It is 5:27 in the morning. I am actually early.
Imagine that.
I went through a period for a month and a half or so where I really despised running in the morning. I would wake up groggily, rub my eyes, scrunch them tightly closed again, curl deeper into a ball in bed and wish away my alarm. I would end up squeezing a run in the evening and then a cycle would start - I ran late at night so I wouldn't necessarily want to run early early in the morning and so on and so forth. I am trying to put this little period of procrastination behind me for a while. as my running partner put it this morning, "At least it's not freezing, if it were cold I would have told you no last night."
Yea... that's the other problem. I still have a certain fear of running alone uptown in the dark. Therefore, I need to reach out and establish some running partners as early as possible to ensure I will not end up on the treadmill the next morning.
So last night at 10:43 pm I started looking around for anyone needing miles in the morning. I had almost resigned myself to the gym when I got a text back:
"When & where?"
Love it. Truly.
We settled on Old Bell entrance to McAlpine - the old tried and true.
I got out of the car when the headlights flooded my side mirrors... looked into the car at the little white, wiry furball popping it's head up in between the seats. The jack russell was joining us for this early morning jaunt and just the sight of her perky little ears and bright, beady eyes made me smile. My running partner told me she woke up at 3:45 am wondering why on earth she had made that commitment at 11 o'clock at night... but by a minute into the run, she knew. And I knew. And the dog definitely knew.
Because this is what we long for. This is what makes us human and whole. Running does not rule our lives with an iron fist - but it guides us and nourishes us with friendship, challenge, and discipline. It teaches us about priorities, dedication, and the fine line between passion and obsession.
We were running back down the long straightaway towards the cars and the night was beginning to think about lifting. The moon was looming round and full, encircled by a pink haze - an island in the deep dark horizon. We respectfully turned out our headlamps to soak in the beauty of the moment and I knew this was just one more reminder of why I do this - why I put one step in front of the other when most of the world is still snuggled close to blankets and sheets or their loved one or the rascal of a pet that lulls them into a lazy morning trance.
2.18.2011
2.15.2011
it continues.
It has been a while.
I just spent the last half hour reading through my running log from a year ago. I realized that things are somewhat the same and yet somehow so much better now. On paper (or, on screen) I look so much stronger in February 2010. My weekly mileage is up, my pace is quick... but I was on a slippery slope and I was dead before the ship even sank.
It is a full year after I struggled through one of my first REAL injuries... one that put me back for months on end and played a heavy role in my weakness at Chicago last Fall. I am still struggling with days of not being able to run for this reason or that reason - but I am not injured. I have the whole year ahead of me. I have a marathon in 4 weeks and have done slim to none long tempos... but I am injury free.
My running partners and I chatted at length last night while cruising the streets of Dilworth about the merits of running for running's sake. And that the true goal of a training plan should be to NOT get injured because it defeats the whole purpose.
This I am taking to heart.
You can skip this next part if you'd like, as the boy would say, who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself? I am stepping back and yet I feel like I am stepping forward at the same time - I never have been one for high mileage and I don't expect this to change. I may want it to change. There may or may not be a part of me that secretly longs to have at least a 65 mile week in my books let alone 80. But there is a huge, overwhelming majority of the other parts of my body that never allow this to happen. Maybe someday. But for now - I am really and truly going to focus on keeping my body fresh and pouring quality upon quality into my mileage. I want to do more workouts - less junk miles for the sake of miles. I would believe I should take a full day off when I need it rather than push myself through a mediocre 8 mile run that leaves me frustrated and angry (frangry for short).
With that out of the way, I have some exciting prospects for this season. Running and training with the One2Tri team with some fantastic training partners. Completing my first triathlon (albeit very short). Getting back on some trails in the River Bound series. Racing one of the most loved marathons in the whole big wide great huge small world - NYC in November. I have many miles to go before I sleep and I am actually looking forward to them.
As far as my palate goes - the true reason for me beginning this blog in the first place... well. I have been climbing that nonstop mountain of JOY for quite a while. The boy's cooking continues to amaze me and I am finally settling into a place where I feel comfortable in our kitchen behind the stove as well. We've come up with this kind of rhythm in our lives... his cooking and our kitchen at the heart of it all. People always ask how it is possible that we do not have television. And I just can't fathom when we would actually watch it. The little "cooking noises" that wrap me up and rock me into a kind of sweet serenity - tongs snapping, oil spitting, the oven door opening and closing, water running, feet moving, the spoon hitting the spoonrest - these sounds are my music. My backbone to my day. My spine of love.
His soundtrack is my voice. He promises he loves it. It all started with my usual, "Oh, you've got to hear this." And it has organically grown into something of its own. We first read Same Kind of Different as Me from Ron Hall and Denver Moore. This inspired us to get in contact with and support the Urban Ministry of Charlotte which coincidentally is not more than 10 minutes from where we lay our heads at night. It encouraged us to engage in discussions with friends and family about the situation of Charlotte's homeless and to truly open our eyes and hearts when encountering these men and women on the streets. Then we started Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. When a new one comes in, we catch up on the global news from the latest publication of The Economist. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle has made quite an impact on our thoughts on everything from American agribusiness to the merits of dinnertable discussions. We finally stopped being lazy and checked out the local farmer's markets (of which, there are plenty in Charlotte). We have now found local oyster mushrooms that pair perfectly with pearl onions, pickles that are a nice addition to the usual cheese plate, yogurt that beats the bacterial pants off chobani, and spinach that makes harris teeter's supply look like child's play.
As for my running and eating life in a nutshell/clamshell/baked shell - I am in heaven.
I just spent the last half hour reading through my running log from a year ago. I realized that things are somewhat the same and yet somehow so much better now. On paper (or, on screen) I look so much stronger in February 2010. My weekly mileage is up, my pace is quick... but I was on a slippery slope and I was dead before the ship even sank.
