How do you pass the time on a thirty-mile bike ride, or a fifteen-mile run? Typically, while running, I’d listen to a combination of audiobooks and music, and old podcasts of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me on my iphone. Even if I am running with The Navajo, (whom I may also refer to as “His Lordship Prettyboy.”) I often remain enveloped in the notes and bars between my ears.
However, I am training for my first triathlon. While Ellie Mae and Scandi Sally refuse to ride bicycles with the rest of us, we’ve all been logging miles together running and swimming. While we’re running, we have a tendency to talk politics and food, because…I have no idea, actually. I think we’re just weird. But in the liminal space between running and biking, there is this bit of retrocession of energy, where we could easily fall prey to the gravitational weight on our limbs and minds, and we could just fall over from the exertion. There must be excitement to get beyond the mental and physical lassitude.
For days, we stuck to our old ritual of “The Sorkin Game,” only without alcohol. For those of you who have never heard of this genius game that really only my friends play, it’s a drinking game. You read or quote Sorkin scripts as fast as you can, or as well as you can, without screwing up, because if you do, tequila is going to find you. Whomever messes up first during our brick, is forced to rack the bikes.
Well, I’ve been playing this game for years, and so has the Professor, so we try to one-up each other–hard. We can go back and forth,”walk-and-talk” style for days without error. Last week, I threw down. I grabbed all my chips, and threw them at the boys BECAUSE I FREAKING CAN. They wanted me to do this tri to get over my fear of bicycles? Fine. Take this, mother truckers.
It should also be noted that Martin is my favorite Sheen. My second favorite being Charlie, then Emilio (estevez..ugh, sticking to your actual surname…boring!) and my fourth favorite is the sheen my lip gloss gives me. It’s called “black honey,” just FYI. –It should also be noted that the fourth Sheen has not met my second-favorite Sheen even though I met him outside a unisex bathroom in Manhattan and he stared at my tits for a very long time.
The Highlander was shocked I could do the Latin, and said so. I replied by quoting off a crap ton of the Leiden Aratea, which is a 9th c. manuscript of a writing of Germanicus.
After his eyes popped back in his head, the fairly-large Scot started quoting off extremely random Gaelic proverbs he’s memorized. Because early astronomy isn’t weird enough. I am going to stress the *extremely* bit of *extremely* random. I believe one of the proverbs has something to do with not pissing in the wind if you just put the sheets up to dry. Which, I suppose, is a valid concern. Not to be outdone, the Professor started quoting romantic poets of England. I tuned him out somewhere during Wordsworth. Because, zzzzzzz.
Well, the Highlander has taken to one specific phrase for when we’re dragging our asses particularly low: “Cha deoch-slàint, i gun a tràghadh.” (pardon my disastrous spelling.) I am pretty sure it means “it’s not healthy if you don’t drink the whole thing.” Which I would take as a great pub song, but it means, if you’re doing it, do it until you’re done. So with his bastardized Gaelic, I throw in bastardized Latin: “Ubi cubuli meum ibi patria.” “Where there is my bed, there is my homeland.” Because, tired. *very bastardized Latin.* The Professor just keeps saying things like: “Love is my religion and I could die for that….Soft pipes, play on!” And more Keats. Seriously, I get that he’s a Keats scholar. He’s probably academia’s foremost Keats scholar. (not Proust..not even second highest regarded Marcel Proust scholar in the United States.)
After we run out of playful banter, we mostly just swear at each other until it’s over. “Why, WHY are we doing this? Who thought this was a good idea? Did you finish Penny Dreadful, yet?” The important things.
I’m a distance runner. I get lost in the miles. I thrive on the burning ache in my calves and glutes. I actually enjoy the tight constriction of every muscle in my respiratory system. It’s all hot breaths and sweat and endurance. I am more focused on my “self” while running than I am at any other point in my day. It’s as essential to me as sugar or books.
Still. Still, I never thought I’d actually run Boston. It’s one of those things that you tell people “yeah, maybe. I’d like to, but…” and you stop considering it because it seems like such an impossibility.
Logically, I realize that about 36k people run it every year. That’s not huge, but it’s not tiny, either.
Just saying it out loud sounds foreign in my ears. Like I’m speaking in the tongues of the religion of running.
Just typing it, reading it, it no longer looks like a real word, a real name. It’s elevated above that somehow.
