Park Bench 5K Mania

Just-in-Time Racing Job Offer

Last Saturday, my brother called me to ask if I wanted to help his timing company during a road race.  I am an excellent data entry person and can type probably faster than I can speak in some cases.  So as day-of-registration folks pile in with last minute paperwork, I get to enter hundreds of people into the race database in about an hour.  I actually really like doing it.


The part that is the most amusing that makes me respect, perhaps idolize, my brother is the crazy people at the races.  The antics of these people are laughable on a once-in-a-while basis.  If I had to do this timing as often as my brother, I am not sure I could ever go to a road race again in my life.  My brother and I laugh about how much the Nutcracker tortures him during the winter season at his theater job, but now we can also laugh about how these road races torture us too.

The Confrontational Phone Lady: No, I am not Siri

I arrived at the Park Bench in Stony Brook at 7:30 a.m. and helped my brother and the rest of Just In Time Racing set up.  Before I was sent inside to start my frantic typing, a woman around age 50 walked up to the table around 8 a.m. and asked us what time the race actually started.  When we informed her the race was at 9:30, the time that was listed on the registration form that she just filled out, she had a slight meltdown, explaining that her husband just dropped her off and how she didn't want to wait around.  She explained if the race was at 8:45, she would stick around, but since it was 9:30, she wanted her husband to pick her up.  She then turned to me and said that she wanted to use my phone.  When I told her I didn't have one (I leave EVERYTHING in my car at these races), she stared me down skeptically. "You mean YOU don't have a phone," she questioned, as if I was a teenager who can't live without texts.  Ask my husband, I never have it on me lol and why am I defending myself?


Later after the race (since she stayed for it even though she didn't like the 9:30 start time and wanted to create her own start time), she came back to the table to return her chip (which should have already been turned in) and asked us to scan it for her to get her time.  Genius, the chip "scans" as you cross over the mats, hence, THE REALLY LOUD BEEP as you cross.  After her 53-minute 5K, she was more pleasant than before at least.

Bathroom Sneak

After I went inside to start typing, the employees of the bar asked me to make sure people didn't enter the bar to use the bathroom and remind them the port-a-pottys were around the corner, specially ordered for the 733 runners in the race.  At first, I just locked the door; this way people attempted to open the door and continued on when the door wouldn't open.  After a while, the computers needed juice, so they ran extension cords from the bar to the finish line, preventing the door from completely closing.  So as I typed, I calmly explained to people who entered in hopes of a clean bathroom that they had to use the less-than-loved port-a-pottys.  As a runner, I am fully aware of the hunt for a bathroom, and a clean one, so I was sympathetic to their mission.  Most people just happily went on their way to search for their relief, but one man walked in just after my brother came in to drop off more registration packets.  My brother was aware of the instructions and explained, "Sir, the bar isn't open yet and they have provided bathrooms around the corner."  The man explained to us that he wasn't looking for a bathroom, he just wanted to check out the bar design.  He proceeded to awkwardly stand in the corner and glance up at the ceiling for about two minutes.  Then, he asked, where did you say the bathrooms were?  I wanted to die.  He clearly came in for a bathroom break and felt like he got "caught" and had to create some odd diversion, which obviously didn't work well for him.  Off he went.

Nosey, Seductive Result Looker

My brother has to deal with so many morons, and I really don't know how he does it!  Like I said before, since I know my brother as a little temper tantrum terror, I think his inner peace at these races is amusing.


As he is trying to do a million things with results, timing chips, computer print outs, wheelchair registrations, one man stands behind him to look at the computer screens.  Now, I do understand watching my brother is incredible.  He has a million electronics out and is calmly managing all of them.  But this man was not admiring my brother's work, he wanted to see his own result.  He stood right behind my brother and leaned his face almost next to my brothers; it looked as if he was whispering in my brothers ear. My poor brother could obviously see this near seduction from the reflection of his computer and didn't bat an eye.  Later, I got to recreate the scenario for my family, and we all got a good laugh over Mothers' Day lunch.

