Well, Arm Toasters made its second official sale and our CEO insists we official open our doors for business. Oh, you still have to knock first, but come on in, buy some Arm Toasters! They come in black, multi-colored stripes, and solid stripes. If we sell out of those, we may expand to other “flavors.” I have to check with the boss lady. They wash well and look fabulous! $7.
Please see our site page. Over there. Look to your right. See it?
Pink! They should all be PINK!
Our CEO is estatic. Arm Toasters sold it very first pair of fancy multi-colored arm warmers. Our shop even tailored up the rat-tat around the thumb holes for a more pro-bold-look. No, the person who bought arm toasters is in no way related to me. However, she will be running the marathon! Look for the stripes!
Only ONE sold?
Oh! It went in MY piggybank!
Four pounds of glycogen revving tiny engines in my legs. Three miles this morning chomping at the bit. Soreness lingers like a fine film ready to be dusted off. Cherry red hot rod with a touch of prrrrrrurple spins her wheels.
Since I am going to run a smart race, I believe I am going to be running my best on Sunday. All those fantastic training days were not for nothing. Twenty miles before a 10K. I wish it was Sunday. Let’s go!
Ho-hum, I am off to Yogurt Yum Yum. A goose choked at the neck and force fed grains. A cow squeezed in a pen and massaged while molars chomp and chew. Moo.
I am 500 grams of carbohydrates into my 800 to 900 gram loading day. I squeezed down 200 grams of carbs in fluids and oatmeal by 10am. The owner of Crush Cupcakes took my spin class. I tortuously watched my students’ legs spin and burn energy while I stood shouting instructions and guzzling GUBrew. My tummy stretched so much already that extending my voice for orders made my gut ache. She told me to swing by the cupcake store and that she would have an extra set of cakes loaded in frosting ready for me. Ahhh the temptation, but here’s the rub. All this loading is to be fat free good carbs. That means my whopping 4000 calorie day cannot have a cupcake if I am to play by the rules. Gluttony without the gluttony. Now where the hell is the fun in that?
I shoveled in a healthy sugar-less bowl of oatmeal loaded in blackberries. I drank over 100 ounces of carbo-fluid. I made a “salad” of three kinds of rice, beets, peas, and roasted potatoes. I ate two jumbo sized pita breads. I drearily spooned in mouthfuls of non-fat frozen yogurt.
I bought a baguette to go with pasta tonight. I am so thirsty. Even the split ends at the end of my pigtails feel full. My Adidas tempos told me they feel bloated. My little black spank shorts told me they are going to find a new mascot. My purple nail polish snickers at me from the drawer.
Well, we’ll see who is laughing on Sunday purple polish. Ah, just fuelin’ the fire. OK, half way there.
My Grossmuti (German Grandmother) used to tell me, “Ack! Goes in here [meaning food, points to mouth], comes out here! [meaning shit, points to rump]“ She never let you leave a table with the top button still fastened on your pants. Essen, essen, essen. Immer essen.
Moo-moo-chew. Grossmuti here’s to you babe!
I got a free pass. That is right. Rusty told me not to deplete my carbohydrates for the next three days like the rest of the group. The usual suspects will be avoiding most carbohydrates today, Monday, and Tuesday. Wednesday they will begin their carbohydrate loading until Saturday night. Rusty and Mike explained the entire process in great detail.
I nodded along liking the sound of only loading until I heard the actual fine print in plain speak. What? Exactly. “Drea, on Wednesday you eat 8-900 grams of carbs,” Rusty instructed. My jaw unhinged.
“Um, Rusty, I’m 105 pounds.”
“I know.”
800 to 900 grams of carbohydrates in one day! What does that mean exactly?
Getting to 900 grams of carbs Total commercial Take 1
22 sweet potatoes OR 43 apples OR 75 cups of carrots OR 22 bagels OR 24 cups of whole wheat pasta OR 550 pieces of candy corn OR 409 Gummi Bears OR 39 Sam Adam’s Cream Stouts OR 3 1/2 Tubs, that’s right TUBS of Duncan Hines Classic Chocolate Frosting!
Say it with me, AWMUYGAWD!!!!
Rusty, you don’t deplete me, you definitely complete me. In fact, you complete like four of me’s! Since I will be wearing purple you can just call me Violet Beauregard!
Blueberry anyone?
Tagged
I bought myself a Road ID.
