Time for a Reboot

I have goals, and I don't mind getting dirty to achieve them.

Hello.

I'm back on the blogging landscape after a two-year hiatus. It was a reluctant but necessary sabbatical, born of my engagement on the front lines of Life's Great Scrimmage. To wit, battling the external and internal forces that vie to take me down as I juggle kids, school, work, and relationship and personal maintenance. Keeping your head above these murky waters takes a lot of elbow grease and mental effort, as evidenced by me in the above picture.

But though it's been a tough stretch, especially in the last year, I never give up, because a) my kids need me to keep it together; b) there are just too many amazing things to do and see and experience to pack it in prematurely (that's me being inspirational); and c) what doesn't kill you makes you do crazy things that just might kill you. And by "you," I mean "me." And by "crazy things that might kill you/me," I mean this, which I'll be competing in on June 1.

The Spartan Race is one of the leaders in the "adventure race" category, competing against Warrior Dash and Tough Mudder for the title of Most Extreme Obstacle Course for Regular People Ever. There are knockoffs, including an amusing zombie rendition, but these are widely considered the big three. The New York Times has published a couple of engaging articles covering the genre, including this and this, and there's a whole intriguing substory about the not-so-friendly competitiveness among the guys who created these individual races. Will Dean, the evil genius behind Tough Mudder, has been called "the Mark Zuckerberg of extreme sports," and that's not meant to be a compliment.

However, from my own obsessive research and personal experience (I completed the 2010 Warrior Dash at Windham Mountain in gloriously pathetic time), I've found that all of these events are simply anchored by mud, fire, barbed wire, costumed competitors, and a Woodstock-esque festival ambience replete with music, meat-on-a-stick, and beer, all of which preclude anyone from taking these challenges too seriously. Not that you don't deserve bragging rights for completing the course, but I'd love to know what someone like Dean Karnazes thinks.

Anyway, I'm now registered for my latest adventure, ready to start training in earnest. I'm the world's laziest human being (I'm not even initial-capping that title for emphasis, that's how lazy I am), so it's always exciting to see how these exercise endeavors turn out. It's sad and funny and heartbreaking and inspirational and devastating and boring, all at the same time!

The toughest part for me, though, will be to get back into the groove of longer-form writing, another one of my goals for 2013. My 9-5 job requires condensing lengthy items and concepts into 100-word blurbs, or "infosnacks." This, along with Twitter, has proven terrific for boosting my literary/semantic discipline and conciseness, but pretty terrible for my attention span and ability to string together more than five sentences in one sitting. Fewer than 24 months ago, I was whipping up brain-asploding papers for an attempted English master's (more on that particular battle another time), but I don't think anyone gives a crap about reading my 25-page manifesto entitled "Abelard's Insurrection: Rejection of the Cattle Thief's Conventions in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao." If you are interested, I'll send you the abstract and we'll take it from there.

So here I go again, on my own (H/T Whitesnake). I'm going to resurrect my Warrior Hauswife Facebook page, so keep up with me that way, or head over to Twitter to witness my daily brain dumps.

Day 49: Back to the Quaker

The Quaker dude looks friendly enough, but his smug, steely-eyed stare makes me automatically drop 5 pounds.

I'm back over 160 pounds (160.8, to be exact). Technically, that's within the healthy weight range for my height (I'm 5'9"), and people are often surprised I weigh that much, because the poundage is distributed pretty evenly. However, I like to keep it between 155–159. Ideally, I'd like to be between 145–149, so another 10 pounds down the drain would be awesome. That means whenever I hit 160 again, I have to up the exercising and control my eating habits better.

Eating oatmeal every morning for breakfast helps me drop few pounds. A good virus does the trick, too, but I'm enjoying the summer and don't really feel like sacrificing my current state of sun-kissed vibrancy for a slimmer figure. I could inhale oatmeal every day for long stretches -- I once consumed it every morning for a month, with absolutely no variation in how it was prepared or what was included with it. Some people might get sick of that routine, but I'm what you call a systematic eater for breakfast and lunch (I need some culinary spontaneity with dinner, though).