Average Guy

Another man came over to my brother while he was in the computer seat and stared down at the computer, which, of course, is a common occurrence. But his question was a first.  Again, remember my brother is clicking away on several computers like a mad man, and this man stops my brother to ask him what the average time of the entire race was.  First, the race had not finished, so no average would be possible, but also, why would you bother calculating an average of people finishing from a range of 16 MINUTES to 1 HOUR and 30 MINUTES.  Obviously, this mean would be a fairly useless number. 

Detail-Orientated 1:15 Finisher 

It never ceases to amaze me the criticism that some "runners" have over race results. When the winners and top runners finish, they wait, check their results, and often times don't even wait for their medals (and most likely would never wear their medals either).  I would never think to question the race timers while people are still finishing, or ever for that matter.  In this race, the winner ran about 16:30.  The female winner ran 19:37, never to be seen again.  BUT the man who ran 1:15 ran faster to the computer table after his race than he did during the actual 5K just to tell my brother that his name was not on the results.  No shit. The results were printed out almost 30 minutes before you finished because no one, especially the person who finished three miles almost an HOUR before you, deserves to have to wait for his time because you couldn't hurry your tush up.  My brother then has to show him that the slow poke is actually on the results but not the printed version. I'm just surprised the guy made it from the finish line, to the posted results, and to the computer table in record time.


I would be too embarrassed to highlight to anyone that I ran 1:15.  Also, I would hope, if I were that runner, I wouldn't be as critical of other people and quick to complain, as I am sure I could be easily judged as I slogged through the course.  Why throw stones?

Fraigle but friendly old man

On the other hand, one of the slow finishers, a 76-year old who ran almost 1:20 who posed the same question, got a much more pleasant response (although even the critical large slow man got service with an Imperiale smile too). First off, holy crap, you are old and still running - I am always impressed at the true endurance athletes, the ones who have endured time more than any young runner could ever understand.  Also, he was really sweet and nice about asking; therefore, we were really extra nice and sweet about answering and even printed him an updated copy of the results with his name (and Mr. 1:15 Slow Poke) on it.  Thank you nice old guy.

Middle of the Finish Line Campers

But despite the crazy runners, the worst part of any race are the obnoxious, oblivious spectators.  I've been to hundreds of races.  My husband was knocked off the track in an 800 race by a person who attempted to cross the final stretch of the track as he barreled in to the finish.  Rob, who was probably 114 pounds at the time, was knocked onto the grass, unable to breath, and still got up to finish with a 1:57 (yes, I've heard this story many times <3).  This is a perfect example of a stupid spectator. 

At our Post race, we have had spectators who have refused to budge at the HERD of 500 runners coming straight for them.  At that point, I let them stay in hopes of watching them get stampeded (think Mufasa). 


At this race, there were several people that I asked multiple times to move out of the final stretch. In fact, to give you a better visual, the finish line took up the shoulder and one side of the 1/2 closed road (think: yellow line to white line).  Some of the cheerleaders stood between the curb and the white line, which was fine and out of the way.  Others, especially an Asian man, a Camera Lady, and a Little Zoned Out Boy who probably either played way too many video games or already has smoked too much pot, had to stand literally in the direct center of the finish line, about five strides from the finish.  Clearly, they wanted a good glimpse of their beloved runners who they were cheering on, but they could care less about all of the other runners (and there were many of them) who were finishing before their runners.


I calmly went over and explained that all the runners worked hard today and deserve to see their finish line from around the bend and asked the people to move back.  They moved for a second.  I walked away to the computer table (no more than 5 yards away) and the people moved back.  Again, I wandered over and asked them to about-face to see that they were literally blocking the finish line.  They looked, realized, moved away, and then moved back to their finish line real estate.  One lady with a camera gave me a dirty look as she moved back into her offensive position.  I stopped trying, because, well, that's not the timing company job really.  I was trying to be courteous, but I was going to flip my switch after another finish line sweep.


