Category Archives: 52 Weeks, 52 Runs

52 Weeks, 52 Runs. No. 13: Motor-vation

Posted on March 29, 2012 | 30 comments

I have been considering how I might improve my pace. I could work on my appalling form, eat better before a run (hash browns are bad), lift more weights, or, you know, train. Or … I could just run on a motor speedway and steal its mojo. I mean, it expects fast, right?

This was part of my thinking when we signed up to do the North Carolina Half-Marathon and 5K this past weekend at the Charlotte Motor Speedway. Our mini-runcation marked No. 13 in my 52 Weeks, 52 Runs challenge, which shockingly means I am a quarter of the way through and show no signs of slowing (except when I do).

But back to North Carolina. The real reason we decided to head south was this:

N.C. Half Marathon

Flashy!

Most of you know how I feel about medals (although I am coming around), but this, the “Fastest Medal Ever,” lights up in speedy colors. It lights up! It doesn’t make car noises (something for the race organizers to think about), but it lights up!

I didn’t get this fine piece of neck bling myself (it was for half-marathoners only, i.e. Hubby), but I was still dazzled by its presence. It lights up! So worth it.

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52 Weeks, 52 Runs. No. 12: How green was my 5K

Posted on March 22, 2012 | 9 comments

This week’s run was a cautionary tale. When it’s March in Boston but it feels like March in Sydney, do not wear tights. I repeat: Do not wear tights. You may at first think you’re terribly clever for eschewing your super-duper heavy winter tights in favor of lighter-weight poly/cotton gym leggings. But this superior feeling will be fleeting. You see, leggings are still tights. And tights + running + ridiculous March weather = TOO HOT.

Told you it wouldn’t take long for me to start complaining about the heat …

Ras Na hEireann

I'm not sure green is my color.

All jokes aside (never!), this weekend’s 5K, the Ras na hEireann U.S.A. (“race of Ireland and the United States”) in Boston, marked No. 12 in my 52 Weeks, 52 Runs challenge. That’s right, 12! And despite my poor sartorial judgement, it was a glorious occasion. Blue skies, green duds, and the promise of many, many ales.

I don’t have a drop of Irish blood in me (although lately I’ve been making up for that with beer), but I thought I should show some spirit. My spirit-delivery mechanism was long socks, a common choice for runners at St Patrick’s-themed events. But, alas, long socks have many tights-like properties, so on this occasion, they quickly became socks of the ankle persuasion. Oh well, I tried.

Ras Na hEireann

They had their fleeting moment in the sun.

Needless to say, my  running performance was hampered somewhat by the overzealous dressing.

I would have taken off my long-sleeved shirt, but the universe is  definitely not ready for me to run in a sports bra and nothing else on top.

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52 Weeks, 52 Runs. No. 11: Gimme five!

Posted on March 16, 2012 | 20 comments

I never thought I could run five miles in a row. Maybe over the course of my life, but not in a row. If you had told me this time last year that I would be running such a vast distance at some point in the next 12 months, I would have declared you the ruler of Crazy Land.

Well, I must have relocated to Crazy Land, because last weekend I ran the Hynes 5-Mile Road Race. It was No. 3 in the Wild Rover series, and No. 11 in my 52 Weeks, 52 Runs challenge (gosh, the time has flown by – at a blistering speed of 5.5 mph). Needless to say, this race signaled a new distance for me. And, I am ashamed to say, yet another week of zero training. I must stop doing that.

Hynes 5 Mile Road Race

The Hynes Tavern in Lowell, MA, that would soon be overrun (!) by folks in bibs. This was the 32nd incarnation of the Hynes road race.

The forecast was for windy/warm weather, which prompted a question: Could I finally retire the Absurd Winter Running Outfit? It’s a fine line between too chilly and too hot. Sartorial quandaries aside, it turned out to be a glorious day. Warm but not steamy; breezy but not blowy. Ideal. So I doffed my trusty wool and donned one of my many, many running shirts. I would have felt totally hard core had a significant number of runners not also been wearing the same threads. Note to self: Next time, wear a shirt from a different series.

