At some point in July, I decided I would train for and run a half-marathon before the end of this year. Let me tell you some facts about myself that have been immutable since puberty knocked me on my ass in the late 1980s/early 1990s: I have problematic hair, I am a bit of a chubster, and I am very well-developed in the boobular area (very). For a very long time, these last two traits made me never, ever want to take up the “sport”* of running. And yet there I found myself, looking up Hal Higdon’s half-marathon training schedule, and deciding I had it in me to run 13.1 miles.
Holy isht. What have I gotten myself into? Why? Why, sweet Jeebus, why?
Listen, it’s not like I’ve never run before. I am permanently scarred by my 7th and 8th grade gym classes, when our inexplicably heterosexual lady gym teacher would make us run 10 laps around the gym to either Kylie Minogue’s “Locomotion” or Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” (seriously – just those two songs) and I lacked the proper supportive garments that would control my larger-than-average breasticles (I didn’t know how to say “sports bra” in Spanish, okay? So sue me.) And I did take to running on the treadmill after I moved back home post-college and became a Lucille Roberts acolyte, right around the time I was at the height of my hotness, before Kim Jong-Illmatic came sniffing around and turned me into some sort of wine-swilling, sweatpants-wearing, Swiffer® product-addicted Brooklyn hausfrau.
But I’ve never, ever been an outdoor runner. I tried it a couple of times, including that one time I told one of my BFFs to skedaddle 5 minutes into a 10k because she was already annoying me, but something about running on the mean streets of NYC, leaving myself open the scrutiny of strangers and susceptible to toxic truck fumes didn’t appeal to me. That and the fact that – oh, have I mentioned? – I am lazy as all get out.
But this summer, something happened to the monkeys that live in my head – something that made them want to try new things, to snap out the work/watch tv/drink wine-scotch-cocktails/sleep rut they had been in for double-digit months, to take on something scary and see if the could face it head on and accomplish it. It was the same “something” that made me launch this blog and start conjuring some other tricks I have up my sleeve. (Um, also, I’ve managed to gain 20 lbs in the past two years, so I’d be lying if that didn’t figure into my decision-making process.)
As a therapist I,um, once knew would say, intellectually it’s exciting and I am proud of myself for taking this on, but really – sometimes when think about the fact that I have to run 13.1 miles in one clip – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen point one mothertrucking miles – I want to punch those stupid monkeys in their stupid monkey faces so very, very hard.
So yeah. I am on week nine of the 12-week training schedule. I have the sneakers (my beloved Sauconys which the nice folks at Bay Ridge’s Tri & Run For Your Life recommended, and which feel like running on Baby Jesus-blessed clouds), the running socks, the sweat-wicking capris and shirts, the hydration belts for the long runs. I am sure that I look like a total tool, especially because none of my gear ever matches. I buy whatever’s on sale at Century21 and the clothes don’t always match, okay?! Stop judging me. Jeez. It’s not nice to make fun of the poor.
I used to get freaked out that people would look at me, but then I realized that the only other people out and about at six in the morning in my neighborhood are folks rushing to catch the express bus into Manhattan, elderly Chinese couples practicing tai-chi, and other exercisers – none of whom are that interested in me except when my face gets as red as a beet and I look like I’m going to pass out. That hasn’t happened since mid-August, though. Oh sure, sometimes I get stares from stupid men driving by in their child-molester vans, but a quickly administered middle-finger birdie or carefully-aimed loogie usually takes care of them.
So four-to-five times a week I head out to do my grand tour of Sunset Park and Bay Ridge, plodding my way along the route plotted on www.walkjogrun.net with my boobs strapped down with the best materials modern technology has to offer. The first mile still sucks the big hairy moosewang, and some days – when it’s too hot or humid, when I am suffering from a non-swine flu cold, when I maybe drank too much the night before – it feels like I am running through molasses. But at some point I’ll stop panting and muttering to myself how much I hate running and get lost in the soundtrack provided by my beloved lime-green iPod shuffle, planning my outfit for the day, wondering how to bring about world peace, whether Jay-Z is faithful to Beyoncé, and other matters of metaphysical significance.
I’ll run on the Shore Promenade, on weekdays watching the sun fully rise over Manhattan, and on weekdays watching the multi-culti smorgasbord population of Bay Ridge, Dyker Heights and Bath Beach congregate on the water-adjacent path to run, cycle, jog, stride, and offend with their untethered man-boobies. I fantasize about which Colonial Road mansion I’ll buy when I win the lottery, and beg my stumpy little legs to just go a little bit further. Just...a...little...bit...further.
I can’t say I really love running, but I’m certainly not as scared of it as I once was. Running seven-plus miles in a row will do that to a gal. So will zipping by a skinny slip of a thing more concerned with how she looks than actually running. I’m just sayin’. I do know that on days that I am scheduled to run - and for some reason don't - I feel bad, like I drank the rest of the orange juice and just put the carton back in the fridge, lalalalalala, don't look at me, I suffer from gastritis, I can't drink orange juice. Maybe I feel a teeny tiny bit worse, like when Sister Mary-Ellen busted me for cursing, or when I would lie to Father Neal during confession.
I would say that it helps to have Kim Jong-Illmatic training for the same race with me, except sometimes he is so smug about his faster running speed that I just want to trip him. I get it, okay. I GET IT. YOU’RE FASTER THAN ME. You also don’t have lady hips and you don’t need to special order your bras, so zip it, son. Also, you’re a sweaty monkey.
October 11 is the big day, and Staten Island the location of my big triumph. I will let the Wu-Tang Clan’s spirit guide me through the course, and will count on Joe Esposito's You're the Best Around to play (if only in my head) as I huff and puff across the finish line. I’m fairly sure I’ll want to punch someone when it’s all over, rebuffing all congratulatory offers until someone brings me some mothertrucking Gatorade mothertrucking RIGHT NOW. Don’t look at me! Who said you could look at me?! Keep your eyes down, hand over the Gatorade, and no one gets hurt. GIVE ME MY GATORADE NOW. [Imagine me on the top of a car, Denzel-Washington-in-Training-Day style].
I’m pretty sure I’ll think of quitting half-way through, but the thought of my family and friends paying the $11.00 Verrazano Bridge toll and/or taking the Staten Island ferry on an October Sunday morning to see us finish the half-marathon will keep me going – as will the delicious fantasies of the veritable post-race feast I will enjoy at Pizzeria Uno’s. What?! I fucking LOVE Pizzeria Uno’s. I want to marry Pizzeria Uno’s and have 10,000 of its little pizza and stuffed pizza skins babies, and I don’t really care what you thin about that. My (perplexed) parents will be in town from the Dominican Republic, my mother-in-law will come downstate from Sullivan County and my father-in-law says he'll come up from Florida. My brother El Papo claims he'll be there, and I hope my sister-in-law and nephew make it out. I would like to apologize to them in advance for any expletives that may come out of my mouth at the time.
I’m scared though. THIRTEEN POINT ONE MILES. Jeebus, take the wheel and give me the necessary strength and stamina.
*Sorry, I just don’t consider running a “sport.” I have very strict guidelines for what counts as a sport in my book, and running just doesn’t cut it. It’s more of an “athletic activity.”
© Chommo, 2009.