I used to eat flavored oatmeal, but I didn't like consuming all the added sugar, so now I prepare two packs of plain oatmeal with skim milk (water makes it too watery for my taste, and I like the added calcium) and add a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, blueberries, bananas, and whatever other edible items I have lying around. I'm usually sated with this meal, plus coffee, and I immediately feel leaner and meaner.

After a few weeks of hitting the Quaker (or any private-label brand -- plain oatmeal is plain oatmeal), I don't crave higher-fat breakfast repasts. That said, on September 20, the day after the Dash, you can bet your booty I'll infiltrate the nearest Long Island diner to scarf down a cheese-laden omelette with home fries and a gigantic buttered English muffin. Warriors deserve rewards in the form of over-the-top repasts.

Day 50: Week in Review

Man up, hausewife!

Thursday: 30 minutes, 2.5 miles (soooo close to 2.6 I could feel it!)
Did what I said previously: 5.0 for the first 0.5 of each mile, then 5.5 for the second halves.

Next up: Adding a 5.5 to 1.0–1.5. If I can't do it, I can try alternating the next night on the 5.0's (a minute at 5.5, then back to 5.0); then the next night, try to make the middle one entirely 5.5, and then try again. I bet this doesn't make sense to anyone else but myself, but screw it, it's my blog and workout journal, I can write in hieroglyphics if I want.

The rest of the week was pretty horrid. Horrid in that I pretty much walked like a 90-year-old, because I figured it was better than nothing, and I just didn't have the energy to do more than that. My friend Donna thinks I might be anemic. It's either that or I have chronic fatigue syndrome or general malaise (I was actually diagnosed with this once) or some other crazy illness, because shit just ain't right. Gots to get me to a doctor ASAP.

Friday: 30 minutes, 1.5 miles
Walked at 3.5 the entire pathetic way.

And you thought that was bad:

Saturday: 30 minutes, 1.0 mile
Walked (if you can call it that) at 2.0 the whole way. For some of the time, I even had my head resting on the treadmill console. If Jillian Michaels had seen me, I would have had my ass kicked.

Sunday: 30 minutes, 1.0 mile
At least tonight I kept my head up!

So the record remains at 2.5 miles in 30 minutes (though I'm oh-so-close to breaking that 2.6-mile marker), or 43:03 minutes for the entire 3.3 miles. Good to know I have seven weeks left to get my act together.

Day 51: Warrior Observation

Yeah, sure, take a load off, Heineken bottle -- you did your job and made me gorge on everything in the pantry.

Alcohol by itself doesn't add too many empty calories for me: I don't drink that much (well, relative to Jenn 2.0); I usually drink lite beer only during drop-weight/get-in-shape periods; and if I attempt a mixed-drink montage, I stay away from sugary calorie-busters, sticking with coconut water, diet soda, or seltzer.

It's my insatiable desire to devour everything in the house, plus make a bonus Taco Bell run, after imbibing that's not good for my waistline or my well-being.

Day 52: Warrior Question of the Day

Michael Phelps may be able to eat 12,000 calories a day, but something tells me I'm not at that athletic level yet to justify such gluttony.

So I'm trying to work out like a madwoman and transform into a lean, mean fighting machine come September 19. Yet the more I work out, the more ravenous I become. I know you need extra calories when you're exercising more, but by "extra calories," I don't think they mean multiple pints of ice cream, bags of potato chips, and insane amounts of cheese and crackers, all of which I've been craving. I never used to eat this crap in such quantities, but I feel like my engine is in overdrive and needs salt, fat, and sugar just to maintain.

Michael Phelps can get away with this, but I fear the same game plan isn't working for me.

Day 53: GTL

Someday I will have abs like this again (though hopefully I won't look as manly).

I succumbed to watching the season premiere of Jersey Shore the other night, and once again I'm intrigued with how they keep their bodies in tip-top shape while consuming "gabbagole" and girlie drinks in such mass quantities. Everyone's privy to the cast's "GTL" (gym-tan-laundry) strategy, but you never really see the "G" part of the equation on the show (or the "L" part, for that matter).

