Fuzz between your legs

Emergency! Violated by Fuzzbuster.

So I'm on the dreadmill the other night looking for an endorphin dump for my wretched mood and I am almosted violated by something huge and hairy in front of the whole YMCA. I am humping along at 7.3 with a 3.5 incline and this appears from behind.

At first I just see the tip. That's weird. Then that crazy stoking action . . . What if I stepped on that hairy thing? AND, what - you may wonder was the emergency? Me. I pulled the emergency cord ACCIDENTLY just a minute before because I was fiddling with my IPOD. Imagine the lurching forward action, flailing arms and legs to recover. Then I hit my head on the display screen. Digital "L's" (loser) appeared everywhere. I somehow got out of it without bruises. Apparently somebody thought I needed a good dusting. Can't a girl just embarass herself in peace. I left the Y without pride but lots of endorphins. Mission accomplished!

Say hi to your knee

Hi Knee. (Aw, I'm tellin'.)

Rah! Rah! Ree! kick em' the knee.
Rah! Rah! Rass! Kick 'em in the other knee...

Remember those little ditties? I am hiney-focused right now because mine hurts. I feel like I've been sitting on a stadium bench for extra innings without a 7th inning stretch. Like my butt bones (more eloquently known as sitz bones) have been bearing my body weight like Buddha in a trance for hours. It seems I've been rolling around on those protrusions like a drunk bowling pin. You get the picture. When I stand up, I'm golden. A runner friend had to stop training for a half marathon last year because he injured his butt. More eloquently known as his piriformis muscle. Could mine be talking to me because this turtle is trying to morph into a hare? My speed has improved this week but I like to sit down sometimes and right now my hind quarters are oh so tender. Could it be...

Enough about my butt. Or me. Anyone read any good books lately? Really. I need one. What about Pat Conroy's latest? Remember the opening line of Prince of Tides? It goes something like... the pungent aroma of the Charleston River reminds me of semen. Now that's a butt grabber. Wish I could write like that.

Bust and My 'G'

I Busted.

No 2-hour half marathon on Saturday for me. But, thanks to my friend Beth, I had an epiphany and my G-spot moved. My 'G' is my Garmin 205 - a birthday present to me from me. After each run I check my average pace. Generally it's 9:07 on a good day and 9:44 on a ho hum day. When I told Beth I couldn't believe I came so far from my goal because I felt so good - strong, working well, having fun. She lovingly told me that was the problem. I'm suppposed to feel like shit while I'm racing. 'Eat the Beast' as our soul sister surfer Jen likes to do. This is no day at the spa. Okay, so today I take my wimpy ass self out for a 4-mile tempo run. My G is humping tabulating my run and I'm working harder but still not roaringly so. After much restraint, I check the G and find out I held a 8:38 average pace. We're onto something here! Run til you might puke, jump over it - careful not to splash the G and go onward. No more busting for me. Next big race... Suntrust Richmond Marathon. Novemer 14, 2009. Look out baby, my G is moving. For you runner's out there, is a combo of tempo runs, long runs, and recovery runs a nice mix? How important are hills and speed specific workouts?

Double Fist Pump!

I'm so excited.

I'm not pregnant or in the process of being so. I am running the Patrick Henry Half in less than 48 hours. 13.1 in 2 is my goal. A Tiger Woods double fist pump for me. Is it possible? Most of TW's putts aren't but they drop. Mary didn't but produced a Son. Can I pull it out? Seems unlikely but I'm so excited I could crap. And I don't do THAT.

I would need to shave - actually hack - six minutes from my best 13.1 time and I AM molasses. But who cares? Everyone needs a goal. Possible? Yes. Likely? No. Will I crap if I do it? Yes. Will I scream in ecstasy? YEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Then I'll have a glass of wine to celebrate. Who am I kidding... I'll celebrate the finish no matter what. Have a great weekend. Out.

I Eat the Heat

The Wetter the Better.

Bring it on. Gimme some more. AAAAAAARGH! I've been running (stupidly but deliberately) during the hot portion of these Virginia Summer Days. This is in part because I can't get my ass out the door but also because I am preparing for the Patrick Henry Half Marathon next weekend. Legend has it - the PH sends seasoned runners to the ER (thankfully not DOA) because of the dreaded drenched heat. Last year I ran it and VA was experiencing a cool, dry spell - lucky me! Not so sure this year, so I'm trying hard to suck wind and find a little O2 in the full body bucket I run in. So, I decided to face it and try to Eat the Heat. Besides the cussing that blasts through my head as I trudge up my neighborhood hills, I'm down with this heat. I mean really. This is from a girl who needs a little AC in March. I'm so full of BS. I hate looking for air through a straw in the Atlantic Ocean but I hate kale too. And I eat that - only when necessary. If you have any recipes to make kale or the thickest heat imaginable any more palatable, send it on. I need it by next weekend. Out.

