Gun Control: why your arms might be slowing you down

 By Emilie L. David, 18 July 2014

 

By Elmion (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

It's funny the things that will get you back into doing what you thought you had become completely disenchanted with.  Football hips, for example, have brought me back to running after a one-year escape.  And this article (http://news.sciencemag.org/biology/2014/07/why-you-should-swing-your-arms-when-you-run) prompted me to reopen the blog.  It cracks me up that researchers will study such things as the difference between energy consumption when swinging your arms while running and energy consumption when holding your arms straight up in the air while running (presumably for longer than it takes to cross a finish line). I can't figure out who the results will serve with that one.  I mean, how big IS the population of runners who, unconsciously, run with their arms straight up in the air?  They also tested efficiency of running with one's hands behind the back.  That posture is nearly impossible to maintain.  I know this because I tried it out at track last night.  Your arms, among other things, help you balance, and, usually, will automatically want to aid you in preventing successive face floppage, unless you work really hard at keeping them straight behind you.  And I still do not know your name, woman in the purple Brooks singlet, but I didn't mean to touch your bum when I lost my balance and flailed about-- I am not a track pervert! It was just research! 

What SHOULD have been tested are the ACTUAL running postures that runners adopt or fall into as they tire.   For instance, the ones I see on runners crossing Memorial Bridge every day:

 

1.  Bob Dole.  This posture is maintained by those who believe in hydration, but hate the chafe-o-ramic, balance disturbing effects of a fuel belt.  The hydration is clutched tightly in one hand, forcing nearly all the muscles in that arm to be constantly activated while the other arm swings freely and naturally. 

2.  The Tae Kwon Boer.  The arms are held up in a 90 degree bicep curl and the upper body twists while running, like you're doing cross-punches.

3.  The Tae Boobler.  Similar to the posture of the Tae Kwon Boer, but the arms are bent at a 45 degree angle and the fists or wrists seem planted on either side of the rib cage or higher, making it look like you are trying to use your fists to squeeze your boobs together. (This might actually be the point of this posture, I am not really sure).

4.  The T-Rex.  Sounds like a fierce, desireable posture, right?  The T-Rex is fast!  The T-Rex is strong!  But have you noticed the T-Rex's arms?!  Dinky and useless!  T-Rex running is when your shoulders are relaxed and your wrists are relaxed but your arms are bent at a 90 degree angle and your elbows look like they've been glued to your sides.  Your forearms are like sticks shooting straight out in front of you and your hands are just flopping around on the ends of those sticks like goofy little hand flags.  If it sounds like I'm making fun it's because I HATE T-REX POSTURE.  It doesn't help you, and it looks totally stupid.  I know this because my hands are droopy-la-poopy in front of me in virtually every race photo that has ever been taken of me.

 If you are prone to this posture fight it!  Fight it, I say!  If you aren't going to help yourself with a nice relaxed but propulsive little swing, I say opt for the Tae Boobler, at least you might help stave off the midlife gravitational descent to the middle of the earth that is COMING FOR YOU, ladies.

Have You Hugged Your Sherpa Today?

by Emilie L. David, April 18, 2013

On Monday, almost simultaneously, I received a text message and Facebook notification from two different friends posing the same question: Are you in Boston?!

I admit, I was initially irritated - I am not fast enough to go to Boston!  Thanks for rubbing it in!  Plus, the niggling injury that has had me sidelined from racing since December has me wistful for running.  But then I noticed the urgency of the exclamation points and finally figured out that something was wrong.  I got online and immediately irritation was replaced with dread.  I got on the phone, on email, and scoured Facebook pages until everyone I knew who was racing the marathon was accounted for.  All were blessedly safe.  And then the pictures started streaming over the internet showing the location of the damage, and I got on email again.  I needed to track down the cheerleaders.

A lot has been said of the runners.  How hard they work for that day.  And I do grieve for them.  I grieve for the ones that couldn’t cross that glorious finish line.  I grieve for the ones who did and cannot appropriately celebrate what is a most coveted achievement, and who cannot feel pride for it that is not tinged with sadness.  But more than that I grieve for the cheerleaders, the supporters, who endured that race and who knows how many leading up to it for no other reward than to witness a loved one achieve some self satisfaction.

They are the ones who wake up at the crack of dawn to stand around in the freezing cold or the blazing sun for who knows how long just to scream your name for the 2 seconds it takes you to cruise by them.

They are the ones who load your baby nephew up and get on a plane and tote that baby through ungodly pedestrian traffic and roadblocks only to miss you because you misestimated the time you would hit mile 18.

A race without fans is just a time trial

The ones who tolerate your sweaty, salt-incrusted, stinky person and gear, which they probably schlep for you back to the car whose upholstery you will wreck.

The ones who tolerate your pre-race nervous silence and your post-run frustrations, sniping, and inability to utter a coherent word or make simple decisions.

The ones who might not even know you, but who nonetheless give an encouraging yell or More Cowbell when they see you struggling.

The ones who take in your bloody, blistered, toe-nail challenged feet and declare you sexy anyway.

The ones who give up their time for you, and give up time with you.

They have dedicated themselves to your race, with no expectation of medal or T-shirt.

Other spectator sports have fan appreciation days.  Even horse racing, a sport with individual contestants, rewards its fans at least once a season.  Running needs a Fan Appreciation Day, now more than ever.  A way for runners to collectively show our gratitude and to remind ourselves and our cheerleaders that they are our best reward after every mile, every distance, every finish line.

Impact Factor: When it comes to my Ba-bling Ba-blings is it all about the Cha-ching Cha-ching?

At last.  The third installment on sports bras.  I know you were all waiting for me to talk about boobs again so here goes.  Boobs are expensive!  At least, trying to figure out how to properly and comfortably contain them can be.  And I am a girl that likes a bargain.  So it is hard for me to plunk down $40 on a sports bra, when one can be had at say, Old Navy or Target for more like $16.99.  And while I do own clothing from bargain stores that have taken a beating and lasted (the beloved Old Navy puffy coat of 2010), I have had things that did not so much (the famous H&M shirt-splitting-at-work debacle of 2012).  And, I don't know if you have noticed this, but there is always something slightly off about the clothing you get at these stores.  For example, sometimes I wonder if certain stores have been using models who have one arm that is longer than the other.  Or who have had their glutes surgically removed and sewn onto their thighs.  Some of the....tailoring makes no sense.  So when I decided to try out some bargain bras, I fully expected them to be slightly dysfunctional.  I was mostly pleasantly surprised.

The Candidates:
Old Navy's Padded Sports Bra
Target's C9 by Champion(R) Women's New High Impact Bra
(Truly magical names on both these items)

Here is what you are dying to know about them:

Easy to Manage or Expect Shoulder Damage?
The Old Navy bra is an over the head number.  Using the wiggle-jump method, I managed to get into it in roughly 1.5 minutes.  My attempt to get it off by myself resulted in what was almost a boob-mitosis, when the tight elastic got stuck mid-chest and caused me to yelp for help.  Extraction required a sort of yoga move where I entwined my arms above my head and tried to get my shoulder blades to connect to each other, while my significant other yanked the thing off me.

The Target bra blessedly has a back closure like you'd find on a regular bra.  It also has straps that hook, enabling you to wear them regular, or cross them in the back.  So it is relatively easy to get on.  Except at 6am on Saturdays when you only have one eye open and you first put your head through the part that your left arm is supposed to go through and then you try again and put your head through the part your right arm is supposed to go through and then you give up and wear it as a lopsided bib around your neck while you get at least half a cup of coffee in you so your synapses connect and you are able to figure out the mystery that is a woman's brassiere.