I ponder such things as I shove sour-cream-and-onion potato chips (the baked variety -- that's something, yes?) into my gaping maw while Ronnie, Paulie, Mike, and Vinnie do their best creeping.

Day 54: Taking on the Amusement Park

Despite its rinky-dink appearance, the Tornado rollercoaster at Adventureland is quite scary.

Nothing screams "warrior" like braving an amusement park. This was how I spent this evening: navigating the layout of Adventureland, a Long Island recreational staple that was the subject of a kitschy indie flick last year. The movie was set in 1987, and many of the rides at the actual park look like they haven't been updated since.

I joined four other moms and our manic children for an evening of chaos at the carnival. My warrior activities started with a mad dash from one side of the park to the other to buy a pass for my son before his friends got on the first ride of the night (the booth that sold the passes was on the other end, and everyone else already had theirs). This was followed by more feverish sprinting after my overexcited son as he continually disappeared into the crowd; climbing up stairs and under handrails to board rides that the kids were too short to go on without an accompanying adult (we usually found this out at the last minute); and elbowing through the crowds just to get our water fix from the vending machines.

In other words, not too much different from the running/wall climbing/barbed wire crawls/vying for beer I'll be doing for Warrior Dash.

Day 55: Mr. Sandman, Where Art Thou?

I both hate you and want to be you, you serenely sleeping lass.

I realize that, to be an effective warrior, I probably need a good night's sleep. Yet sleep regularly eludes me.

I wasn't always an insomniac. I still harbor sweet, sweet memories of drifting effortlessly into a heroin-esque hibernation in less than 15 minutes (the often-recommended time for successful sleep induction). Then, around 2000, I suddenly couldn't fall asleep at all. At first I thought I simply wasn't tired or that I was making one too many Starbucks runs during the day -- until the night I never fell asleep at all. My brain just raced and raced all night, accompanied by a disturbing number of dizzy spells the next day.

That incident motivated me to pay a visit to my general practitioner, who sent me for MRIs, EKGs, and other acronym-heavy diagnostics. The conclusion: a diagnosis of vertigo, which apparently set off some kind of chemical imbalance in my fragile brain. No reason was supplied by the medical community, which was more than a little disconcerting. The doc just shrugged and said, "These things happen." Medication pummeled any and all imbalances back into the deep recesses of my gray matter, and the vertigo disappeared.

The insomnia, unfortunately, stuck around. Pregnancy and all-nighters with two colicky infants made things worse, and these days, even when I'm exhausted beyond the level any human should endure, it still takes me at least an hour or two to fall asleep, even if I turn in at 2 a.m. I know it takes me at least this long, not because I keep looking at the clock (the one thing sleep therapists tell you not to do, under any circumstances), but because I have this nifty white-noise machine from Brookstone that I can set to such serene sounds as ocean waves, thunderstorms, and authentic NASA recordings. My special Night Noises, as I call them, are totally creepy (think really bad sci-fi movie), but the Center of Neuroacoustic Research has supposedly invested more than 23 years of research into this stuff, so who am I to doubt? The emanations from my sound-therapy device are quite nice and relaxing, but when the 90-minute timer shuts the machine off, and I'm still analyzing the shadows of the tree branches on my moonlit bedroom wall, something's obviously not working.

Because I still have to rise at ungodly hours to cater to my children, I'm now at the point where I'm regularly subsisting on four or five hours of decent sleep. Maybe six, if I actually turn in before 11 p.m., which is rare. Even on the mornings where my understanding husband (well, somewhat understanding — he's tired all the time, too) lets me try to get a little more shut-eye, I can't tune out the sunlight and the cacophony of crazy children and just end up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, desperately wishing I could just. finally. sleep.

Before I got pregnant with my son, I went back to the doctor in one last-ditch effort to solve my sleep deprivation. I had already tried out a variety of sleep meds (none of which worked), discussed getting a CPAP mask in case I had sleep apnea, and was on the cusp of booking an intriguing-sounding visit to the sleep clinic when I got pregnant and everything went out the window.

