that only took four years

Because I am an extraordinarily intelligent human being who respects her body and its need for recovery, I did the New York City Marathon three weeks after Ironman. As you can see from my official race photos, I had an absolute blast.

Walk of shame in an unflattering shirt? Nailed it!

My left hamstring was so excited for this race that in the weeks between Ironman and NYCM, it allowed me to run a whopping total of five miles. And I would've deferred the marathon, except I've been deferring it (or it's been deferring me) since 2011. And I was out of deferments. And since I got in via lottery and the chances of ever getting in again are very slim, I told my hamstring to suck it up. (OK, maybe it was more like: "Let's at least get to the starting line, and if this is really awful, then I promise we can get on the subway and go home and eat pizza.") 

The demeanor of a true champion.

Race morning dawned, and Neveia, Margie and I left the apartment we were staying at on the Upper West Side at 6:45 a.m. and squeezed onto the subway.

Then we stood in a huge crowd waiting to get into the ferry terminal.

My fashion choices for this race were spot on.

Then we stood in another huge crowd waiting to get on the boat.

When we got off the boat (which was so crowded we sat on the floor and I tried not to think things like, "What if a previous passenger got seasick right here and now I'm sitting in it?"), there was a huge line to get on some shuttle buses. 

"Being squished is fun!"

It took us three hours to get to the start area. And then we began running at 11 a.m. (Pro tip: If you ever do this race, bring a portable lunch that you can comfortably eat while your face is pressed against a total stranger's back.)

Anyway, I made it to about Mile 14 and was somehow on track for a PR, but then everything about my left leg started hurting. And then I did the run-walk-shuffle thing until Mile 18. And then I just decided to walk. And for awhile, it was fine because I was walking with a random guy named Jerry who was also having problems with his hamstrings, but then around Mile 21 or so, Jerry barfed, and we all know how I feel about barfing, so I said farewell to Jerry. (For the record, there was a lot of barf in this race. The most horrible thing I saw was a woman jamming her fingers down her throat, making herself puke. I wouldn't be surprised if that sight alone was the whole reason Jerry lost his cookies. Because it was pretty disgusting. And hey, now you can have that mental image forever too! You're welcome!)

Walking those final miles was slow and painful and not very fun at all. I amused myself by taking pictures of my favorite signs.

I would like to adopt these people as my own.

Dear random strangers: I love you.

I finished in 5:41:25, for a brand-spanking-new personal worst marathon time!

And then I got in a huge crowd.

On the plus side, Margie qualified for Boston, so we celebrated afterward with some bubbly.

And I did get to eat a pizza (gluten-free of course).

And now I can cross NYCM off of my life bucket list.

P.S. Those are pirate pajamas. And I may or may not still be wearing them as I type this post.

the new york cat experience

I was in New York the past few days for a big fancy wine event. I tasted a lot of Barolo, ate some great meals (the chicken at Untitled is insane), saw old friends and made new ones.

And witnessed some crazy-ass shit. Case in point:

And it just kept getting more and more bizarre.

You really had to pay attention to what was in your glass.

And on your plate.

And the presentations -- I couldn't look away.

There was even a raffle for a really cool prize.

(Thanks to CatPaint and Cat Bomb for the endless entertainment. Yes, folks, I believe I have found my calling as an artist.)

setbacks, burnout

I've been so good about staying positive and motivated throughout this entire training cycle. As in: Training Peaks was my freaking bible and I was the prophet in spandex. Hallelujah, praise god, I get to do an all-day brick workout! 

That changed this past week when burnout hit in a major way.

First, there was Tuesday's track workout from hell. My heart rate was skyrocketing, I couldn't catch my breath and I could barely maintain half marathon pace. And then I got hit by a soccer ball. (Seriously.) And then I rolled my ankle on -- wait for it -- a buckeye. (The symbolism here is not lost on me.) The workout was so miserable that my teammates actually hugged me afterward. And then I skipped the swim I was supposed to do that evening and sat in bed with an ice pack instead.