Successful at wicking or heavy and sticking?
Old Navy did not get particularly heavy once drenched with my gaspy efforts at speed, but it doesn't wick so much as it seems to distribute your sweat evenly all over the bra so no matter which way the wind was blowing, I was shivery on my post run walk back home.

The back of the Target bra was pretty wicky.  My back didn't feel clammy or cold post run.  That's more than I can say for the front, which, because it is padded for modesty, sort of traps your sweat against your girls like two squishy sponge suction cups and encourages the formation of two round stains on the front of your shirt which is decidedly NOT modest, and also might be part of the reason why that barista had to repeat your order back to you 3 times before he actually got it right.

Good motion control or Baywatch on patrol?
For something that looks so simple (no underwires or individually sewn cups to lift and separate) Old Navy offers a surprisingly stable ride.  It has a good thick band on the bottom and a high neckline so you get both support and full coverage.  Of course, it is also one of the tightest bras I've tried, so while that band around the ribs keeps one's peaks above sea level, it felt like it was clamping my rib cage down on my lungs.  I did eventually get used to it though.  Or maybe the lack of oxygen just made me forget about my discomfort.

The band on Target is supportive and the adjustable back closure enables you to keep those flotation devices from drifting away from you.  The neck band is not as high as the Old Navy one, which might be a problem depending upon your personal endowment, but I found it sufficient and the rolled neckline was nice and soft.

Ba-da-bing! or Granny sling?
On the hotsy-totsy scale the Old Navy Bra is decidedly more Sporty Spice than Ginger Spice.  It does come in numerous colors and patterns though, and you can usually find pants or tops that match if that is your thing.  Some of them also have a bit of glow-in-the-dark paint on them, so you can safely run around in your underwear at night.

The Target bra is really trying.  It has interesting seaming (primarily to contain each pad) which allows you to avoid that inner tube look.  The padding is removable through these little holes on the outer edge of each cup.   I cannot tell you how annoying this is.  Every time you wash the bra, one of two things happens - either one or both of the circles works it's way out of the bra and you have to pick through your laundry to look for them and then try and get them back into the bra through the little holes OR they simply fold themselves up into little packages of padding and if you aren't paying attention you find that you've been jogging around town looking like you have two very perky, strangely askew, odd shaped nipples poking through your top.  It does come in black, in any size but mine.  I was forced to get the neon pink, which screams, in a sad sort of desperate way,  "Don'tcha wish your sports bra was hot, like me?! Don'tcha, baby, Don'tcha?!! "

Despite the criticisms, I found these both to be pretty functional bras for my particular person.  They would be perfect if I had a lady's maid to get me in and out of them and chase around after the escapee modesty pads.  A sports bra wrangler.  Who could maybe also clean the mold out of my water bottles.  Ooooo, I think I know what the next column is going to be about.



Note:  The Old Navy bra that I tried was severely (read "orgasmically") discounted.  It looks to be a forerunner of the current model Old Navy offers since I cannot find the particular cut I own on their website.  The current model (which right now happens to be A.C.O.D.'ed - After Christmas Orgasmically Discounted) sports a V-neck, where as mine has the more traditional wife-beater neckline.

On the Road Again

By Emilie L. David, 7 January 2013

So….I took a bit of a hiatus.  From writing.  From running.  From writing about running.  I made it to my big race of the 2012 season – my first Olympic Triathlon, and then I took a nice big vacation from training and thinking about training.  I ate amazing things I’d never eaten before.  I drank a lot of wine.    I went to the ballet.  I jogged occasionally, in a not very serious manner.  I think that I barely ever stopped smiling.  It was a good break.  A much needed break.  But come December, the restlessness began, and the lure of races and the camaraderie of runners beckoned.  Oh yeah, and the return of my doughy two-pack became impossible to ignore anymore.  Which is why I find myself with 2 half marathons and a 10 miler on my Spring calendar and listening to the rallying calls of my favorite coach and huffing and puffing and cursing and wincing and weighing the wisdom of my decision to start it back up again.

10 Things I Did Not Miss About Training

1. My toenails. As in, I was not missing them because I had all 10 of them! For 3 glorious months!

2. Beating the sun up on Saturday mornings.

3. The consumption of goos and gels. Do you know what’s so much better than fortified goop? Monkfish. Scallops on the grill with garlic and soy sauce. Salmon roe with quail eggs. And bourbon. Oh, the bourbon… (Sorry, I got lost in thought for a bit there).

4. A car interior that smells like a locker room.

5. Hours spent where the only thing I say to another human is “On your left.”

6. That salted-frozen-raisin feeling one gets after a long run, when you limp back to your car, crusty with sweat and shivering from being trapped in your soaked running girl apparatus.

7. So. Much. Laundry.

8. The cleaning of the water bottles.

9. Eating while running. I always end up getting more gel on my hands than in my person and then I spend the whole run freaking out about how sticky my hands are. Since I tend to favor chocolate flavors, it is not unusual for me to get back to the car afterwards and find I am sporting a nice gel and salt moustache. Super sexy. And I can’t figure out bars. How do I breathe if I have to chew something? I don’t want to go out choking to death on a wad of Powerbar nougat. Embarrassing.

10. Trying to discretely roll the knots out of my tendons, haunches, arches, and other aching bits and pieces with a tennis ball at the office without yelling out things like “Dear god – that’s the spot!!!”

Talents I've Secretly Wished I Could Cultivate

1. Making realistic Star Wars / Torpedo sound effects

2. Raising only my right eyebrow (the left eyebrow is very flexible)

3. Hula hooping (am pathetic)

4. The Snot Rocket

Thankfully, Mark Remy posted this little gem on Runner's World recently.  Please donate to the Snot Rocket Foundation so that runners like me might breathe.  Also, you might want to think twice about joining me on a run for the next couple weeks or so while I practice.

Impact Factor 2: My boobs just climbed the Washington Monument – now where’s my medal?

by Emilie L. David, 9 June 2012

Upon request, I have decided to make this whole bra testing thing a series, for as long as I can get jiggles, I mean giggles, out of it.

If the whole broken boob thing from the last installment didn’t freak you out enough, I have yet another alarming fact to share with you.  In the latest issue of Women’s Running magazine, among coach and columnist Jenny Hadfield’s favorite things is the Moving Comfort “Jubralee” bra.  Why?  Because when donned for over an hour of running, it “reduces vertical motion by roughly 450 feet.”  Do you know what that means?  That means that without it, your boobs might bounce themselves to the top of the Seattle Space Needle (approx 600 feet)!  Ouch.

Sadly, there was no sale on the Jubralee, so I cannot confirm its flight reduction properties.  Plus, I feel like taking off in something with a name like “The Jubralee” would require streamers and confetti and perhaps breaking a Gatorade bottle over my stern.  I tested the Champion Double Dry® Seamless Adjustable Max-Support Sports Bra instead.  I know what you are wondering, and I’ve got the answers:

Will it stop my girls from leaping tall buildings in a single bound?

First, it has an adjustable back, so you can clamp that sucker as tight as you please.  The band is a nice, wide, gravity defy-er while the neckline is squared off and high to keep your balloons from flying up, up and away.  I don’t feel like the girls would have made it up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  In fact, I didn’t notice any sort of bouncy movement at all.

Need boob lube?

While it was only warmish, I sweat a river no matter the weather.  Moisture typically begets movement, so I usually apply glide to the usual chafing places once the thermometer tops 60 degrees, but I forgot today.  Turns out I didn’t need it – no stinging in the shower.