It is a full year after I struggled through one of my first REAL injuries... one that put me back for months on end and played a heavy role in my weakness at Chicago last Fall. I am still struggling with days of not being able to run for this reason or that reason - but I am not injured. I have the whole year ahead of me. I have a marathon in 4 weeks and have done slim to none long tempos... but I am injury free.
My running partners and I chatted at length last night while cruising the streets of Dilworth about the merits of running for running's sake. And that the true goal of a training plan should be to NOT get injured because it defeats the whole purpose.
This I am taking to heart.
You can skip this next part if you'd like, as the boy would say, who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself? I am stepping back and yet I feel like I am stepping forward at the same time - I never have been one for high mileage and I don't expect this to change. I may want it to change. There may or may not be a part of me that secretly longs to have at least a 65 mile week in my books let alone 80. But there is a huge, overwhelming majority of the other parts of my body that never allow this to happen. Maybe someday. But for now - I am really and truly going to focus on keeping my body fresh and pouring quality upon quality into my mileage. I want to do more workouts - less junk miles for the sake of miles. I would believe I should take a full day off when I need it rather than push myself through a mediocre 8 mile run that leaves me frustrated and angry (frangry for short).
With that out of the way, I have some exciting prospects for this season. Running and training with the One2Tri team with some fantastic training partners. Completing my first triathlon (albeit very short). Getting back on some trails in the River Bound series. Racing one of the most loved marathons in the whole big wide great huge small world - NYC in November. I have many miles to go before I sleep and I am actually looking forward to them.
As far as my palate goes - the true reason for me beginning this blog in the first place... well. I have been climbing that nonstop mountain of JOY for quite a while. The boy's cooking continues to amaze me and I am finally settling into a place where I feel comfortable in our kitchen behind the stove as well. We've come up with this kind of rhythm in our lives... his cooking and our kitchen at the heart of it all. People always ask how it is possible that we do not have television. And I just can't fathom when we would actually watch it. The little "cooking noises" that wrap me up and rock me into a kind of sweet serenity - tongs snapping, oil spitting, the oven door opening and closing, water running, feet moving, the spoon hitting the spoonrest - these sounds are my music. My backbone to my day. My spine of love.
His soundtrack is my voice. He promises he loves it. It all started with my usual, "Oh, you've got to hear this." And it has organically grown into something of its own. We first read Same Kind of Different as Me from Ron Hall and Denver Moore. This inspired us to get in contact with and support the Urban Ministry of Charlotte which coincidentally is not more than 10 minutes from where we lay our heads at night. It encouraged us to engage in discussions with friends and family about the situation of Charlotte's homeless and to truly open our eyes and hearts when encountering these men and women on the streets. Then we started Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. When a new one comes in, we catch up on the global news from the latest publication of The Economist. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle has made quite an impact on our thoughts on everything from American agribusiness to the merits of dinnertable discussions. We finally stopped being lazy and checked out the local farmer's markets (of which, there are plenty in Charlotte). We have now found local oyster mushrooms that pair perfectly with pearl onions, pickles that are a nice addition to the usual cheese plate, yogurt that beats the bacterial pants off chobani, and spinach that makes harris teeter's supply look like child's play.
As for my running and eating life in a nutshell/clamshell/baked shell - I am in heaven.
10.20.2010
Lessons - Rewritten Recap
REVISITED in an email to Joe:
At this point - my blog ended because some glitch in the system meant everything else went unsaved. Heartbroken - truly. 4. was referring to the gatorade I drank because I got nervous about the heat. My stomach ended up in a knot by mile 16. I should have trusted that I would be fine but I didn't - I got nervous - and I drank gatorade much earlier on than I normally would have.
5. was generally about how I am so much stronger than I thought that I was. Because I never gave up. I never got down on myself. I never gave in to the inner demons that can end a race. Around mile 5 I ended up meeting someone who was aiming for 6:50s so I ran with him for the next 14 miles or so. The bottom of my foot began to hurt at mile 11 and running over the metal grates added insult to injury. By mile 16 I begged my impromptu running partner to leave me because I felt like I needed to regroup and slow down a bit. Right about then I should have been taking my gel. He refused to leave me and told me we were running this thing together. I was pulled along for the next three miles until at mile 19, I decided to take the race into my own hands. I slowed down to 7 minute pace for the next two miles or so. By the aid station at mile 21 my legs had cramped so hard that I was barely holding decent running form and I realized that I absolutely needed to walk. I didn't give up. I acknowledged the mistakes I had made early on and took the necessary steps to get to the end of the race. Those steps were walking steps. I walked through the aid station at mile 21. Head up - still in it. When the long tables of water and gatorade ended, I started running again. Shuffling at first. And then running.
The next aid station I saw was like an oasis in my muscular breakdown of hell. I walked through this one as well. At this point, I was not allowing myself to walk unless I was at an aid station where I could at least be drinking or hosed down by water. In the midst of mile 23, I abandoned this policy as my running deteriorated to fits and starts. I watched a guy tear past me only to be on the ground begging for water less than 200 meters down the road. I walked around him while people rushed to get him aid and told him good job. And then I started running again. I began to dread the very thought of moving my legs... I wanted the race to be over so badly. Whenever I looked up at a mile marker, my heart sank lower and lower. For the first time in my life, I looked at three miles to go and thought that was an eternity of pain stretched out before me. I watched with detached remorse as the 3 hour pace group passed me at 23. I knew that goal was over. I didn't cry. I didn't lose it. I went over and over the only mantra that managed to stick in my head: You are doing the best you can. This is the best you can. This is all you have.