That pregnancy was more than six years ago now, yet some of my "sleep hygiene" habits still leave much to be desired. I work on the computer and watch TV way past 8 p.m. (the glowing light from electronic devices overstimulates your brain into not wanting to go to sleep, so doctors recommend turning off all electronics after dinner if you have insomnia); I drink too much coffee, though I've been trying to cut it out after noon or so; and I haven't done so hot in alleviating the major stressors in my life, some of which are beyond my control, others of which are within my control and are just being neglected.

Sometimes I dream (well, really, daydream, because I don't dream at night anymore, which is an unexplained bonus) about going on a weeklong vacation by myself and just sleeping for the entire seven days.

I'm hoping that the day after Warrior Dash, I'll be so drained from completing the obstacle course that I'll finally sleep -- like a noncolicky baby.

Day 56: A Day of Nothing

I believe that you can summon up more energy to take on your daily tasks by completing clearing your mind. I don't know how to meditate, but in that spirit, I keep today's post simple.

Ohmmmmmmmmm....

Day 57: Week in Review

Gonna fly now (just not tonight -- it's been a long week).

Wednesday: 30 minutes, 2.5 miles
Broke last week's 30-minute record today! Slowly inching up on 3.3 miles in 30 minutes. Ran at 5.0 the whole way, save for the last minute, when I went to 5.5. I also didn't count my five-minute warmup walk in this. My goal, I suppose, if I'm to improve in the 30-minute category, is to up each half mile by 0.5 incrementally. I could also do this for the whole 3.3 miles if I'm going by total distance.

So that means next time I run, I'll run the second half-mile of Mile 1 at 0.5 more than I had been previously. The time after that, I'll add 0.5 to the second half of Mile 2. Then after that, 0.5 more speed to the second half of Mile 3 (and maintain that for the last 0.3 miles, cranking it up even more for the last minute). I can front-end it one day at a time onto the first half of each mile, so it would basically take me, hopefully, six training days to up my speed by 0.5 for the whole distance.

This means tomorrow when I run, I have to go at 5.5 for the second half of Mile 1. I can do that!

Does any of this make any sense to anyone other than myself?

Friday: 30 minutes, 2.5 miles
Did what I said above: Ran 5.0 the whole way, save for 5.5 for the 0.5 to 1.0 miles. Next time, I'll do the same, plus go to 5.5 for 1.5-2.0. Plus ran the last minute at 5.5. Nice!

Saturday: 30 minutes, 2.0 miles

Was feeling insanely tired from cleaning out my son's room. If you have children, you know what physical and mental energy this entails, especially if said child is wandering in and out of the room giving annoyingly specific input about what you're allowed to discard and what you're not. It's usually not in sync with your own thoughts on the matter. This led to me walking for the first five minutes, then alternating walking (3.5)/running (6.0) in one-minute increments for 20 minutes, before finally walking the last five. I know, crapout, but I'm trying.

Sunday: 30 minutes, 1.2 miles

Sigh. There's a reason for this performance. Here we go: I spent most of today writing my final paper for class, and Mad Men is on in 51 minutes. I needed an easy day. Sue me.

For now, the record stands at 2.5 miles for 30 minutes, and 43:03 for the whole 3.3 miles. Getting there!

Day 58: Warrior Question of the Day

Based on the scale, all that "muscle" I've gained should have me looking like this guy.

So why is it that I've been running like a maniac, or at least more than usual, and yet I've lost no weight? In fact, earlier this week, I actually GAINED a couple of pounds (pounds since lost -- maybe it was water retention?).

Please do not say "it's muscle" or I will have to kill you.

Day 59: Better Than Mescaline

Dave Gahan walking around Switzerland in a king's get-up is bizarre enough. Now try watching "The Powerpuff Girls" at the same time you're watching a Depeche Mode video.

In a bizarre turn of events, I ended up running tonight listening to Depeche Mode (I needed to be in an electronica frame of mind) while staring at an episode of "The Powerpuff Girls" on the big screen. That was Jackson's cartoon of choice, and he happened to be watching it in the family room, where my treadmill resides. It's totally hallucinogenic keeping rhythm to "Enjoy the Silence" (one of my all-time favorite songs) while Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup, three kindergarten-aged superheroes, kick butt in Townsville, USA.

