Righteous Runner Rules for Righteous Running

"The Lord, the Lord Jehovah has given unto you these fifteen… Oy! Ten! Ten commandments for all to obey!" – Moses, "History of the World Part 1,” Brooksfilms (1981)

1.  Thou shall not spend more time traveling to a race than it would take to actually run the race.
2. Thou shall not use a treadmill next to an occupied treadmill unless it is the only available option.
   
   
3. Thou shall not covet others runner’s pace, distance, supposed strength, outfit, shoes, time, or medals.
4. Thou shall not run when there are excessive heat warnings or air quality warnings—even if other people are out there. Nor shall you run when the roads are covered in ice and it compromises your safety and the safety of others on the road.
5. Thou shall never wear the same sports bra twice without it drying out or being washed.
6. Thou shall always have a spare set of running clothes in the car.
7.  Thou shall reuse plastic water bottles twice before recycling.
8.  Thou shall take a rest day or three or week or month.
9.   Thou shall smile and nod at passing runners.
10. Thou shall honor thy body and thy soul equally. 

4. 

More Important Than a Finish Line

Because there are more important things than medals and free bananas.

Because when your boyfriend texts you during a race, “I just got into an accident” you stop running. Everything stops. The clocks, your heart, your breath, everything. Stops.

This weekend was the Back on my Feet Midnight Madness 8 Mile Run. I fundraised for this event because Back on my Feet is a remarkable organization that I would love to be more involved with. I really liked (at first) the idea of running at midnight. It’s a break from the early morning starts and peanut butter toast breakfasts. The race takes place along the scenic (in the daytime) Philadelphia Art Museum Loop, a course I’m more than familiar with. Four miles down Kelly drive, a little more than 4 miles back along West River Drive, around the Art Museum, finishing at the start of Boathouse Row.

From the very start, there was mysterious bad mojo around this race. The day was just weird. As I was getting ready, Scott says his stomach is in knots but he doesn’t know why. I offered him an out and he could be excused from the silliness of driving to Philly at 10pm to deal with parking in a congested area, so I could run in the dark while he sat bored for 3 hours.

As we walked towards Boathouse Row and the starting line, I got surprisingly nervous. Was I concerned about 8 miles at midnight? Nah. I didn’t like the concept of running in the dark through a sketchy areas.  I got, like, really nervous. All of the runners were required to wear reflective gear and there was a contest for the most illuminated runner. I decided to stay by THAT person. At the stroke of midnight, we were off. 

The race started well. Running in the dark means running without the punishing heat or humidity and significantly less distractions for a short-attention span like mine. I was concentrating so intently on the darkness and not tripping that the miles flew by.

But an easy race in the dark is not was this post is about.

Mile 7. My phone lights up. I see my boyfriend’s name and smile to myself that he’s probably sending something like a ‘good luck!’ or ‘see you at the finish line!’ type thing. But it wasn’t. It was the kind of message that pulls you out of your head and brings all your priorities back into focus.

“I just got into an accident”

Stop. Legs stop. Heart stop. Lung stop. Life stop. I step off the course and text back, “What? Are you ok? Where are you?”

Legs start. Heart starts. Mind sprints. Imagination goes faster than my body ever will. He had to get gas. Is he by Board Street and Spring Garden?/That’s a crappy area. What kind of accident/What if they take him to the hospital/What hospital/I won’t be able to see him/Is he ok/what happened/why/where/he has my keys/I don’t have my wallet/or any cash or credit card. Get there. Get there. Find him!

The phone rings after what feels like an eternity but was probably only two minutes. There was an accident. A red light was run, cars collided, police on their way, at 25^th and Fairmount.

“Where are you?”

“ 25^th and Fairmount!”
“Ok! I’ll get there! I only have about a mile to go.” I’m not really sure what the rest of the conversation was because I became focused solely on finishing this damn race.

Imagination goes wild with crazy scenarios.  Unfortunately for me, my legs didn’t have quite the momentum or power in them left as my imagination did. So, as I pushed and fought to run the longest mile of my life, ever, my mind had the car being towed with my apartment keys into, had me being locked out of an emergency room while some nurse said I wasn’t allowed in because I’m not family, had him crashed in north Philadelphia with scary gansta types that even the Fresh Prince of Bel Air couldn’t handle just circling him, had him in a fight with some drunken bar dude who hit his car, had me stranded in Philadelphia with nothing but my cell phone and my Garmin. Keep in mind, this all happening at around 1:15 am.