After years of running in rolled up men’s boxer shorts (yes, I did that for years, don’t ask), I eventually switched to more designer running diva duds like NIKE and Lululemon. I used to check the microwave oven clock before I stepped out for a run in my sister’s old cheerleading shoes. Eventually I bought a watch and a pair of real running shoes. Gradually I began changing my shoes frequently to the horror of my credit card. Time moves forward and my running wardrobe is fitter than I am and I dare not count the number of shoes that cycle in and out of this house. I even throw out the socks with holes in them! However, in all my running shopping, I finally purchased the most important piece to my collection.
I was running across Foothills on an early morning run and a car ran a red light. Luckily, they saw me and screeched to a stop. The New Yorker in me must have expired because I neglected to flick him off. My heart skipped and I scampered on. I thought about all the early morning 5 am Central Park runs that I ventured on grounded on the firm belief that muggers sleep in. I considered all the cycling workouts that I have done solo including one where a school bus ran me into a ditch. And of course all the running workouts I have done alone!
My life insurance policy just expired. My husband renewed it, but instructed me not to die before January 1st. Good plan. But just in case I get into trouble, now medical personal will have more than “pig-tails” to ID me by. I love the look of the Road ID (it comes in PR Purple!) and I definitely think you should stuff your stocking with one this holiday season.
I am a chronic insomniac. I do not sleep. I fall asleep at 9pm and when the clock strikes twelve, I am up tossing and turning. I have tried a check list of things to bring sleep back into my life: only a half cup of coffee in the morning, no caffeine after 9am, no sugary nighttime treats, no chocolate, no exercise before bed, cold and dark room, eye patches, herbal tea marketed RELAX and BEDTIME, no decaf coffee after 3pm because that has a touch of caffeine, and the list goes on. Clearly, I get enough daily exercise to induce sleep. Yet, most nights I am sneaking by with a mere 3 to 4 hours of sleep.
I am agitated and frustrated with my sleep. Something has been left on my list of consumables that I have not yet scratched. Today all the little yellow packets of SPLENDA sit in the trash. I know why I did not want to try cutting that before. It makes everything taste sweet while allowing me to stay in my bubble of “I’m not consuming sugar.” Confession: I am a SPLENDA Fairy. I sprinkle that stuff on everything.
Finally, I did some easily accessed internet research and found multiple confessions out there of insomniacs cutting SPLENDA and enjoying the return of restful nights. Since I am now at the point of considering prescriptive drugs for my condition, I have decided it is time to kick the yellow packet crap and see what happens.
Too bad I already jacked up my morning coffee with the accused sleep robber. I suppose the experiment starts tomorrow. SPLENDA be gone like Glenda. Sleep, I’ll dust off the door mat for you, come on back!
Splenda adverse effects include: agitation, bloating, cramping, diarrhea, insomnia, weight gain, nausea, muscle cramping, fatigue, and miscarriage. A recent study held at DUKE UNIVERSITY reports that people ingesting SPLENDA report difficulty falling asleep and staying asleep.
Nobody seemed to want to trot this morning! “Hey Ricky, want to trot?” Nope! He ran a 21:50 4 miler. “Hey Michelle, tofurkey trot?” Nope! She ran a 23:31 4 miler. “Um Slim, you gonna trot?” Oh no! Tim won a 10K racing the whole way and crossing the line in 35:23. Pie goes great with PR’s. Nothing like, oh say, a minute off your 10K to really make the cranberries pop.
I motored down to Ventura for Josh Spiker’s flat fast 5K offering cash prizes. Shawna Burger was warming up ahead of me on the road. I can recognize that mesmerizing pony tail anywhere. I recognized a few other faces from last year as well, but mostly I was all alone with my pair of dead tired marathon legs. I did trot around my warm up.
Right leg, “What is she thinking she is gonna do here?”
Left leg, “I donnaknow, but she ain’t gonna do it!”
I do my strides to the musical review of popping hamstrings and disgruntled calf muscles. Oh come on ladies! Pull up your socks! I mean you had two days to taper and we only ran one 5:19 mile on one of the days. Shouldn’t you feel fant-abulous-astic by now? Apparently not.
The gun goes off. I am not really interested in going to the 5K house of horrors so I sit back and run a smart race. I follow the girls and think nothing of them being in front of me because, here’s the cream, I can hear them breathing from here. I am not breathing. Well, of course I am breathing, but it is the soft rhythmic flow of a runner in control. Could I converse? That is probably taking it to far.
Mile 1: 5:32. It felt aerobically easy. My legs lugged themselves along, but my lungs suggested picking up the pace. I moved into second place right behind Shawna. At one point I considered passing her as she slowed down a bit, but plotted to save the elevated trot for the last half mile. It was like I was actually strategizing this race instead of just going into the red zone with bells and whistles blasting self destruction. Weird!