This surreal experience brought me back to my adolescent years, when my dad was too cheap to spring for basic cable and the MTV I desperately craved, back when MTV actually played music videos. So, instead, I'd either hold out till 11:30 on Friday nights (when NBC would play "Friday Night Videos," the poor-man's version of music-video programming) or hook myself up to my Sony Walkman and channel-surf, pretending the music piping through my headphones was accompanying whatever images were flashing across the screen. Yes, I actually did this.

Day 60: Warrior Tip of the Day

This is a warrior pose on the beach. My warrior pose on the beach today was more of the prone variety.

This isn't as much of a tip as it is a dispensation:

Warriors aren't required to do a run after a full day of lazing in the sun at the beach, especially when said warrior needed to descend 72 steps to get to the bottom of the bluff. Throw in at least one bathroom break, and a grand total of 288 steps were ascended/descended.

Just like doing the StairMaster, yes?

Day 61: And We Will All...Go Down...Together!

Maybe "Laura" and "Scandinavian Skies" aren't the best sprinting songs, but "Pressure" usually does the trick.

I'm not part of the Long Island love fest that exists for hometown idol Billy Joel, but I always did have a soft spot for The Nylon Curtain. This album has a real raw feel, with melancholy, Beatles-esque songs that almost make me forget about his more gimmicky schlock.

"Goodnight, Saigon" came to mind when my husband informed me last night that he signed up for Warrior Dash. When we met, we were 18, youthful, in our prime -- and we've aged not gracefully together since. So it makes sense that we would run full steam ahead to our demise in pathetic tandem.

I'm psyched that he's doing the Dash with me, mainly because I know he won't let me quit if I start resorting to my typical lameness midway through. He'll appeal to my usually destructive sense of pride and insane ego. He may even throw some money my way. I'm hoping there's a secret savings account I don't know about that he's been waiting to tell me about at just the right moment.

I had a feeling he'd been considering doing this with me for some time now. The definitive indicator was when he suddenly started venturing out at night to do "road work." When he first announced this plan one evening last week, I thought he was going to weed-whack and edge the front curb.

My husband is often averse to change and anything outside of his comfort zone. This is a guy who wanted to spend our honeymoon in New York City. We both worked in Manhattan at the time (we honeymooned in Greece and Turkey -- +1, The Wife). When, at age 30, I had enough disposable income and vacation time to take a mini-backpacking adventure across Europe, I asked him and my best friend to accompany me. My best friend jumped at the chance, while he hemmed and hawed, until I got fed up and simply bought my ticket to Heathrow without him.

But I know he regretted not going. When I called him from a hostel in Paris one evening, he was drowning his sorrows in a pound of Ronzoni by his lonesome. For years afterward, the selective-memory story slowly evolved. First it was "Maybe I should've gone." Then it was "Did you tell me about this trip?" Finally: "You never asked me, I would have gone!" I sensed this same restlessness about Warrior Dash. His initial ambivalence changed to curiosity, then to intrigue, and finally to a crushing, burning desire to postpone his impending shoulder surgery and go for the gold, or at least a very cool Viking helmet, which I'm sure he'll give to our son. Screw that, I'm keeping mine.

Honestly, this race won't take him down. Despite all his histrionics every night when he limps back in the door, he regularly runs at least three or four miles in pretty good time. He spent the duration of 2009 running EVERY DAY on the treadmill (an inexplicable physical challenge he set for himself and completed). Did I mention he used to run cross-country in high school? I'm not sure how he'll fare on the climbing obstacles, considering the massive calcium deposits that are clogging up his joints (hence the postponed surgery), but I have a feeling he'll do pretty well overall.

As long as he leaves just enough energy to drag my sorry ass across that finish line after the final fire jump.

Day 62: It's All in the Timing

I know how you feel, kid -- especially if it's before 8 a.m.

Trying to find the ideal time to run is pretty much a crapshoot for me. I usually find myself on the treadmill after 10 p.m., mainly because the day has disappeared before I know what's hit me. I've tried exercising at all different times of day, hoping to hit upon that sweet spot where I'm fully energized, raring to go for miles and miles, crossing that finish line in my head to imaginary applauding fans. Indulge me my delusions of grandeur, I'm a desperate stay-at-home mom.