And then a miracle of bad mathematics and delirium occurred. I came upon the clock beginning mile 25 and my mind registered that 2 miles at 8 minute pace would put me at a PR.* Hope renewed. My heart skipped two beats and I threw everything aside. I took the cold wet towel from a volunteer that I had wrapped around my neck and threw it to the ground. I can still hear it make contact with the pavement. I started running again. And I wasn't stopping until the finish. The next two miles were pain like I had never imagined but they faded into a blur as I ran past the screaming crowds and powered up the final hill to the finish. People were dropping - literally dropping - but I was eerily in my comfort zone for those last 600 meters. I welcomed that hill with open arms and burning legs. I coasted under the finishing clock and barely looked at the time. I figured I had PRed based on the time on my not-so-helpful watch but I had forgotten to hit stop when I crossed the mat. All I cared about was I was finished. I was done. I had just run the fastest marathon of my life.
*I ran around 7:20 and 6:50 for the last two miles. If I had run two 8 minute miles, I would have been far over my PR. Thank you second grade math skills for failing me - you deceived me and gave me hope.
At this point - my blog ended because some glitch in the system meant everything else went unsaved. Heartbroken - truly. 4. was referring to the gatorade I drank because I got nervous about the heat. My stomach ended up in a knot by mile 16. I should have trusted that I would be fine but I didn't - I got nervous - and I drank gatorade much earlier on than I normally would have.
5. was generally about how I am so much stronger than I thought that I was. Because I never gave up. I never got down on myself. I never gave in to the inner demons that can end a race. Around mile 5 I ended up meeting someone who was aiming for 6:50s so I ran with him for the next 14 miles or so. The bottom of my foot began to hurt at mile 11 and running over the metal grates added insult to injury. By mile 16 I begged my impromptu running partner to leave me because I felt like I needed to regroup and slow down a bit. Right about then I should have been taking my gel. He refused to leave me and told me we were running this thing together. I was pulled along for the next three miles until at mile 19, I decided to take the race into my own hands. I slowed down to 7 minute pace for the next two miles or so. By the aid station at mile 21 my legs had cramped so hard that I was barely holding decent running form and I realized that I absolutely needed to walk. I didn't give up. I acknowledged the mistakes I had made early on and took the necessary steps to get to the end of the race. Those steps were walking steps. I walked through the aid station at mile 21. Head up - still in it. When the long tables of water and gatorade ended, I started running again. Shuffling at first. And then running.
The next aid station I saw was like an oasis in my muscular breakdown of hell. I walked through this one as well. At this point, I was not allowing myself to walk unless I was at an aid station where I could at least be drinking or hosed down by water. In the midst of mile 23, I abandoned this policy as my running deteriorated to fits and starts. I watched a guy tear past me only to be on the ground begging for water less than 200 meters down the road. I walked around him while people rushed to get him aid and told him good job. And then I started running again. I began to dread the very thought of moving my legs... I wanted the race to be over so badly. Whenever I looked up at a mile marker, my heart sank lower and lower. For the first time in my life, I looked at three miles to go and thought that was an eternity of pain stretched out before me. I watched with detached remorse as the 3 hour pace group passed me at 23. I knew that goal was over. I didn't cry. I didn't lose it. I went over and over the only mantra that managed to stick in my head: You are doing the best you can. This is the best you can. This is all you have.
And then a miracle of bad mathematics and delirium occurred. I came upon the clock beginning mile 25 and my mind registered that 2 miles at 8 minute pace would put me at a PR.* Hope renewed. My heart skipped two beats and I threw everything aside. I took the cold wet towel from a volunteer that I had wrapped around my neck and threw it to the ground. I can still hear it make contact with the pavement. I started running again. And I wasn't stopping until the finish. The next two miles were pain like I had never imagined but they faded into a blur as I ran past the screaming crowds and powered up the final hill to the finish. People were dropping - literally dropping - but I was eerily in my comfort zone for those last 600 meters. I welcomed that hill with open arms and burning legs. I coasted under the finishing clock and barely looked at the time. I figured I had PRed based on the time on my not-so-helpful watch but I had forgotten to hit stop when I crossed the mat. All I cared about was I was finished. I was done. I had just run the fastest marathon of my life.
*I ran around 7:20 and 6:50 for the last two miles. If I had run two 8 minute miles, I would have been far over my PR. Thank you second grade math skills for failing me - you deceived me and gave me hope.
10.14.2010
Lessons
I have not run the Chicago Marathon once. I have run it about a hundred times. You read that right. 1-0-0 times in my head. Over and over and over again. It is time to put the miles to rest and move forward. Perpetually move forward...
If I have to sum up my experience, it was a gift of several lessons to be learned. I now have a lot more knowledge both about myself and the marathon to take with me for next time. I am thankful I had this opportunity to run and to be humbled and to realize my body's limits and needs.
Some of these lessons are mundane but they should be listed now as I am fresh off the pavement and the pain is still in my mind and muscles.
1. Pop-tarts are no longer a sufficient pre-race food. It is time to grow up, let go of superstition, and embrace the nutritional advice that surrounds me day-in, day-out. Sugar + carbs = good. 0 grams of protein before a marathon = negligent. Yes! Negligent - my body can't care for itself and relies on me to make good choices. I failed to provide it with the fuel it would need from the very start.
2. Technology can only take me so far, always have a back up plan for when something goes wrong. So I have a fancy little gadget that tells me my total distance and calculates my pace so that I can turn my brain off. Well, when said fancy little gadget malfunctions, I need to be able to turn my brain back ON. That means, when I look at the gun clock at the mile markers, SUBTRACT time for chip time. Don't add. And have at least a vague clue of what the time should be.
3. Calories are important. I am not a machine. I am not able to just muscle through it or get to the finish by sheer willpower and hard work. I trained with gels for a reason. At mile 16 I decided that I didn't want the gel. I don't know if I was delirious, lazy, or my stomach was too knotted to get it down. But I ignored my better thinking that said to take it anyway. From now on, take it anyway! I don't care if it appears to be the most disgusting thing imaginable, EAT.
