On Runners and the Pregnant Women Who Feed Them

When you’re training for a marathon, or logging major miles for that matter, put yourself next to a pregnant woman. Chances are, there’s going to be food nearby.

Let me explain.

A good friend of mine at work is pregnant with her second child. We’ve developed somewhat of a mutual respect for one another’s appetite; however, I know reading this she’ll say, “Right, except that I pack on the pounds and you look manorexic.  Eat a Cheeto.” And I’ll go ahead and correct her here, saying that “I look ‘fit’ and that in the words of Quentin Cassidy, 'Gaunt is beautiful.'  I'm not eating a Cheeto.”

One runner's Boston jacket is a pregnant woman's "push present"

"Eat it!" she demands, "You're too skinny."  I choke it down. Anyway….

Almost every morning, I can count on her to plop herself down in my office with a Styrofoam container and say, “I’m gonna eat with you,” which is fine as long as she’s sure to put the word “with” in there.

She opens that container and out wafts the smell of fried eggs, sausage patties, and French toast. Excuse me while I dab at the corners of my mouth. As I sat there and watched her shovel eat, it reminded me of when I first started training for the Vermont Marathon back in 2009. I’d entered new mileage levels and all I wanted the day after my long run was a sausage and egg sandwich on an English muffin with a little ketchup. Had to have it. No questions asked.

When it comes time to ramp up the mileage, the one thing I can count on is unending hunger, that and a trail of bodies if I’m not fed every two hours.

This got me thinking about the similarities between long distance runners and pregnant women. After all, isn’t pregnancy really the marathon of the human condition?

Combine the tiredness, the mood swings, the vomiting?, with the insatiable hunger and cravings, I'd argue you might not know the difference.

The old adage goes: Give your body what it wants. For me, it was the sausage, egg, and cheese, a brownie fudge sundae, and, lately, yes, beef jerky. For her, we’re riding in the car to go get Starbucks when she says, “I’m hungry, but I want something healthy.” So, we drive around the parking lot, when she saw it… “Pizza!” she blurted out.
“That’s healthy?” I asked.
“That’s what my baby wants, that’s what she’s getting.”

Replace “pizza,” with Chipotle, Baja Fresh, Five Guys, carrots, Subway, blueberries, Hot Fries (remember Hot Fries?), and...you get the idea. The woman is a culinary mad libs.

And, me? I like to think of myself on most days as her partner in crime, right there with her during my 40/50/60 mile weeks, fork and knife in hand, ready at a moment’s notice to chow down, elbow deep in whatever plat du jour is served up.

But realistically, I am the hyena waiting for the lion to finish. I’m the fish hanging off the side of the shark waiting for scraps. I hover. And I admit it. We’ll talk and I’ll alternate between glancing at her food and up to her eyes as if to put it in her head, “I’ll finish that if you can’t.” Last week it was Subway, “I’m getting a footlong," she said.  "I'll give you a quarter of it."  My eyes (and stomach) lit up.  By meal's end, I sat happily licking the mayo off my fingers, satisfied that I'd managed to get twice as much as she promised, PLUS, I still had my own lunch waiting for me in the fridge at the office.

On the pizza day, we returned to the office with my coffee and her two slices; however, the place ran out of small boxes and had to put both pieces in the “large pizza box.” One of our co-workers walked by and said, “Are you both going to eat that whole pizza?” her eyes as wide as pepperonis.
“It’s only two pieces for her. They ran out of boxes.” I said, dejectedly.
“Whew…the way you two eat, I’d have believed it.”

While I churned out the miles toward Boston and she grew a human inside her, we happily consumed our calories, and...hey, are you gonna eat that?

The Beer is in the Fridge

Of all the race wisdom one can collect over the years, the gem I found is one that never changes, is never subject to interpretation, and you won't find experts debating it: Always have good beer in the fridge.

Life is better with a little (or a lot) of Chimay

For this runner, it's Chimay all the way.  Whether it's after a weekend long run, a hard interval session, or *gasp* going dry three weeks out from the big race, I take comfort in knowing that there's a tall glass bottle filled with my favorite brew waiting to be pried open at the finish.