My favorite (least favorite) was the little boy who stood for, no joke, over 45 minutes on stride from the finish line, directly in the center, right on the pavement.  He had a glazed look on his face and waited, unmoved by the people flying by him.  Sometimes pairs of people had to separate and rejoin at the finish line because he basically created two chutes.  At one point, he was even staring at his phone.  OMG MOVE!  

Multiple Mat Jumpers

And when in doubt, it's always a guarantee that even if there are no ridiculous runner/spectator stories, there will always be the mystified mat jumpers.  When I run knowing there is a chip on my shoe or in my bib, I stay away from the finish line mats, even when I know they aren't activated yet.  You see, when a race starts, the computer finish line guy activates the mats.  So during warmup time, they aren't even actually set yet.  But, out of respect, I avoid them, just in case I am the one to screw things up.


But most people don't understand that your chip could scan and ruin the results, potentially.  (Most computer people are aware of people's stupidity and know how to fix the glitch if this happens.)  They will run over the mats to hear the beeps, not once, but twice, three, four, five.  Laughing.  Guaranteed comment: "LOOK, NOW I WON! ::Insert dumb laugh::"  Clever. Never heard it before.


But this race was even better because people who finished apparently also liked hearing their beeps.  So instead of walking THROUGH the chute, which common sense would direct you to do.  They walked over the mats again in the reverse manner, then BACK over to the chute, playing the beeping game, and screwing up their race time. DUH.  At least these people were running a 5K in over an hour and probably didn't care what their mile pace was at all.

Crazy Runner World

But all in all, it was a pretty fun day - Frank, my family, and I had a lot of good laughs.  I also found a new talent: reenacting the scenarios.  Plus, I think my brother really likes that someone understands what he is going through - and perhaps why he will never ever understand runners (or - that he understands them too well lol).

A Modest Proposal

My Run
Today, as I headed out for my 10-mile run (this week=all easy long runs before I head into summer training), I knew I had a lot on my mind and would enjoy a good dose of sweat and sun.


The first thing, though, that interrupted my original thought process was that my shorts were way too short.  This morning, one of my summer "to-do" list items (oh yes, by the way, I am officially on summer break!!!!) is to clean out some of my drawers and reorganize.  Usually, this task ends up feeling like shopping because I find such awesome clothes tucked away, hidden under my regular wear.  Today, I perused through my running shorts and found these ones that I probably have only worn once or twice, and most definitely have not worn on a run yet.  Virgin shorts, hooray.


But I did not feel so virgin in these shorts.  As I took a few steps on the sidewalk, I felt the spandex rise and knew these shorts had turned into butthuggers (racing briefs that look like bikini bottoms).  Since I was already at least five strides from my house, there was no turning back.  I was running on the brink of inappropriateness in my cute little neighborhood.

My Running Gear
Now a lot of my friends often joke about my choice of shorts.  As a runner, I am used to seeing women race in pretty skimpy clothing, and although I participate with the tightness and short shorts, I would still be seen as more of a moderate dresser amongst the running community.  You will never see me running in a sports bra unless I am at the beach, and no, this is not to disguise an embarrassing stomach.  I am pretty proud of my torso :).  I just don't see a difference with a few inches of sports bra material to keep me a little less sexual and a little more modest.  But, if completely understand if you have shield-like abs like the women at the Boston Marathon, they want to show off their hard work.  I just will never be one of them, even if I have a gladiator stomach.


But, the extra inches of shorts on the legs makes a difference to me - go figure!  One of my running pals, Lj, usually laughs that I take off one pair of shorts shorts and another even shorter pair are there for me to race.  (It's true.  I take off my "baggy" pair to reveal my tight pair for racing, which I usually do most my workouts and runs in as well).  If butthuggers weren't so inappropriate at road races, I would be rocking those.  In fact, I actually just ordered a pair of black Nike ones, just in case I feel a little ballsy and beastly fast in elite races.