I could have been running a 8 minute-mile pace but it seemed like I was getting no where. I needed to finish the race and find him. As I finally  passed the Art Museum, I realized that I was in the Fairmount section of the city and holy smokes, there’s 25^th street. Without a second thought, I turned right off of the course and headed up 25^th.  My first DNF. 

I could see the police lights from Kelly Drive. I ran up and saw the black Acura that I mock him relentless for, smashed by a street lamp. I see my always calm, always collected, never stressed out, rock of a boyfriend leaning against his car, a cigarette shaking from his lips. He told me to go finish the race. he'll be fine. 

I refused. Because there are more important things in life than finish lines and free bananas. There are far worse acronyms than DNF. I have at least twenty race medals but I only have one boyfriend. I love running and I love the feeling of crossing a finish line, but I love that guy more.  The feeling a hug or a nervous hand squeeze trumps a 'good job' from a weary volunteer any day. 

Ironically, this sign says No Stopping. A car plowed right over it.

I’m not comfortable discussing the details of the accident. Let’s just say, there was an angel at that intersection and both drivers were extremely lucky. Scott limped away with a sprained foot and a superficial  head wound  from the airbags deploying. The other driver had a sore chest. The car is totaled but can be replaced. Scott now has the athlete creed of RICE- rest, ice, compression, elevation—tattooed on his foot. Not really, but the foot is so swollen that you could probably write this entire blog post on there and have room for comments.

The other vehicle involved

Nights like Saturday  reminded me that anything can happen, life can change in a moment.  We can control our diet, our pace, our weekly mileage, our time, but we cannot control life. It is how we handle crisis that defines us. 

Running is a big dumb jerk

You know what?

Chicken butt, yes. And also...

Running is kind of a big jerk. If running was an actual person, I probably wouldn't want to be his or her friend. 

Running is passive-aggressive.

Running uses painful things just as shin splints to tell you when you need new sneakers. It's like when your brother would punch you in the arm instead of saying "hi" or to get your attention. Shin splints are totally unnecessary and rude.  When you didn't eat or hydrate enough before a run, it will make you struggle. If running is really mad, you'll end up passing out. 

Running is horribly inconvenient. I would not mind running in the morning if it wasn't so darn early. It is very presumptive to expect a person to be out of bed, dressed, and ready by 5:45 a.m. You have to run all the damn time too. Weekends are for long runs, Wednesdays are for speedwork. Year round too. You have to run in the icy depths of winter and the high heats of summer. 

Running is your socially awkward friend who no one likes. 

Not everyone 'gets' running, so you have to spend a lot of time explaining it. Running, in this case, is like that person you're forced to be friends with because your moms are friends. She hangs out with your friends and somehow manages to alienate, annoy, or irritate everyone in the group and you have to apologize or explain her to everyone later: yeah, that's running. 

"No really, she just doesn't hang out with people alot. She didn't know you liked him!"

"Yes, I run even if no one is chasing me." 

Running is high-maintenance and demanding. 

You cannot half-ass a relationship with running. It gets very angry when you do and won't show you the results you wanted and avenges with pain. I half-assed my training for the 2011 Gasparilla Ultra Weekend and I paid a very sore, nauseous, sweaty price. It goes back to the passive-aggressive running. 

If running was a girl, it would surely be on a Real Housewives series. It's an expensive hobby to maintain, it never stops up, and no one quite understands why it's popular. 

Running is a Squatter.

Once you start with running, it's hard to stop. Running is that person who said you'd give a ride to for a week while their car is the shop and then you end up waiting for him every morning for a year. I started with running three miles a few times a week. And then it wanted me to run further and more often. And then it wanted me to run a 10 miler, then a half marathon and now a marathon. It's really greedy.  

Running is confusing. 

Running can make you gain weight. Running hurts but you crave it. You can never count on running. You may have trained, you may have eaten right, stretched and gotten to bed early. And then you may have a crappy race. Or you may have drank the night before, barely trained and not really have wanted to run and you'll set a PR. 