And when you've deprived yourself of it?  When it's been staring you in the face every time you open the fridge?  It tastes all the sweeter when you finally tip your head back and that sweet sweet fermented nectar hits the back of your *ahem* where were we....

This past week following Boston, i.e. the week of gluttony, I've kicked back and enjoyed a nice beverage with each meal or simply sat on our deck after work sipping along with the sundown.  Sometimes my Boston medal clangs against my chest. Sometimes it just rests on the table.  Either way, it's always nearby.  

The week after a marathon, I indulge every impulse...and there are many.  Life is a cabaret?  Nay.  Life is a buffet!  

My appetite cravings swing faster than the pregnant woman's in my office.  One day it's burritos, the next day it's brownie sundaes, others buffalo wings.  And the beautiful part is that I can order these dishes without a hint of guilt.  Where I'd normally pause and think, Hmmm, how long is my run today? What time do I have to get up tomorrow?  I order at will.  "More anything?" the flight attendant asks on an episode of Seinfeld.  "More everything!" he replies.

Of course, after a couple meals like this, it becomes abundantly clear why I decide to healthy.  There's the lethargy the next day, the stomach aches, the indigestion...the self-loathing.  "I'm sooooo FAAAT!" I moan at my wife as I size up the food she has left on her plate.  A stray bowl of rice is almost near the line of demarcation on our table.  My shrimp pad thai is long gone and I am the mayor of the clean plate club.  "Are you going to eat that rice?"  I ask, my fork already headed for the bowl.  I've timed this so that she has to answer just as she's taken a bite.

"I might!" she grumbles, mouth full, eyes shooting daggers at me. 

"Ok, ok," I say.  "You just weren't paying any attention to it."

"That's because I'm eating other things," she says.

I order dessert.

Sure, the appetite is still there.  The miles?  They are not.

And so it was this in mind that I took to my "recovery road" today, a.k.a. the Cross County Trail, and trotted out two tenuous miles along the soft and forgiving trail and two miles back.  Thunderstorms bloomed in my rearview mirror while driving to the trail and I thought my easy run could become a race against the swelling clouds.  

Mattie came with me, reluctant at first, until I let her set the pace, knowing she'd take it easy in the unseasonably warm April weather.  

The first strides felt awkward and stiff, like the Tinman awakening, falafel rumbling around in my stomach like a shoe in the dryer.  But the rhythm came back to me, and soon Mattie and I were flying over the beaten path.  Every once and a while a pain would crop up in a hip joint, knee, or IT band, just to remind me of what I'd put them through last week.  I'd wince, back the pace off if need be, but continue on until it ironed itself out.

I thought about all the indulgences over the past week and how I'd "earned" them.  I think the first couple weeks following a marathon can be tricky.  On one hand, you don't want to lose all that training you've accrued over the many miles and months leading up to the race.  On the other, you've accrued all those miles over the many months and you just want to rest.  

I lean more toward the first.  While the time off has been nice, I have this feeling of, "I'm only getting started," I think as I shovel in another piece of pizza in my mouth.  I would call it antsy.  My Uncle called it "hungry," and that's probably more accurate.

Fortunately that's the case, because while one adventure came to an end last Monday, another Odyssey is about to begin on Friday.  Stay tuned. 

If the expression leading up to a race is, "The hay is in the barn," then almost certainly following the race, the expression is, "The beer is in the fridge."

Cheers, everyone.  

Boston Redux - Part II

When the winter was at its coldest and the gray, January days swelled with the threat of snow and despair, I pounded out tenths of a mile on the treadmill.  I stared at the reflection of the broken runner in front of me and dreamt of the warmer mid-April day when I might fly once again down Route 135...

...and here I was.  The anticipation to the Boston gun builds like the slow yet steady clanking of a roller coaster cranking toward its apex.  Then, all it once, you're released into the thrilling void, left to fend for yourself, unsure of what may come around the next bend.  We rocketed out of the chute to the roar of the Hopkinton residents, the great send off.  I find it hard to stay locked into a race plan so early with so many screaming people cheering for you.  You can't ignore the outstretched arms of the little kids lining the choked roadway, and find yourself slapping their small palms as you go by.