No One Has to Know

What's on your playlist...
It's just a little soft porn. Anything for the pace, man.

(This post is not for the faint of heart. I'm just keepin' it real.)

I blame my sister for it. My addiction to distance running and my raunchy playlist. Two years ago my fit, hotter than hot sister encouraged me to sign up for a half marathon. The same race she had completed the previous summer - her first in 103 degree heat. I watched her come across the finish line SMILING as I stood there with two of my children drenched in sweat, STANDING STILL. She IS the bomb. So, I sign up and she turns up pregnant (I swear it was the playlist but more on that in a minute.) I'm on my own and at her mercy for ways to make this happen. I started training with my shiny, new Ipod and asked her about a decent playlist for these godforsaken long runs. (Remember I am a beginner and I NEED music to roll at this point.) She says, 'Ok - Clair your are going to die at my playlist but it will get you going'. She's been my sister for 30-some years and I trust her with my life but I was not prepared and I'm not faint of heart. If the driving beat and thumpin' bass doesn't kick it up for you - the lyrics will send you into shock or racing to the shower. If you've seen any of these videos, they make Dirty Dancing look like a First Communion after-party. BUT, I run and run well when Ludicris screams in my ear that he fills cups like double D's and Nelly suggestively groans that he does it 'over and over again' - or when somebody wants to put his 'big boy in my life'. Have mercy!

If the lyrics don't get you going the old-fashioned way then just picture the singer all pimped out with a studded grill attached to his pearly whites and pants that show his crack. It might make you want to run for your life.

P.S. Three half marathons later, one full and one coming up - I'm still in awe of The Playlist. As for my sister, she's the proud mother of 5 and getting back into distance running. I think I'll give her my play list this time.

I Met Chevy Chase

What do Running, Belly Dancing, Pole Vaulting and Penile Extensions have in common?

An afternoon in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. So I'm sitting there reading my latest literary addiction, Born to Run, and a gentleman asks me so 'Do you run?' I answer him and he asks me my pace. I didn't lie and then he did. He said he'd read my book years and years ago. It was published in May of 2009. He then said he used to do a six-and-a-half-minute mile and was a champion pole vaulter in high school. I don't know why he was even talking to me. Here I am watching my three children in the rough surf, in my black tank 'mommy' bathing suit - not showing cleavage and I was clean shaven. Then I realized he was loaded.

He's also a former airline pilot, currently an air traffic controller and a seasoned arts supporter. Now I'm having fun and I'm not loaded. I'm also not Christie Brinkley at the hotel bar with Chevy Chase during Vacation. But I couldh've been. We don't end up eye-balled by other hotel patrons naked in the swimming pool (remember that part?) because I then notice his gorgeous former-professional-belly-dancer GIRLFRIEND is talking to my precious 6-year-old daughter. Just then, my girl runs to me arms extended, lip quivering whispering 'I didn't mean to, Mommy, I didn't mean to.' Turns out she ripped a hermit crab from it's shell and Bollywood herself was giving my daughter a biology lesson. This lady, who shall remain nameless because she's probably famous, was charming and engaging and a child at heart. Aside from the daiquiri-induced swollen tongue and unstable gait I believed every word she said. She had a carriage about her that only former dancers of any kind could have. She's my new friend and now I know for sure because I was offered a nip of rum from her posse sitting just a few yards away. I refused, not because I am faint of heart but because I did have six legs besides my own I was responsible for and it was only 1:00 in the afternoon. That's when my children got their anatomy lesson.

One of her homeys (60'ish) stood up and everything unfurled. This gentleman was wearing a loose fitting speedo that left nothing to the imagination. It was no hermit crab. Jiggling and wagging he heads to the shore to refresh, goes in waist-deep and there is NO SHRINKAGE. He's proud of his package and - if it's real - he should be. My 11-year son who's been skin-boarding for hours and wouldn't turn around even if I yelled 'Free Mountain Dew' stopped in his tracks. Whoa, Nelly. I've met Chevy Chase twice in one day - Clark and now Fletch - (remember the ballet scene). I wish I had a daiquiri to celebrate. Oh, and I did go running while on vacation. You know, I was Born to Run.