Day 70: Boo-yah, Boudica!

One of my running friends who has been following my recent endeavors sent me a link to one of his favorite women warriors.

Allow me to introduce you to Boudica, the Celtic warrior queen. I was a little intimidated while reading Boudica's bio. What in the world could I, a chick from the suburbs, have in common with this valiant, voluptuous vanquisher?

According to the article, "She was tall, a redhead with hair that reached her hips, she had a powerful voice and a glow that seemed enchanting."

OK, so far so good: I'm tall (5'9" upon last measurement, though my brother continues to dispute me on this), a redhead (thank you, L'Oreal Feria, for the titian hues, and to my colorist for my stunning complementary blonde highlights), and a powerful voice (especially when I'm yelling at my children and/or husband). I can't speak to the enchanting glow, but I'm sure that will emerge sooner or later.

The supplementary Wikipedia article contends that Boudica was "possessed of greater intelligence than often belongs to women" (thanks -- I think) and that she had a "piercing glare" (reference once again situations where I am chastising members of my household).

"In the year 61 A.D. she started to collect soldiers who desired to follow her and slay the Romans. After a while she had an army of about 100,000 soldiers."

Men who desire to follow me in droves? That's what I'm talkin' about.

"Boudica had her men fight in the Celtic way: naked and painted."

Nice.

"It is not known how Boudica died, but it is for sure that she didn’t make the end of the battle."

Uh-oh.

Tapping into my gallant Google skillz, I also found a few images of the legendary heroine. In some ways, we're sista soulmates; in others, not so much:

I don't have curls (or tats), but I have been known to drink out of a cornucopia. Or, at the very least, a funnel.

I do own a Lia Sophia brooch necklace like the one this gal is sporting. I do not, however, typically bear my cleavage in such revealing fashion.

I also owned an Olivia Newton-John–inspired headband like this one during the "Physical" era.

Um -- yeah. The little girl on the right does resemble my 4-year-old daughter. So that's something.

Yep -- this is how I get when someone eats all my rice pudding.

Day 71: Week in Review

"Major Tom" got me through this week's rough patches.

Week 1 is complete. I've kind of been all over the place, which has led me to believe I need more of a plan.

First, the stats:

Wednesday: 3.3 miles, 44:55 minutes

On Wednesday, as I went on my first full-fledged run since I embarked on this warrior quest, I started to wonder: Can I actually even run 3.23 miles, let alone 3.23 miles filled with death-defying obstacles? I've been running casually for a while, but I never really log how many miles I run, and I don't run terribly fast (OK, I'm a slug). I'm often pressed for time by familial obligations, so I usually just crank up my DVR'd Real Housewives of New Jersey or put my iPod on and start running without ever really looking at the numbers. When the show's over or my playlist is done, my run's over.

So: My goal was simply to jog for 3.23 miles on the treadmill (sorry, still way too hot to head outside). I didn't want to discourage myself by failing at my simulated 5K by sprinting and running out of gas, so I did the first mile at a painfully slow 4.5, which I then cranked up to a still-leisurely 5.0 for the next mile, then back down to 4.5 for the remainder of the run. It was somewhat encouraging to me that I could at least finish that distance, even though it took me an excruciatingly long time.

Friday: 2.3 miles, 30 minutes

I was feeling nauseated and hot because I forgot to turn on the AC, and Jackson was screwing around with the fan blowing on me while I was running. I started at 5.0, then was all over the place, sprinting, walking, jogging. Then the Wii broke, Jackson had a meltdown, game over.

Saturday: 2.2 miles, 30 minutes

The oil can icon on my treadmill flashed today. I take that as a good sign that the treadmill is seeing lots of activity. Today my goal was to see if I could simply improve on my individual-mile speed, as I was not at all pleased with Wednesday's 13.6-minute mile. So for the first mile I ran at 5.5 (baby steps), which took me 10 minutes (better), then I did a power walk at 4.0 for the second mile and change.

