Somebody pour me a drink

Sunday night found me tired and without a tv show to enjoy. What’s a girl to do? I popped in the latest movie from my Netflix queue: Finding Neverland. I’d heard the movie was good.

The movie’s okay, but it’s psuedo-based on the life of J. M. Barrie, creator of Peter Pan (and apparently also credited with coining the name Wendy. Crazy). Last night I decided to hit up wikipedia to read about how much of the movie was true.

Don’t do it. Don’t click that link. It’s effing depressing.

Barrie’s childhood sucked. The kids from the movie had really crappy lives. I wasn’t orphaned like the Llywelyn-Davies kids, most of whom met bitter demises. Oh god. I was so depressed I contemplated downing the huge bottle of Chivas Regal we have on top of the fridge in its entirety.

But I didn’t because, well, there are a lot of calories in about a half gallon of booze. Besides, scotch isn’t a taste I’ve acquired just yet. Instead I decided to look up Tasmanian devils to see if they’re really only in Tasmania. Why? Because the topic came up at brunch on Sunday, though I don’t remember how. At any rate I was sure those crazy marsupial pictures would cheer me up!

Don’t do it. Don’t click that link. It’s just plain sad.

Tasmanian devils are a protected species, partly because people killed most of them because they were perceived to be a threat to livestock (and maybe they were), then the remaining population is dying from devil facial tumor disease. Check out the picture at the end of the entry: the devils get these tumors that take over their faces until they die of starvation 12 – 18 months later. Every one of them. How awful is that?

(and yes, they’re only found in Tasmania).

Dude, knowledge sucks. I’m gonna go cry now.

I'm sore and I like it

Two posts today (you're welcome)-- I have to get them in now because my future mother-in-law (weird) is in town this weekend.

And it's my favorite kind of post: a training post.

It's my first week back after the marathon and so far it's gone great. I'm 12 weeks out from IM AZ. I'm keeping a food log. I bought an oganizer from IKEA for my training clothes on Wednesday. I have a training schedule. I'm in the gym just workin on my fitness (lifting). My knees feel awful but I'm pretending they don't. I'm learning to swim again but can still manage 50s of fly. I'm writing lots of simple sentences. I even did a long run on Wednesday... kinda. Want the story?

The plan was 12 miles at 9:50 pace in hopes of keeping up my running for my two back-to-back half marys next month. I've never said half mary before today, and I probably won't again, so savor it. Anyway, I thought the best approach would be three rounds of 4 miles on the treadmill with a gel and some strawberries during the two breaks. Like all my plans (ha!) it was a good one.

I started the first set at 10:15 pace for the first mile, then switched to 10:00 for the next 1.5, then 9:50 for the last 1.5. I was going to keep this pattern throughout the run because it usually takes me about 5 miles to finally feel good and accept the fact I'll be running for two hours, but then I'm rearing to go. Around 35 minutes in, however, I felt like I was going to hurl; to confirm my RPE wasn't a wussy manifestation I checked my heart rate.

168.

What? I checked again.

167.

Apparently it takes more than 10 days to get over a marathon (keep in mind I heard this on the heart rumor mill so it could be a lie). That didn't bode well for my evening plans though, because I was going to run 12 miles if it took all night. I ate my gel, got my heart rate in the upper 130s and started my next set of 4 miles. They weren't pretty. 2:15 after I started, however, I'd covered 12.1 miles and was satisfied. Slower than planned, but some days you just have to finish. The only concern I have is my foot-- it's bruised. I think I’m underpronating with my left foot, something I've never done before. It sucks because the outside of my left foot is not too keen on supporting my hefty frame. I'm thinking of actually going to a foot dude and getting the orthodics that have been recommended to me since I was 12. (Cheap much?) Hopefully that fixes my foot and helps my poor knee, my very weakest link.

Speaking of links, I want to buy a new heart rate monitor. A fancy one I can connect to my Mac (except none do... effing jerk fitness people). Does anyone have any experience with itrain or ismarttrain or whatever the heck it's called? I'm afraid to drop the dough on the HRM and the program without someone telling me it works for uploading data.