Flowing.

Then it's back to business.  In that first mile, my goal is simply to survive, not get entirely swept up in the adrenaline and just flow in the crowd of runners to a controlled pace.  The articles, the podcasts, the blogs, they all caution against going out too fast, and go on to relay the suicide tales of those who have made this fatal flaw.  

I was content to move through the crowd and limit the darting and dodging through other runners.  Before I knew it, I'd come upon the first mile marker.  I checked my watch to see a controlled 7:30.  The running crowd began to stretch out and I found myself with some more room.  Time to go to work, I thought with visions of my 1:23:35 tune up half and 93:29 10 miler just two weeks ago rising in my head.  I felt the turnover come and began to ride my own wave.

Mile 2 I checked the split and was happy to see that 6:35 still felt as easy as that 7:30.  And here, I began working my way over to the left side of the road to hit the first water station.  The roadway choked again and it became a bad highway merge scenario. I managed to grab the last cup of water at the stop, gulped two sips down my dry throat and carried on.

"Good job, Florida!" I heard as I came through 5K.  "Looking good, Florida, keep it up."  I glanced from side-to-side looking for my fellow Gator fan but saw no one with any Florida gear on.  Then, a couple kids looked right at me and said, "Yeah!  Come on Florida."  That's when I remembered that I had "Florida" in big block letters on the front of my singlet.  In races past, I never did the "write your name on your bib or shirt" to have spectators single you out...but dammit, it works!  For the remainder of the race, I was serenaded by the crowds as "Florida."

Nearing mile 5 a fogginess began to settle into my head.  This feeling is one I feared most, because it's the same one that plagued me at last year's race and didn't disappear until the Newton Hills.  I can't pinpoint why I get it, and why I get it at Boston.  Could it be the five hour lag between waking up and running?  Fueling issue? Lethargy?  I still can't say, but this is where the battle began.  Mile 5.  21.2 miles yet to go.

I strode confidently through 10K knowing that I'd be sending off my first athlete alert to those following me.  Then it was 1.8 miles to seeing my mother-in-law and her friend.  I reasoned with myself that I had to keep it together to look good running by them.

Coming through the mile 8 water station, I chugged ahead and began scanning the crowd.  I saw them before they saw me: A giant purple sign that said "B-R-A-D" on it.  "Ladies!" I yelled.  They snapped to attention and started screaming for me.  I whooped and blew a kiss at them.  It was enough to carry me through an unsteady 10 miles.  

I'd vowed not to look at my watch until the half but wanted to get a quick glimpse of my 10 mile split: 68 and change.  Still on sub-three hour pace but feeling every step of it.  The next check point was the half way mark.  The rationalization continued, Get to the half and reevaluate.  We can start going easy through the water stations if need be.  Just get to the half.  

The landscape opens here when you approach Wellesley.  Large trees dot the green fields.  Then you can hear it.  It's faint at first but grows stronger every meter.  First there's one, then a couple, then a group.  Before you realize it, you're awash in the screams of Wellesley girls.  "Kisses for Runners!" say the signs or something to that effect.  It's hard not to smile going through.  The adrenaline drops in and the turnover comes a little easier.  And just as quickly as it came on, the screams begin to fade over your shoulder and the downtown Wellesley crowd, thick in number, doesn't seem nearly as loud as where you just came.

Always love the walking photo.

Through the half, I still felt terrible.  I wanted to walk.  I looked at my watch: 1:28 through half.  I could walk the rest of the way, I thought.  Still, I continued on, less than three miles from Newton where the race really begins.

At mile 14, I took my first walk break through the water station.  I decided I could live water station to water station since they were at each mile.  I walked by an aid station and heard, "How we doin' Florida?"

"We're fine.  Just frustrated," I said back, trying to sound as conscious as possible.

"Ok, keep at it."

Great.

Then I went by a couple of girls holding a bowl of oranges.  "You look like you could use an orange, Florida."

"Thanks," I said, sucking down the wedge.