Nun on the run or girls just wanna have fun?

While the idea behind the construction of this thing does seem to be ‘keep ‘em flat and they won’t go splat’, they have knit in two individual compartments to avoid the whole uniboob look.  Champion thinks the square neckline adds “feminine flair.”  The most I can say about the stylishness of that is that it does not look like the top of a wife beater.  There are actually straps, which are adjustable and which cross over the back.  I guess strappy is sexy, right?  It’s cute enough to wear it alone on a hot day if you have 6-pack abs that you are proud of and not my 2-donut stack of humility.

Can I use it to wrap my knee after I’ve pushed myself too hard?

It is perhaps the most comfortable sports bra I have ever worn.  It’s seamlessly knit and pleasingly stretchy, but unlike those knit yoga bralet thingies, it has grown up and knows how to do its job.  It’s like an ace bandage for your bust.

Remember – keep those things in check (and under your neck)!

Impact Factor: The Sports Bra

by Emilie L. David on 3 June 2012

Gear reviews are pretty pointless.  Everyone has different needs, tastes, neuroses, and budgets.  But I went into Sports Authority recently for a bit of apparel that I can’t do without, and this shows just a fraction of my choices:

I counted 9 different styles of sports bra made by Champion alone.  In various other parts of the store there were also racks of Nike bras, Adidas bras, Asics, Moving Comfort, and Under Armor.  On a website dedicated to such things a search on sports bras came up with 155 different styles!!  That’s a lot of functionality to assess, small tag by small tag.  I thought finding the right pair of sneakers was difficult! 

When you look at these contraptions, on the tag you might see a ranking category based on impact level.  Low impact, medium impact, high impact.  Because, as everybody knows, boobs are asteroids that are threatening the earth and must therefore be contained by straightjacket.  

In reality you are supposed to choose the level by the activity you are wearing the bra for, with high impact equating to high bounce activities (like running, or extreme pogo sticking).  And yet, I find it very hard to find many choices of high impact bras for those of us who have goods that are not myths, but that are definitely not legends.  I guess I am supposed to consider myself only a medium threat needing only a medium amount of restraint.  I would have accepted that had I not gotten the single most horrifying bit of information I have ever obtained at a running store “ladies night” event:

 You can break your boobs. 

It is not a joke.  As it turns out, a ligament is responsible for keeping your asteroids from falling to earth.  Bounce can stretch this ligament out.  Irreparably. 

Take a couple of deep breaths.  And now go to your local running store and look for a High Impact bra.

Here is one that I tried.  I chose it because:

1. It was high impact;

2. It had structure and adjustable straps and was not just the top portion of a bathing suit cut off and hemmed;

3. It was on sale. 

I review it below, based upon highly relevant criteria that I hope will help you narrow down your choices at least to 154.

The Make:

Moving Comfort

The Model:

Alexis

Asteroid containment level:

Keeps them in check while jumping and hopping around in a dressing room

How many shoulders will I have to dislocate in order to get into it?

Only 1

Do they come in colors that will match my running outfit?

There are at least 3 solids and 3 patterns, so you can probably be reasonably matchy-matchy.  Or you could buy the leopard print version and wear it under your white singlet and be trashy-trashy.  You could also just splurge for the support tank version

Can I clip my keys onto the strap easily because I really hate wearing those little belts which are still really fanny packs, I don’t care what you call them?

The straps are skinny so you can use the small carabiner key chain

  

Hubba-hubba, or Unibubba?

There is no underwire, but there are two padded cups, which means you look a little more like a girl in your straight jacket and not like you are trying to flatten and/or shove those things down under each armpit.  Plus, you can pop into the 7-11 after a run on a cold day without being so….obvious.

Will I need help getting out of it?

Those tire levers you keep in your bike kit come in real handy here.

Remember, run hard, and protect the asteroids.

Bike and Then Run (like a Lipizzaner) - (The Kinetic Sprint Triathlon - Part 3)

I have been struggling over what exactly to write about the bike and run portion of the triathlon.  The swim was such a satisfying accomplishment for me, the rest just sort of flowed along as it should.  Which is boring.  I can sum things up this way:

The bike:   Sometimes I went up.
                 Sometimes I went down.
                 Sometimes while going down I yelled "God, I love my bike!"

The run:   I breathed.  A LOT.
               I sweat.  A LOT.
               I passed a 28 year old who could pull off the shorty shorts and jog bra look (never underestimate the propulsive powers of 40 years of jiggle)

But, my father called me last night to find out where Part 3 was.  I didn't even know he knew how to find my blog.  So dad, this installment is for you.  And if it blows, it's all your fault (she blogged lovingly).

I went into the bike course completely blind.  I had no idea what to expect.  The down side of that is that I didn't know how many hills to save my legs for.  Didn't know if the next one would be steeper or longer.  So I biked fairly conservatively. On the positive side, this sort of took the pressure off and I enjoyed myself mightily.   There is nothing like biking on low-traffic country roads.  For brief stretches, between passing and being passed, there was quiet and sun and amber waves of grain and the sound of my breathing and Bruiser's wheels, going as fast down a freshly paved, curving slope of road as we wanted.  Freedom.

One of the best parts of the ride for me though, was getting passed.  By the second half of the bike the competitive athletes were all catching me.  I love to watch sports as much as I love to play, and there was something cool about hearing the approaching whirr of Zipp wheels, and being that close to cyclists who can just power on up a hill, never changing cadence.  I would watch.  Then I would try.  Inevitably my legs would slow down to pleasure-cruise speed half way up a hill while my lungs made ready to explode out of my chest, but it was all good practice.  Two women, all kitted up and sporting aero helmets passed me in the last 5 miles.  Both of them spared breath to give me a few encouraging and congratulatory words as they powered by.  It's an egocentric sport.  There is a lot of self control, self coaching, self discipline - a lot of SELF.  We will ourselves to be like machines because the body CAN do amazing things.  But we are better than machines when we show our humanity, and it was nice to meet a few ambassadors who remembered that, and who seemed to insist that being competitive and classy are not mutually exclusive.

I will admit that the run (at least when I was finished with it) was pretty satisfying.  The run is the great equalizer of triathlon.  EVERYONE is panting heavy.  NOBODY looks comfortable.  The start of this run was an upward climb out of the parking lot.  I plugged away at it.  And then I just kept going.  I didn't feel awful, I felt....confused.  After the thrill of the bike and the adrenaline built up from surviving two races and leaving T2 without forgetting to remove my bike helmet (can I get a fist bump?!), I felt like a mustang who had been kidnapped and forced into a life of dressage.  My brain was all "Go, pony!  Go!"  And my body WANTED to respond.  It was still on the bike ride wanting to hit bike speeds.  But my quads pulled everything up into a tight, slow, prancy gait.  The only good thing about it is that we all looked the same.  We looked like a troupe of ailing majorettes in want of a marching band.

My legs didn't loosen up for me until about mile 2.5 when the course made its way onto a wooded walking path.  And that is where I had my Elf moment - in my head I was singing "I'm running!  I'm in the woods and I am running!  I'm. In. The. Woods. And. I. AM. RUN. NINGGG!!!!!"  And then suddenly I was hearing my name being announced (correctly and not as Emile!) by the finish line guy.

My first thought after stopping was, "Please, do NOT puke on this nice man as he removes the timing chip from your ankle."

My second thought was, "I am definitely doing this again!"