On a somewhat related note, I discovered that "Major Tom" (the 1983 Peter Schilling version, not the 2009 Shiny Toy Guns version) was the perfect cadence for the 5.5 run, while Metallica's "Enter Sandman" (the regular version, not the philharmonic mashup the group did with the San Francisco Symphony) worked quite nicely for the power walk.

Sunday: 1.8 miles, 30 minutes

I don't know what the hell happened. Maybe it was lying on the beach for three hours this morning, combined with the fact that I didn't even get on the treadmill till close to 10 tonight, but I was all over the place again. I ran at 6.0 for a couple of minutes, then thought I was having a heart attack (shouldn't have eaten so many hamburgers this weekend, including one an hour before my workout), so I just alternated between walking and running for 30 minutes.

So back to this strategic plan I need to set up. The way I figure it, if I can set some mini goals and see some improvement in my numbers over the weeks, I won't get discouraged and quit like I'm prone to do with such physical challenges.

THE PLAN, MAN

Weeks 10-7
Continue indoor training, which means continue to run 3.3 miles at a clip and cut time down little by little. My ultimate goal is somewhere between 30 and 35 minutes. Or, if I can only squeeze in 30 minutes, try to up my distance for that time period week-on-week. Plus, every week I want to try to improve upon my fastest individual-mile speed.

Weeks 6-5
Alternate indoor running with track running/around neighborhood. This is going to be my biggest mental hurdle (more on that for another post).

Weeks 4-1
Alternative indoor running/track running/trail running, including this Sunken Meadow route I keep hearing so much about.

I also realized that while I'm taking this somewhat seriously, I need to remember I signed up for this for a fun, kick-ass day. Remember: turkey legs!

Day 72: I'm Waiting for the Mailman: Excuses, Excuses

Do you think this guy sat around and watched The Bachelorette, or do you think he captured bears on icebergs, rescued Icelandic castaways, and conquered new lands? Thought so.

I'm the master of coming up with reasons for not exercising. While I always feel rejuvenated after a couple of miles, it's difficult for me to conjure up the motivation to get started. Justifying my lethargy becomes quite easy when I'm able to concoct enough valid reasons for why it would be better for me to skip my workout in lieu of A, B, or C.

Except that there's always going to be an A, B, and C causing interference, and I know that people who successfully reach their fitness goals learn to work around A, B, and C. My excuse list extrapolates past A, B, and C and extends all the way to the end of the alphabet and then some.

Let's identify the prime offenders and present some valid, self-driven rebuttals (kind of like that angel/devil thought bubble Tom Hulce experiences in Animal House) so I can expose these lame excuses in the harsh light of the Warrior Dash day. Because I don't think Leif Ericson made excuses, did he?!

I'm too tired. You're always tired. You're an insomniac who drinks too much caffeine, goes to bed too late, and then plays mind games with Mr. Sandman for at least another hour, sometimes more. You will probably always dwell among the living dead, so in the interim, drink a Red Bull and embrace that exercise will probably help you feel better and sleep better, which means more energy for more exercising.

I'm too hungry and am afraid my low blood sugar will cause me to pass out while I'm running. OK, you had gestational diabetes and had to prick your finger five times a day and can talk circles around Bret Michaels about ketones and glucose and wah wah wah. That was four years ago. The diabetes is gone. Eat a frickin' banana and some yogurt and get your butt on that treadmill.

I'm too full. Work out later. When you're not full. Do not eat anything else in the interim so you can drag out the excuse.

My head (or some other body part) hurts. Advil is pretty awesome, especially when you take four of them. Everything will stop hurting, and you will be able to run like a gazelle.

I've got work to do. Who doesn't? Work will still be there when you're done. And you'll feel better and more energized to do even more work, you crazy workaholic you.

I should be doing something domestic around the house. Why start now? Nice try, though.

I have to start dinner. No, you don't. You have a husband who loves to cook and does a better job than you. So relinquish the colander and cutting board and get going.