I never considered myself a racing person. I don’t like to put on clothes that early. I don’t like worrying about chips, or if someone will make a sign for me, or if I’ll puke in public at mile 24. I don’t want to worry about my time for a distance that is better measured in train stops than minutes per mile.
24 miles on the Long Island Rail Road–45 minutes, 15-16 stops, Bethpage. Not far enough. Not far enough to let me read more than a few chapters in my book. Not far enough to let me recite all the monarchs of England and their dates of birth, death, and wives/husbands. (That task requires the time it takes from going from the Coney Island area to Yankee Stadium. Fewer miles with more stops.)
26.2 miles on my feet, propelled by my own power, aided by only the immensity of the task, the energy of my surroundings, the training I’ve completed, and the waves of sound I choose to project into my ears.
26.2 miles through one of America’s oldest cities. Lobster rolls and Red Sox, probably more than one letter written to John Adams telling him what an asshole he is, Marky Mark. The impossible dream of runners.
It feels like the first day of college and graduation all at once. Is it the end? The beginning? Is this like being accepted by MIT, or graduating Summa Cum Laude? Where do I even go from here? Stockholm? London? KONA?!
Do I completely stop caring and just run the most ridiculous races I can find? Ugly sweater Christmas 10k?(fantastic, will the sweater wick moisture? I’ll start learning to knit now.) Naked 5k in Rio? (no.) Geisha run in Kyoto? (this is a thing, however, I’d need to first be a geisha–I think that takes a while, and I think I exceed the height standards.)
Marathon training is kicking my ass. Not because I can’t do the running (I can), or that the Yassos make me want to puke on some days (they do), or even because running sixty miles a week takes approximately forever (it does); It’s kicking my ass because the weather in NYC has been ten levels of dreck for five months. More than once, I’ve been running 10 or more miles on the treadmill wanting to be almost anywhere else. The stress of that, combined with the stress of school, and add on top of that–my agent JUST text me not ten minutes ago:
I’ve been running 6x/week, and on average, only 3 of those days each week have been outdoors. I’ve done LONG runs indoors because of ice, snow, cold, wind, or just plain weather-related crapsicles. When I’m outdoors, I can pump to my music, or to my audiobooks, and just feel my run. Indoors? Well, indoors I need all of the distractions. I’ve been running mostly at my Crossfit box once it’s closed for the day. Luckily, my zen Navajo spirit running guide and the Viking own the box, so I can pretty much go in whenever. Also? Zen Navajo had a giant tv installed just for me and the Highlander. Our ADHD DEMANDS IT. We marathon Netflix shows while we train for the Boston Marathon (because we loves, and because cable is a giant ripoff!).
Sure, sometimes we fight like children over what we should watch, “NO, Highlander, I DO NOT WANT TO WATCH FISHTANK KINGS!! Jeez, why is that even a show?”
Because I have an exceptional ability to whine, and I know too many secrets, I usually end up getting my way. Usually.
So for this month’s Netflix recommendations I have decided to present them in .gifs and memes. Because I can.
Oh, that was shallow of me. To be fair, I DO watch this at a Crossfit Box surrounded by half-naked man gods. CUT ME SOME SLACK. (it’s not like I’ve lost my love of the Fassbender)
It is SUCKING MY LIFE, this week. Why, you ask? Because, clearly, some deity has pit itself against another deity, betting on who can fuck with my training the hardest. The weather is improving, but this just means gross. The streets are paved with inches deep slush that appears to be every scatological joke ever written that has been poured into a 7-11 slurpee machine, and then digested by all seven stomachs of a cow that was particularly good at mastication. In addition to that, I seem to have placed on this in my sleep:
Because I feel like I need to be hauled around in a cart, today. JAY-ZUZ. Stupid adulthood. Stupid muscles are stupid.
Alas, I just.keep.running. At a 9min/mi pace, making my angries go angrier. I’m hoping to kill it with my speedwork tonight. Since my coach/running buddy/zen guru isn’t going to be there, I’m allowing the Highlander to boss me about. He’s an even bigger dick about speed work, so my prognostication is that I will hurt, but I will hurt fast.
