I was pleased to see DCist's entry today on the U.S. Marine Corps Marathon, as that's where I'll be on Sunday and I was still under the extremely hazy impression that the thing started near the Iwo Jima memorial, as it had done in 99. Nope -- different route this year.
So the reason for the posting silence over the last few days: I've been hanging in Kaua'i. And let me tell you, the only thing that brought me back to L.A. was the realization that getting the cats out to the island would involve more than throwing them in a FedEx box and punching some holes in it.
There's plenty to post about with regards to the trip -- my new fascination with the Honolulu mayoral election, finding an explanation for the low-grade snap-crackle-pop I heard while snorkeling over coral beds (was it the sound of the ocean as it washed over the coral? Or the wee beasties in the coral itself?), our not-entirely-joking conversation about moving to the island at some point.
But I have much e-mail to go through, a day job to resume, and a few deadlines to handle first.
Although training for the U.S. Marine Corps marathon is going well enough for me to knock off a 10-mile training jaunt with, "Eh, that wasn't so bad compared to the 16-mile one," the whole experience has more or less erased any doubts as to whether or not I was born to run. Answer: no.
In fact, the more miles I log and the more mornings I wake up with soreness in my hip flexors and audible pops in my knees and ankles, the more I notice how comparatively easy it is for me to do and recover from a fast 2500-meter workout in the pool. Swimming just feels better.
My personal observation that mind only goes so far over matter, and some people are simply born to run or swim, is backed up by two recent NYT articles. In the Aug 8,04, magazine article "Built to Swim," part of Michael Phelps' success in the pool is attributed to an atypical physique that lends itself well to the water:
Phelps's build -- 6 feet 4 inches, 195 pounds, broad shoulders, slim hips -- conforms to the classic swimmer's physique. But he is a type within that type, with a bizarrely long torso and short legs -- an inseam of just 32 inches -- that help him ride high in the water like a long, thin sailboat. The body below hip level is what tends to sag in the water, creating drag, or resistance, so Phelps, relative to his overall height, has a short lower body to keep afloat. ''He has the upper body of a man who is 6-foot-8 but not the legs to go with it,'' says Jonty Skinner, USA Swimming's national team director of technical support. ''It's an advantage.'' Another Phelps oddity: unlike most people, for whom height and wingspan are nearly identical, his wingspan is 6-foot-7, 3 inches longer than his height. He is that rare person with short legs but long arms -- that is, long levers for pulling water.He has size 14 feet, and his hyperflexibility allows him to flex them probably 15 degrees beyond average, almost parallel to his shin, so they operate like big flippers. That is an obvious advantage, but there are lots of big feet in swimming, most notably Ian Thorpe's size 17's. Phelps's flexibility, says Scott Heinlein, his physical therapist, is ''an all-over thing -- feet, knees, hips, elbows, back. But most elite swimmers either start out flexible or become so through training. The difference with Michael is control of that flexibility in the water.''
And today's Science Times runs "Why Joggers Labor and Olympians Fly," which explains:
Researchers say elite distance runners share several inborn physiological traits, including large hearts, an efficient way of moving and an ability to keep running when they are exerting so much effort that they are panting for breath, that make them faster than most recreational runners.
So I guess the Boss was right when he concluded that some people were born to run.
It's been two weeks since I wrote of my irrational, crippling fear that I wouldn't be selected in the lottery for the U.S. Marine Corps Marathon this Halloween. Last Wednesday, I wasn't picked, and managed to keep the disappointment in check as there were two more drawings.
But last night, around 10 p.m., I reasoned that it was already Wednesday on the East Coast, the lottery drawing would have taken place, and I'd see whether or not I got into the marathon on this round. A quick search on the website showed that I had not.
Cue my temper tantrum targeted toward an unfeeling cosmos:
"It's irrational to be convinced that this random software algorithm hates me --"
"It is," said Phil, relieved that his spouse seemed to be in possession of most of her senses.
"-- And yet, it's true. This program hates me. I'm a loser. I can't even get randomly selected for a marathon."
"The computer doesn't hate you," Phil said. "And you're going to get picked."
"You say that every week, and yet, every week you're wrong," I insisted at the top of my lungs.
"Look," Phil responded in the moderated tones of the seasoned hostage negotiator. "How many drawings are left? You've still got a chance."
"There's one drawing left," I hissed. "I'm not in. I'm going to have to fork over $80 to Jenn since I got her into this mess, and then I'm going to go blow up like Kirstie Alley."
Phil left the room then, convinced that I wasn't in any state to listen to reason.
Out of some misguided masochistic impulse, I checked the lottery results again this morning, perhaps so the results could be burned on my retina and I could begin grieving for the lost chance to race with my Be Fri. I was pleasantly -- nay, exuberantly -- surprised to find out that the drawing had actually taken place after I went to bed last night. And I'm in the race. I have a bib number and everything.
The first person I called was Phil.
"You were right," I said.
