You Want to be Like Me.

I market things for a living. Right now I market technology solutions. In the past, I have marketed books. However, it doesn't take a marketing genius (such as myself, of course) to realize the best way to promote something you wish to draw an audience to is to place something inspiring or encouraging on the front. If you want to market clothes to a younger audience, the models must be cool and hip and the epitome of what that audience wants to be. If you want to market make-up to a 40+ crowd, your model should not have wrinkles or blotchy skin. You want to entice your target market by showing them exactly what they can look like or be when they use your product.

The other day, I received a packet of race applications in the mail. The first few were for more trail runs in Reading (a 15K? a 30K? Let's all take a moment and laugh, especially those I've spoken to and heard about my stories from a measley 7-mile Pretzel City Sport trail run the other week). Then I saw the Holy Grail of race applications. It was for the 2008 Valley Forge Revolutionary Run. It was black and white, and appeared to have been photocopied by an intern standing at the machine. But despite the grainy appearance, there was no denying the picture of the runners--and right in the middle were Ted and myself.

The marketer was being marketed. The sad thing about this is I looked more like Quazi Moto climbing the stairs to the bell tower than an experienced runner--and I think the picture was taken around mile 1.

Just as you want your make-up ads to reflect a beautiful face, and your diet pill ads to show a beautiful body, you also want your race ads to portray beautiful runners.

Eh-hem. Thus brings me to my next question--what took them so long? (insert smiley face here, because we know we all want to look like Maggie running!)

One for the Books

Everyone has a list of items they wish to experience. I am no different. However, as a runner, my list varies a bit. I still have the basics--I want to have kids, I want to see the Great Wall of China, I want to lay on the beach in Brazil, I want to see the Great Pyramids. But I also have items that classify who I am--I wanted to run a marathon (check!), I want to run a race and place, I want to run a trail race.

I have now completed the trail race. And, six hours after I finished, I still am not sure how I feel.

Ted and I went to Reading and ran the Chilly Cheeks. We had been training in a local park on technical trails, and felt we were pretty prepared. Our mileage wasn't real high for a 7 mile run, but we knew the distance. We had the trial shoes and we had dressed in layers (the wind chill in Reading this morning may have been single digits, and I'm being generous). But we weren't prepared for the race itself. It definitely wasn't for the faint of heart.

We were fortunate whereas there was no ice nor water nor mud. There was some snow, but just enough to add to the experience without hindering performance. The race started on a road, went down a hill, around a turn onto a trail, and....UP. We stopped when we saw the crowd of people, half walking/half crawling, up a long, steep hill.

The rest of the trail was like that. Steep hills. Long downhills. Some straight and flat, but most of it was anything but. Many points throughout I was able to stand at the foot of the hill and look straight up. The trail zig-zagged up the hill, and the line of colored coats and hats wound up the hill. My calves burned, my butt hurt, and I questioned my sanity at quite a few places.

Halfway through, at the second water stop, were cups of Yuengling. It was cold, it was carbonated, and it was delicious. We kept moving, up more hills, over trees, down rocks. Ted and I both stumbled and slid on more than one occasion, but we picked ourselves back up and kept going.

The phrase of the race was when Ted turned around and informed me (and the three people between us) "I'd rather be running the marathon." He was met with agreement from everyone between me and him. At the top of the next to last hill, we rolled over a thick wall onto the road and started heading back to the finish.

The last hill was actually one of the redeeming factors of this race. We heard the crowd before we saw them...then we looked up, and then we saw them. Dave was waiting for us at the top. This hill was very short compared to the others, but it was straight. Ted and I literally crawled--funny thing was, I don't remember really bending over to crawl over this hill, that's just how steep it was. That part was loud, it was exciting, and it was fun. Afterwards we had a hot breakfast, Irish band, and dancing.

Would I do it again? I don't know. I'm sick enough to....I'd eventually forget the pain of it all, and just remember the last 5 minutes. On the other hand, it may just be one of those things I experienced once and we'll leave it at that.

An Addition to the Runner’s Medicine Cabinet

“Have you run yet today?”

That was Cassie’s question to me Sunday during the opening prelude in church. I shook my head, and explained that we are all fighting colds and I opted to rest this morning and would probably run later that afternoon.

“That was what I wanted to ask you—what will you do if you’re sick?”

I shrugged and told her I’d cross that bridge when I got there…the problem was, I was already there. For a few days the cold had shifted around from my chest to my head to my throat and back. I had run through it all…I figured a mile wasn’t hurting anything, and I could hardly quit a week into the resolution. But Ted and I are training for the Lehigh Valley Half in April, and I won't make much progress at a mile a day.

So I sat in church, sniffles and all, trying to wonder if I was feeling tired due to the illness or lack of sleep or both. And Cassie’s words rung in my ear—“If you are sick, you shouldn’t run. You can miss a day or two…”

Not everyone is so lucky as to marry someone whose personality is so much different from your own that you are as compatible as color opposites on the color wheel. That is Ted and I. And I am even luckier where one of my best friends is about as similar to Ted as one can get.

This is one reason Cassie is such a dear friend to me. Not only do we get along great, and have a blast doing it, but she is my female equivalent of Ted…my voice of reason and the grounded factor to my ditzyness. And here she is, explaining to me what I should already know—if I’m sick, I shouldn’t run. End of story. (I still opted for a mile Sunday, but still took Cassie’s advice and bypassed the 6 mile run on the training schedule).

But Sunday night I knew I had to do something. I knew the congestion would play a large factor in a good night’s sleep that night and a good night’s sleep was exactly what I needed if I was going to fight this and get on with the training.