One of my coworkers once informed me she got up to go to the gym at 6 a.m. every day before work. She enthusiastically babbled on about how by the time she got to the office, she was refreshed and worry-free, knowing that she didn't have a workout hanging over her head. I tried the early-bird method for about a week, setting my alarm for the crack of dawn. I'd meticulously set out my workout clothes the night before, since I'm pretty much in a catatonic fog before that morning caffeine starts coursing through my veins. I'd pull on my sneakers as soon as the alarm went off, the same way I used to do when the whistle blew at Ukrainian boot camp (more on that in a future post). After six or seven days of barely functional, pathetic workouts, where I was basically running with my eyes closed, I started pounding on the snooze button again. That was the end of that.

You'd think the midmorning would be a good time to get my juices flowing. By then, I've eaten, had my coffee, shipped the kids off to school/camp (if they're going to school/camp; if they're home with me, the whole day is shot until bedtime), and am as up-and-adam as I can possibly get. But since I'm so focused, I start doing all the things I have to do in my "real," non-warrior life. I make my post office/store/dry-cleaner/school runs, check e-mail, do whatever freelance work I have on my plate, apply for more freelance jobs (a hustler's work is never done), do any schoolwork I may have for the week, and before you know it, it's lunchtime. Can't do a workout then, since I'm ravenous from all my morning activity. OK, no biggie, I'll chow down a salad or something and then work out in an hour after I've digested my meal.

An hour after I've digested my cheddar-smothered cheeseburger, I hit a debilitating midafternoon Wall of Fatigue that makes it impossible to even get up off of the couch, let alone hit the pavement. I'm convinced I have some kind of cortisol imbalance that wreaks havoc on my internal clock, leaving me weak and weary during the day and hyperactive at night, so this is not. a. good. workout. time. for. me. For the rest of the afternoon, I cram in whatever work/schoolwork I can before the kids get home.

Early evening rolls around, and I feel better physically. A great time to do a workout. But now it's time for the household crunch: Make dinner, clean up the kitchen, do homework, get the kids bathed and dressed for bed, pack all their backpacks and lunch bags for school/camp for the next day, do the long-ass bedtime routine (and those of you with kids know what that's all about), camp out with one or both of them after storytime to talk about their day, and end up unable to remove my body from whatever bed I'm stuck in until about 9 p.m.

From 9 till 10, I'm usually paralyzed on my bed or the couch, trying to summon up whatever energy I have left, until I'm finally able to drag myself downstairs or outside. I do the best I can, all the while thinking about the work I have to do afterward until way past midnight. And the routine I have to start all over again bright and early the next day.

I know I'm missing my 30 to 60 minutes of peak time somewhere in there, and maybe I'll hit upon it one day soon. But for now, if you're looking to psychically train with me, turn on the 10 p.m. Fox News broadcast and we'll have a good run together.

Day 63: Gimme a Break

I pretty much live in these things all summer.
Think I could jump over fire in them?

If you're training for such events as Warrior Dash AND you have heel spurs and/or plantar fasciitis AND you absolutely HATE wearing your leg brace at night (and so you usually don't) AND you don't ice your foot when you're supposed to AND you never take ibuprofen because you don't want to become pill-dependent AND you walk around barefoot when your podiatrist has advised you not to ...

... well, you're an idiot.

I did buy three pairs of FitFlops for the summer, though. Those seem to be helping.

Day 64: Week in Review

My kids yammering away at me while I'm trying to run can be as distracting as Ric Ocasek as a fly.

I think I need a better plan. I tend to procrastinate because I'm always busy, then I do all my runs at the end of the week. I need to space them out better so I'm not going nuts on Saturday.

I'm also debating if I should continue to try to up my running speed by 0.1 every week till I can do the 3.3 in 30 minutes, or if I should consistently just run the 3.3 and slowly bring my time down. I think it should probably be the latter. I just have to run the damn thing -- any improvement week-on-week is a good thing.

Here we go!