The irony of Mr. Happy.

And then Wednesday I left for the New York Wine Experience. And even though I had big plans to run and go to SoulCycle and maybe even try to find a pool, none of that happened. Our flight was delayed and we didn't arrive until 1 a.m. Thursday. And then this was the view from my room: 

All daylight, all the time.

And I had zero downtime. Zero. It was non-stop, back-to-back-to-back appointments and events, and I basically had to choose between working out or sleeping. Since fatigue lowers your immune system and I'm terrified of contracting Ebola, I chose sleep. But even that was sub-par -- I probably averaged 3-5 hours each night.

So exactly how did I spend the past few days? Tasting wine under giant vaginal lights:

It's like all these people were just birthed.

Dining with master sommeliers until 1 a.m.:

Freaking out over this:

And this:

Yes, that's a 1982.

Catching up with old friends:

Hosting luncheons in hotel banquet rooms:

Hanging out at the Saveur test kitchen:

When I grow up, I want appliances like this.

Being a test kitchen guinea pig:

And then waking up before dawn this morning to fly back to Seattle:

I did manage to get some pool time in today, so I'm back at it, but my ankle is still angry. I could feel it in the water: Kick, kick, kick, ache, ache, ache.

I'm hoping I snap out of this funk within the next 24 hours because this is the e-mail I got from Coach Mark:

Massive volume. Of course my first reaction was: "That's what she said."

Four weeks.

away, and home again

After nine days of travel and a six-hour flight crammed next to two horribly ignorant women who loudly complained that the passenger behind them smelled bad because "she was from India," I came home last night to find my car had been broken into and prowled through. (Thankfully, there was no damage, and nothing was missing, but I'm creeped out. Also, my car battery is dead.) 

And then Mari projectile-vomited off of the kitchen table. And then I found five other vomits in the bedroom, including the largest hairball I have ever seen in my entire life. 

In other words, I spent the evening cleaning puke and feeling vulnerable.

The sane person would ask: Why travel so much? (Followed by: Why the hell do you have three cats?)

Because Sacramento. Where the babies have some kind of hypnotic baby smell that makes even the most stalwart cat lady want to snuggle them.

And the toddlers have ... well.

Sometimes I question my brother's child-rearing techniques.

The ramen is otherworldly.

Gluten-free soy milk ramen at Shoki.

And there is sun. And a pool that is actually outdoors. And isn't crammed full of people passive-aggressively circle-swimming.

The bike rides are flat.

Fifty miles with someone I adore.

And the ice cream from Gunther's is the best thing ever.

Especially post-ride, with a side of hot dog.

Because western New Jersey. Where the crickets sing and the table is piled full of produce straight from the garden and the humidity builds until the sky breaks in a burst of thunder and lightning. But this kitten doesn't care -- he's too busy biting fingers and attacking toes.

Kate's new little, Loki.

And the Renaissance Faire is overtaken by pirates because who cares about historical accuracy when you can dress like a pirate. At least there is regular jousting. (As if I am a jousting expert.)

And there is corn. So much corn.

One hundred ears of solitude shucking.

Because New York. Where it is Fashion Week, and the Hilton sisters take the Really Long Way to their car so people can take photos of them and make them feel like they are still relevant.

Like Barbies, in real life.

And there are so many good things to eat and drink.

Go to Dovetail.

And I look up and fall in love again and again with a city that has always meant so much to me because it reminds me of the one I lost but will never stop loving. 

That skyline in every direction, though.

And that feeling of seeing something for the first time.

Morning runs in the city.

Travel is bittersweet. Part of me wants to keep going, part of me wants to come home. But when I do open that door and climb those stairs and find these three, I think that maybe cleaning so much barf is really not that bad.

At least there was no revenge poo. This time.

run anyway

Yes, I was one of the New York folks who helped the Santa Barbara International Marathon yesterday swell to its largest-ever field of about 2,000 runners. (New York has almost 50,000 participants.) Yes, the race started 15 minutes late because we outnumbered the shuttle buses.