I should be playing with my kids. While probably the best excuse you've offered so far, your children will be able to entertain themselves for the whopping 30 minutes you'll be boosting your heart rate.

It's 9 p.m. and there's a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a good movie/The Bachelorette/a COPS marathon about to start. Really?? Really??

I should be taking the time to think about my goals and what I want to do with my life. If you can't even carve out a half hour to do some basic cardio, you will never achieve any of your other goals, loser!!

Day 73: Warrior Housewife: Powered by iPod

This is not me. But it could be me. So just pretend it's me.

To get going on my runs, music is a necessity. On the few occasions when I've forgotten to charge my iPod on my outdoor runs, or when my kids are playing the Wii on my indoor runs (meaning I can't turn on my cable-TV music station of choice), I'm forced to listen to the melodious sounds of my own labored breathing, which isn't exactly conducive to a productive workout.

I need a song that's going to get me motivated. Profanity-laced rap works well, I think because I'm already silently cursing like a sailor inside my head at the energy I'm forcing my body to expend. Dance and techno music is also quite effective. If I'm running at sunset/dusk, a time when I tend to get all touchy-feely and emotional in a Jimmy Buffett-isn't-life-beautiful-screw-everything-I-should-just-quit-my-job-and-open-up-a-snack-shack-in-Cozumel type of way, moody songs stimulate me to go the distance just a little longer.

If I'm on the treadmill and allowed to flip on the TV music stations, I usually gravitate toward either the retro rock station (because there's nothing like Guns n' Roses calling me a b**ch to make me crank that incline up), the dance station, or the classic alternative station. Though I don't know when U2, Til' Tuesday, and Elvis Costello officially became classified as "classic" alternative. These are your oldies now, folks.

On my iPod, I have an eclectic mix of tunes, so I have to set up workout playlists or the "Shuffle" option will fire up Vivaldi, the "English Patient" soundtrack (great stuff, but not for running), and "Row, Row, Row Your Boat."

Here was the playlist that jump-started me yesterday:

"Forget About Dre" (Eminem/Dr. Dre)
"Run to You" (Bryan Adams)
"Root Down" (Beastie Boys)
"Violet" (Hole)
"Meet Me at the Equinox" (Death Cab for Cutie)
"Devil Inside (INXS)
"Crazy Train" (Ozzy Osbourne)
"Elevation" (U2)
"Obsession" (Animotion)
"Get Busy" (Sean Paul)
"Freedom Rock" (Frank Black)
"Bring Me to Life" (Evanescence)

Unfortunately, I won't be able to sport my iPod for Warrior Dash. There'll be too much mud, muck, and other debris. I'll just have to listen to the voices in my head singing "She F***in' Hates Me" on race day.

Day 74: Fear Factor

I know that somewhere, somehow, a dormant Lady Gaga lurks deep within me.

A real warrior wouldn't think twice about taking on a karaoke challenge. Pffft, piece of cake. Which is why I found myself crooning Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" last night at Buffalo Wild Wings. After a hearty repast of mango-habanero wings (noshing BEFORE 9 p.m.—still within the Warrior Housewife guidelines), my husband and cousin belted out "Bust a Move" and "Don't Stop Believing," respectively. Both were real crowd-pleasers, so I knew the bar was high as I downed the rest of my Hurricane and took the mike.

The truth is, while I can (somewhat) sing, I hate actually performing in front of people. I'm a deer in the headlights on the stage, counting down the seconds until I can dash off into the darkness and take refuge behind my stein. This is in contrast to my gregarious, charismatic husband, who bounds around the stage like a jackrabbit, freestyling his way through his four minutes in the limelight by masterfully interacting with the crowd and inserting his own lyrics into Paris Hilton and Eminem covers.

Part of my problem with channeling my inner Lady Gaga is that I don't like being the center of attention. My wedding shower, while a very lovely event, was pure torture for me. I can think of nothing more nerve-wracking than an adoring crowd analyzing my spontaneous reactions to every Wamsutta towel, All-Clad saucepan, melon baller, and shrimp deveiner. While I'm very comfortable talking one-on-one with someone (or even in small groups), if I'm in a crowd of people, I prefer to listen, not blather on and have all those many creepy eyeballs on me.