Mile 2: 11:10. I watched that pretty pony tail just swish left, right, left, right. Shigy ran with us and we passed younger male runners huffing like sick seals. My breathe flowed easy, but my legs threw their anchors. The pace decreased and Shawna slowly pulled away from me a bit. I ran rather comfortably past my family. “Go! Go! Drea pick it up!” They yelled. I sort of forgot I was in a race. Runners behind me stopped existing. I sat in my non-red-line, this 5K is rather comfy, delusional zone and I never considered the cheetahs running up my back. That dang pony tail of Shawna’s! I think it has magical hypnotic powers. I am asleep at the wheel.
Mile 3: 17:05. People are screaming. Someone shouts, “Get her!” Wait? Get who? Me? “She’s right there!” shouts another. The little pilot adrenaline light goes off and my rear jumps in gear with all the authority of “Ahhh she’s gonna get me!” Ashley sneaks up my back and we dead lock sprint for the line. My toe strikes first. Good for second place, $200, and a 17:34. Shawna finished first: 17:25. Shigy: 17:34.
The clock time didn’t make me tick, but something else sure did. My legs are dead marathon miles tired and yet I just ran a comfy 5K. I would never call it easy, but my breathing was controlled to the line and I had kick to stay alive. I am usually dropping over the line with the look of ICU. I see you? No, ICU. This makes me excited for the marathon. Rest up ladies. Have some pie!
(Oh, Carl, just in case you read this, I was nervous and focused when you came to say hello and I am so sorry that it appeared that I was ignoring you. HELLO! Happy Thanksgiving!!!!)
She's Coming!
I went to Costco to get my turkey for Thanksgiving. Everyone was buying a turkey and a big bag of ice to go with it. I assume they were sticking the turkey in the ice to keep him fresh and cool until his rump goes in the oven Thanksgiving morning. Excellent idea! I bought a bag of ice for my turkey too. OH, not THAT turkey. He sits in the fridge.
Am I making sense? Sorry, I have brain freeze. This turkey, aka me, put the entire bag of ice into the tub. I know Mike said something about a thermometer and the temperature being optimal between 54 and 64. I did not have a thermometer, but the toe-ometer said it was double bleeping cold. I found partaking in this ice bath was just like a reverse 5K race.
I stuck my feet into the artic and swore to saints and sinners that I would never ever do this again. I backed my rear down like the Titanic. I started my watch. “This sucks, this sucks,” I chant and check the time. 3 minutes has passed. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this,” I chant. 3 minutes 30 seconds. Things burn as they slowly start to go numb. The girlie bits wonder why they are being punished along with the legs. The toes stick out like islands teasing the submerged feet. Ten minutes has passed. Numbness eases everything. It is just uncomfortable, “I got this, I got this.” 15 minutes has passed. I think I could stay in here all day. I can handle this, “easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
Time to get out. My legs cannot stand proper as they wobbly over to the fluffy robe. They feel exactly like the turkey in the fridge. OK, maybe we are now both ready for the OVEN.
Turkey Trot?
5K Thursday!
Of all the things I do not like to be: hot & sticky, dead tired, fired & wired, sleepless in Seattle, starvin’ Marvin’, flat broke, sore & loser, the one that I dislike the most is COLD & WET. It is not so much the cold part although I am a jackhammer shiverer. It is not so much the wet part although I am definitely a land animal and perhaps a tropical species. Well, not tropical because that would be hot & humid and hence sticky. The combination of brrrrrrr & splash just leaves change in my dentist’s pockets. Chatter-clatter-crack a crown!
I am not invited to the polar bear club. If I ever was, I would shred the invitation. I did that ONCE. I made up a lot of words and scared some poor squirrels half a mile away.
This is not even fun when you are drunk. I tried that too, ONCE. Cold & Wet and no longer drunk. Um, buzz kill?
But my legs are still protesting turn over and the muscles just feel the miles. Their little fibers are score keeping tabs on all the weeks and individually throwing micro-tempertantrums. I hear them “whaa-whaaa-ing” right now. I am running the numbers covering the prescribed distances, but that pop-zing-zap-spring that I would love to have in my stride is truant. There is just one last thing that I have not tried to vamp the va-va-voom back into my left & right current “drag” queens: The Ice Bath!
Now that is Cold
And that is Wet
And my legs still feel like walking a picket line. That means they are going back in the freezer. OH freeekin’ Fxxxjord and some other modified words!