4. Never disobey the first rule of racing. Never ever ever try something new on race day.
My heart just broke - I wrote a long beautiful recap last week and it was ALL lost except for these first few points. Seriously I think my heart just hit my feet on the ground because it is no longer fresh and I cannot recreate my thoughts and I spent so long on it. When I feel up to it again I will rewrite what I can. As for now... I'm going to try not to be so angry. I don't think I have felt this way since I lost part of a term paper in college. This is actually more frustrating and upsetting because it is personal and it is not a discussion about gender theory and methodologies.
If I have to sum up my experience, it was a gift of several lessons to be learned. I now have a lot more knowledge both about myself and the marathon to take with me for next time. I am thankful I had this opportunity to run and to be humbled and to realize my body's limits and needs.
Some of these lessons are mundane but they should be listed now as I am fresh off the pavement and the pain is still in my mind and muscles.
1. Pop-tarts are no longer a sufficient pre-race food. It is time to grow up, let go of superstition, and embrace the nutritional advice that surrounds me day-in, day-out. Sugar + carbs = good. 0 grams of protein before a marathon = negligent. Yes! Negligent - my body can't care for itself and relies on me to make good choices. I failed to provide it with the fuel it would need from the very start.
2. Technology can only take me so far, always have a back up plan for when something goes wrong. So I have a fancy little gadget that tells me my total distance and calculates my pace so that I can turn my brain off. Well, when said fancy little gadget malfunctions, I need to be able to turn my brain back ON. That means, when I look at the gun clock at the mile markers, SUBTRACT time for chip time. Don't add. And have at least a vague clue of what the time should be.
3. Calories are important. I am not a machine. I am not able to just muscle through it or get to the finish by sheer willpower and hard work. I trained with gels for a reason. At mile 16 I decided that I didn't want the gel. I don't know if I was delirious, lazy, or my stomach was too knotted to get it down. But I ignored my better thinking that said to take it anyway. From now on, take it anyway! I don't care if it appears to be the most disgusting thing imaginable, EAT.
4. Never disobey the first rule of racing. Never ever ever try something new on race day.
My heart just broke - I wrote a long beautiful recap last week and it was ALL lost except for these first few points. Seriously I think my heart just hit my feet on the ground because it is no longer fresh and I cannot recreate my thoughts and I spent so long on it. When I feel up to it again I will rewrite what I can. As for now... I'm going to try not to be so angry. I don't think I have felt this way since I lost part of a term paper in college. This is actually more frustrating and upsetting because it is personal and it is not a discussion about gender theory and methodologies.
8.17.2010
dot/not feather.
Back on the trail and back on our feet in the kitchen. The boy and I have been adjusting to his work schedule, plans for moving, and ramping up of training. This weekend we had a lot on our plates, both literally and figuratively.
On Saturday we determined we needed to be out the door by 8:40 am to be in time for a very important brunch date we had at the Flying Biscuit later. I came to this time with this logic:
11:00 am brunch - 20 min for travel time - 20 min for shower and get ready to roll - 10 min travel time - 1 hour 20 min run - 10 min travel time. I actually articulated this timeline before we went to sleep and I set my alarm for 8:30. Somehow, even with my ridiculously meticulous timing, we were still 7 minutes late for brunch.
First of all. To begin with. Just to start out. Let me tell you - running at 8:40 am on a warm and muggy Saturday in August is pretty stupid. I don't care what the weatherliar says. Forget what the app on your phone says. Ignore the temperature guage on your dashboard... they all lie. It may look like 88 degrees but they are not counting the thick layer of sweat and yuck you will quickly accumulate - adding a layer of insulation that makes 88 degrees feel like a steam room so thick with humid air that breathing is a legit struggle.
But... extra minutes of sleep have been few and far between lately so we made the conscious decision to be stupid and run at 8:40 am. Besides its obvious discomfort... the run was actually not too bad. I felt myself picking it up almost subconsciously around 5.5 miles when I made the turnaround and once I realized what I was doing... it was too late. I was pushing it. I was seeing just how much I could take. How much harder can my feet fall? How efficient can I get this stride? How fast can I get to that next mile marker? By the time I had two miles to go I was playing mind games. I told myself that whatever pace I was running, it was surely slower than my marathon pace so I better get used to it. In reality, I was probably running a good 20 seconds under marathon pace and should have told my unrealistic self to shove it... but instead I convinced myself that I needed to prove I could go this hard for the next two miles or ELSE. Or else I would never be able to do 26.2 at a similar foxtrot.
The things we tell ourselves.
This is what separates runners. There are those who go out and love it. There are others that roll themselves out of the house and prepare themselves to hate it. Then there are still others who absolutely love to hate it. I find myself drifting around in these categories that are much more like a spectrum than little boxes.
So we ran. And we sweat. And we burned some calories... so we were more than ready for our brunch date with friends. I ordered the sausage gravy and eggs... a delectable morning feast of scrambled eggs on a fluffy biscuit smothered with a southern favorite: sausage gravy. The boy got his usual black bean cakes with eggs covered with tomatilla salsa and chunks of feta. He ogled my biscuits. I ogled his cakes. We did what we do best... we shared.
And then we made our way to Charlotte's First Ward to sign our lease on the condo that will so soon be home. To celebrate, we had planned an indian dinner for two at his place.
There is something about indian grocery stores that makes my heart just go all a-pit-a-patter. We walked into a little grocery on Independence and I was in heaven. Strolling up and down the aisles I couldn't stop exclaiming over every little package of some favorite from my study abroad in India. Par exemple... the little green roll of Parle G cookies that we dunked in masala chai at least three times a day. Multiple times I found myself saying, "Ahh yes... this is why I achieved the rare feat of actually gaining 12 pounds while I was in India." Pointing to a particular kind of spicy snacks, I shrieked like the little girl I really am inside. Shoooooooooot that was good stuff!