But I know there's something deeper going on. I used to never understand when, during an interview with some celebrity or other hotshot, he/she would blab on about all of his/her failures before he/she hit the big time and how it was all due to his/her inner fears: fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of success. Fear of success? I didn't get it: How can anyone be afraid of succeeding?

I realize now, however, that a good portion of my life has, indeed, been dictated by fear. I've made lists and set goals for myself, and even started the baby steps necessary to accomplish said goals. Yet more often than not, thanks to FEAR (I type the word in all caps because it's SO FUCKING SCARY), and supplemented by perfectionist tendencies that require I perform at a usually unattainably high level, I end up crapping out before I finish what I set out to do. I get to a bump in the road and just ... stop. Even when I'm insanely close to the finish line.

I don't know yet how or why this fear has become so deeply ingrained in me (a therapist would probably have a field day with me), but I've acquired enough self-awareness over the years to realize that this dislike of feeling vulnerable has been holding me back. So, I occasionally take risks and push myself out of my comfort zone to break the cycle, to boost my self-confidence, to prove to myself that there really is nothing to hold me back except for myself. It's all mental, and I know that. I wish I had embraced this plucky philosophy when I was, say, 19, but better late than never.

Which is why, the next time you're at your local karaoke bar, you might witness me nervously taking on a Fiona Apple song. And why you'll see me on September 19 waiting anxiously for the starting gun, hiding under my Viking helmet to mask my vulnerability as I attempt to vanquish yet another of my deep-seated doubts about my abilities.

Day 75: You Snooze, You Lose

Addendum to the Warrior Housewife ground rules:

It is perfectly acceptable to hit the snooze button if you were up all night in 100-degree-plus heat because the Long Island Power Authority didn't have enough juice to power all of the neighborhood's AC units during this record-breaking warm front.

Heat wave notwithstanding, let's be frank: I don't function well first thing in the morning, and this is just another in my litany of excuses for having a hard time dragging my ass out of bed when that buzzer goes off. Not very warrior-like behavior. I assume warriors leap out of bed before sunrise, don their battle armor, and head out into the mortar fire with nary a Starbucks in sight.

I should qualify my waking-up weakness by saying that once I'm actually up, showered, and breathing in the fumes from my Keurig, I'm OK. And on the occasions I've had to arise before the sun for work or to catch a flight or because PC Richard is making a $%^*@# appliance delivery during some crazy window on a Saturday morning, I actually enjoy being the first one up, sipping my coffee and taking in the early-morning sights and sounds.

It's those first steps out of bed that are the dealbreaker. The alarm goes off and I feel like someone is waterboarding me. My husband and I don't get combative about a lot of things, but when we both worked in the city, divorce papers were imminent. He'd bounce around the house getting ready to catch the 7:17 a.m. train out of Deer Park, trying desperately to jostle me out of my slumber so I could accompany him on our hellish Long Island-to-Penn commute. My typical reaction would be to whimper from underneath the pillow: "8:12" (the next train out of Deer Park). I would always ride that 8:12 by myself, because he had no patience for that nonsense. What I really need is that forklift-like contraption from The Jetsons that pushed George out of bed and into the shower in the opening segment. From there I'd be OK on my own, I swear.

I don't get what happened. When I was a kid, I would get up at the crack of dawn with my brothers and wreak havoc until our cranky parents finally emerged to redirect our energies into quality "family-time" activities, such as restocking the coal bin and raking leaves. Then the teen years arrived, and a switch was flipped. The lark turned into a beautiful, glorious owl. Even the allure of Christmas-morning gifts couldn't lure me from under the covers.

