you may say that i'm a dreamer, but i'm not the only one...

father's day is almost here (again), and not un-like mother's day, facebook has kindly prompted it's masses to copy and paste (and post) assorted pater related paraphernalia (south africa, 1975, dad is third from the left, next to mum, both sitting behind me).



but which photo? staring at the albums i got that same glazed over feeling which happens at baskin & robbins. but this is the one i went with; awali, bahrain, sometime in the mid 80's, on his way to work to do a couple of fillings. there were a lot of different names on the house signs, some in arabic, but as far as i can remember there weren't any others that started and ended with a z-- and believe me, there are a lot of arabic names that do.



at this point i think it is fairly evident that i cant commit to much of anything-- and i do thank, not blame, my dad for that (it is his fault about the flat feet though) geographical transience can do that to a person. iceland; circa. we were very small-- somewhere in the 3 foot range-- but this demonstrates how the fedorowicz's never travel light, regardless of how much practicing at it goes on.



then there was the "badass" one where he ran the comrades ultra-marathon in south africa (that's 90k south of the equator) some time in the late 70's.



or the one where he took "teenage me" mountain biking around the jebel (bahrain) with his windsurfing buddies, post-gulf war (the first one).



speaking of windsurfing...sheik's beach, bahrain, the 90's.



there was also the apres 'ride around the desert', in the paddling pool, with floating beer...



scuba diving in the red sea in the 80's. well, diving and drinking home brewed wine for the grown ups, ripping apart sea cucumbers and starfish for the under 9's.



and the "poo thing"...duba, saudi arabia; we were so proud of the home made camping toilet that was the sum product of the fedorowicz, wood and barnes families' hard labour.



because this is what we all had to put up with before; a shovel, sand dune and a roll of andrex...



always a family favourite, dad laughing uncontrollably while pointing out the giant, steaming pile the horse (that just carried his son and future daughter-in-law away by carriage) left behind. (keysoe, england, 5-ish years ago).



my birthday card (from my brother), detailing the finer points of a dog's bum, caused such silent mirth and tears of appreciation, that we could not miss the opportunity to document it (buckden, england, two-ish summers ago).



at this point, it's clearly evident that freud would have a field day; the apple cant even be pried off the tree. dad in his dental chair, bahrain.



last christmas.

i did it all for the t-shirt

my second (and final) snowshoe race of the year went significantly better than the first. i did not finish last, instead climbing up to third from the end. this may have had something to do with the fact that we three back of packers kept a nice, even pace the first 2.5 mile loop. that, and borrowing a pair of "racing" snowshoes. it's amazing how much easier the whole process is when there aren't ironing boards strapped to the bottom of your feet.

and much like the elusive 'runner's toenail', i can't seem to acquire 'snowshoer's bum'.

tis better to be DFL than DNF

i own snowshoes, enjoy being out on wooded trails, and even somewhat like running, or maybe it's co-dependent relationship with my preferred daily calorie count. therefore, when the opportunity to not only run in snowshoes, but race in them, for a paltry $15 registration, turned the decision making process into "screw it, i'll do it". the 11am start time was kind of a bonus.

'running-in-snowshoes' lesson of the day: oddly enough, what one wears to hike the dogs in, are not what you should be strapping to your feet to negotiate 3.5 miles of trail-- at speed. it was the equivalent of turning up at a cycling race with a hybrid bike, or your local charity 5k wearing a pair of skechers "shape ups".



apparently, i also need to work on technique, because fast people have snow encrusted bums by the time they cross the finish line.

dear "jim"...

ending our relationship back in the spring was the right thing to do at the time. it became clear to me when all i felt was dread, and started making up excuses to avoid regular contact. i finally accepted that the long haul just wasn't in our collective future.

conditions were right at the time, but now they've changed and i am faced with the prospect of groveling for another chance-- the snow is coming, and the days are shorter.

i am materialistic, i'll admit it, i only want you for your treadmill.

xxx

you could cut glass with those nipples

this was pretty much the weather forecast for the maine coast women's half marathon this past weekend. and yet approximately 1,200 runners (that's about 2,400 ovaries) pitched up in assorted combinations of pink wicking spandex to brave the harsher end of tepid.

any sporting event that promotes itself purely on the basis of a matching set of chromosomes has the potential to be as annoying as one of those scented candle parties. fortunately, the act of slapping on a timing chip and bib number cancels out too much of the "kumbaya" and ratchets up the competition.