Enter God’s Gift to the Medicine Cabinet—Vicks VaporRub.

Growing up, my brother and spent the months of November through March sharing the vaporizer. It would spend a week or two in my room, then move to his. The smell of hot Vicks in the bedroom was a staple and when I close my eyes, I can still see the jar of Vicks and the small butter knife my mom used to spread it in the vaporizer. I even had a T-shirt devoted to when things got really bad and my chest was smothered in the stuff—it had permanent grease marks on the front and smelled like…well…Vicks.

Sunday night I lathered myself up and slid on an old T-shirt. The cool tingly sensation took me back instantly, comforting me, as well as enabling me to breathe openly and freely (and sent Ted reeling to the other side of the bed). And, like magic, Monday morning I could feel the cold entering it’s final stages and I’m happy to report a full recovery is on the horizon. Mental or not, it worked and that's all I cared about!

I have now promoted Vicks VaporRub for the inevitable winter colds to the “What’s in my Medicine Cabinet” list, right beside Advil for sore muscles, petroleum jelly for chafing sports bras, band-aids for the blisters, and countless knee and ankle braces.

Dave's Scale

At some point in the past year or so that Dave has slowly been moving in with us, a scale arrived. I’m not sure if it first came during his weekend stays early in the fall of 2006, or if it arrived as the situation turned more permanent this past summer. Regardless, at some point, a scale arrived in his back bedroom.

We didn’t first hear or know about this scale until a week and a half ago when Dave come into the kitchen and announced that his scale told him he has dropped X% of body fat.

“Wow, congratulations!” Ted stated.

My response was a bit more direct. “You have a scale?”

I have never owned a bathroom scale, and the only time I allow my eyes to fall on any sort of weight range for myself are on the few doctor’s visits over the course of the years. In high school, we had a bathroom scale—the kind where the dial has to be leveled out from time to time for a pure reading and a person only had to rock back and forth to drop a pound or two from the dial. The best April Fools’ joke was to reset the scale so it started out 5 or 10 pounds below or above zero, substantially adding or subtracting from an individual’s weight. The only problem with that is I often forgot I did that, so I ended up being the receiver of my own joke most of the time.

Dave gingerly informed me I could use his scale…obviously uncertain about how the statement could have been twisted and misinterpreted by the sensitive female psyche. So after dinner that night, I trudged upstairs quietly and pulled the scale from the back bedroom and into the bathroom.

What looked up at me from the floor was not the old scale I had been used to. This scale, with its screen not much smaller than most computer monitors, had more buttons and symbols and formulas on it than I had ever seen. In one of the most humbling experiences of my still-young life, I called down to Dave and asked him how it worked.

“You just step on it.” Was his response, delivered in the “duh” way only a 17-year-old boy can.

I kicked off my slippers and slid onto the scale, rocking back and forth until I felt I was standing evenly on the scale, balancing my weight effectively for a true reading. Then I quietly slid off the scale, returned it to the room, and slunk back downstairs, informing Ted and Dave that I was fat and dinner was heavy. “Did you wear those?” Ted asked, eyeing at my comfortable layers of pajama pants and sweatshirts. “Well, yeah…” I replied. How much can a sweatshirt weigh, anyway?

The next day, after my run and before dinner, I pulled the scale back out. The shower was running and I had decided, just before hopping in, that I should weigh myself just to see what may have transpired over the past 24 hours. “I lost seven pounds!” I yelled downstairs, and threw a robe on to inform the boys face to face that I wasn’t fat after all and the dinner, and maybe the cozy clothes, did attribute to the previous reading.

This has unleashed a monster. I am now obsessed with my body’s ability to fluctuate by a 1.5-2 pounds. I wake up in the morning—I weigh myself. I run—I weigh myself. I eat dinner—I weigh myself. I shower—I weigh myself. I dry my hair—I weigh myself. I am as fascinated by a 2-pound weight gain as I am by a 2-pound weight loss.

I think I should probably get myself on a regular routine (as in maybe once a week and not once every half hour) of weighing myself and tracking a more accurate reading system. But for now, I am having a good time seeing how much weight I gain from drinking three glasses of water and then how much I lose again by peeing it out.

New Year Resolutions 2008

Like millions of other people, I spend December 31st trying to think of resolutions to carry through the upcoming year. Most of the time they flirt with weight issues, better eating, so on and so on. Other times they touch on responsibilities—I will make more of an effort to send weekly correspondence to my adopted soldier in Iraq. I will give more to our church each week. I will try to be more patient with people. Once in a while they discuss work ethic—I will try to recapture the fire in my work that I have lost in December. I will work harder and make more of an effort to stand up for myself and I will delegate when necessary and appropriate. But more often than not, they are running related. I will improve on my mile per minute average. I will run X amount of miles this year. I will run a marathon.

This year was a bit harder. I really don’t have much of an interest on improving my mile per minute average—sure, I want to be a faster runner, but let’s be honest about it. I hate speedwork and won’t necessarily put the dedication into it that I should. I’m not so great with long-term goals, so saying I want to run 1,000 miles in 2008 may not be the best resolution for me. And I did the marathon, so I’m not sure I can make that a true resolution. So what is left?

Running every day.

I mentioned the idea of running at least a mile every day last year around this time. This year I’m serious—one mile, every day of the year, at least. Doesn’t mean I won’t run more—I have races planned, I have longer runs scheduled. But no more do-nothing days—on do-nothing days, I will run a mile. Dave asks what will I do when it rains? I will run. Ted mentioned snow—what then? I will run.
366 times this year (leap year—go figure) I will run.