Other than that, no training drama. I did skip a swim last night, but I felt pretty gross and the Masters team was hogging the whole pool (besides, I schedule 7 days a week because I know I'm gonna wuss out one day). I'm doing my first long ride tomorrow (45 miles... I don't know where or with whom, but I'll figure that out), intervals and single side lifting (a new addition!) tonight, long swim on Sunday assuming I can do 1000s. No promises there. At any rate, life is good and it's nice to be unbelievably stinky when I get home. Funny how I forget how much I really love doing this stuff when I'm in lazy mode. It doesn't make any sense: why else would I do it?

"It's raining, It's pouring, Ice is forming"

So said the top news story last night. C couldn't get over the fascination with ice that this town has, and admittedly it's somewhat ridiculous. Still, I remember last year swimming at lunch in clear skies and 70 degrees, so having wintery weather is a little strange.

This morning I was hoping I'd wake up to snow and ice an inch thick; I was sorely disappointed. After checking the traffic (not bad... sigh) I hopped in the shower, dressed, and headed out the door. Given the weather I felt okay wearning fashionable sneakers and khakis to work. I took about 15 steps out my door to get to a 1/3 set of stairs-- and I promptly slid on my ass (luckily my work computer broke part of my fall) into the icy puddle at the bottom. So basically, after being sore from running forever for two days, I still get to walk like a gimp from my very sore-- and maybe slightly bruised-- hiney today. Life is funny sometimes.

This is what awesome looks like... next to my cat:

Tagging

I've been tagged. The rules:

1. Find the nearest book.

Incidentally, I "saved my legs" all day and read either on the couch or snuggled with my kitties in bed. All day. I got through The Virgin Suicides, pictured above, and William Goldman's abridged version of S. Morgenstern's The Princess Bride today; The Princess Bride is fabulous, especially with the 700+ pages of Florin historical bullshit Goldman cuts out; unfortunately, he effs it up by lots of self-indulgent babbling in the '98 version I read. [I highly recommend it if you want to get all pissed off this guy regularly gets paid (his screenplays include Butch Casidy and the Sundance Kid and the '75 version of The Stepford Wives. Take from that what you will.)] Anyway, dude is a total putz. It's a shame that such a douchebag is the guy that erected Mortgenstern's genius from the rest of his bitter satire to offer the world. Speaking of bitter, it sounds like Morgenstern and I would have gotten along just swimmingly. But anyway...

2. Name the book & the author.

The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

3. Turn to page 123.
4. Go to the fifth sentence on the page. Copy out the next three sentences and post to your blog.

In the car, however, beside the actual living girls, the boys realized the paltriness of these images. Inverse properties were also discarded: notions of the girls as damaged or demented (The crazy old lady in the elevator every day turns out to be, when you finally speak to her, perfectly lucid.) Something like this revelation came over the boys.

5. Tag three more folks.

Mmm, I'm not a tagger as such, but I'll offer it up to my victims:
Bolder, Craig, and Frankie, who just returned back to the blog scene.

Holy crap! I’m running a marathon on Sunday.

Must’ve slipped my mind what with all the bad Christmas gifts, cruises, and boyfriends-turned-fiancés falling 1/2 way over in front of me. I’m easily distracted.

I’m a little worried about the run this weekend, but not as worried as I was before I went on vacation. A story:

So I’ve established my supreme post-IM lazy fatness for 3+ months running. Judging by the other bloggers it’s not uncommon, but my misery having company doesn’t take the edge off my guilt. In my battle to extract the fat (and the lazy) from my system last month I hit the gym, my Mecca of inner peace. I started lifting and liking it—which is crazy—and trying to get in some decent long runs after the 50k. Unfortunately, "long" turned into 6 mile high-HR, sweating-like-a-pig torture sessions. I started to worry about my mental fortitude, the finest thing I have to offer triathlon and endurance racing. I’m not built. I don’t regularly coach. I’m not fast. I’m not thin. On the other hand I can do a long ride of 40 miles and eek out my first ironman because of my badassness, not my bad ass. I can make my only long run 10 miles the Sunday before and PR in a marathon because I’m young, strong, stupid, and good at racing. So what was wrong?

They say you forget the pain of long races because otherwise your body wouldn't be able to cope. Bullshit. I remember marathon pain, and it ain't pretty. To save myself just this once I decided December 30th was do-or-die. I was getting off work early and had time to get out one more long run before the marathon. Over 15 miles = doing the marathon. Fewer than 15 meant I was going to force myself to do the half instead, which would be sad because this is the only marathon I can do til I’m grinding one out in Tempe on April whatever-it-is. After the run I was heading out to Greyhound’s neck of the woods for a little flipturn fun and to meet Curly Su, who happened to be in town.

