official stats– 3:58:24
9:06 pace

Posted by mryonker at 09:03 PM | Comments (1)

the race report, buffalo half

Memorial day weekend has become a two-day pilgrimage for D and me with a solid set of rituals: Saturday is the village-wide garage sale, so we each spend the morning scouring our town for bargains before we leave, planning our convergence for noon.

Inevitably I run late, but since I drive D must wait for me (ha ha!).

We throw our bags of running stuff into the back of the Versa (oh, how I LOVE our new car!) and we're off. The trek to Buffalo is uneventful and we make record time, arriving at the Hyatt to pick up our race packets. As usual, the Hyatt lobby is chaotic: a line for check-in snakes around nearly into the bar/atrium. D and I smirk smugly and go straight upstairs to the expo--we will NOT be putting up with the Hyatt's incompetence this year.

Once at the expo, D and I cue up: she at the marathon table, me at the half. I have a fleeting pang of something hard to identify; it's like a yearning for the "real" marathon, a bit of shame for not being in the line I should be, a bit of embarrassment maybe that I'm only standing to get a red half number (the scarlet number!) rather than getting that black one. The feeling is fleeting, however, and when I get my goody bag and my bib the general excitement of a race overcomes me.

We trek to the Catholic church to stuff ourselves with spaghetti and meatballs. Somehow this simple meal is the best-tasting pasta I've ever had. D and I eat slowly, watching other runners wander in to the bingo hall, identifying those we remember from last year. I recognize a woman, probably in her 60s, who passed me last year near mile 22.

Our check-in at the Days Inn several blocks north of the starting line is uneventful; our room is exceptionally clean and the staff friendly. Our only disappointment is that the continental breakfast does not open until 7, which is gun time, so after we scope out the room and settle in a bit, we venture back out to a grocery store for some cup noodles that we can prepare in the room with the coffee maker. We return to the room and watch Forrest Gump (a great inspirational running flick!) and retire early, around 10. I sleep amazingly well.

Race morning we walk south to the starting lines; the weather is perfect, overcast and cool but not cold (about 65, if I remember right). I am only unhappy with the way my shorts are behaving. They are threatening to creep into my crotch and I must yank them down every-so-often. The marathon and half-marathon start lines are one block away from each other, so I walk D over to her start and give her a big hug. I am briefly melancholy as I leave her, but as I join the runners at my own starting line, and as the Canadian national anthem begins, I realize that a runner in a race like this cannot possibly be lonely--there were 500 people standing in the street with me, all of whom would undoubtedly have a kind word and a smile if I approached them.

As the gun goes off and we make our way slowly across the mats, I focus on my "strategery": run ten minutes + walk one, concentrating on light and quick foot turn over. I have not really trained for this race, save for a handful of slow three milers as I let my knee mend. But I haven't had any pain for a couple weeks, and I've promised myself that I won't do anything dumb and re-injure myself during this run.

And then I begin to pick out runners that I will beat.

The couple whose green T-shirts say "Bride 2 be" and "Groom 2 be." Surely they are running this race as a bonding ritual and are not planning to PR. The man who has many gadgets and wires attached to his person: his mp3 player, gps, camelpack, heart rate monitor. Surely all the alarms and appliances will require his attention and hold him up.

The first 4 miles are uneventful; I average between a 10-11 minute mile, even with the walk breaks. Running along the lake and through the marina is pleasant and I distract myself by looking at the sailboats and watching for D. The first time we pass one another she is oblivious to my cheering ("Moose! Moose!") and I nearly collide with another runner.

The course has changed since last year, and so once we come out of the marina instead of running north we run south, still along the water, through an industrial district and then adjacent to a nature preserve. Along the way I chat briefly with several people and choose more people that I will beat: a woman wearing a pristine white tech shirt and pressed-looking black wind pants who's hair at mile 7 is still completely unmussed and her armpits dry. A pair of women who, at mile 9, have a mini-celebration with themselves because, "Holy F&*#! We've never run *this* far before!!" A guy whose heels scuff the asphalt at every footfall, and whose Under Armor get-up looks a little too put together.