But back to my run, needless to say, people who were on the streets of Patchogue, Bluepoint, and Bayport (yes, 10 miles puts me in a few towns) got a little show I'm sure.

My Anger
But on my run, I was thinking about another skin show, not my own, that was really bothering me.  A while back, my husband, who is in a friend's bridal party, had gone to dinner with the groomsmen to plan the soon-to-be groom's bachelor party.  When he returned home, we chatted about the plans and I clearly scanned the verbal itinerary for strip clubs, none to be found.  Just a few days ago, conveniently only a few days before the whole gig, my husband mentions that after dinner, they will be going to a "club," leaving out the ever-so-important adjective "strip."  To me, club means bar with strobe lights and a bigger dance floor, probably more Guido and hip hop music too.  Obviously, my husband was uncomfortable to mention the "strip" part because he knows that I will castrate him for stepping foot in the place.

Now, why do I have such a violent reaction to these places? Because they are wrong.  Currently, I am reading the Hunger Games, keeping up on my pop culture, and anyone who reads this book is like, "Holy crap, this is effed up."  Well, yes, and most people should think about the inappropriateness of married men going to bars and getting naked women to rub up on them, never mind using money (that could buy the wicker patio loungers that I want) for this "accepted" form of cheating.  I am not for it and have violently attacked Rob after going to a few.  In fact, our two worst fights involved strip clubs (one with a video of a dancing vagina on his phone which he swears he didn't take. Hold on, need to take a few deep breaths....).


Our second worst fight involved a strip club and our wedding.  In fact, I think this is partially one of my deep-rooted marital problems that I should probably see a therapist about.  Instead, I just run it out, as I did on my run today, thinking about how angry/awful/hurt I feel recapping it. It has caused depressing doubt and distrust in the way I view him, a view that I never had about him until the weekend before our wedding.


After talks before both of our bachelor/bachelorette parties, both of us told each other that strippers were gross and "not my thing."  Rob also explained that the last bachelor party he went to for his brother did not involved any naked women, because they just aren't "into it."  Therefore, I assumed, my loving, committed soon-to-be husband who had told me he wanted to devote the rest of his life to me from the moment he went down on one knee wanted to do just that, love, honor and respect me.  Instead, I had a rude awakening, after finding out through the wives of the guys on the trip that my husband went with his buddies to a strip club in Myrtle Beach.  I can only imagine how filthy they are in Myrtle Beach.  And my husband was filthy as well, and honestly, I will always hold a little hate in my heart for him and everyone who was there.  Sad.

 Alyssa Milano Performing a Lap Dance in Charmed, an Old TV Series.  See. INAPPROPRIATE!

ALSO UNACCEPTABLE! (This is a woman getting a taste of what so many dumb men want)

My Philosophy
See, I am a bridge burner.  When I feel ultimately betrayed, I light my match and enjoy the bonfire.  Then, I walk away from the ashes and never turn back.  I have two theories.  1. It doesn't matter if I burn the bridges behind me because I never retreat.  I make a decision that this person did not consider me and, therefore, never deserves my consideration again.  And I have stuck by this motto many a time, despite some people warning me I might need those bridges and friendships again.  2. But, my second theory is that you can always rebuild a bridge if you really have to, perhaps even better than before.  I have rebuilt a bridge with my college roommate.  After living together, we erupted on each other and our bridge went up in smoke.  One year later, we rekindled (pun intended) our friendship.  If you are shaking your head reading this, get over it, it's how I work and it's not changing.


Of course, I am more careful with my pyromania when it comes to boyfriends, just as I was in this case.  I have allowed others to betray me several times without burning the bridge (and running far, far away, as I should have!).  My college sweetheart (not so sweet) contacted me a little while before Rob and I got married to give me the old speech that he was sorry for the way he treated me and hope he didn't ruin who I was.  I explained to him that I was exactly the same person I was when I was with him, except a little stronger and more confident than before - aka not going to take shit anymore.