I'm about to face an inevitably sucky run. I will sweat from every pore of my body before my Garmin clocks 1.0 mile. My legs will hurt, my stomach will rumble and there will be some other mysterious pain or problem. And I'll do it all again tomorrow. Because while running is a big jerk, I love it. 

How about you? How was running abused you? Let's talk some trash on running. 

Loosing Control of Voice Control

Of all the dangers I've faced and annoyances I've tolerated along this runner journey, there is none as infuriating, as aggravating, as relentless, as the Voice Control feature on the iPhone.

Voice Control has cost me a phone, and nearly my sanity. I finally invested in an iPod shuffle to fulfill my entertainment needs while running. After screaming "CANCEL!" CANCEL VOICE CONTROL! Please stop, please...I hate you!" at the top of my lungs at 6:45 a.m. on an isolated trail,  I knew I had lost the battle. Evil application, 1, Lindsey 0. Below is my unpublished recap of my ultimate sacrifice to the running gods during the Long Branch Half Marathon in May.

I usually try to resist turning my music on during a race until after the half way point. The first 5K is usually pretty exciting and the crowd support is loud enough. My mood is pretty good at that point and I like eavesdropping on conversations and people/runner watching. Once I get mad at the marathon momma behind me or a little miffed that a 55 y/o man just passed me, I know it's time for music.

Before the race. Here is where I'm thinking, "Gee, I hope that voice control thing doesn't go wild and piss me off. That would surely suck. 

Earlier in the week, the ipod discovered voice control. I have no idea what voice control is, how it's activated, or why it even exists but holy hell--there is nothing more frustrating than jamming out to your favorite tune and then having it skip forward to another song, then skip back, then slow down, then speed up for NO REASON. I didn't touch anything. I was rocking out with JayZ and comisserating on our 99 Problems when suddenly Lady Antebellum was Running to Me and then Pink was Raising her Glass and then Queen was Under Pressure all in less than 30 seconds. I was annoyed.

We were heading up a bridge and over a beautiful waterway. I moved my sweaty and uncoordinated right hand over to my sweaty, slipping arm band on my left and attempted to extract the demonic iPhone from it's wobbly case. What happened next still wakes me the middle of the night. The iPhone slid from the case, dangled briefly by the headphone cord, and launched itself towards the hot, hard pavement. It hit, bounced, and slid. I screamed. Runners nearby let out a collective, "That sucks."

I've dropped my phone plenty of times and for a milli-second I had hope it survived. And then I picked it up. Shattered. The screen looked like a spider web and only the control button was left on the bottom. I'm pretty sure I heard the crunching of an iPhone pieces underneather hundreds of sneakers as I surveyed the damage. A friendly runner said, "That sucks. Some phones can't handle it." I joked back, "Right! It just didn't train enough for a half. I told it drink more water yesterday."

The iPod part was still working. Despite having been dropped and jarred, the voice control option was still reaking havoc on my playlist. Miley to Beyonce to Dispatch to Mary J, it was dying a slow death.  I wrapped the headphone cord around the phone as a symbol of it's downfall and silently bitched that I had six more miles to go with no music. The only strategy I had had for the race was to listen to Pink's Raise Your Glass and F*()^&ng Perfect on repeat.

I handed the demolished shell of a once fantastic piece of technology off to Scott around mile 9. I saw him on the side and ran up with phone held out like a little kid would do when they break a toy. "Look what happened!" I shoved it at him and kept moving. I heard him holler back, "I'll fix it." Yeah, ok.

The phone and text part worked throughout the following week. The friendly nerds at the Apple Store gave me a replacement and thanks to joys or iTunes, all of my data and apps are back. I learned that 'voice control' is a byproduct of Satan and Steve Jobs that is activated when you hit or hold the middle button for a few second. Good to know. 

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Graduate School Recap

In 2009, I set out to earn my Master's Degree in Publication Management from Drexel University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I really had no idea what that meant at the time and still am a bit unclear. This journey has been intersting to say the least. As I reflect back on the crazyness that was my graduate school experience, I offer the following advice for anyone who is considering the same route.