Seeing the wind generators along the lake warmed the cockles of my heart. And that sounds goofy, but I'm very serious: seeing the large swooping blades of the turbines quickened my pulse. The same way I've been culturally positioned to feel fear and dread at the site of nuke stacks, the sight of wind generators makes me feel peaceful and happy.

Somehow I missed the mile marker at mile 10, and so when the mile 11 marker came it was like a special gift. Delirium is not really a factor in half-marathons, so I did not have the urge to kiss a sweaty stranger as a result, but it was exhilarating nonetheless.

I skipped my last walking break and ran the last two miles straight through, passing ALL my targets in addition to several people I hadn't seen in miles.

It. Felt. Amazing. The half-marathon is a perfect distance: just enough to push and test, but not so much that the body is a crippled mess at the end.

Official time: 2:21:50 Average pace per mile: 10:50.

Posted by mryonker at 06:18 AM | Comments (2)

May 22, 2007

the busy

After a week of painting and cleaning, and then a weekend of carousing with B's family up from VA for B's graduation, I slept for 12 hours, nearly straight.

We returned from the graduation ceremony + dinner on Sunday night at about 6:30. I promptly put my fanny on the couch and slept until bedtime, whereupon I woke, brushed my teeth, and then went to bed.

I woke up Monday morning to put the kids on the bus and give Little J a bowl of cereal (or, "bow seeyall apple gacks"), and then sat down on the couch for a bit of _It's a Big Big World_, only to fall asleep AGAIN for about 2 more hours. (Luckily, B is off this week, so I was not neglecting Little J in my excessive snooze-fest.)

Then Monday after I woke up from my million years of sleeping, we went out to run some errands. Y'all know we've had some car trouble? One of those errands we ran involved the purchase of a brand new car. Now, we have a car that will not stall, will start whenever we need it to, will not drop the transmission on the interstate, and will not require B to crawl under it and change rusted break lines, rusted exhaust, or any other rusted rustiness (for another couple years of CNY living, anyway).

It is black, 6-speed, and mighty nice. And now we're mighty broke. But B will be able to get to work next week when he starts his new job! Happy days, people.

Posted by mryonker at 11:31 PM | Comments (2)

May 16, 2007

grateful

Today I am grateful. It is a day of thanksgiving.

Thank you to my amazing dissertation committee, who during my prospectus hearing yesterday were supportive and full of ideas and renewed my enthusiasm for my project.

Thank you to my mom and my sister and all my far-flung friends (esp you, digital penny) whom I have ignored in some fashion over the past few weeks as I finished the book chapter (it's sent!) and wrapped up the semester. Thanks for loving me anyway, and calling to talk to the answering machine, and knowing I'll call back but only briefly to say I'm too busy to chat, really, and I'll call back later. And then I don't call back, 'cause the busy hasn't really gone away yet.

Thanks be to my B, who yesterday chased kids in a field across the street from the potluck while I visited with my friends and colleagues. Thanks to him for wrestling Excel into submission and putting up with my convoluted grading system (I thought it would be easier??) so that I could actually record grades.

I'm also grateful that:

Collin earned tenure here at SU!

Susan graduated! (Hooray dradams! sez B)

Derek also passed his prospectus hearing yesterday. Nice work, man. He's up for some Olympian CCR-speed matriculating or something.

and Chris is now offically ABD, having passed her oral defense this morning.

Lots to be grateful for today.

Posted by mryonker at 12:00 AM | Comments (5)

May 10, 2007

not enough awe

According to beloved B, my post yesterday didn't appropriately convey the awesome-ness that is Little J, who is LITTLE (three short years he's been on this planet) and who now can ride his bike without training wheels.

I guess I've been living so long with super-freak kids, my baseline for what's extraordinary is a bit off.

I will add, though, that I am thrilled that Little J loves his hot pink bike. I got it at the thrift store for $4--a great deal in my book--and figured we could invest in a $2 can of spray paint if he objected. But so far he hasn't complained one iota.