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52 Weeks, 52 runs. No. 10: The fantastic four

Posted on March 8, 2012 | 17 comments

It occurred to me on the weekend that I spend a good deal of time these days looking at butts. It’s the price I pay for always being in the bottom (heh) third of a run. I’m privy to 30-45 solid minutes of butts in tights; butts in leggings; butts in jeans (yes, jeans); butts in shorts; butts in shorts-over-tights; butts in tutus; and – my new favorite – butts in kilts.

The latter I hadn’t experienced prior to the Wild Rover series, which I am currently in the midst of running as part of my 52 Weeks, 52 Runs challenge. (I wonder how it feels to run in a kilt. If any aficionados are reading this, you must let me know.)

Claddagh Pub 4-Mile Classic

The colorful crowd lines up for the start. Spot the kilt!

This past weekend was the Claddagh Pub 4-Mile Classic in Lawrence, MA, No. 2 in the series. Savvy readers will note that I had never run that far. Ever. You might also recall that I hadn’t done a stitch of training coming up to this race, apart from the Frozen Shamrock 3-Mile Run the weekend before. If you look up “unprepared” in the dictionary, you may well find a picture of me, probably wearing tights and holding a beer.

Claddagh Pub 4-Mile Classic

The start. Needless to say, I was nowhere near here when the race began.

Despite the gloomy skies, it was a great day weather-wise. I’ll take any scenario where the temperature is above zero, and the wind isn’t being huge fat bully (see last week’s run). Also, no sun means my face is at least one shade of crimson lighter.

But still, I was convinced, convinced that this was going to be a disaster. I hadn’t trained, hadn’t ever run farther than 3.5 miles (and I wouldn’t call what I was doing on that day running), and hadn’t mentally prepared for a longer distance (four miles is short to some, but an eternity to me).

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52 Weeks, 52 Runs. No. 9: Between a shamrock and a hard place

Posted on March 1, 2012 | 12 comments

I’m feeling a little green this week, which is fitting given that I’m in the midst of running the Irish-themed Wild Rover Series. A new job has my mind occupied and my butt attached to the nearest soft surface. The gym is a distant memory. And though my 52 Weeks, 52 Runs schedule is on track, my attention and enthusiasm have been diverted while I find my footing at the new gig.

So, of course, I’m completely prepared to run four miles this coming weekend and five the weekend after …

When Hubby and I first signed up for the three-race Wild Rover series, which ups the mileage every week, we figured it would be a great way to ease me into slightly longer distances. But now I’m thinking it’s going to be a great way to ease me back onto the couch.

Frozen Shamrock 3-Miler

Who needs shorts when you can run in kilts!

Ah, I figure it’s all part of the, um, fun.

The first Wild Rover installment was last weekend’s Frozen Shamrock 3-Mile Run. (That’s right, a three-miler! I didn’t even have to run that extra 0.1, which must be what brings me undone on a typical 5K. Right?)

Sponsored as it was by an ale house, there was obviously going to be beer – clearly a draw for me. (I love how beer and running have become inextricably linked in my world.)

There was also some superior neck bling, in the form of a medal with three parts that come together to form a lucky charm (you get one bit every race). Many of you know how I feel about medals that don’t double as wine stoppers, but I admit that this triple-shiny is pretty cool.

Frozen Shamrock 3-Miler

Three times the charm! From Ashworth Awards.

Anyway, on to the run (sometimes I forget that’s the point!). I started out at a blistering pace ( in my mind, anyway), and was breezing along for the first half mile. Which probably had more to do with the strong tailwind than any newly acquired skills on my part.

The blistering stopped when I encountered hilly nemesis No. 1, but I took the incline at a good clip, reaching the first mile marker at 11.32 (I love races with timing clocks at each mile), which was about 11.16 if you factored in the gun time. (Yes, I speak like this now.) I was on fire! OK, more like on smoulder. On fire would have been sub-11, but still …

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