After work I went to the Y and hopped on a treadmill. My plan was a 60 minute run, a 4 or 5 mile run, then another hour if I was feelin it. I also opted to skip out on iPod usage, which I feel has run rampant in my life. I shun music because that’s what I was taught to do (George's weighty opinion doesn't help), and it was with great shame that I ever donned my armband when setting out to run.

60 minutes, 6 miles, gel. I felt good. 4.5 miles, 46 minutes, gel. I felt great, even ecstatic. I refilled my water bottle and prepared to run another 6 miles or 60 minutes, whatever came first. To celebrate, I popped on some Panic! At the Disco, the best teeny bopper stuff to come out since I was a teeny bopper (so... like last year). Then, 5 songs and 2 miles later, I started to die. I was miserable! I needed to stop, but why? My legs felt fine, I’d just gotten some nutrition, and I was finishing up the easiest leg of my run. I struggled mightily with my urge to press the STOP button but held back because of how ashamed I’d be to admit I only ran xx miles when I went to Greyhound’s. Instead, I took off my headphones with 1.5 miles left.

And suddenly I was fine. I left the Y having completed 16.5 miles in a comfortable 2 hours 47 minutes. But afterward while chillin in the pool with the likes of Grey and the Su, disappointment set in despite the lovely company. I really wanted to get in 18 miles for the day, so after driving home I ran around the block twice for a 1.6 miles. It wasn’t fast, but I finished my run with only light soreness on Saturday.

The moral? Music is the devil. May I never be tempted again*!

One last thing: marathon goal. The weather isn’t looking the best, but I think I can pull out 10:00 miles; after all, I have 3 whole long runs in the past 6 weeks, including that unhurried 31.1 mile jaunt last month. I’m hoping I hit the 4:15ish range, but I’ll take anything under my previous two years of 4:35ish. I’m not picky. If you want to track me via text message you can do so at http://www.activeresult.com/results/MSG-signup.tcl?sub_event_id=22484. My first name is Mishele and my bib number is 8636.

*Unless spinning, lifting, elliptical-ing, or stretching. Because that’s just different.

Roaches

Two posts from me today. You're welcome.

I know that there are roaches hiding in virtually any restaurant, especially in Houston. They're at Maggiano's. They're at Chipotle (perish the thought!). They're at NY Pizzeria and of course are making a fine living at Whataburger. Surely you know this too, right?

So what do you expect when you see a cockroach meandering across your table? I considered this after quite the breakfast experience (which I'll get to... slowly, as is my way). If I was at an expensive dinner and I came across anything of that nature I'd waste no time in standing up and waddling out of the joint. "Screw you and your $50/plate!" I'd yell. I'd be disgusted! I'd be horrified! But most of all, I'd never part with a dime.

But what about at a fast food place? I'd probably just shrug and walk out. Don't believe me? I present to you IHOP Breakfast of the 11th. This morning, after Craig and I had finished eating our eggs and french toast, a roach popped up beside my purse. This motherfucker was HUGE. And unlike the roaches I've seen on floors of apartments and parking lots he wasn't moving very fast. Nope. He just kinda strolled along with window pane above my purse, then along the top of the booth toward me-- kinda like he was thinking of buying me a drink or striking up a conversation. Instead of freaking out, Craig and I just kinda got up and said something so someone else could kill the bug.

I wondered what would happen when we got to the register. Would they give us our meal for free? I'd hoped not because I was here as a mystery shopper (seriously, why else would I be in IHOP in the morning?) and I needed to produce a receipt or I'd have to come back and eat there the next day. I needn't have worried because our waitress offered us 10% off the bill instead ("No" grunted the manager. "Give them 20%"). We left a large tip and we all kind of chuckled when they said, "Thanks! Uh, come back and see us!" as we walked out the door.

Four hours later I'm amazed that I don't care about a roach hanging out with us for breakfast. Have my standards dropped so low? Is it really because we were already finished eating, as Craig hypothesized? I'll let you know in two months when we hit the local IHOP again. Mmm!