Wednesday: 30 minutes, 2.3 (almost 2.4 miles)
First mile was a 5.0, then did 0.2 miles at 5.5, then walked at 4.0. Got effin' hot again and nauseated. I have to learn to modulate and control my body temp, or at least remember to turn the AC on beforehand. Then I cranked it up to 6.0 for the last seven minutes or so to equal last week's record.

Friday: 30 minutes, 2.2 miles
Ran after happy hour. Probably not a good idea. Oh well.

Saturday: 30 minutes. 1.8 miles
I walked most of the way tonight. I think I pulled a muscle in my lower back in Huntington tonight. Plus Sasha was yammering at me and I couldn't play any music because Jackson was playing the Wii. Then I stepped off the treadmill when it was starting up because I needed to adjust the fan; I thought I had pressed "Pause," apparently didn't, stepped back on what I thought was a stopped treadmill, and flew right off of it, just like you see in the movies. My kids thought it was funny. I'm glad they think I'm funny.

Sunday: 43:02 minutes, 3.3 miles
That's what I'm talking about. I know that seems like an awful time to pretty much Everyone Else on Earth, but I shaved about two minutes off of my time, which did include five minutes of warmup walking. Then the first mile was at 4.5, second and third miles at 5.0, and last 0.3 miles at 5.5. I'm just excited that I'm slowly improving. Tonight's inspirational running music: "You Might Think," by The Cars.

So as of now, my records to beat (depending on whether I'm running for only 30 minutes or doing the whole 3.3 miles) are:
--30 minutes, 2.3 miles
--3.3 miles, 43:02 minutes

Day 65: Warrior Tip of the Day

What I did last night was almost as ill-advised as what these guys are doing.

Here's my helpful advice for this sunny Saturday as you're deciding whether to go on an amped-up long run, kick back with a nice cold one, or (like me last night) merge the two:

Do not attempt to run after happy hour. Especially when gin-and-tonics and monster potato chips are consumed in ample quantities.

Though I still did manage to eke out 2 miles and change.

That is all.

Day 66: My Word, This Dude Is Awesome

This former slobbering drunk is like God -- or something.
Dean Karnazes, you humble me.

"Holy crap" is all I can say after reading this article in Wired about a guy who used to spend his evenings downing tequila shots and getting hit on by strange women. Until he ran 30 miles after one drunken night of debauchery. Today, Dean Karnazes is known as Ultraman, and his running feats are nothing short of stunning.

In no particular order, he has (and this is all covered in the article, which is a fascinating read): run 350 miles without sleeping (it took him three days); completed the Badwater Marathon, a 135-mile trek through Death Valley and the mountains in the middle of the summer; run the first and only marathon to the South Pole (he came in second); completed 50 marathons in all 50 states on 50 consecutive days; and finished a 199-mile relay by himself, coming in eighth out of eight other teams of 12 -- dude wasn't even last.

Karnazes is also kind enough to offer some of his tips to become, well, more like him. You must read the article for elaboration on all of these tips and how he accomplishes them, but I've taken the liberty to apply his advice to how I'm currently training for Warrior Dash.

1. Be audacious (find the right challenge).In my case, I think Warrior Dash is the ideal event. It presents enough of a physical challenge that I'm going to have to work my ass off to complete it, but I don't believe it's out of the realm of possibility for me. Plus, with the beer, music, and Viking helmet, it adds just the right hint of creativity that Karnazes suggests you seek out.

2. Go laceless.
I didn't know this was a possibility, because I'm not up on these kinds of fashionable things. According to the article, North Face makes a pretty cool M Endurus XCR Boa shoe that fits the bill.

3. Flirt with disaster.
Not sure I'm quite ready to go that route yet. Karnazes explains his affinity for pain with quotes such as "Somewhere along the line we've confused comfort for happiness" and "There's magic in misery." I have two young children, so as much as I'm dying to push myself until I'm vomiting and experiencing hallucinations on the side of the road in some God-forsaken desert, I think for now I'll continue to run as responsibly as I can. Though Karnazes has two kids, too, so go figure.

4. Eat junk -- lots of it.
Looks like I get to amend my no-eating-crap-after-9pm-rule -- hurray!

5. Cut back on sleep.
Check. With two young kids (see post #3), I've learned that sleep is for the weak. Nope, not jealous one bit, you narcoleptic lightweights. Not. one. little. bit.