My Anger, Again
And "shit" to me is strip clubs.  I think it's so funny that a lot of my friends who are more liberal and feminist-ish laugh at me and my conservative viewpoint that I would give up my right to vote to go back to the way where women stayed home to raise their children and weren't expected work (and cook, clean, have babies, pick up husbands' socks that somehow always never make the hamper!).  These same people also say that you can't be "that girl" who puts her foot down and doesn't allow her husband to go to strip clubs.  So we can tell the government who we want to be President of the country, but we can't tell our husbands, our "equals," not to stare at naked women because it makes us feel awful.

Tom Welling ::sigh::

No wonder women are fucked up in the head.  No wonder they have eating disorders or are obsessed with dieting.  Men, this is your fault.  My husband and his friends are no Tom Welling.  They are not the most gorgeous men in the world; they should be happy they luckily have devoted, beautiful wives/girlfriends and not go to strippers (aka prostitutes, in my opinion) for some last hurrah, not to mention that all of the married men in the group are MARRIED and have already gotten their last hurrah, and their friends' last hurrahs, and their cousins' last hurrahs.  It's out of control.  How many last hurrahs do you get? No wonder 50% of marriages end up in a divorce; look at how most of them start, with one foot in the gutter!






My Runner Mentality
Ah, I am angry and ranting.  Let's tie this back to my running theme.  I think a lot of the thoughts I have as a runner in races (the reason why I am a good runner) are often angry, aggressive, and cruel, which is why I am come off this way when I am trying to "win."  I think my husband understands this is how I work and partially one of the reasons he loves and understands (possibly fears?) me, and has ultimately assured me he will never betray me again. 

I think he also understands how hard I work for what I want (including a good body); he knows I always find a final gear to make one last push for the finish.  Likewise, I won't run out of steam on this one. I have endurance.  If it haunts me (like my stupid 1-second-from-third-place finish at the 1/2 marathon and like his bachelor party), I am not giving up until I find my redemption, especially when I am this hell-bent on something. 


So although I know my distance runner boobs probably cannot compare to a stripper's fake ones up in my husband's face, he will just have to deal with the fact that the only woman he should be near is thirty-years old but looks 18 and is 118 pounds, poor guy!  And although I did probably give the neighborhood a little show with my nice runner butt, I have too much respect for myself to ever be compared to a stripper... ever... again.  But, to compare just this once, I believe, just as most of my neighbors would agree after today, my distance-runner butt is way better than a pole-dancer's anyway.

1/2 A Runner

Today, I ran the Long Island Half Marathon during the Long Island Festival of Races, and I ran well!  I am actually so excited about how reassured I am about my level of fitness that I wasn't quite sure was there since I have been doing less workouts, taking more days off, and ripping my muscles apart with Graston.


My plan for the 1/2 was to run it to test the waters, no pressure, just feel out a good distance run.  On Thursday, after doing a mini uptempo (2 miles in 12:45) and feeling pretty crappy during it, I was a little nervous that I wasn't really in shape to perform solidly.


Later, this Friday, I went to the Expo to pick up my number and saw the great Long Island Road Race announcer Terry Bisgno, who told me to check the newspaper for my name since he stated in an interview that I was one of the race favorites, with my 1:24:44 from the Diva.  I was a little excited and a little bummed: excited that I have been recognized, bummed that I realistically know I am not in 1:24 shape to reaffirm that acknowledgement.  But after he told me about the other possible top female harriers, I knew that even on a sub-par day, I might be able to finish toward the front of the pack.  Last year, my first half, I went in without any expectations or competitive push and finished ninth overall.  This year was bound to be better.


And better it was!