THE END

(P.S.  I still love my sneakers)

Lost in Transition (The Kinetic Sprint Triathlon - Part 2)

by Emilie L. David, 19 May 2012

If you are not so good at the multitasking (like me) then the transition portion of a triathlon can be really really stressful.  But if you can get your shit together, really really quickly, transition time can be like free time.  You might not be a faster swimmer than the girl next to you, but if you are a faster stripper than she is, you might beat her.

Sadly, I am the girl who gets down to her car in the morning and has to go back into the house for her cell phone.  And then on the way to the cell phone she misplaces her keys and loses a minute finding them, in the closet, where she stopped on the way to the cell phone because she remembered she forgot to apply lipstick.  So I knew this was going to be a challenge for me.  In terms of organization of my stuff, I think I did pretty well.  I did not have to go looking for anything or have to think too hard about what I needed to put on or take off.  But there are little things that can be done that can knock up to a minute off your T time.

So, for races going forward, here is my 5-Point Pledge of Transition:

1. I will take time in advance to really feel out and practice how to quickly get that velcro enclosure on the back of my wetsuit ripped open so I am not careening into the railing while wrestling with myself.

2. I will not carry my earplugs to T1 in my mouth.  Though gross, it seemed like the best way to not drop them and get penalized for littering.  But here is the thing, the excitement of not dying and hearing the cheering crowd and the effort of wrestling with the wetsuit causes BREATHING to occur.  Big, gulpy mouth breathing.  Which means those earplugs could end up on the ground anyway, or swallowed (or nearly swallowed, in this case).  Dump them in the swim cap or leave them in until you get to your transition bucket.  (btw, if, like me, you have inner ear problems, AquaSeal earplugs are awesome and can be found at CVS)

3. Speaking of the transition bucket, I will forgo the fancy tri bags in favor of using a bucket again.  Cap, goggles, earplugs were all easily tossed in there and the wetsuit plopped in after. I will not, however, leave anything in the bucket that I don't want to get damp.  Like, say, my post-race Pringles.

4.  I will be so high off the bike that I will not be able to read or remember my own race number, so, if the entrances to T1 and T2 are different, I will make sure I have counted the number of racks to my bike from BOTH ends of transition before the race starts.  And since I probably won't be able to count either, I will do what my neighbor did and tie a really gaudy sequinned bandana to the rack where my bike is supposed to go (Ooooo, THAT is what that ugly thing was for!).

5. I will bribe a sherpa to carry my crap from transition back to my car.  After all that hard work, the part of me that hurt the most was my bucket arm.  It out-throbbed the bike quads and the run knees.  And you cannot brag about that!  It's decidedly un-cool, bucket-arm.  Pathetic.

Chicken of the Sea (The Kinetic Sprint Triathlon – Part 1)

 by Emilie L. David, 16 May 2012

 It was going to be my redemption race.  The tri where I made it through the swim without freaking and frantically paddling from safety kayak to safety kayak.  The one where I didn’t fall apart on the run.  I trained (mostly) seriously for it.  My Coach’s method seemed to be to bulk up my swim workouts under the notion that if I could swim 3x the sprint distance in the pool, 750 meters would feel like no big deal.  The truth of the matter is, I loved the swim workouts.  They were hard and they were long and they made me feel like a grown up and not some little kid who was just playing at swimming.  Two weeks before the triathlon, my body was ready.

I took that body to a lake for an open water swim lesson.  The first 100 meters were great.  And then on the way back, without any warning, it felt like my lungs just shut down.  It felt like I couldn’t get any air in.  Like I was slowly being crushed by my wetsuit.  I side stroked, but that didn’t help and I ended up flipping over and floating.  For a long time.   My mind was decidedly NOT ready.

I fantasized about dropping out of the race.  But eventually I rejected that.  It’s not that I didn't want to do it, it’s just that I was afraid to fail.  When I was about 8, my mother sent my father and I off to join the YMCA’s father/daughter bonding experiment, which was known as The Indian Princesses.  I don’t  remember that we really bonded.  I do remember that we all got to invent Native American inspired names for ourselves.  I came up with the name Whispering Falls, which I determined was intellectually poetic, befitting the sensitive/dramatic 8 year old that I was.  My father, who refused to take anything seriously, declared himself to be Brave Chicken.  I rejected the notion that I was Daughter of Brave Chicken.  32 years later, struggling to find ways to combat my swimming fears, I realized that I had not escaped my heritage.

What I needed were tools and tricks.  Enough to build a safety suit around myself that I believed in.  These are the little lies and tricks I used to get into the water and out 750 meters later with a smile on my face:

1.  Get in the open water before the race

Two weeks before my race (on my birthday), I scheduled an open water swim lesson with the women my friends refer to as The Swim Whisperer.  It was on that lesson that I freaked out in my wetsuit.  I swam across the lake, approximately 100 meters, and it felt pretty good.  Nice and glidy.  And we were the only two out there.  And there were no geese (have I mentioned my bird fear?)!  We had a chat on the other side and I was pretty proud of myself.  It was not all that hard to sight.  I headed back to the other side.  And suddenly, although it didn’t seem like I was working any harder, I completely lost my breath.  This created a sort of domino effect – my neck started hurting, I couldn’t get my head up high enough to site and I couldn’t figure out where I was, panic, panic, wheeze.  I got so every breath in was a gasp.  I started doing the flailing jellyfish dance.  And finally, I started side stroking, and then floating on my back, trying to get my heart rate down.  Luckily, the Swim Whisperer was there with me. 

Mei Mei is unlike any swim instructor I have ever known.  For her, it doesn’t matter how long you can swim in the pool, how streamlined your form is, or how awesome your wetsuit is.  If you are afraid, none of that is going to help you.  What she sets out to do is identify what you are really afraid of by popping all the lesser, distracting, wannabe fears like they are little bubbles.  She reminded me that I couldn’t sink in a wetsuit.  She reminded me that if I was in distress, it was easy to roll over on my back and raise my arm for help.  She reminded me that it’s supposed to be hard and I am supposed to get a little breathless, but that there is no point in rushing to get to that breathless state.  And that now that I’d freaked out, I wouldn’t need to do it on my race.  And  she reminded me that I love lakes, and that I shouldn’t let all those other triathletes rushing about ruin that for me.  Even though I had a rough swim, I went home thinking about everything she said, and repeating it to myself.

2.  Become Batgirl

I spent a lot of time trying to identify exactly WHAT I was afraid of.  And I determined that I was afraid of that constricting feeling of the wetsuit, and how it felt like it was CRUSHING me when I started breathing hard.  My brother, who is always helpful, offered to remove all the cushions from the couch, put me on the couch, put the cushions on top of me, and then sit on the cushions while yelling, “Breathe!!  Breeeeeeaaaththththththe!”  The more I thought about it, the more I definitely didn’t want to be crushed under couch cushions by my brother, but I did think that conditioning myself to get used to the wetsuit probably couldn’t hurt.

I squished myself into the suit every night that last week before the race.  Sometimes I got on the balance ball and practiced stroking.  Sometimes I lifted light hand weights.  Sometimes I checked out my butt in the mirror (horrible).  Once I watched the opening of that creepy Grimm show to see if I could get my heart rate up and then try and calm myself down (turns out it was too stupid to make my heart race much).  Sometimes I practiced my superhero poses, which would lead to me wondering about which super power I really wanted to have, and would I rather have a really fast car or a motorcycle, and suddenly I would realize I had been sweatily daydreaming in my suit for half an hour!