And so we picked up some frozen spinach, paneer, frozen paratha dough, and naan for my mama (it was 99 cents - take that Trader Joes!). Oh yea, and I threw a package of Murukula snacks in the basket too... and when the boy ate his first bite, his eyebrows went up and I knew it wasn't just me.
We brought home our bounty and got to work prepping our meal immediately. We washed the Moong daal lentils my sister gave me and covered them with water. Chopped up garlic, ginger, onions, tomatoes and chilies from the garden... added the garam masala, turmeric, coriander, and cumin spice mix and threw this all in with the lentils to boil and then simmer for about an hour and a half.
Meanwhile... the boy was busy with his gobi palak paneer dish. He cut the paneer into chunks and dusted it and the cauliflower with indian curry spice before roasting it in the oven. Then he was messing around with the spinach and the blender (I was distractedly chopping away at onion, garlic, ginger, and chilies for him). I sauteed the onion, garlic, ginger, chilies, and tomatoes in sunflower oil for a good hot minute before adding the spinach. When the mixture was close to finished, we added 2 tablespoons or so of plain yogurt, the paneer, and the cauliflower.
The boy pan-fried the frozen paratha dough and we both happily watched it become puffy and flaky just the way it should be!
Last, but certainly not least, we pulled the half rack of lamb that the boy covered in fresh herbs out of the oven. The meat was a little rare but tasted amazing. I cannot imagine a more perfect texture.
When we sat down to eat the daal, gobi palak paneer, paratha, and half rack of lamb... it was 9:30 at night and we were drooling at the sights and smells of the kitchen. We dutifully tucked in our napkins... and dug in.
Sunday morning's 2 hour run at Anne Springs was a whole different story. Late night indian + early morning long run = plenty of carbs alright but a little heavy on the belly.
On Saturday we determined we needed to be out the door by 8:40 am to be in time for a very important brunch date we had at the Flying Biscuit later. I came to this time with this logic:
11:00 am brunch - 20 min for travel time - 20 min for shower and get ready to roll - 10 min travel time - 1 hour 20 min run - 10 min travel time. I actually articulated this timeline before we went to sleep and I set my alarm for 8:30. Somehow, even with my ridiculously meticulous timing, we were still 7 minutes late for brunch.
First of all. To begin with. Just to start out. Let me tell you - running at 8:40 am on a warm and muggy Saturday in August is pretty stupid. I don't care what the weatherliar says. Forget what the app on your phone says. Ignore the temperature guage on your dashboard... they all lie. It may look like 88 degrees but they are not counting the thick layer of sweat and yuck you will quickly accumulate - adding a layer of insulation that makes 88 degrees feel like a steam room so thick with humid air that breathing is a legit struggle.
But... extra minutes of sleep have been few and far between lately so we made the conscious decision to be stupid and run at 8:40 am. Besides its obvious discomfort... the run was actually not too bad. I felt myself picking it up almost subconsciously around 5.5 miles when I made the turnaround and once I realized what I was doing... it was too late. I was pushing it. I was seeing just how much I could take. How much harder can my feet fall? How efficient can I get this stride? How fast can I get to that next mile marker? By the time I had two miles to go I was playing mind games. I told myself that whatever pace I was running, it was surely slower than my marathon pace so I better get used to it. In reality, I was probably running a good 20 seconds under marathon pace and should have told my unrealistic self to shove it... but instead I convinced myself that I needed to prove I could go this hard for the next two miles or ELSE. Or else I would never be able to do 26.2 at a similar foxtrot.
The things we tell ourselves.
This is what separates runners. There are those who go out and love it. There are others that roll themselves out of the house and prepare themselves to hate it. Then there are still others who absolutely love to hate it. I find myself drifting around in these categories that are much more like a spectrum than little boxes.
So we ran. And we sweat. And we burned some calories... so we were more than ready for our brunch date with friends. I ordered the sausage gravy and eggs... a delectable morning feast of scrambled eggs on a fluffy biscuit smothered with a southern favorite: sausage gravy. The boy got his usual black bean cakes with eggs covered with tomatilla salsa and chunks of feta. He ogled my biscuits. I ogled his cakes. We did what we do best... we shared.
And then we made our way to Charlotte's First Ward to sign our lease on the condo that will so soon be home. To celebrate, we had planned an indian dinner for two at his place.
There is something about indian grocery stores that makes my heart just go all a-pit-a-patter. We walked into a little grocery on Independence and I was in heaven. Strolling up and down the aisles I couldn't stop exclaiming over every little package of some favorite from my study abroad in India. Par exemple... the little green roll of Parle G cookies that we dunked in masala chai at least three times a day. Multiple times I found myself saying, "Ahh yes... this is why I achieved the rare feat of actually gaining 12 pounds while I was in India." Pointing to a particular kind of spicy snacks, I shrieked like the little girl I really am inside. Shoooooooooot that was good stuff!
And so we picked up some frozen spinach, paneer, frozen paratha dough, and naan for my mama (it was 99 cents - take that Trader Joes!). Oh yea, and I threw a package of Murukula snacks in the basket too... and when the boy ate his first bite, his eyebrows went up and I knew it wasn't just me.
We brought home our bounty and got to work prepping our meal immediately. We washed the Moong daal lentils my sister gave me and covered them with water. Chopped up garlic, ginger, onions, tomatoes and chilies from the garden... added the garam masala, turmeric, coriander, and cumin spice mix and threw this all in with the lentils to boil and then simmer for about an hour and a half.