He was gracious in victory. "Why do you doubt me? I'm always right. About everything."
"You sure are," I said. "And I'm going to tell the world about it in my weblog. How's that work for you?"
So it's official: Phil is right. About everything.
And now I'm off to pencil in workouts from now until October 31, 2004.
So I'm having one of those days where current events just depress the hell out of me (Colin Powell's insane press handler yanking him off the air? Sarin gas in Iraq? Teenagers who can't imagine rebelling against their parents?), which means that I'm going to be sticking my fingers in my ears and chanting "La-la-la-la-la" on here.
Metaphorically, of course.
So why not use this post to tell y'all that this weekend, in foolish optimistic preparation for this marathon I may or may not win a lottery spot for, I did 90-minute run/walks (a la the Galloway method) on both Saturday and Sunday. And while I got a huge kick out of trotting alongside the ocean, I am so stiff today, I may never actually walk anywhere again. I'm currently trying to figure out how to take my wheeled desk chair with me everywhere. That could get awkward in the ladies' room.
According to the BBC, this kind of attitude will do me no favors when I try to finish a marathon ("Positive Attitude Helps Runners," April 16, 04). Or maybe my mistake this weekend was in cooling down via a series of yoga poses instead of working on my chi ("In Marathon, May 1000 Philosophies of Running Bloom," CSM, April 19, 04).
I'd devote more time to this, but I have to go whimper as I read about how I could have prevented delayed-onset muscle soreness.
Regular readers of the Rage Diaries may think of me as the excessively loquacious, moderately didactic robot I strive to come off like in every entry. Or perhaps just a smartass whose tongue-in-cheek delivery is buried very deep beneath my irrational love of the complex-compound sentence. Or ... well, I have no idea what you think of me. I'm just resorting to a hacklike introduction so I can spring the next sentence on you.
So one of my to-dos this year was to find a day spa down here. I'm a big believer in slotting a spa treatment or two into the budget -- nothing will defuse stress faster and enhance your sense of well-being more than having someone pound you like veal for an hour.
My One True Spa Love is Azul Day Spa in Berkeley. It's won the triple crown in the spa sweepstakes: a lovely facility that manages to be light, airy and relaxing without relying overmuch on the Enya and aromatherapy candles; a staff that will not, as my masseuse did at the Arizona Biltmore, comment on the awesome tone of my glutes during a continuous and mildly disturbing hour-long monologue on the merits of growing up in an isolated Mormon commune in the mountains; extremely reasonable prices for supremely luxurious services.
Azul is my gold standard, my Platonic ideal of day spas, and pedicurist Emily is the genius to which all others are compared. But I found the runner-up last Thursday at the Christine Valmy Byogenic salon in Marina Del Rey. It loses points on the facility (being inside a strip mall, I can forgive; being decorated in 1985-era white gloss and chrome, not so much), but the aestheticians were delightful and the prices were good. I barely even noticed the more arcane steps in my pedicure, so engrossed in reading Details and marveling at its editorial mission ("Our readers are morons. Or will be, if they read this regularly") was I. Plus I had my brows waxed by a Romanian woman who managed to make the whole thing seem less like a weird form of torture and more like a wacky inconvenience.
At the end of it, she handed me the mirror and said, "Dere. Your boyfriend vill love it."
I picked up the mirror with my left hand, and she hastily added, "I mean, your husband."
"Oh, I think my boyfriend will like it too," I replied. Then I caught the look on her face and added, "Kidding. I'm kidding."
Sometimes, I think I'm a little too deadpan.
Anyway, I'll be giving these folks my return business. I am, however, more than a little tempted to skip them on the massage and try the masseuse whose ad I picked up the other night at the fro-yo place in the strip mall (no yogurt for me; I was there with my friend Erin). Why? Because the rates are reasonable, and in bold letters, underlined, she adds, "THERAPUTIC ONLY."
It figures you'd had to have that disclaimer here in L.A.
I'm having one of those Tuesday-is-my-Monday days, which makes total sense because I just got back from a three-day weekend in the desert. We went to Phoenix this weekend and had 42 hours of wretched sports excess.
Before we get into the progress report, y'all may want to revisit how I did in January, or what this whole thing is about anyway.
All things considered, it wasn't a bad month. Well, actually, February was a bad month by virtue of being February: this is a month of grim anniversaries for me, and therefore I usually take to heart the philosophy my pal Mark Nystrom came up with back in 1991:
Continue reading "104 Things to Do in 2004: How I Did in February" »
Coworker: "I just go to the Two-Buck Cut."
Me: "Did they drink the Two Buck Chuck before or after they cut your hair?"
*
I'm going to recommend, enthusiastically and without reservation, my new hairstylist to anyone in the Los Angeles area. Lisa Dickerson, of Studio 5 Hair Design in Manhattan Beach, is that marvelous combination of therapist and dominatrix, and she wields a pair of scissors blessed by the tonsorial gods. She is exactly what I needed.
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