3. Brainwash yourself

There is a reason the word “Giggle”, carved out of foam in bright colors hangs on my door.  I put it there so I don’t already feel like murdering people BEFORE I get on the metro to start my work day.  Most days it works.  Words have power.  My psyche knows this and is probably responsible for my picking out this strange little bracelet one day while I was browsing around one of my favorite little gift boutiques.  It was a simple bracelet made of embroidery floss tied around a silver charm that spelled out an adjective that I would never use to describe myself.  But it was cute, and I bought it and put it away figuring it would make a nice gift for one of my spunkier girl friends when her birthday rolled around.  I came across it while I was cleaning up and I put it on.  And intermittently during the day I would look at it, and it would remind me how to act, and how not to give up on myself.

The day before the race I went for a manicure, something I don’t do often as I’d rather spend my money on, say, 5 flavors of frozen yogurt from one of those neon headache fro yo stores with 16 yogurt choices and a gabillion toppings including chocolate sauce, lychees, rainbow sprinkles, and Cap’n Crunch!

 (Sorry.  I had to stop there for a minute and day dream)

Anyway, like I said, I went for a manicure and got my nails decked out in a dangerous looking red polish, because red is not for sissies!

4.  Run through the plan

The night before the race, again, I got the wetsuit on.  By that point you would think I could get it on easily, but it was still an exercise in groaning and yanking and cursing and excessive sweating.  On the positive side, I had figured out how to tug the shoulders of the suit so that I could get a little extra room up there, which helped keep that feeling of suffocation at bay.  I practiced transitioning from swim to bike – jogging while pulling the wetsuit off my arms (impossible), getting it down in a pool around my feet and stepping on it with one foot while freeing the other (not bad), pulling too hard and slipping on the hardwood floor (oops).

5.  Get there early enough to look at the whole swim course and freak out in advance

I got to the race plenty early.  Early enough to watch the buoys get placed.  Predictably, looking at the whole course from up above the beach made me nervous.  It looked horribly far from beach to just the first buoy.  There were two turn buoys around which swimmers were to make a 90 degree turn.  Those looked excessively far apart.  Gulp.

6.  Find ways to calm yourself down

To my great fortune, there was a playground just above the beach.  When I grew up, the “Time Out” method of discipline did not exist.  When we acted out my mother would simply say “get out of the house!  Go play or something!”  And I would retreat to my swing set.  Even now, if I have a rough day at work, I will head to a park for a bit of a swing.  Somehow, when I swing up high and tip my head back, everything bad sort of falls right out of my head and all I feel is the exhilaration of motion.

7.  Really check out the course

I walked down to the water to check out sight lines.  To find other things on the shore lines to look for if I couldn’t find the buoys.  I determined that if I lost sight of buoys on the way to the first turn buoy, I would look for the white house on shore.  If I lost sight of them on the way to the second turn buoy, I would look for the pontoon boat.  I felt better knowing I had a plan.  Plus, the closer I got to the water, the less scarey the distance between buoys seemed to be.

8.  Take a bath

We were allowed get in the lake before the swim waves started, so I was able to get used to the temperature, get my face wet, get a feel for the lake and it’s darkness and chop, and practice swimming around others.  This helped me more than I expected it to, because I got to play a little bit, which made it a lot less scarey.  And I noticed that LOTS of people were nervous, which made me less so.

9.  Ignore the dude with the bullhorn

Mei Mei had warned me that the race organizers would try to pump me up, but that I should close that out and find my calm.  I focused on my breathing and my plan for the swim.

10.  Take it easy

When the horn went off to start my wave, I let most of it go splashing out towards the first buoy.  I walked out for as long as I possibly could.  I was the last one in my wave not swimming.  Then I gracefully fell forward, took a couple breast strokes, and started my freestyle.

11.  Use the rhythm method, make love to the buoys

I decided the best way to not freak out was to make up a silly song and hold onto it for dear life.  Use it as the cadence for my strokes as I looked for the buoys.  I breathe every other stroke in the open water, making my cadence slightly lopsided, so my song went like this:

I’m a boat!  I’m a boat!  I’m a boat!  Oooo, a buoy!  I’m a boat, I’m a boat, I’m a boat, where’s the buoy?!  Where’s.  The freakin’.  Oooo, a buoy!  I’m a boat!  I’m a boat!  This is not!  All that bad!  Is that a bird?!!  Oooo, a buoy!

My coach says it’s ok to “hug a buoy”.  She says the buoys cannot get enough love for the work that they do so it is ok to kinda hug them on the way by if you need to.  I have a greater fear of getting stuck in the middle of some other swimmer’s love for the buoy, so I sort of love them from a distance.

12.  Have a momentary flight of fancy

While the rhythm kept me steady, it started to get monotonously boring.  I felt so good when I hit the first turn buoy that I decided to try out the turning stroke where you flip over on your back for half a stroke to get around the corner of the buoy, and then flip back onto you stomach.  I made it onto my back quite gracefully, I think.  And then I felt sort of stuck as I sort of heaved myself, in little jerks, back onto my stomach.  Embarrassing.  But I had a bit of a giggle about it, so all good.

13. Scream a little into the water

I was amazingly calm through the longest portion of the swim.  But turning the 2^nd turn buoy and facing the shore put me in the direct line of the sun.  I could definitely see the shore, but I could not see any details on it.  Like where, specifically, the swim exit was.  I knew that really all I had to do was follow the other swimmers, who, like me, upon passing the 2^nd buoy were trying to haul it into the shore.  And sometimes I would see splash and follow it, and then two strokes later I would see no splash and wonder where the hell I was.  It was frustrating, and I was feeling really stubborn about breaking into the breast stroke to get a really good slow look at the shoreline.  So I screamed a little while blowing out under water.  It was awesomely helpful.  I probably screamed half way back to shore. 

14.  Fist pump on the exit

My intention had been to swim until I felt the bottom with my fingers, but I swam into someone who decided they weren’t going to wait that long, so I had to fight my way through chest-high water.  I was alive.  More importantly, I was done swimming!  I was so excited.  While everyone else was charging for the ramp to the transition area, Brave Chicken was waving wildly at her coach, “I’m out!  I’m out!  I did it!”  

Shoetopia

by Emilie L. David, 29 April 2012

These are my new sneakers.  They and I are currently in that honeymoon phase.  That one where they lovingly support me and make me feel faster and where I line them up on the shoe rack, on the top row, and dust the dirt off of them.  I’ve been here before.  Last time, it was with a cobalt blue pair of Nike Lunar Glides.  They claimed to have just enough stability yet still feel light and cushiony.  And I loved them until I limped over a 5k finish line with blood pooling in the arch of my foot.

In my many miles of running, here is what I have learned about sneakers.  You just don’t know.  You know at once what is not comfortable when you stand up.  You know what is comfortable on a treadmill, if you are at one of those stores that claims to be able to know what kind of shoe you will need on the road by running for 5 seconds on a moving conveyor belt.  Depending upon what store you go to, you might know what kind of shoe is comfortable by running around the block for a 16^th of a mile.  But when you get home, the shoes that feel good on a 3 mile test run, might feel hard as slate at mile 7 of a 10 mile run.