Posted by mryonker at 08:58 AM | Comments (4)

May 09, 2007

listing

The rundown since I've posted last:

1. Finished, almost, the article I've been working on for what seems like forever.

2. Decided that because of my knee injury, that I'm taking off from running until June. Yes, this means that I will not run in Buffalo (though I will still be on as D's support staff--and to this I look forward! I plan to bring my bicycle and chase her around with a bull horn. Just kidding. No, really.) This decision has made me cranky, for the most part, and is making my body wonk out. My legs are jumpy and itchy (mostly at night), my digestive cycle is completely out of wack, and I'm tired during the day and awake at night.

3. Also decided to cut out coffee for a while. This might be contributing to the tired/awake problem I list above. I went for a day last week without a cup of coffee and suffered through the worst caffeine-lack headache. I'm trying to teach myself to be that casual coffee drinker once again, rather than that lunatic who bribes her husband with inappropriate favors so he'll go get her some Dunkin.

4.Watched, in amazement, as Little J rode his bike without training wheels on Monday. Tuesday morning he asked if he could ride his bike to school, and so I obliged him, thinking I could walk beside him. The joke was on me; I had to CHASE him he rode so fast. Before I walked over to pick him up, I decided to put on some jog bras for the chase home.

5. Ate for dinner tonight: 1 avocado mushed with a hunk of cream cheese, garlic powder, and some lime juice. And some chips to carry it to my mouth.

Posted by mryonker at 06:20 PM | Comments (2)

May 06, 2007

remembering what's important

When my kids went down to stay with my mom during their spring break, they all came back a little bit different. Not only is my mom and the rest of my family made of strong personalities, but my kids are like me in that they tend to take on the mannerisms of the people around them. (It only takes me about 5 minutes in West Virginia to start drawling my way through conversations with the convenience store clerk.)

H and Big J came back with a bit of drawl and a bit of sparky Chicago (where my mom is from originally). Little J, however, came back not with any discernable change in accent. Instead, he came back with the habit of repeating the last, or to his mind most important, word or phrase of whatever has just been said, sometimes prefaced with a "Yeah."

Me: Oh, it's SUCH a nice, sunny day outside! You should go outside and swing on the swingset, Little J.

LJ: Yeah, swing.
***
Me [to Brian]: Should we put some vinegar into the pulled pork? Or should we put some Dino sauce?

Brian: ...

LJ: Yeah, Dino sauce.
***

Imagine Rain Man, but instead with a more confident, bright inflection. And imagine him repeating all kinds of crazy words, like "approximately" and "graduation day"--things that 3 year olds normally don't say.

He also now says "Cool," in response to dang near everything. He spent an afternoon last weekend "helping" the neighbor D rake pine needles out of her yard, and asked her question after question. D, being a most saintly kindergarten teacher, answered him patiently, to which Little J repeatedly responded "Cool."

But most important, and the impetus for this post, has been Little J's new imploring request: "I want some loves." This is most certainly from my mom, who is always after the kids to "give her some love." Little J learned quickly that I cannot refuse this request, no matter what I'm doing or what is happening; if he asks for some loves ("yoves"), I am going to reach down and scoop him up so he can bury his soft cheek in the space of my neck.

For the past week I've been on a pretty massive writing spree, working feverishly. And if Little J is home, he wanders back into the office every so often to ask for yoves. And I turn away from the machine, grab him and he sits on my lap for a spell; we'll rock in the office chair for a moment and he'll breathe a few sighs. Then he'll climb down and I'll turn back to the machine, refreshed; so far he's not made me forget what I was in the middle of saying.

This afternoon B and I wrenched ourselves free from the office and played in the back yard with the kids. In the summer we make it a habit to go outside and play with them in the evenings--we do a lot of jumping rope and playing frisbee. Little J was intent today on playing baseball, and we bought some beginner lacrosse thingies (don't EVEN know what they are called) to mess around with. While H and B struggled to play lacrosse-style catch, I pitched a squishy softball-sized nerf to Little J, who apparently bats left. And you know how Big J is a freakishly adept hockey player? Yeah. Little J, who is THREE, can hit a ball with a bat when it is pitched to him. Consistently. As in, it is not an accident when it happens. And he's batting left, but he writes and colors and eats with the right.

Oh, can you say switch-hitter? Can you say watch out little league? My monster toddler, destructo boy...he's all mellowed out and grown up...and is going to be a baseball player.

I love baseball. :)

Posted by mryonker at 10:02 PM | Comments (1)