Meanwhile... the boy was busy with his gobi palak paneer dish. He cut the paneer into chunks and dusted it and the cauliflower with indian curry spice before roasting it in the oven. Then he was messing around with the spinach and the blender (I was distractedly chopping away at onion, garlic, ginger, and chilies for him). I sauteed the onion, garlic, ginger, chilies, and tomatoes in sunflower oil for a good hot minute before adding the spinach. When the mixture was close to finished, we added 2 tablespoons or so of plain yogurt, the paneer, and the cauliflower.
The boy pan-fried the frozen paratha dough and we both happily watched it become puffy and flaky just the way it should be!
Last, but certainly not least, we pulled the half rack of lamb that the boy covered in fresh herbs out of the oven. The meat was a little rare but tasted amazing. I cannot imagine a more perfect texture.
When we sat down to eat the daal, gobi palak paneer, paratha, and half rack of lamb... it was 9:30 at night and we were drooling at the sights and smells of the kitchen. We dutifully tucked in our napkins... and dug in.
Sunday morning's 2 hour run at Anne Springs was a whole different story. Late night indian + early morning long run = plenty of carbs alright but a little heavy on the belly.
8.02.2010
Meat and Potatoes - done UP.
Let me start with: my feet hurt.
Due to a combination of the two things this is all about: running and food.
I spent Saturday morning running the roots, the rocks, the rambling road of Beatty mountainbike park with some friends. I was supposed to do my long run Sunday but opted to switch it up and do my 15 at Beatty what with the fabulous company, good weather, and zero time deadlines to meet. Got a chance to try out a new means of getting quick calories while running: Stinger products. Amazing... not only did I have enough energy to make it through the end of my run (thanks to Caitlin giving me some of the good stuff) but I was hyper for the next few hours. I was going going going energizer bunny style for quite some time thanks to the honeyed goodness. The chews come highly recommended.
Sunday morning we were up early again (but thankfully not before 7 am for the first time in quite a while) so the boy and I could pound out a 9 miler before our day really got going. The first 4.5 were that weird, I-know-I-should-feel-better-than-this feeling but once we hit the turnaround... it was smooth sailing. Got a nice rhythm and a nice pace going back to the car.
And then the day hit.
Grabbed a Power Shower (meaning, no frills shower time) split a zone bar and hit the road for The Village Church with Scott Waters. After an insightful hour that I enjoyed immensely... we made it to one of our favorite spots in Charlotte: Cafe Monte to split a badass omelette and some brioche french toast. The french toast with berry compote was perfect - no sticky syrupy mess... just pure good crusty bread powdered and drizzled with pureed blackberries, raspberries, etc.
We then decided to go to Crate and Barrel for kicks and came to the conclusion that we need everything. Ok ok... not everything! The chef thought poached egg "pods" were frivolous and was skeptical of their real benefit or effectiveness in the kitchen. However, the furniture section slayed us. Sigh. Someday.
Hit up the Taj MaTeeter and began a meatloaf madness afternoon. Shopping with the boy is always a good time, I usually learn something new and leave feeling like I have accomplished something. Must be some ancient throwback to the days of hunter-gatherers.
We then descended on the kitchen and got going for the remainder of the day. I set to work making dough for the savory tarts we were preparing as a side dish and the boy handled the weekly hardboiled eggs for our breakfasts and chicken with leftover tagine sauce with vegetable rice for our lunches.
I proceeded to throw a fit when my dough turned out completely different than expected and tried to listen when told a dough that is meant to be rolled out SHOULD differ from a pat-in-the-pan dough. But I was having none of this. I was blaming myself for the end of the dinosaurs and everything that has gone wrong in the world since, up to and including this dough disaster.
For the record... the tart dough was perfect and made for a lighter crust for our savory tarts to be filled and eaten later in the evening.
The boy busied himself with the main course next. He chopped carrots (beautifully), onions, green bell peppers, and celery and mixed (or should I say, mushed) that with the lean ground turkey and lean ground veal. He threw in a handful of the freshly dried red peppers I brought him back from Arizona last week before adding a healthy dosage of ketchup, mustard, and worcestershire sauce. The meatloaf mixture was thrown on a silpat covered baking sheet and was ready for the oven.
Meannnnnwhile... shallots and mushrooms were combining in an aromatic free-for-all with some beef stock in a saucepan for the makings of some gravy.
We had been waiting for another sweet potato to be dropped off after we had come home only to find two moldy root vegetables slowly disintegrating in the cabinet. Yuck.
First I got a phone call, "Hey, Skip said Jeff asked for two sweet potatoes but this one was really big so he just bought one."
I am not a vegetable-racist but I know that sweet potatoes are supposed to be orange. I had begun peeling the potato and promptly stopped. Unsure of what to do... it was too late for us to go out to the store and get another one. So the boy took one look at it and said, it will just have to do - whatever it is, we're using it.
As it turns out, there is such thing as a white sweet potato and it worked just fine. I chopped the one sweet potato we had and it's awkwardly white counterpart and sent the chunks to be prepped for roasting in the oven. Once they were softened up we mashed them in a large pan, shredded some gruyere over them, added s+p and fresh rosemary from the garden, and mixed in a very little amount of heavy cream. Once this mixture tasted to our liking, we mounded it into the tarts and topped it with a layer of shredded gruyere to hit the oven once more.
Finally... after a few hours... the meal came together beautifully. The tarts were gorgeous and a big hit with everyone around the table and the meatloaf didn't stand a chance of not getting eaten. A crusty 8-grain bread was toasted and soaked up the mushroom gravy in the way only a crusty 8-grain bread could.
Oh... and there was no dessert. BUT there was an appetizer.
Boy's mom brought pate from Dean and Deluca. I had never eaten it before and found it scrumptious. I was then told it was liver mousse. And I didn't care one bit.
Due to a combination of the two things this is all about: running and food.