There’s something you may not know about me. It’s nothing embarrassing like the fact I had a crush on Mr Tumnus as a child because I could simply not picture a Satyr in my brain. Certainly nothing as scandie as that. Nope, I’m a comic book nerd. I love them. All kinds. Particularly the titles with a feminist leaning: Wonder Woman, Super Spy, X-Men, Ms Marvel, Box Office Poison, Miss Fury, just so many. They’re engaging and wonderful, and KICK ASS.
I was immediately taken with the cover and title. How adorable is it? I mean, apart from the long, square nails, which always make me shudder. (long nails are NOT sanitary, ladies!)
This book was pure schmaltzy goodness. Yes, it was sugary-sweet as hell, but truly likable in its sweetness.
The story was told from the POV of the guy, which is different and fun. Nathan is this bumbling nerdy cartoonist with a scattered sexual history and spotty self-confidence. He knows he’s a great artist, he knows he’s a talented storyteller, but not so confident with the ladies.
Brooke–his lady love–comes across as nothing but confidence and bravado. She’s powerful, articulate, and sexy. She’s got spunk and sass, and she wields them as one would a shield.
I won’t give away any spoilers, but about 2/3 into the book, the action takes a turn that the reader is somewhat expecting, but it’s presented in a manner that is sort of unexpected. This twist provides a comfortable respite from fairly gushing text of previous pages. For a hot second, it seems like Brooke may have ventured in TATL territory, but she quickly recovers, and really redeems herself and once again, the reader cheers on the romance between Nathan and Brooke.
By the last pages, the reader is so swoony over the couple that the reader can’t help but picture Nate drawn in with his B-Girl.
Ok, they eat a BUNCH of junk food in this book, and chase it with a ton of beer and super-sweet coffee drinks. They also eat a great deal of convenience food like pop tarts. I didn’t want to do a pop tart or coffee drink, as I’ve already done those, so I took a convenience food, (pre-made, frozen dinner roll dough) and paired it with oranges (the book takes place in California), and added butter and sugar, because of course.
I ran all of my miles last week in spite of feeling like the wrong side of a wrecked cab. YAY! I did not, however, make it to Crossfit more than once. I also completed only 45 minutes of yoga. This week will be better! My stride feels good, my motivation is high, and I have nothing precluding me from kicking ass and taking names. Sometimes, lacing up is the hardest part. Sometimes, it’s the complete lack of desire to wake up and put on a bra. The struggle is real.
Another small point of business before the book review. I GOT A PUPPY!!!! Ok, I adopted a seven month old shih tzu/havanese puppy–but, still–PUPPY!!! Her name is Montana Wildhack, (yes, I re-named her, yes after a character in Slaughterhouse Five. Yes, the porn star) and she’s all that’s lovey-dovey and playful. She’s a bit like a cat in that she prefers to be justthiscloserightontop of me when I’m writing, but we’re working on an agreement.
Right now, she looks all kinds of silly because I had to trim her face down to nearly the skin because of mats, but it’ll grow back soon enough.
In the last few days, I needed a “cleanse” from truly shitty novels (pun intended.) I’m working on a project that requires me to read an obscene amount of PNR, Contemporary romance, and historical romance. This is normally GREAT. However, when you’re mostly concerned with an even sampling, that means RANDOM, and random means, “omg wtf did I just read?!”
Typically, when I need a palate cleanser, I turn to an old standby–Vonnegut, Austen, Alexie, Fitzgerald, or Bronte. I fill my mind with the quirky cadence of Cat’s Cradle, or the loving embrace of Northanger Abbey. The exquisitely-written prose is like a balm on my wounded psyche, providing curative energy that allows me to keep going.
This time, I went out on a limb with an author that I’d only read once before. However, I LOVED what I did read. So I figured that if I hated it, it still counted as research! (it fits into the parameters, but just barely.) However, I loved it like I love sugar and new socks.
Yes, the MC is sort of muddy in color. Slate-ish. Unpolished chrome, even. Ok, fuck it, homeboy is gray. Not 50 Shades, though. Because homeboy isn’t a creepy stalker, either.
Ildiko, niece of the Gauri king, has always known her only worth to the royal family lay in a strategic marriage. Resigned to her fate, she is horrified to learn that her intended groom isn’t just a foreign aristocrat, but the younger prince of a people neither familiar nor human. Bound to her new husband, Ildiko will leave behind all she’s known to embrace a man shrouded in darkness but with a soul forged by light.