6. Show your body who's boss.
My body is so far having none of this, but I'm hoping my warrior-steeled mind will eventually prevail.

7. Get a cool watch.
Like with GPS and a phone and shit. So they can track me down if I collapse in the middle of nowhere.

8. Learn to love Krazy Glue.
For the blisters that are going to eventually crop up. I'm game.

9. Get used to it.
My husband went out for a 2-mile run last night, even though his legs were extremely sore from his run the night before. He picked a course with a ton of hills and then came home to tell me he was dying. When I asked him why in the world he picked the hardest run he could have when he already felt so crappy, he said, "Because you have to get your body used to this feeling." Or something like that, I'm paraphrasing his moaning delirium. I reflected on his mantra, and then forced myself to sprint the last four minutes of last night's workout, even though I felt like I was going to puke all over myself, the treadmill, and the Basement Proper.

10. Promote the hell out of yourself.
I like blogging. I like Facebook. Twitter I see as a necessary evil, but I'm beginning to appreciate it more. I think I can be a pretty effective self-promoter if I have to be, once I decide what exactly it is I'm trying to be.

11. Break it down.
I do this all the time. This technique is most effective when I'm home all day with both kids alone. Which I do enjoy, incidentally -- I know I don't have to qualify this statement for anyone else who has kids and understands the bitching that's about to take place, but I know such complaints can seem harsh to the uninitiated.

If it's 9 a.m., for example, and you're already exhausted from being up for 2.5 hours dealing with the refusals to get dressed, the juice spills, the fighting, the potty clogging, and the TV wars, and you say to yourself, "OK, I just have to make it to 6 p.m. tonight, when my spouse comes home. That's only NINE HOURS," well ... shoot yourself now.

If, however, you break the day down into manageable pieces ("OK, we will paint from 9 a.m. till 10 a.m."), you just have to make it one hour. One stinkin' hour. Even I can do that. Then, come 10 a.m., you set a new goal: "From 10 a.m. till 11 a.m., we will go to the library." Even if occasionally the 2-6 p.m. time slot is populated with a hastily scrawled "WATCH TV OR MOVIES" (or my personal favorite, "FREE TIME!!"), this plan is still is more attainable than a vague, nonscheduled nine hours of hell.

If you don't use this technique, it can turn into that scene from The Sopranos when Vito is on the construction site toiling away for what seems like forever, until he looks at his watch and it's only 10 a.m. This has happened more times than I care to remember, and it's pretty fucking mind-bending.

12. Avoid kryptonite.
In other words, lay off the liquor. Nope, not going to happen. Ten out of 12 ain't bad!

Day 67: Warrior, I Define Thee

Orlando Bloom, I would gladly bear arms with your albino self.

What is a warrior? I looked up the meaning to see if I even come close to fitting the standard definition:

One who is engaged in or experienced in battle.
Hmmm.

In terms of physical scuffles, I've always been the peace-loving, bookwormish type, though I held my own with my brothers growing up, and I once pushed the bully on my JV soccer team into the showers in the gym after she gave me shit.

I have, however, been known to open a can of whoop-ass when the occasion warrants. I have a bit of a temper that I'm usually able to keep in check, but when it comes unleashed, beware all who enter my crazy-sphere. Most people who know me wouldn't think I have the capability of housing a mind-boggling fury that puts the wrath of Khan to shame (my husband would set these nonbelievers straight in about 10 seconds). But it's there, and it's not pretty. It's not really my fault, though: I come from a family of erratic-behavior enablers with short fuses who consider it some warped badge of honor whenever one of the clan flouts authority or sticks it to The Man.

In general, though, I can't really see myself in hand-to-hand combat in the field. I'm averse to pain, I tire easily, and I prefer the comfort of my bed to the rigors of battle. Windham Mountain is simply my temporary battlefield, and the other kooky competitors dressed in costume are my worthy fleeting adversaries.

You're going down -- all of you. But I'll gladly quaff a cold one with you after I administer my beat-down.