There is not a single person, therapist or sales person, runner or doctor, who has recommended the same type of sneaker for me.  For a few years, Saucony made a model that kept me relatively injury free.  And then they made “improvements” to it that left me limping at the end of a 9 mile run.  Then I found some Reeboks that did the job.  And they stopped making that model altogether.  So, on a recent warm Sunday, 30 minutes from closing time, I literally wore out two salespeople at my local running store by trying out every running shoe they had in my size that was neutral or afforded light stability.  They did one of those treadmill tests with me and decided I needed a neutral shoe.  I argued with them about that and told them that my form is a lot different 5 seconds into a run than it is 5 miles into a run on the road.  They asked me questions.  They pulled shoes and watched me run up and down the sidewalk.  They conferred with each other.  I asked them questions.  I complained.  This one is too hard.  This one is inflexible.  This one feels like the heel is actually weighted to FORCE a heel strike.  This one isn't long enough for my longer right foot. They looked for another shoe.  And another shoe.  And another shoe.  The whole time I had been avoiding minimalist styles.  I argued that they weren’t going to provide enough cushioning where I needed it and they were going to encourage pronation when I got tired, and they were going to feel like I was slamming my feet right into the concrete.  I had narrowed it down to a pair, but the one guy could tell my inner Goldilocks wasn't entirely happy.  Then he put the Brooks Pure Cadence in front of me.  “Just try them – we’ll see how you run in them.”

They looked like giant white beans with bits of orange on them.  They gave you a Pod Foot look.  They would have been a big hit with the playground supervisors of my youth.  I was skeptical.  The sales dude held my purse (with its pink glittery Disney Princess keychain hanging off it) and said, “Take off!” 

Honestly, all I had to do was lean forward.  The shoes took off without me.  I beat it back to my purse with a smile on my face.  Surely this is what Michael Johnson felt like every time he put his gold, specially made Nikes on!  It was like test driving a car that knows what you want to do before you touch the wheel.  I took them home, worried and hopeful.  I put them to work recently on a brief run, after a cold and tiring bike ride.  We went through a neighborhood near a lake where, with my stellar sense of direction, I kept going the wrong way and hitting private neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs and having to turn around.  It was a rolling jaunt with sudden sharp inclines and normally I would not be amused but I was like a dog sitting in the front seat with the window down.  It’s like Paolo Nutini sings, “Hey, I put some new shoes on and suddenly everything is right!”

(Note:  Even if they don’t work out, I am still grateful to the staff at Pacers in Old Town, Alexandria.  They pulled a lot of shoes but more importantly, they listened to me, they watched me run, and they noticed the difference in how I ran from shoe to shoe.  And they held my obnoxiously accessorized handbag through the whole process to ensure no one would steal it.)

Cherry Blossom 10 Miler? That's What Tiggers Do Best!

By Emilie L. David, 4 April 2012


Sitting at Brunch on Sunday after the 10 miler, my running buddy Megan asked "What is the Blog going to say about Cherry Blossom?"  In my post-race stupor, I told her that all I could remember noticing was asphalt.  The great thing about that is that it meant I was actually, finally, focused during a race.  The bad news is that being that tuned in sort of makes for a boring blog report, but I'll see what I can do.

I had two goals going into this race.  One was to not stop.  There was stopping at Chicago.  There was stopping in Disney World.  I wanted no stopping this time.  The second goal, which would help me achieve the first, was to not give in to my Inner Piglet.  You know Piglet -- the tiny voice that goes "Oooooo!  Is my Achilles supposed to feel like that?"; or "Ooooo!  is this crazy breathing turning into asthma?"; or "Eeeeeee!  How can I feel this bad when I am only half way through?"  Instead I needed to do more Tigger-type thinking, which goes more like this: "Five miles more to go?  No problemo!  Five miles is what Tiggers do best!"; or "Pot hole I just rolled my ankle in?  Tiggers LOVE potholes!"; and also "Hill at the end?  My top is made out of rubber!  My bottom is made out of springs!"

In truth, I don't recall having any truly exuberant Tigger-type moments.  It was more an ongoing argument with myself, but at least, this time, consistent forward motion kept winning that argument.  It's all about fooling and lying to yourself when it gets hard.  Tricks and distractions.  I think the difference between this race and previous races, besides it being shorter, and besides my just being tired of punking out, was that I prepared.  Every spare moment I had two days before the race I used to go over my list of tricks.  Many have been given to me by Taneen Carvell, who has been steadfastly hoping that I might actually employ one or two of them in a race situation.  Others I learned by happy accident.







1.  Find Pre-Race Cheerleaders.
If I can rally with other running friends before the race, it helps.  If I can rally a friend who seems more nervous than I am, it helps.  If I can wake up a friend who isn't running my race and therefore would have liked to sleep in with a Can-I-get-a-rally-last-minute-cry-for-help text, it helps (thanks, Leigh!).

2.  Salute the starting line announcer.
I try not to wave and high-five people during the race as it wastes energy.  However, I equate a salute to the race announcer as I cross the start line to putting the work pumps on before going to work.  It preps me for the job ahead.  It's not a jog.  It's not a social event.  It's time for work.


3. Be one with the buffalo.
The only way to make any headway in a field as crowded as Cherry Blossom is to go with the flow and dive into every available hole.  This is a challenge for a polite person like me.  But do buffalo politely step aside or yield to other buffalo?  Hell no!  Stampede!!!

4. Find a beacon.
If I am lucky, I can find someone (unbeknownst to them) to try and keep up with.  They will effectively pull me across the finish line.  For me it is best if they are wearing a bright color or something that flaps.  This race, I found it in the form of a neon-pink tank top.  It was perfect because even when I was so toasted I didn't know where I was or what my legs were actually doing, I could still see and mindlessly follow the neon pink blur.  I thanked her in the finishing chute, and she admitted she had been following her own beacon.  6 degrees of Cherry Blossom Beacon!

5. Trash talk.
One of my least favorite locations to run is Hains Point.  It is a total mind-f#^%.  It looks like it should be cake.  It's flat.  It's straight until you go around the point, then it's straight and flat some more.  But there's wind.  And it gets narrow and cramped with so many runners.  And on the way to the point, you can't see the point, so it feels endless.  Plus, it oozes the bad feeling of past training runs gone bad.  So for instance, when I passed the restrooms that I once stopped at on a hot day and watched my knee puff up to near immobility, making the return trips one of my most painful runs ever, I flinched.  And then I asked myself if I was content to be Hains Point's bitch today.  I was not!

6. Invent enemies.
Aggression on these things is helpful if not necessary.  Battling yourself for an hour or more gets tedious.  Battling someone else can be a nice change of pace, literally.  I'm supportive of all runners and training groups.  But there is one local group that is easy for me to vilify, although not for any good reason.  In fact, I think of joining them every year.  But their jerseys are obnoxiously bright and therefore easy to spot.  I caught one in my peripheral vision, trying to pass me.  It did not STAY past me.

7.  Self hypnosis.
You can use mantras for this or visualization - the point is repetition to the point where you stop hearing Piglet and stop feeling anything.  My mantra worked to the point where I don't even remember what it was.  I just remember starting it around mile 8.5 and using it until I crested the hill before the finish line.  I suspect it was "Get it done!"  Or possibly "Don't be late!" (brunch reservations were for 9:30).

8.  See the people.When I'm out of mantras, it sometimes helps me to actually look at the spectators.  Because if one of them looks back at me, I HAVE to straighten up and run strong and look like the runner I aspire to be.  Because that's what Tiggers do best.

On The Rocks

By Emilie L David, 26 March 2012
It is not uncommon to hear me complaining during the week about how tired I am and how I can't wait until my next race is over so I can just rest.  The truth, however, is that recovery days scare me.  Recovery days mean laundry, or cleaning my apartment, or any number of boring tasks that will keep me inside all day with only virtual human contact.  This is why, on St. Patrick's Day, while other people are having a nice foamy Guinness or Jameson's on the rocks, I am standing on a rock.  Or rather, I am on a splinter of rock in Carderock park, and 20 feet below me, attached, to me by a rope, is the guy I have known for 2 hours, whom I am trusting not to let me fall if I slip.