(because i really wont get out of bed for anything less than a 10k).

the bloody 12 mile bruiser

i did all three races, made some new friends, left some skin on the trail, and took some dirt home with me-- along with a hoodie that says i'm a badass.

well, at least it's a nice day to go for a hike.

several months ago it seemed like a not un-good idea to do two foot races back-to-back. it would have been the equivalent of saying no to chocolate mousse torte and cheesecake-- why can't you just have biscuits and mascarpone a la mousse? the beach to beacon road race on-line registration caps out by 6:08am. if you are one of the unfortunates with a dial up connection, then those 7 minutes and 59 seconds can be more grueling than the actual 10k itself. and so i was one of the lucky ones who got to wake up at the sparrow's fart on a saturday to eat porridge (when i wasn't hungry), throw coffee down my throat (when i wasn't actually ready to be conscious), and then sit on the toilet (when i wasn't even remotely dilated). all to show up at the start line, run way faster than felt enjoyable, in order to cross the finish dizzy and nauseous. but a minute and some change sooner than last year, damnit.



sunday: 9 miles of uphill trail running, err, hiking, but mostly running, on the flats. flat-ish flats, as flat as you can get on a mountain. first year doing this one, so i was just focused on keeping the expectations low, in order for an impressive PR next year.



way more fun because i got to say i raced the day before and was therefore "sore", "tired", and "not really racing, but just enjoying the journey".



and the best t-shirt i've ever put over a wet, salty sport's bra.

it's better than doing it on tarmac, but not as good as doing it with the knobbies

once again, i heard myself muttering something to the effect of "i'm only running a piddly 6 miles, there'll be plenty of shade, and the fun singletrack will distract from any other complaints, it wont be that bad".

of course all of these statements were correct at the start line, and then again approximately 3 minutes after crossing the finish. it was the hour and some change in between where my heart rate spiked and pretty much stayed there. fortunately this did create an intermittent distraction from the high concentration of water fleeing my body which i am convinced was contributing to the equally dense air that was re-inhaled.

thankfully the 9 miles of 'elevation only' trail at next month's follow-up race will take my mind off minor things like breathing and excessive perspiration.

is it better to sustain a haematoma than shit your chamois?

today, my girlfriend who also ran the 25k trail race a few weeks ago, showed me her toenails; in the car park after we had returned from a veritable mountain bike bruise-fest. she had already lanced two, and was harvesting just one more purple piggie. mine were still boring, crayola shades of 'macaroni and cheese' and desert sand'.

a week ago, i was the grossed out, yet also somewhat jealous, witness to a post-road ride puke-fest. i have only personally attained dizzy spells and intestinal nausea following a marathon, but nary a regurg-ed carrot piece, or any other measurable unit of emesis have i produced.

sadly, i haven't even progressed much further than the mid-run 'waddle-into-nearby-bushes-to-shamefully-but-with-much-relief-drop-my-shorts-because-the-coffee-hadn't-kicked-in-that-morning' rite of bodily passage.

never under-estimate the trail

day two of the pineland farms trail festival and it was the girl's turn to go the distance. because after all, "a 25k is just like running around the lake with a few more miles thrown in- and it's not like i'm doing the 50k or 50 miler, like those other nutters out there today".



and so we ran 'the course of a thousand hills', because really, the only thing consistent throughout the race (clearly not my heart rate or pace) were the unrelenting inclines. runners hurriedly shuffled across wide, open, scorched farmland to get to the respite of some shaded trail, to then grind to a trudging halt when confronted with 7 or 8 rollers, before resurfacing into yet another field.



a few hours (and several litres of cytomax) later, we crossed into the finish chute (thankfully bidding farewell to the 50 miler's who had registered for a third loop) burnt, bitten, salt encrusted, and turgid with gummy bears and pretzels.

axel eats small children for breakfast

pineland farms is a former sanatorium that was recently converted into a year round playground for all the things anyone worth their north face collection could ever hope to do on a trail. this weekend includes races of varying distance that can be done barefoot, wheel barrow style, as a 3-legged event, and even with your very own four-legged friend. because more so than those crazy 'cat people', the dog owner will go to great lengths to anthropomorphize their pooch, forking out $30 for a chance to run with their pal (and a technical race t-shirt) in a 5k "canicross".



typically race regulations set limits on the use of mp3's, placement of bib number, and tripping your fellow competitors in the start corral. in canicross, disqualification occurs if you do not pick up after your dog (this may have more to do with the fact that the barefoot 5k's start time was after), and so it is entirely realistic that runner's will have to make a pit stop and then transport a little sack of steamers across the finish line as well.



unfortunately, axel was beaten by a girl, and a small yappie one at that.



overall, he enjoyed the scenic course, appreciated the placement of aide stations, and has even committed to registering again next year- although he wants a race number too.



i think that this may be due, in large part, to the unlimited and free beer available to all runners.

older, wiser, faster

progress can be measured on the track when you are able to keep up with the old men in ambiguously stained, cotton race t-shirts, circa 1978.



