Sat. 2/16/14

There were several reasons not to run today.

1. The snow had been coming down all day, and the flakes were big, like pieces of foam.
2. My only clean sports bra was rib-crunching small.
3. And I woke up immediately thinking about last night's margaritas.

But I went out anyway.

Picture: North entrance to the Prospect Park loop.

My legs felt heavy by the time I got to Prospect Park—probably on account of the margaritas—so I thought maybe I'd just run the loop then head home.  (I always think I'll just run the loop then head home—it always amazes me how quickly a running mentality can change.)  But, I was amped to run more by the time I got through so I headed to the bridge.

Picture: Brooklyn Bridge.

At this point, I started noticing how ridiculous my outfit was for this weather.  (The super small sports bra was the least of my worries.)  I don't really own weather-appropriate running attire, so, like always, I wore a bunch of layers to fend off the cold.  It usually works fine.  However, today my outer layer was getting pelted by snowflakes which melted upon impact.  And, it being a cotton hoodie, this meant the sweatshirt was slowly getting wet.

Picture: Near 23rd Street on the West Side Highway running path.

And as the snowfall started to picked up, and the wind along with it, my sweatshirt started accumulating a nice layer of white.  It got damp,  and the fabric got heavy.  But, I wasn't that cold.  I even got a new wind and picked up my pace around 10th Street and ultimately made it up to 23rd before heading back down to Houston and over to the 2nd Ave. subway stop.

Picture: www.mapmyrun.com

When I trained for my first marathon, I was still living in Los Angeles where, even in November, the only climate-related obstacle is heat.  I was part of a training group that had a couple different factions in different parts of the country. When we all came together in Honolulu for the race, I learned that the team from Chicago had been training in cold, windy conditions along Lake Michigan that caused the water in their water bottles to freeze during runs—I thought they were completely nuts. I thought, thank god I live in a place like L.A., I might never have started training for any sort of run had I been in a place like Chicago.

There are so many reasons not to do something.  I'm glad I've been able to overcome the weather barrier.  It's never as bad as you think. Even with a cotton hoodie.

Sat. 1/25/14

I had run in 24-degree weather before, but I cut my distance short when I lost the ability to feel my finger tips.  This past Saturday was another 24-degree day.  So I decided to dress accordingly:

- 1 pair of thick wool socks (DeFeet Woolie Boolie)
- 2 pairs of pants (Nike running pants lined with leggings from American Apparel)
- 1 pair of running shorts
- 1 long-sleeved shirt (LuLu Lemon)
- 1 light pullover (not sure where this is from)
- 1 warm-up jacket w/ zipper (ADIDAS)
- 1 hooded sweatshirt
- 1 knit hat with insulated lining
- 2 pairs of mittens*

* one was just not enough the first go-round.

I was too warm by the time I got to Prospect Park, about a mile away from home.  I ditched the hoodie, tied it around my waist, and continued the rest of the run.

My calves were a little tight all through Prospect Park, so I considered making this a short run and heading home after the loop and a quick trip past the Barclays Center.  By the time I got to Barclays, I realized two things:

1. I didn't have my Metro card (or a credit card)
2. It was starting to snow.

Without the Metro card, I wouldn't be able to comfortably push up through Manhattan like usual, knowing that I could easily hop on a subway to get back home.  And anyone in a right frame of mind would notice the inclement weather and feel even more justified in calling their trip short.  In that moment, however, all I could think was:

"I wonder how the Brooklyn Bridge looks when it's snowing."

 Above: Brooklyn Bridge, just starting to snow.

That was my first run with a legitimate half-time break.  I jogged home from Barclays, grabbed the necessary cards, said a quick hi to my roommate, then headed back out.  I ended up running along the Hudson through Manhattan and up to 34th Street where I decided to take the High Line (I had never run it before) back down to Houston.

Above: "New York Water Taxi," near Chelsea.

As has become my tradition, I stopped at the Whole Foods on Bowery for hot chocolate before heading underground to take the F train back home.  (One day I'll run all the way back.)

In retrospect, I probably didn't need that extra pair of leggings, and I certainly didn't need the hoodie.  But when I left the market, hot chocolate in hand, the snow was coming down pretty heavy—and I was really glad I could wrap myself in another layer.

If I can run 26.2 miles... Why not 50?

It's 2014 and I've decided to train for a 50-miler. No specific reason.  No symbolic tie to this particular year.  I'm planning to run a 50-mile race because I think I can, so why not try.

I feel like I should say something profound about my running history or my motivation for tackling an ultra distance... but there's nothing really that extreme or compelling about it at all.  That said, here's a bit of background, for context:

I used to hate running. Once when I was a kid, I decided to join my Dad for a run around the block.  As the starting forward for my basketball team, I figured I'd be able to run circles around the man whose workout gear consisted of an all-grey sweat suit, white tube socks and all-white Reeboks. By the time we got to the end of the street—no more than 10 minutes later—I was winded, bored and completely bewildered as to why he chose to do this on a regular basis.  I pleaded for the man to go on without me, and when he flat-out refused, I huffed and puffed dramatically all the way back home, making sure to convey the deep sense of pain and anguish this senseless activity was causing me.

After high school was over—and with it my basketball career—I bit the bullet and started jogging to stay in shape.  Soon, that first feeble attempt to complete one measly loop around the block turned into several loops, and ultimately a super loopy course that squiggled through the heart of our neighborhood from top to bottom before ending back at home. I was pretty proud.  Slowly achieving more and more made me want to keep going.  I wasn't just running the rounds, I was twisting and turning through a grid of streets and houses... not because it made sense, but because I realized I had the ability to do more.  (In retrospect, it was probably only four miles total. But at the time I thought those squiggles represented some very serious mileage.)

The summer after my college graduation I started training for my first marathon.  Even though by then I considered myself a decent neighborhood jogger, 26.2 miles seemed like a near-impossible feat.  (I actually never would have thought to sign up had it not been for my best friend, Sheila, who decided that running dozens of miles might be a fun way to occupy our time post-college.) It became the only major goal I had in those few months after graduation when I was living at home and trying to figure out my next steps. It was the first time I attempted a long-distance run. And the first time I realized how far I could actually go with my own two feet.

Four marathons later, I've got my eye on 50.  Why?  I suppose it's just because...

Why not?