Some people mistake my a.m. lethargy for laziness, which isn't the case. I'm a Type A who has a continuous to-do list that just won't quit. Too many things I want to do, too little time. I just happen to hit my stride in the p.m. hours. I do most of my creative work in the evenings, I rarely go to bed before midnight, and when I finally hit the treadmill or the pavement, it's often many hours after the sun has gone down.

Some of this nocturnal industry is born of necessity. I'm shuttling my children around during the days they're not at camp or school, and I've accepted I can get absolutely nothing done during these child-focused hours. But in reality, I know it's my DNA that energizes me at dusk. I was like this before my kids came along, and I know once they're away at college, you'll still find me plugging away during The Daily Show instead of during The Early Show.

That's why I was disappointed to see that Warrior Dash only offered 9-to-5 time slots (which works for about 90 percent of the human population) on competition day. I'm afraid I may falter with this restrictive running regimen during daylight hours, since running while the sun's up goes against my grain. But I guess that's part of being a Warrior-in-Training: learning to push your physical and mental capabilities past their limits.

Even if that means not pressing that snooze button.

Day 76: First Rule of Warrior Dash—Don't Talk About Warrior Dash

This will be my ultimate reward.

Before I plunge headfirst into this training regimen for Warrior Dash, I figured I should set some ground rules for my Warrior-in-Training workflow. I only have 76 more days to prepare for this feat, so I have to ensure I'm in fighting shape for the big day. Allow me to refer to myself in the third person for effect:

• The Warrior Housewife will make every concerted effort to run four to five days a week in anticipation of the Main Event. Said activity may take place on the treadmill during inclement weather or periods of high heat, or outdoors in inclement weather or periods of high heat to simulate the physical agony of the Warrior Dash. If ambition strikes, the Warrior Housewife will erect a pile of tires and a line of fire pits in the backyard over which to hurdle for good measure.


• For the duration of the summer, the Warrior Housewife will consume lite beer only. She may indulge in a frothy, sweet, carb-loaded Guinness only upon crossing the Warrior Dash finish line at approximately noon on September 19.


• Along these same dietary lines, the Warrior Housewife will cease and desist all ennui-induced noshing that usually occurs after 9 p.m. while watching really bad reality TV. Fruit, yogurt, cereal, and other light snacks are permissible; ice cream sundaes and Taco Bell runs are forbidden, except in extreme emergencies (as long as we keep to the "extreme" theme, it's all good).


• So as to prevent expelling liquids the color of Chernobyl groundwater, the Warrior Housewife will hydrate throughout the day. Luckily, the Warrior Housewife does not indulge in soda or mocha frappuccinos or anything too sweet because she can't stand things that are too sweet, so water and unsweetened iced tea will be a fine remedy. Iced coffee is allowed in excess to get her through her warrior day.


• Real warriors don't hit snooze buttons. Hence, the Warrior Housewife will be permitted just one rotation of nine precious minutes after the alarm goes off (she may enjoy the cold turkey they're serving at the finish line, but don't expect the Warrior Housewife to just exorcise all her bad habits cold turkey). One morning a week, the Warrior Housewife will be permitted to turn OFF her alarm and attempt to sleep past 7am, even though we all know that, in reality, this will never happen because of the little bodies who end up in her face demanding Eggo waffles and bacon at the crack of dawn.


• The Warrior Housewife will undergo a complete psychological overhaul to hone the mental toughness that is required for this type of activity. In other words, she will need to quit her bellyachin', put on her big girl panties, and refrain from entering the Self-Pity Mode in which she occasionally wallows.


• The Type-A-confirmed Warrior Housewife will seek to achieve more balance in her life and to take better care of herself. In other words, no more work after midnight, a valiant attempt to get at least seven hours of sleep a night, and at least one night off to do nothing but veg. Forgive the motivational-speaker-speak, but it's that whole putting on your oxygen mask first in the plane as you're plummeting toward the earth: You can't help anyone else unless you help yourself first.

I'm sure that the Warrior Housewife will find more rules to add along the way, but these seem like a good, solid foundation to start with.