Lessons from the Classroom
• E-books are important. They have revolutionized the publishing industry. Blah Blah Blah.
• Amazon and iTunes are evil. Blah blah blah.
• Self-published books are not really ‘books’ blah blah blah
• Self-published authors are no-talent hacks with no merit.
• Rhetoric is a term only used by people who think rhetoric matters and those people usually only exist in the academic bubble. See also “discourse”. 
• Adobe Creative Suite is really powerful software than can really advance your skills and value in the workplace…. But we’re not going to teach you how to use it
• Social media is either the best thing ever or the end of civilization.

Lesssons in PowerPoint
• Having successfully linked websites and audio for a presentation is incredibly difficult for anyone over the age of 40.
• PowerPoint is the only way to communicate with professors
• The student who asks the most questions during a PowerPoint is also the most likely to have an obnoxiously long PowerPoint Presentation.
• The formatting, background and graphics of your presentation sometimes matter more than your content.
• Preparing a comprehensive presentation about a 20 page article that only lasts 5 or 10 minutes is simply not possible. The professor will schedule all 15 students to give 10 minute presentations and then get pissy when everyone goes over and class is late.
• Classmates will read your inbox if you have emailed the presentation to yourself or use Google Docs.
• Wikipedia is a credible source only when used in a presentation from the department chair.

Lessons in Caffeine
• The Starbucks on 34th and Chestnut is superior to the Starbucks on campus. It’s worth leaving 20 minutes earlier than truly necessary in order to have enough time to get a caffeine fix before class.

• The vending machines on campus are probably more technically advanced and powerful than the computers the professors use.

Lessons from/for Classmates
• The appropriate pronoun for transgendered persons is Xee and if you don’t know this, you’re an insensitive prick. Apparently.
• Class time is not or should not be time to vent your latest woes or work-related frustrations. Save it for happy hour, please.
• Some students are much more intelligent and diligent than others. Some are more talkative and some are more argumentative. If you recognize this, you can have a very constructive experience and gain more from the discussions than the curriculums. In some cases, classmates may have more relevent experience than the professor in certain areas.
• Graduate school is a very good networking opportunity. Classmates get other classmates jobs at their companies and shared really good career advice. Most of the professors either work in the publishing industry or used to and have ties to the employment opportunities. So, don’t wear sweatpants to class, don’t yell at other classmates, don’t snark at your professors, and do not dismiss the achievements or insights of your classmates. I’ve met several people I’d hire in an instant and some that I’d blacklist…if I had the power.

Falling (back) in Love with Running

If you want to fall (back) in love with running, volunteer with an organization such as Girls on the Run. I have fortunate enough to be a part of this amazing program and was able help two very special girls complete their 5ks and shatter goals.  I ran with Abby, adorable, admirable, awesome Abby, as she pushed herself to beat her time from last year's 5k and to run the whole thing. Abby, who always raised her hand high and gave a heartfelt, insightful and genuine answer, couldn't believe she had run for 10 whole minutes straight!
"I didn't stop yet!" Then, she couldn't believe she ran 20 whole minutes straight! Then she couldn't believe she ran 30 whole minutes straight! When we realized that we might not beat her time goal, the girl dug deep inside herself and found bursts of speed. She finished strong and with a huge smile. That is all we ask. I loved running with her. 

I got to run with Sophie and her mom as they participated in the ETS Firecracker 5k. Sophie is excitement personified. She is honest, talkative, innocent and just a joy to be around. She saw me across the parking lot and instantly was smiles and hugs. I cannot get enough of this girl. I found Sophie, her mom, and her friend around the first mile and decided to hang with them. Sophie gave it her all in the final .1 of the race and finished with a bright red face, sweaty smile and simply beaming pride. That is all we ask. Be proud of yourself. Try your best. Have fun. Be yourself. 

I've crossed many finish lines and have a rack of medals hanging on my bedroom wall. Sometimes, I take it  for granted. These girls reminded me of the sheer joy of crossing a finish line, of beating a new record, of pushing yourself to do things you didn't think were possible. These girls set goals, worked towards them, and pushed hard to achieve them. There were no excuses. We ignored heat, hills, and heavy breathing to get to that finish line. That accomplishment of  their goal, the look on their faces, the oversized t-shirts, the crocked numbers, all brought that enthusiasm, that feeling back to me. I can't wait to race race again.