And yes, two of the aid stations were out of water by the time I got to them. But I am extremely grateful for the generosity of the race organizers, who gave 300 NYCM runners an $80 discount code, which brought the entry fee down to just $50. (Compare that to the $255 NYCM registration.)

The road to the finish line -- and the new PR I managed to eke out -- was not even remotely what I thought it would be. Santa Barbara wasn't on my radar at all until the storm hit and I realized I might need a backup plan. (In case you're wondering, I was also considering Seattle on Nov. 25, and I tried to get into CIM, but they were already at capacity.)

Santa Barbara was affordable, I could drive there and the race organizers were nice. I knew nothing about the course. I signed up.

*

My feelings about New York: I'm glad they cancelled it -- it was absolutely the right thing to do, especially when so much of the city was suffering. But Bloomberg and the Road Runners should have made that decision the day after the storm, not less than 48 hours before the race, after so many people already arrived.

I found out in the cab. We had run into Matt (port-a-potty Matt, not whale poo Matt, just to be clear) and his girlfriend in the taxi line at the airport. They were also headed to the Upper West Side. It made sense to ride together. On the drive there, we saw downed trees. A crushed car. Long lines for gas. And just as we pulled up to Matt's hotel, he looked at his phone and said: "The race is cancelled."

And I said: "Well, I guess I'm drinking tonight."

We ended up at the Runner's World VIP party, which had an open bar. I met Bart Yasso and went on and on about how much I love Yasso 800s -- I think he felt embarrassed for me. I also met this guy and vaguely remember taking a shirtless photo with him. (Him, not me. He's the one with the washboard.)

"We're in New York," I said. "We may not be running, but we can still be in New York."

*

When you think of Santa Barbara, you think of ocean. When you think of a marathon in Santa Barbara, you think of running 26.2 miles next to that ocean. With its accompanying fog and cool weather.

What you don't think of: 24.2 miles spent running past the UCSB campus, neighborhoods full of houses you can't afford and a construction site. And only the random gusts of cold air that blow dirt into your eyes and make it feel like you are running in place keep it from being too hot under a cloudless sky. And then two miles of ocean.

What you also don't realize: Santa Barbara is hilly. And the biggest hill is at Mile 23. Maybe those race organizers aren't such nice people after all.

*

I was in New York for three nights. One night, I ate four dinners. I found a halal cart that was so good I ate there two nights in a row. I ate Japanese hot dogs and went to three David Chang restaurants and tried caviar cream cheese and bought foie gras to sneak back to California and met Wylie Dufresne.

I was about as intelligent with him as I was with Bart Yasso.

*

At Mile 15, I saw a volunteer sleeping on the sidewalk. And a runner behind me said: "Why are we doing this?"

I wanted to yell: "You tell me. I'm the one who drove seven hours just so I could run 26.2 miles and then get in the car and drive seven hours back."

Instead I ran faster. Passed a lot of people between Miles 15 and 18. Played leap frog with a woman who became my new friend. Best race signs out there: "Pain is temporary, online is forever." "Go, go, Gadget legs!" And my favorite: A pair of wings and the words "Tap here for power." Not a single runner skipped that sign.

I finished in 4:42:50 -- an eight-minute PR. It wasn't easy. My splits were all over the place. I stopped once to use the port-a-potty. I walked up that hill at Mile 23.

Afterward, the woman I met said this would likely be her last marathon. She had run 35. She was done.

I said: "I still want to run New York."

*

They held an unofficial marathon in Central Park, part of the "Run Anyway" movement. I ran seven miles that day. There were makeshift aid stations and cheering crowds. There was a woman with a singlet that said: "50th birthday, 1st marathon." There was a soldier running in full combat gear. I caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Flip Flop, and yes, he was indeed shirtless. 

News reports estimate hundreds, if not thousands, of runners in the park. I still find it incredible that something as simple as the desire to run can bring so many people together from all over the world.

New York: One day I'll cross your finish line. Runners are a stubborn lot.