The Trek
First, Rob and I got up at 5:15 and headed out by 5:45 (yes, a.m.). (No matter how many times I do these crazy races, as I set my alarm the night before, I always question my sanity.) We hit no traffic (you never know on Long Island) and parked in our special Hempstead Turnpike parking lot.  I headed for a bathroom and then for the starting line.  After a slight detour in the park, and a small, almost meltdown on my husband for going the wrong direction (slowly), we made it to the starting line by 7:10, where I even had a chance to take one last pee break without a line at the port-a-potty. (About 10 minutes later, the lines were out of control. We even saw a line of men facing tall grass along the public road to relieve themselves.  Wonder if Newsday will put that picture online.)

The Warmup
At 7:15, I started my warmup, heading on the course for about 5 minutes with the plan to loop back for an overall 10-minute warmup before some stretches and drills (since I already walked probably over a mile from our car/park detour).  On the start of my run, I passed Terry, who shouted, "Good luck, Christa" to me.  Other people I passed laughed, making the annoying comment, "Why would you run before the run?"  One boy jumped in front of me obnoxiously shouting, "Yeahhhhh running!!!!!!!!!" Nevertheless, I completed my warmup unscathed and went back for some drills where my husband was stationed.  Then, I headed for the start, where this year, I learned to creep up much closer than my 14-second net/gun discrepancy last year.

The Start and Mile 1
After some strides, the national anthem, and some fireworks, we were off.  Honestly, the only thought in my head for mile 1 is, "Keep calm, keep it slow, easy does it, slow, slow."  I figured I would probably hit mile 1 in about 6:30, but again, my "slow" idea turned to be a 6:15.  I shrugged, oh well, I felt good.

Mile 2, 3, 4, 5
Around mile 2.5, a tiny girl (who I later learned is 27) ran up next to me and we ran side-by-side until about mile 5, where she pulled away, and unfortunately beat me overall.  (5K split: 19:45 ish) From mile 2-5, we had to battle some 10K runners who were already walking by their first mile (the 1/2 marathon starts behind the 10K, so the fast marathoners catch up to the slow 10k'ers pretty quickly).  I also somehow managed to throw almost an entire cup of Gatorade in a high school volunteer's face.  At the mile 5 water stop, a girl handed me a cup of Gatorade.  A few of the other kids were not paying attention, and as I finished my sip (I only take sips) and chucked the rest, one of the kids who was not paying attention stepped right into it and started screaming.  How many times can you say you threw a cup of anything in someone's face and could actually get away with it!

Mile 6, 7, 8
At the 10K, I hit 40something, which was better than my 42 last year, and kept trucking down Route 25.  By mile 8, I had a nice boost after passing the MacArthur (my old team) water stop and hearing them scream Imperiale pretty loudly. It was nice to hear the surge of excitement and know I have not been forgotten.

Mile 9, 10, 11, 12
At mile 11, Erin Grey jumped in with me to keep my pace on point, which was great because this mile is usually my slowest, and instead, it ended up being consistent with most of my miles.  At one point, I saw a cup of water and veered toward it; Erin questioned if I wanted water or wanted to catch the girl (Bellmore Strider Noni) in front of me. I chose water, a decision I regret a little since I lost to her only by one second.  Back on course, Erin stayed with me to a little after mile 12, where the East Meadow team was pretty excited to see a Citius jersey, since they had recently had a presentation with Vince and ReddyCare.

Home Stretch
As I made the final turn toward the 1/2 mile final stretch, I heard Smitty's mom, Cathy, cheering that I could get the girl in front of me (Noni, still).  I remember that I normally tell Smitty that sometimes people appear much farther from you in a race when you are actually in the race and seeing only the "behind" perspective.  I also tell Smitty, that's what a coach is for, to remind you that your perspective is a little off and that the distance isn't actually as far as you think.  At that point, I dedicated myself to catching Noni.  I passed the mile 13 mark and refused to hit my split button on my watch, knowing I would need every precious tenth of a second at the very end.  I was running out of space, but I heard Tom, Pita, and my husband cheer, and that was it, my final move.  I drove my knees and felt my powerful sprinter stride.  The 800-meter runner in me was back.