If you want to fall (back) in love with running, run with someone you love. I love my boyfriend for many many reasons. And sometimes for no reason at all. On Sunday, we set out for a simple walk on the lovely towpath. I took my Garmin watch because it's one of the coolest gadgets ever--next to maybe God's remote as he calls it. I gave him the watch at the halfway point. Apparently, that was all it took. He became obsessed with the pace and time readings. "We've walked one-tenth of a mile!," "Quick! It's dropping to 15 minutes!" I laughed and kept up. I had to stop and readjust my shoes and told him to go ahead. I ran to catch up and when I got to my rightful place on his right side, he started to run! I think my heart just about burst with pride, joy, amazement, surprise and um...he's kind of fast. 

When we started dating one of his first impressions of me was, "this girl needs something more than running." Imagine how I felt to see him running. He had a really impressive pace for a good amount of time. We stopped and walked and then he pointed to a landmark and said, 'we're going to run to there." Yes, sir! 

Just like finish lines and free t-shirts, I take for granted the those first steps. I remember those steps but I forget them too. It's an incredible thing to watch a loved one take those steps, to lace up those sneakers and to set out to do something that is uncomfortable, new, challenging and unknown. I didn't push him to do it. I didn't say, "I"m a runner and so you have to be too." I would love to help, coach, assist, teach, and run along with him if he chooses to run again. I would never force it because just seeing him try and acknowledge my hobby meant more than a marathon to me. 

..it's the new black.

I was called a bitch by a testorone-driven moron a few days ago. I really don't mind the term. I am, in fact, a bitch. I own it. I'm opinionated, ambitious, strong, passionate and all of those things that a weak minded and chauvinistic male such as the name-caller would be threatened by. I also had called his girlfriend out on some pretty annoying and unnecessary behaviour. He had to jump in to 'defend his woman' and scratch his balls in my general direction. It's so clear that in one statement he thinks so little of woman that he can't even afford a second to think of valid insult and assumes his 'woman' can't fight her own battles.

It's been a few days and the event is still lingering in my head. Do I care about what I was called? No. I certainly don't have high enough regard of the guy who called me this to give his opinion or existence validation. I have been called far worse names by far better people. People of substance and value, with education and valid reasons for theirr accusations, but a dumb redneck does not warrant my attention.  I think I'm just bothered that that mentality STILL exists. I'm sad that the girlfriend, who claims to be a feminist, hid behind a caveman. I'm sad that the words I spoke, though admittedly not said in the most eloquent of voices, were dismissed because a giant alleged insult was flung in hopes of dismissing my points.

I see this all the time, the reaction to a woman is to cut her off at the knees by using terms like 'bitch'  in order to protect the men's balls (or egos if you don't get the metaphor). But this is an age old tactic and really isn't anything worth bitchin' about.

What I really don't like is the new way men have found to diminish the value of a woman. Media headlines have been plagued with the tales of ego-driven, ethic-less politicians getting caught doing unbelievably stupid things. Cheating on their wives, having multiple affairs, sending stupid photos of themselves to teenagers. If one were to take a lesson from the behavior of the male leaders of this country, it could be that women are good only for entertainment value, to inflate inferiority complexes, to pose in pictures, to blame for your own shortcomings (sex addictions, really?) but certainly not worthy of respect or validation. For every celebrity and politician (and isn't it sad that those two job titles are what we consider leaders?) who does this, there are a string of women who are dismissed and erased.  The governor didn't respect his wife enough to stay home? His daughter isn't worth keeping it in his pants for? The women he is sexting or risking his career and his constituents voice in government for has a father, too.

And while all the headline hooplah swirls about sexting and sex addictions, can someone tell me if any progress has been made on the health care bill? Are Republicans still making it a point to let women know we have no choice or say in our own health care as long as they're around because clearly we are not humans with rights--we are simply decorations and toys.

I wish they'd go back to calling us "dolls" and making a point to describe our outfits and use objectifying terms such as bitch or ambitious instead of this new level. I can combat bitch. I figure I'm doing something right when I get called that. I leave you (reader-singular) with my favorite clip from SNL and the mantra that has stuck in my head since Tina Fey first said it, "Bitches get stuff done."