the 8 minute mile pack is a quieter group, less interested in (listening to my) whining, but always ready with advice on form and pace.

i feel like i'm back running with my dad.

the hardest thing(s) about running 26.2 miles

there is a term, widely used in therapy circles, called "parallel process". the one more commonly used in everyone else's lives is "oh my god, seriously? me too!" i have already waxed lactic about the metaphor between the marathon and a more generic struggle for everyday self-actualization (whether it's learning to become a better listener to your partner, or learning to become better at operating the thermostat), but apparently my character had been atrophying over the recent winter training months.



excluding racers birthed at southern equatorial altitudes, the traffic in LA simulated virtual conditions for the first 4 miles of road rage (at least for the other 34,991 participants) on this particular course. clearly, days filled with sitting 65 miles below the speed limit in the requisite bmw/lexus/mercedes creates significant levels of unsuppressed agitation when commuting for one's venti soy decaf botox. this became more apparent, when the start was delayed by 27 minutes because shuttle buses were still stuck on the freeway to dodger stadium. subsequently chris o'donnell, shia lebouef, that one navy doctor from the bachelor a few seasons ago, and several thousand other less attractive people in shorts began walking, shoving, and snarling at each other for a PR.

in more of an effort than "not being last" or "just finishing before someone wearing cotton shorts and tube socks" i decided it was time to focus on attaining a loftier goal by beating a more serious competitor; oprah winfrey. * and assembled myself (with approximately 27 other 10 minute queen bees and wannabes) behind the 4:30 balloon toting pied piper of the clif bar pace team. it was all going so well- and fast- through west hollywood, beverly hills and rodeo drive.

my half marathon time was great. unfortunately, the course expectation was to run and repeat until i crossed the beeping mat in santa monica to become swaddled in a space blanket. i'm not sure what happened during the next 5 miles, other than noticing the balloons moving further away, coupled with an awareness that all of the people who were tracking my bib number at every bleeping mat saw this actuality too. finally, passing under mile marker 19, i did something that is exceptionally irritating in others; i pulled out my cell phone.

- i'm-so-sorry-i'm-not-going-to-make-my-time-i-feel-so-awful-and-everyone-is-watching-me-and-i-came-all-this-way-and-i-did-all-those-runs-in-the-freezing-cold-and-i've-been-up-since-3:30-this-morning-and-now-i'm-letting-everyone-down-and-i-don't-want-people-to-be-disappointed-in-me.....

- are you crying?

- yes.

- you are doing this because you want to. i hate to tell you, but unless nike is going to be after you for sponsorship in the next year, i really don't think you have anything to be too worried about.

- but-i-want-you-to-be-proud-of-me.

- i'm proud of you every day.

the remaining four miles were a series of excruciating bullet points; 22 i saw a friend, briefly whimpered in her direction, and we parted ways; 23 there was a "we heard you fart" sign, proving that no matter how shite you feel, farts are always funny; 24 and 25 had plenty of spectators calling out "looking good, disa!", "you're almost there, disa, stay strong!" ** reinforcing why, unless i do my next marathon in scandinavia, registering under "hjordys" is simply not as easy to pronounce, and therefore gratifying- to them, or me.

the final stage of grief comes with acceptance, where i now realize that short of michael flately lining up at the start, and performing an abbreviated version of riverdance on my feet, i am obviously not meant to develop black toenails. the same cannot be said for some pretty raunchy looking heart rate monitor/waist band/overstuffed back pocket chafe.





* who reportedly ran a 4:30 at the marine corps marathon way back in one of her skinny stages.
** a sales 'technique' that is utterly annoying when i call an 800 number to check on account information.

it is better to have raced and lost, than to have never raced at all

"i have a throat that's scratchy, a nose that's runny, and my brother and his wife are in town visiting from england, and we all ate very rich food and drank copious amounts of wine last night".

"i've done something to my L4 and L5".

"i left my running shoes at home, but found a pair to borrow that are half a size too small for me."

february in maine, 10 miles of rolling hills, the wind chill of a cape elizabeth coast line; it is easy to gripe and make excuses, albeit mine were a little more whiney (refer to first set of quotation marks), but rather just get on and do it, than talk about doing it, not do it, and then not have anything to do a little race report on.