Finish Line
I made up the deficit pretty fast, but Terry, the announcer, pointed out (VERY LOUDLY) to the crowd that there was a fight for third.  Noni took this as a warning and picked up the last few steps, and I ran out of room to catch her.  Her back foot passed the line as my front foot crossed it. GRRR. Shouldn't have taken that water! haha.  On an unsportsmanship-like note, Noni didn't even turn around to say good job, a common gesture by the top (or any) runners.  I really don't like the rudeness of the Bellmore Striders (and no, the fact that I didn't beat her doesn't sway that idea). Not one of the female striders have ever participated in the common procedure of athletic sportsmanship with me. (My favorite was the girl, Tara, who I beat at Bethpage in the final stretch, right the finish line.  All she could say was, F********CK, pretty loudly. Classy.)

Cool Down
After rounding up my cheering squad and locating Erin, a Post XC alumni who completed her first 1/2 ever in 1:41, I (Erin, too) cooled down for a bit.  Then, I washed off all of the salt off my face and was so excited to find crackers and peanut butter in my finisher's sack, handed out at the finish line.  My next task at hand was to see my friend, Jenn, finish her first marathon.

The Marathon
For the next few hours, we stood watching the rest of the half marathoners and the marathoners finish, waiting for Jenn, who was estimated to finish around 5 hours.  Her husband found us, and we all laughed and joked for a while, commenting on how Jenn has only been running for two years (starting with running less than three miles a week to running 26.2 in one day) and how she views life (her life motto is from the country song "Live Like You Were Dying").  Some of the people I was with were getting a little antsy waiting, but I was not going to budge until I saw my friend proudly complete her task at hand.  When the clock hit 5 hours, we allowed some extra leeway in case she started minutes behind the actual start (net vs. gun time).  When the clock started ticking a bit more, we got a little nervous.  After a little while, Gary, her husband, walked back down the final stretch a bit, hoping to see her and run a little in with her.  He came back to us with clear worry on his face.  I decided to jog the course backwards to see if I could find her, in case something was wrong, since I was the fastest-moving option.  A little less than a mile into my backwards trek, there were Jenn AND Gary (he took a shortcut).  Relieved, Gary returned to the final stretch, and I ran along next to her, while she assured me she was okay and was talking fine, just a little dazed (and how could you not expect that, after FIVE hours of running).  When we got to 26, I was so proud of her and made sure to point out the finish line flags so she could see her finish, and at 26.1, I sent her on her last .1 journey down the final stretch alone to her victory.  

Runner?
I guess this experience of the half and full marathon leads me back to my previous debate about the definition of a runner.  Like I said before, I am such a hypocrite with this topic and switch sides often, depending on circumstances and friendships.  Take Jenn, for instance.  Most people will question why in God's name she would want to run for five hours, painfully plodding her way through the 26.2 miles.  But since I have heard about her plans, her goals, her work, her 20-mile Sunday runs, her rolling at night, her pace chart, her carboloading, I can't help but consider her a runner.  


And after my experience today, I think I have solidified my parameters of "runner."  I think if you do all the things you should as a runner: warm up, drink water, train on a somewhat daily basis, thoughtfully consider your race (pre and post), get good sleep, live a runner lifestyle, you are a runner.  If you do not do these things and just run random 5k's or, worse, 1/2's, you are not a runner.  If you laugh at a person warming up (aka a REAL runner) and ask why she is running more before she has to already run, you are not a runner.  If you drink beer before you run, you are not a runner.  If you smoke a cigarette before the race (which people witnessed today), you are not a runner.  If you carry hand sanitizer for the port-a-potty's that you will stop in on your run, you are not a runner.  (I have yet to decide officially if I think iPod wearers are runners.  I am currently leaning to "no.") If you think the people who are doing runner-like things (aka warmup, drills, stretches, strides) are "weird" or insane, you are not a runner.  