Over my Christmas break I tried some indoor rock climbing.  I was not great at it and I tired really easily, but I liked it.  I liked the exertion of it, and I liked the puzzle of deciding which part of your body to put on which hold and in which order.  And ok, I LOVED rappelling!  So, when I found an Intro to Outdoor Rock Climbing course in my area on a weekend after the Princess Half, in a fit of Fearingtherecoveryperiod, I signed up for it.


That is why I find myself standing on what looked like a ledge from the ground, but is actually a tall shard of stone that has broken away from the mother cliff, meaning there is now a chasm between myself and the rest of the cliff face. 
So, even though I am anchored securely on my line, and even though there is a giant, vertical crack in the cliff in front of me, ranking this an easy climb, my brain is putting up a fight.  What I need to do is reach across the chasm with my left leg and wedge it sideways into the crack.  Then I need to push off the floating column I'm on with my right leg and hope I can use my wedged left foot as a fulcrum to leverage my weight up and onto the cliff face.  Then I can alternately fulcrum my feet into and up the crack to the top searching for good hand holds along the way.


Here's what my brain is saying to me:
First, what if, while fulcruming yourself up onto the rock face, you sprain or break the ankle that's wedged into the crack?  How are you going to bike tomorrow with a sprained ankle?  You think clipping in and out is a problem now?! 


Second, what if you wedge your foot too far into the crack and you can't get it out and you lose your hand hold and hang there by your twisted foot, bashing the rest of yourself against the rock wall, and they have to amputate to free you from the rock?  How are you going to run your ten miler with only one foot?!  You don't even remember your own blood type.  What if you need an infusion from the amputation?  Plus, you just bought a new PAIR of sneakers.  What a waste.


Thirdly, and most likely, what if your fulcrum foot isn't wedged in and strong enough and when you push off onto the cliff you just start this slow and humiliating slide down the crack and into the chasm where your cries for help will echo your failure all over the park?


While I am debating my peril (because there is just no way this could possibly work), I look down at my belayer, who is trying not to fall asleep while I make a decision to go for it.  I am the only girl who has shown up for this class, and while I am loving being the token girl amongst 6 active, fun loving guys, I am not doing a very good job of showing off.


You know how in cartoons with cats they often show the cat freaking out and leaping stiff limbed and all claws onto the thing they are afraid of?  I am pretty sure that's what I look like when I finally launch myself towards the crack.  But magically, that fulcrum business actually works.  I jam and torque my way, foot over foot, up that crack.  There is a little slipping, and near the end, I can't seem to find any hand holds and I end up jamming hands into cracks and hoping for the best, but I finally reach the top. 


The top is where I start to make up for the fact that I have been holding my breath by gasp-gulping air while whooping my excitement about being alive.  It's a gorgeous day and I am outside getting dirty and tired!  My shin is a little ripped up and in a day it will look like both my knees had a run in with Tonya Harding's Ex.  But as it turns out, I really like rocks! 


Reaching the top of a climb, when you have forced yourself to do something that had you frozen with doubt, that was hard physically and mentally, is not unlike crossing the finish line of a race.  There's just a much awesomer view.

Running with Princesses

by Emilie L David, 29 February 2012
Friday morning: My mother and I board the plane to Orlando.  I try not to panic when a stewardess announces “Passengers, please locate your photo id’s.  An attendant will be coming through the cabin to check every one's photo ID against the manifest.”  30 minutes later, a family of 4 will leave the plane while a Southwest employee takes their place and the Captain will put everyone at ease by announcing, “folks, whatever that was all about, I guess it’s over so we’re gonna take off.”

Friday later morning:  When the airport attendant that I ask for directions from says “you want me to give you free directions?  You expect a lot,” I flash a big princessy smile and say, “Yes, I do,” and wait until I get the directions.  (they will be mostly right).

Friday even later morning: I find Patti at the Disney shuttle lines and get excited to see someone who is there for the same self-torturing reason I am: to run the Disney Princess Half Marathon.  Now that I have entered the Disney zone, everyone I meet is SUPER nice to me (since I am paying through the nose for it).  The Cast Members (which is what Disney calls its employees) are sporting one puffy Mickey Glove, which they use to get your attention with waving and motioning, which is kinda trippy, and makes me feel like I’m being drawn into a strange cult lead by over exuberant, colorfully dressed seniors.  I get a little separation anxiety when Patti and I are put on different shuttles - we are staying at different resorts.

Check in:  I’m completely overstimulated by the decor of the All Star Sports resort.  Check-in will take forever, but a room that is ready and that will adjoin to my brother’s room is tracked down for me even though it is before normal check-in time.  I find my way to the section with gigantic tennis rackets and balls the size of a VW Bug attached to the walls and see a never ending parade of teenage girls with bags and/or giant head bows because the National College Women’s Lacrosse and National High School Girl’s Cheer Squad conferences are taking place the same weekend as the Princess Half Marathon.  Welcome to Chickville, USA.

Speaking of lots of estrogen:  Let’s talk about what a Princess themed running expo looks like. The entrance is presided over by the footmen of Cinderella’s wedding coach, and the coach itself.  You can stand in line to get your picture taken with them.  Or you can bypass that line and try to resist making the sign that signifies “gag me!” Inside at bib pick-up, there will be 3 different stops to make, but again, everyone will be super nice and excited for you, which, unless you are actually Scrooge McDuck, will start to rub off on you and make you polite and pleasant in return.  When I get to the Expo floor, I need to put my sunglasses back on because oh my word the VOLUME of glitter and sequins is arresting.  I lose my mother in its depths at least twice.  I never find Patti, because she very wisely heads straight for the massage tables where she will emerge relaxed while I will have had my eyeballs fried out of my skull by squined running skirts in every color.  Mouse ears with tiaras and veils attached to them.  Seizure enducing crowns that blink.  There will not be a single technical shirt with those awesome sweat wicking mesh panels there (Princesses are in denial about sweating), or arm warmers (Princesses are in denial about their outfits being too skimpy for the early start temperature).  When I take a second look at my bib, I note that I, a seriously non-threating mid-packer, am in Corral A  (signifying Princesses are in denial about a half marathon involving actual running).

Friday Evening:  I head with family in tow to the Downtown area where there are themed restaurants and where they let you walk around with a margarita in your hand.  My sister-in-law buys me one, and suddenly I am on vacation!  I sick myself on gigantisaurus sized fish tacos at the T-Rex cafe where I think my 9 month old nephew’s fascination with the giant animatronic squid will mean he will like going straight up to the giant triceratops head.  Wrong.  Auntie’s bad.  

Saturday:  Try to stay off your feet in Disney World.  Just try.  After MUCH debate, I head with my family to Adventureland in the Magic Kingdom.  There is only a 5 minute wait to get on a boat on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride.  It’s dark and smelly, and I am scared, but my baby nephew is totally enthralled.  In the beginning of the ride when it is pitch black and your boat drops for a bit into the water, my mom will scream, but when the lights come back, little Jonah will be smiling, and looking everywhere.  He will not understand the Tiki Room, but he will love Tiki Bird softserve and be wide-eyed all through Small World.  Then the bickering will start and we will lose my mom in the Emporium store which will cause a rift and everyone will need a time out.  We will head back to the resort and be too exhausted to do anything but order pizza delivery to the room.  I don’t normally eat pizza before running, but it is easy and covered with many meats and cheeses.  And there is beer.