(it sucked).

dehydration during exercise can actually increase performance

clearly, there is some egghead over at NASA who needs to get cracking on the prototype for a pair of athletic incontinence underpants. nike, patagonia, under armour et al. are all ripping holes in our wallets so that we can be suitably kitted out to perform various x-treme and/or athletic pursuits in matching and wicking caps/shirts/shorts/socks.

for a mere $29.99 (plus tax and shipping), skymall will deliver a fruit dehyrdrator to your front door. it is therefore, not inconceivable that many from the swim-bike-run community would be happy to part with their cash, so that they can have moisture wicked away from all the wet and dank creases, while engaging in several hours of uninterrupted activity. savings would be more than made up for in a PR, and none of that pesky pre-race anxiety at the port-a-loos. athletes could drink that third cup of coffee and just head straight out the door, assured in the knowledge that they will not have to look for a dodgy public toilet, or a large copse of trees on sunday's long training day. by the time the swim/bike/run is complete, all that will be left to empty out of your shorts is a hard, dry pebble. 100% chafe-free.

running naked

the temperature has now dipped to some number that is a close enough approximation of my shoe size. as a breed originally designed to jump and retrieve off the frigid waters of canada, axel certainly does not require merino socks, fleece "outerwear", or a baselayer in order to head out for a run.



it is time for fleet feet to carry a line of 'technical labrador wear'.

for women only

in an effort to squeeze one more event out of 2009, i found myself at the women's half marathon in "almost new hampshire" last weekend. this is not generally recommended as part of a post-marathon recovery plan, but a friend was running her first and needed the moral support, and i needed to make sure i wouldn't require full-on body support hose now that the two biggest eating months of the calendar year have arrived.

fashion no-no's abounded- as they tend to at foot races- shortly after the energy bean stop was "hot pink tights" and "brown shorts with sweaty crotch that looked like she'd wet herself". of course the first water station saw a mother of three, a former power lifter and body builder (yes, the ones in those tiny bikinis) and myself getting down to the sport's bras in order to trade clothes for an ensemble that allowed for a little more armpit ventilation and temperature control.

while it is easy to complain (no gatorade until mile 11, and a 'serve your own water' station around mile 5) stunning views of the atlantic, old churches, quaint lobster shacks and other new england paraphernalia brought me to my knees long before fatigue was able to.

i love a man in uniform

nothing brings americans out in droves like a 2 for 1 deal at subway, or desert fatigues and flags. the 34th US marine corps marathon attracted 30,000 endorphin seekers and equal amounts of their screaming, gesticulating and cowbell ringing nearest and dearest. and while many distance foot races rely on relatively d-list mile marker "entertainment", there was very little need for the usual cadre of cartwheeling elvi or jitterbugging jugglers on this very historic, scenic and heavily testosterone lined course.



this particular 26.2 miler provided a complete multi-sensory experience. the visual being fairly obvious, was nicely accented by an auditory "hoo-ra!" (it's a marine thing, you wouldn't understand), mocha clif shots (the sports bean monogamy is finally broken), and of course the smell of rancid armpits, port-a-loos (or some unfortunate who didn't quite make it in time), mixed with the suffocating pong of tiger balm.



perhaps more motivating than seeing "grandma" and "cotton shorts with walrus butt", pass me at mile 23, were the numerous soldiers in wheelchairs/pushing wheelchairs/running on prosthetics. it really is beyond humbling to run up on a young woman with a picture of her fallen brother, and hero, on the back of her singlet.



disappointingly, the 18 minutes shaved off from my last marathon time was in direct disproportion to sustaining any black toenails at this one. and the only chafing issues came as a result of some armpit stubble that was left one day too long.

long runs are my laxative

the low mileage training week preceding "marathon sunday" is typically a source of extreme frustration for a heretofore regular morning tryst with the toilet bowl.

sadly, not even coffee can combat "tapering".

i am an ambulance chaser

when exchanging "what's your heart rate?" information, i am consistently met with a non verbal response that would equate the one should i tell people that i am moving to a trailer park in calcutta or have been diagnosed as highly allergic to chocolate.

apparently my cardiovascular system is the equivalent of a hypomanic toddler on red bull. or a 9 month old labrador on toilet paper.

despite an entrenched running dysmorphia, it appears that my gait is that of a torqueing slinky- and this is without the added energy expended faffing about with an ipod to skip ahead to the buggles on repeat. the thing is, i have seen "those" people at the park. the ones who run like michael flately's riverdance (without the eyeliner and cod piece), or those who look like they're compulsively high fiving a punching bag. my perception is that i shuffle, keeping feet close to the ground and hands well below the navel (every 'action sports international' photo thus far has captured me in a stance that looks an awful lot like i'm just nipping out to drop an envelope in the mail box around the corner).

apparently not.

i have now been instructed to do the equivalent of putting braces on my form. "whatever it takes to maintain your heart rate at 30-40 beats less than what it is now". yes, i believe that's called "walking", and not even a "middle aged around the neighborhood with hand weights and cotton sweat pants and white skechers" pace. algae could hussle faster than me at 140 bpm. just sitting and staring at my heart rate monitor can vary between 75-90. try and tie a shoelace and we're pushing three digits.