I spent Saturday morning running the roots, the rocks, the rambling road of Beatty mountainbike park with some friends. I was supposed to do my long run Sunday but opted to switch it up and do my 15 at Beatty what with the fabulous company, good weather, and zero time deadlines to meet. Got a chance to try out a new means of getting quick calories while running: Stinger products. Amazing... not only did I have enough energy to make it through the end of my run (thanks to Caitlin giving me some of the good stuff) but I was hyper for the next few hours. I was going going going energizer bunny style for quite some time thanks to the honeyed goodness. The chews come highly recommended.
Sunday morning we were up early again (but thankfully not before 7 am for the first time in quite a while) so the boy and I could pound out a 9 miler before our day really got going. The first 4.5 were that weird, I-know-I-should-feel-better-than-this feeling but once we hit the turnaround... it was smooth sailing. Got a nice rhythm and a nice pace going back to the car.
And then the day hit.
Grabbed a Power Shower (meaning, no frills shower time) split a zone bar and hit the road for The Village Church with Scott Waters. After an insightful hour that I enjoyed immensely... we made it to one of our favorite spots in Charlotte: Cafe Monte to split a badass omelette and some brioche french toast. The french toast with berry compote was perfect - no sticky syrupy mess... just pure good crusty bread powdered and drizzled with pureed blackberries, raspberries, etc.
We then decided to go to Crate and Barrel for kicks and came to the conclusion that we need everything. Ok ok... not everything! The chef thought poached egg "pods" were frivolous and was skeptical of their real benefit or effectiveness in the kitchen. However, the furniture section slayed us. Sigh. Someday.
Hit up the Taj MaTeeter and began a meatloaf madness afternoon. Shopping with the boy is always a good time, I usually learn something new and leave feeling like I have accomplished something. Must be some ancient throwback to the days of hunter-gatherers.
We then descended on the kitchen and got going for the remainder of the day. I set to work making dough for the savory tarts we were preparing as a side dish and the boy handled the weekly hardboiled eggs for our breakfasts and chicken with leftover tagine sauce with vegetable rice for our lunches.
I proceeded to throw a fit when my dough turned out completely different than expected and tried to listen when told a dough that is meant to be rolled out SHOULD differ from a pat-in-the-pan dough. But I was having none of this. I was blaming myself for the end of the dinosaurs and everything that has gone wrong in the world since, up to and including this dough disaster.
For the record... the tart dough was perfect and made for a lighter crust for our savory tarts to be filled and eaten later in the evening.
The boy busied himself with the main course next. He chopped carrots (beautifully), onions, green bell peppers, and celery and mixed (or should I say, mushed) that with the lean ground turkey and lean ground veal. He threw in a handful of the freshly dried red peppers I brought him back from Arizona last week before adding a healthy dosage of ketchup, mustard, and worcestershire sauce. The meatloaf mixture was thrown on a silpat covered baking sheet and was ready for the oven.
Meannnnnwhile... shallots and mushrooms were combining in an aromatic free-for-all with some beef stock in a saucepan for the makings of some gravy.
We had been waiting for another sweet potato to be dropped off after we had come home only to find two moldy root vegetables slowly disintegrating in the cabinet. Yuck.
First I got a phone call, "Hey, Skip said Jeff asked for two sweet potatoes but this one was really big so he just bought one."
So arrived our sweet potato.
It was oblong-shaped.
And a little twisted.
And white.
I am not a vegetable-racist but I know that sweet potatoes are supposed to be orange. I had begun peeling the potato and promptly stopped. Unsure of what to do... it was too late for us to go out to the store and get another one. So the boy took one look at it and said, it will just have to do - whatever it is, we're using it.
As it turns out, there is such thing as a white sweet potato and it worked just fine. I chopped the one sweet potato we had and it's awkwardly white counterpart and sent the chunks to be prepped for roasting in the oven. Once they were softened up we mashed them in a large pan, shredded some gruyere over them, added s+p and fresh rosemary from the garden, and mixed in a very little amount of heavy cream. Once this mixture tasted to our liking, we mounded it into the tarts and topped it with a layer of shredded gruyere to hit the oven once more.
Finally... after a few hours... the meal came together beautifully. The tarts were gorgeous and a big hit with everyone around the table and the meatloaf didn't stand a chance of not getting eaten. A crusty 8-grain bread was toasted and soaked up the mushroom gravy in the way only a crusty 8-grain bread could.
Oh... and there was no dessert. BUT there was an appetizer.
Boy's mom brought pate from Dean and Deluca. I had never eaten it before and found it scrumptious. I was then told it was liver mousse. And I didn't care one bit.
7.02.2010
Calories in. Calories right back out.
I'm sitting at work scarfing down an energy bar and trying to stave off the shakes. I already ate my hard-boiled eggs and cucumber concoction that has everyone in the office looking at me funny. My heart still feels like it's hurling itself full-force at my ribcage. It is now official. The results are in.
This Morning's Fartlek: 1
Mo: 0
Let me preface this. Last night I did a little strength training before meeting my parents for dinner. Might have stressed the hamstring a little bit (it's kind of high strung - pardon the pun). We went to ilios noche for dinner which is a fabulous little greek restaurant in the South Charlotte area. It has a nice uptown feel until you're sitting outside on the patio and you feel like you should signal before raising your fork. You are quite literally in the parking lot. But this is not where my complaints lie. The dinner gets 5 stars from me - the food was fabulous and the service was top notch. We had a taste of all spreads which included hummus, tzakiki, etc. We started to run low on pita slices and still had quite a lot of spread when our server brought us an extra helping of pita. This is the first time I have been to a restaurant and they anticipated this common problem with spread-style apps. He dropped it off and said, "They never give you enough in the first place." I ordered a salad with macerated figs (thankfully this doesn't mean pre-chewed), fennel, red grapes, goat cheese and grilled chicken with some champagne vinaigrette on the side. Good gracious it was perfect. Especially after my lunchtime rampage on the leftover Ben and Jerry's I had in the freezer. What? I got distracted in conversation and suddenly it was... well... not gone... there are about 3 spoonfuls left. And yes, I did put three spoonfuls of ice cream back in the freezer.