Sunday: The alarm goes off at 2am.  I finally get up at 2:30.  I dress in a running tank with a giant felt heart stuck to the front and running skirt with the chevron applique made from yellow felt bits mimicking Disney’s Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland.  My crown is fashioned from gold pipe cleaners.  It’s chilly out, so I pull on my arm warmers.  I am thrifty.  And practical.  And no Princess.  On the way to the shuttle bus stop, in the moonlight, I encounter many Cinderellas,  out after midnight, getting ready for a long jog.  After a lot of walking, I meet up with Patti and Heather and we sit around in the dark taking in all the tulle.  We are the only 3 people in this crowd of 20,000 that do a warm up jog. A runner dressed as Minnie Mouse asks to take my picture as I am the only Queen of Hearts she has seen so far. I am celebrity.  As the start time approaches, I wish Patti and Heather good luck and head for my corral and wait for the fireworks to launch, signaling the start of a 2 hour battle with myself.

The Start:   Some crazy ex-track athlete with 3 names is leading everyone in some spasmodic warm-up to Miley Cyrus music while I steadfastly sit on the pavement resting my gams.  When the starting fireworks (!) go off, I take off and forget my entire training plan to start slow and then build.  The pacemakers are men wearing paper crowns and holding their expected finishing time up on a stick.  They are called Pace Princes.  Which means if you choose to keep up with one, you are chasing after a Prince.  The whole idea ticks me off so bad I keep up with the 2:00 Pace Punk.

Mile 3:  A giant Pirate ship is all lit up on the median and a Jack Sparrow look-alike is making pirate eyes at everyone.  But the Hot Air Balloon with it’s occasional burst of flame and the regular-dude baloonist is much cooler.

Mile 4:  Breathing hard.  For awhile I am keeping pace next to two girls dressed as Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.  Too bad I can’t really keep up with them.  I start to feel my stomach heaving about.  The actual Queen of Hearts and other Disney Villains are in the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom and there is a line of runner Princesses waiting to have their pictures taken with them.  I don’t want to lose any time.

Mile 4.5: The left ventricle of my heart is flapping off my running tank.  I yank it off and leave it at the entrance of the Magic Kingdom.  No reason to let a beat up heart slow me down.

Mile 5: Stomach is a mess.  This is why you do not eat the Meat Lover’s pizza the night before your big race.  Or possibly it is because I have broken my 2nd rule of travel racing, which is ‘do not drink the tap water’.  I know the photographers are outside Cinderella’s castle before mile 6, and I want to make sure I have NO chance of an accident before or while I pass through the castle.  I put on the speed to get by the 2:00 Pace Posse and buy myself some time.  I am in the Porta Johns for a long time.  Until the, forgive me, roiling stops.  I am in an argument with myself as to whether or not I should attempt to get that first gel in.  I usually like to take it at mile 4.  I opt to try and feed my muscles, and choke a little more than half of it down.

The Castle:  It feels like it takes forever to get to it, and then suddenly, we round a bend and are in it.  The first time I came to Disney World I was in 4th grade. For months afterward I daydreamed about living in that castle.  I try and take it all in for the 4th grade me.  It feels pretty fantastic.

Mile 6:  I will myself past the bathroom stops and try not to think about how I am not quite half way through.  I try not to sneer at the volunteers and cheerleaders who shout  “You are almost half way through!”

Mile 8:  I still can’t see the 2:00 Pace Prat.  It’s getting me down.  I see Donald Duck on the side of the road.  We are passing the golf course and he is dressed in an argyle vest and golf cap and is totally available for a photo.  I figure a good finishing time is literally down the crapper anyway, so why not have fun.  I always did have a weakness for temperamental males.  I stop for a photo, and THE Donald gives me two feathers up which spurs me on.

Mile 9:  I start to walk from the gatorade to the water at the water stops.  The sun is up and my face is hot so I start using the water stops to drench myself.  My breathing is finally under control because my legs do not want to move as fast as they did 3 miles ago.  The volunteers are plentiful and encouraging, and I smile and thank them and collect myself and push on as soon as I pass the last water person.

Mile 10: Ramp.  It doesn’t look as bad as it feels.  It feels horrible.  I should be pushing it now for a fast last 5k, but I have nothing left down there, and I am in a fierce battle against my stomach.  All my focus is there.  I totally forget everything I had planned to call upon at this time - anger, strength, anger. Instead I find myself saying to myself "shit! shit! shit! I mean DON'T shit! Definitely do not shit!"

Mile 12:  My legs just want to stop.  I am totally tired.  It is a blessing and a curse that I have reached Epcot and the streets are lined with spectators and children, and you just cannot stop in front of children.  I hate children.

Mile 12.5:  I miscalculate again, think I don’t have enough left, and start my surge too late, I’m suddenly just around the bend from the finish.  Just as I am trying to make up for that, at about mile 13, I hear my brother yell my name.  It’s all I need.  I run straight for Mickey and the finish line.  It looks like I have missed a PR by mere seconds.

Post Finish:  My legs are very angry with me, but in a completely different way than they usually are.  I have no pain in my hip or glute where my old injury is.  My quads are on FIRE.  I shuffle my way over to the volunteers who are handing out medals.  There is one gentleman who is shyly tucked into the middle, not sure how to approach all these sweaty Princesses, the Dopey amongst the other medal bestowing dwarves.  I point at him and smile and ask if I can have one of those big shiny necklaces.  I cannot figure out why he is reaching up so high, but then I realize, it is to get the ribbon over the top of my crown! The medal is shaped like a tiara with a purple gem stone in it on a purple ribbon and it's horrendous. Having it makes me feel better instantly.

Two women dressed up as lady’s maids are sprinkling glitter on those finishers who want to be fairy dusted.  I am totally disgusting, limping and red faced and I am going to have an accident soon.  But hell yes I am stopping for glitter!

My hands are shaking and I have to ask another volunteer to unscrew a bottle of Powerade for me.  In the medical area, I slather my knee with Biofreeze.  Now I am a red faced, salt encrusted, glittery, menthol smelling heartless queen.  But that does not deter more volunteers from carefully taping a bag of ice around my leg and congratulating me.

My bag is in section “D”, which is nearly at the end of the line of bag pickup tents.  When I lurch into the tent there is thunderous applause as the 8 or so volunteers all cheer and congratulate me.  This is so unexpected I actually giggle.  On the other side of the tent, I see my brother, wielding his vidcam, capturing my post-race, stomach-is-a-mess grimace digitally.  My mom is there doing that slide trombone movement with her digital camera, trying to find me in the frame, and my sister in law is holding Jonah, who is squeezing the life out of a rose that they have bought for me. It has a silver Mickey bursting out of its petals.  Children are lovely. This one's a little cranky, but I am too.  I need to get my stomach and my wonky knee to a comfortable place.  After one more trip to the porta potty, I get to ride the Monorail while sporting a crown and a giant Princess medal, which really, is the way one should always ride the Monorail.

It will take me hours and (thanks to the advice of my coach) a Coke to get my stomach back to normal, but the ice and some massaging will keep my knee healthy and I will be surprisingly mobile for the rest of the day (with occasional moaning when standing up or sitting down).  I will wear that medal all day long, even though it is heavy, and even though I will accidentally drag it across the top of the celebratory chili dog my mom insists is necessary (No David ever let a little stomach upset stop them from consuming meat sauce).  And later, when I check my final finishing time, I will find out that despite the distrestinal issues and the water stopping and one stolen moment with a testy duck in an argyle sweater, I beat my last half marathon time by 12 magical seconds.