First, holy fuck the language. Grace Draven must be either A: a total word nerd, or B: a medievalist. How do I know this? She used one of my FAVORITE archaic words in Radiance: swive. Which was a PRECURSOR TO FUCK. It predates my favorite word. I adore using it, but I am really limited in my use of the old word, because, essentially, eight people know what it means.
The world building and sense of “place” in the text are insanely detailed, but not so overly detailed that the reader has no blanks in which to fill with their own imagination. She created an entirely different humanoid race, but it’s not like, say, a klingon, where they’re just…strange. These “kai” are just different enough as to be worrisome, but not different enough as to send you screaming.
Also, this was not a “let’s get naked and make babies at first sight” type of story. The relationship in this book built organically, and out of the bonds of trust and friendship. The attraction came with knowing the other person inside, as well as the skin they wear.
The action didn’t feel out of left-field like it sometimes does in fantasy. It wasn’t “and they were walking along, and a six-headed dragon lord decided to poop rainbows in their direction.” There was an even, slow build to the action that built the tension gradually, and served to fuel the romance in a manner I’ve not seen previously.
Radiance by Grace Draven is an epic fantasy romance that will convert even the most deeply-rooted detractors of the genre. The story may be the work of unbridled imagination, but the best traditions of classical storytelling shine through like a candle in the night. Much in the way an Elizabeth Hunter novel spans more than the alterity of the tomes, this book isn’t merely romance or merely fantasy, it elevates each aspect to make the whole something altogether more.
If Le Guin decided to start penning romance novels, Radiance would be the novel she’d read to prepare.
Why is it not inspired by the book? Because the two dishes most prominently discussed in the book are A: plain potatoes, and B: a venomous and viperine insect that is baked(?) in a pot pie, and fights back. No fucking thank you. Four and Twenty Blackbirds was my previous pie nightmare, now? It’s killer bug pie.
Categories Books, Boston 2015, cookies, desserts, fitness, healthy eating, Recipes, review, running, UncategorizedTags book review, books, Marathon, Puppy, Radiance by Grace Draven, Running, Whole Wheat Chocolate Chip Mug Cake10 Comments	
Yesterday was meant to be my long-run day. However, it was roughly 1 degree Kelvin outside. (about the same temperature as Santa’s balls) Also, PMS. My body wracked with cramps like an evil Clydesdale had kicked me in the lady region, paired with the aforementioned Santa balls weather, I made cookies and drank wine. I also indulged in a roast beef sandwich, and retail therapy.
Note to mothers: if you’re residing in your red tent, and have zero patience, this is not the best time to go to the Disney Store. I bought my daughter a Merida bow-and-arrows set. This, admittedly, was not my best parenting decision. Also, she appears to be a natural shot, unless she wasn’t aiming for my head just now.
Today shall be my many-miled day. I’m almost 100%, but not quite, so I’m not going to push it. I have two fistfuls of Midol, and chocolate chip cookies. I’m as prepared as I can be. Anyone who lives with Endometriosis (in my case, it’s joined by PCOS) knows just how painful it can be. It’s honestly crippling–sometimes narcotic worthy–pain. I do the best I can, and just endure. The way one endures calculus–or bagpipe music.
Today (Tues) 18 miles and foam rolling Wednesday-6 miles and Crossfit Thursday-SW (Yassos FTW) and yoga Friday-10 miles and Cross-training Saturday-8 miles and rolling Sunday-Crossfit
It’s less milage than I’d usually run this far in the game, but it cannot be helped. As it stands right now, I’m going to be forced to listen to Taylor Swift and then Kanye and then Beck and then Kanye again, just to be angry enough to force myself to do my speedwork. I also may need to give in and take my #3 Tylenol (or stronger) at night to ward off the worst of the pain so I may sleep. Or at least curb the pain enough that it doesn’t cause me to lose my lunch at mile 10–which is a thing that happens.
I’m curious about other marathon runners who have similar issues. How has it affected your training? Do you “give in” and take the narcotics? I realize most runners are leery of any pain killer that doesn’t come from fermented hops, malt, and barley.
I made INSANELY delicious chocolate chip cookies. Different enough to be distinct, familiar enough to be crave-worthy, and fecking delicious. Salted, toasted almonds, browned butter toasted oats, dark chocolate chips, and all dark-brown sugar. INSANE.