Let us be, especially when you are butting into OUR world. But no matter what, I think if you bust your butt and do all the things magazines like Runners' World tell you to do, well, then by all means, no matter how slow you are, you have earned the Christa Morris seal of approval.  You, then, are warmly welcomed into MY world.  


Results: 1:27:01, 4th Woman Overall
(Pictures and Splits to come.....)

Graston

After the Cherry Blossom, driven by redemption, I took off on Monday and returned to the track to jump in with the PXC's girls' workout.  Bad idea. My reoccurring hamstring cramp flared up again on the second in-out 200, just as it had done a few weeks ago.  I was annoyed because I thought my leg had felt fine and frustrated because I probably should have been smarter and just done a regular run, not a workout, that day.  I proceeded to do a 2-mile cooldown with the girls and called it a light day.

When I get hurt, I often like to convince myself that I am not, or that I can get "over it," by forcing my body through even more than I would normally do.  On Wednesday, I squeezed in an 8-mile run at Westbury, characterized by rolling paved hills, swimming during Common Hour with the girls, and a painful 5 miles on the Alter-G at ReddyCare at 60% of my body weight.  By this point, my hamstring was in a tight pinch, and my right calf was pissed at me for allowing it to take the brunt of my force during all of these runs for the day.

I gave in, and asked ReddyCare for some help: Physical Therapy. 

The next day I went in for some PT; they assigned me to Yoshei, the Columbia graduate and semi-pro golfer, certified in Active-Release Therapy (ART) and the Graston technique.  After some biomechanical tests, Yoshei whipped out some metal tools and went to town on my leg, warning me I might have some bruising. 

Since Rob and I had carpooled out to Nassau (he had to do a recruit signing at Post), I figured I could walk to find food and stall for time post-therapy.  A four-miles walk later, I ended up in Marshall's and found myself a Dunkin' Donuts (got pretty pillows for our bedroom and an egg n' cheese on a croissant).  3.5 HOURS later, Rob picked me up.  When I returned home, I saw some bruises.

So for the past month, I have been getting Graston on my leg once a week. I felt immediate improvements and only had to "take it easy" on days that I get the treatment because Yoshei beats me up with his tools.  The bruises on my leg are scary.  They run from my butt to my knee and are wide along the entire width of the muscle.  Because the bruises seem to be lasting over a week, Yoshei now puts K-tape on them to increase the blood circulation and heal a little faster, just so we can do more Graston quicker haha. 

I'm a fan, except for day one of therapy.  I feel like I got beat up and am somewhat exhausted from being over sensitive.  I have to be careful how I sit, including using the bathroom (sorry for the visual), because the backside of my legs are in bad shape.  But, after a day, things feel great, and I am sure that in the long run this is going to stop a lot of my reoccurring issues that I never took care of years ago.

Just yesterday I asked Yoshei more about the technique.  Since I have a pretty good understanding of biomechanics and the way PT works, I can hold my own during the conversation.  Basically, Graston aggravates the soft tissue and the fascia of the muscle, inducing inflammation and increased blood circulation in the area, which promotes healing.  The tools he uses serve as basically stethoscopes, to enhance his understanding of what is happening under the skin.  He can find the worst spots as he drags the metal over the muscle and he (and I) feel a speed-bump affect (similar to the feeling/sound when you drive over the side bumps on major highways to make sure you know you are off the road).  I am a trooper, but I don't look so trooper-ish getting in and out of the high-up jeeps in my family. 

In the end, I am a fan of all possibilities to help me improve.  All of ReddyCare's therapists comment on what good shape I am in, how balanced my muscles are, and how strong/big my muscles are, so it's nice to know.  I also like that I feel better and ready to race again.  The bruises make me more intimidating anyway!

Amy Yoder Begley's (10K Olympian) Bruises after Graston on her Calf