I've gotten off topic.
So the food and service were both fabulous. My issue is the wrought-iron patio furniture. Did the manufacturer of these killer chairs give restaurants of all kinds a discount or something? From the cheap mexican place down the street to a nice thai restaurant in Asheville... my hamstring is in protest over this sorry excuse for patio furniture that appears to be universal. Last night's seating was no different and as soon as the check hit the table, I was up and out of there. Kind of sad because I love lounging around and chatting after dinner. Wait a minute... maybe it is just a ploy to turn tables over faster? I have got it! I've solved the mystery!
I crawled into bed last night with the thought in my head that I could forego the workout and just run in the morning if need be because the sitting at dinner had fired up my hamstring. But this was not to be. I told my running partners what I was thinking when we were lacing up our shoes and all it took was the tiniest bit of resistance and I was all in. Just like when I know they're going to be there... I'll get up at 5 am and meet them at the park instead of hitting the snooze. Jinnie helped me to make the workout happen instead of unnecessarily postponing it.
We did a 4 minute on, 2 minute off Fartlek. We were supposed to be ON 6-8 times. I opted for the 6 because I'm still being very careful with how much I load the hammy. After the first one I felt like we had gone a little quick but it wasn't too bad. After the second... I thought to myself, there is no way I can do 6 of these. But Stan dutifully told me the time was up and we were off again. My legs were burning and my arms felt like metal clubs swinging by my sides. When we slowed down to recover, my temples were pounding and my breath was racing. I barely caught my breath before we were off again. The second to last one was Stan's last so he pushed it extra hard and I just held on for dear life, ending up maybe 10 meters behind him. My last 4 minutes were an all-out fight between my legs and my mind and my lungs. I think everyone lost. Or won. Because when I finished and ran a half mile cooldown... I felt on top of the world. It's all coming back. Yea, Celine, it's all coming back to me now.
If only I could move my arms... that would be good. Must have something to do with that 20 X 50 yd swim workout I did at 5:30 am yesterday. Just now hitting me... moving the mouse and handing people appointment cards now appears very labor intensive.
This Morning's Fartlek: 1
Mo: 0
Let me preface this. Last night I did a little strength training before meeting my parents for dinner. Might have stressed the hamstring a little bit (it's kind of high strung - pardon the pun). We went to ilios noche for dinner which is a fabulous little greek restaurant in the South Charlotte area. It has a nice uptown feel until you're sitting outside on the patio and you feel like you should signal before raising your fork. You are quite literally in the parking lot. But this is not where my complaints lie. The dinner gets 5 stars from me - the food was fabulous and the service was top notch. We had a taste of all spreads which included hummus, tzakiki, etc. We started to run low on pita slices and still had quite a lot of spread when our server brought us an extra helping of pita. This is the first time I have been to a restaurant and they anticipated this common problem with spread-style apps. He dropped it off and said, "They never give you enough in the first place." I ordered a salad with macerated figs (thankfully this doesn't mean pre-chewed), fennel, red grapes, goat cheese and grilled chicken with some champagne vinaigrette on the side. Good gracious it was perfect. Especially after my lunchtime rampage on the leftover Ben and Jerry's I had in the freezer. What? I got distracted in conversation and suddenly it was... well... not gone... there are about 3 spoonfuls left. And yes, I did put three spoonfuls of ice cream back in the freezer.
I've gotten off topic.
So the food and service were both fabulous. My issue is the wrought-iron patio furniture. Did the manufacturer of these killer chairs give restaurants of all kinds a discount or something? From the cheap mexican place down the street to a nice thai restaurant in Asheville... my hamstring is in protest over this sorry excuse for patio furniture that appears to be universal. Last night's seating was no different and as soon as the check hit the table, I was up and out of there. Kind of sad because I love lounging around and chatting after dinner. Wait a minute... maybe it is just a ploy to turn tables over faster? I have got it! I've solved the mystery!
I crawled into bed last night with the thought in my head that I could forego the workout and just run in the morning if need be because the sitting at dinner had fired up my hamstring. But this was not to be. I told my running partners what I was thinking when we were lacing up our shoes and all it took was the tiniest bit of resistance and I was all in. Just like when I know they're going to be there... I'll get up at 5 am and meet them at the park instead of hitting the snooze. Jinnie helped me to make the workout happen instead of unnecessarily postponing it.
We did a 4 minute on, 2 minute off Fartlek. We were supposed to be ON 6-8 times. I opted for the 6 because I'm still being very careful with how much I load the hammy. After the first one I felt like we had gone a little quick but it wasn't too bad. After the second... I thought to myself, there is no way I can do 6 of these. But Stan dutifully told me the time was up and we were off again. My legs were burning and my arms felt like metal clubs swinging by my sides. When we slowed down to recover, my temples were pounding and my breath was racing. I barely caught my breath before we were off again. The second to last one was Stan's last so he pushed it extra hard and I just held on for dear life, ending up maybe 10 meters behind him. My last 4 minutes were an all-out fight between my legs and my mind and my lungs. I think everyone lost. Or won. Because when I finished and ran a half mile cooldown... I felt on top of the world. It's all coming back. Yea, Celine, it's all coming back to me now.
If only I could move my arms... that would be good. Must have something to do with that 20 X 50 yd swim workout I did at 5:30 am yesterday. Just now hitting me... moving the mouse and handing people appointment cards now appears very labor intensive.
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