"All right," I heard behind me.  "The first runner to take one!"

At each mile where I walked, I could hear, "Come ON Florida," and that spurred me on once again.

When I hit mile 16, I dug in and vowed to run each of the Newton hills.  I came up onto my toes and picked my way up each hill and it was here that the fog began to lift...but the damage had been done.  I still couldn't find a rhythm and now my body bore the brunt of those 16 early miles downhill.

At mile 18, I walked through the water station and saw my cousin and her husband on the side.  "Brad!" they shouted.  I flushed with embarrassment.  "What's up guys?"

"How are you?" they asked.

"Well, I feel like shit.  But, hey, only 8 miles to go."

I chatted for a moment longer then willed myself on to at least good for them as I disappeared down the hill.

Twenty is usually my last milestone.  But at Boston, that milestone is one mile later...and that's the mile 21, the top of Heartbreak Hill.  Hill four of four, I said to myself and set off up Heartbreak.  Similar to running by family, it's hard to walk when you have thousands of people cheering you, willing you, up this Hill of Hills.  The BC kids were rabid on the sidewalks.  I buried my head and kept putting one foot in front of the other.  Arms pump, legs churn.  Arms pump, legs churn. Nice and smooth now, nice and smooth now, I repeated.  And at long last, the work was over and I passed under the "Heartbreak Arch" and descended toward the city.

Near 23, I got my first glimpse of the Prudential building, which disappeared just as suddenly.  When I ran, I focused on my form, trying to be as efficient as possible.  It seemed the simplest, easiest concept to wrap my head around at that moment.  I remembered all the form drills I took on over the summer.  

"Nice and smooth, Florida," I kept hearing.  If only they knew how bad it hurt.  I was like a duck: cool above the surface, but paddling my legs like mad beneath.  I managed a breathy "Thanks" or an errant hand wave to acknowledge.  

One mile to go.  The end is near.

At the Citgo sign, the sign I'd waited for since we first pulled into our hotel, I didn't bother walking through the water station.  I just wanted it to be over.  The crowd was thick now.  I was running on automatic, retreated inside of myself for cover.  I was aware the race was happening but somehow removed as well.  The pain in my hips was deep.  A stabbing pain in my quads with every footfall.  It can all be over soon.

Then the right turn on Hereford street.  I powered up the last hill.  The roar of the crowd crescendoing.

Left turn on Boylston.  The finish in sight.  Go if you've got it, I said and hammered the last 600m.  I saw my father-in-law's hand go up first, then pointed at my wife and blew her a kiss.  So long to get back to her.  My face grimaced uncontrollably and I felt the tears filling my eyes.  I tried to maintain the icy cool composure on the surface but it was rippling behind my sunglasses.  The tears mixed with the sweat running down my sticky face.  

The finish line arch reeled me in.  Somewhere I saw the 26 mile sign and thought, One lap the track.  

Then...it was over.

I crossed the line of my second Boston Marathon in 3:20:21.  The tears came in earnest now and I did nothing to wipe them away.  There was nothing to hide for anymore.  Rather, I just kept moving forward, the living dead, jamming my fingers into my hips to relieve the pain.  The agony, at least, went away.

When I reached my wife and father-in-law, they helped me to the curb.  I sat down and changed out of my father's cross country singlet, having added 26.2 more sweaty miles to it.  Then I slipped my arms through that brand new Boston jacket.

I mentioned last year after Boston that I began this blog to chronicle my journey to the start (and finish line) of the Boston marathon.  It's since become so much more.  I want to extend my sincerest thanks to all who have joined me on this journey, friends old and new, at every and any point.  The support I got on race day and the months leading up to it are what carried me through those hills and those miles.  I hope you'll stay on the bus with me....

Boston Redux - Part I

The airport buzzed.  It was Saturday at noon when Mrs. Onthebusrunning and I made our way to the only open seats left at our gate.  Boston Marathon jackets dotted the throng of waiting passengers.  I recognized the bright teal and yellow from last year and had to squint to read the sewn on years of Boston's past from others.  Running shoes in various stages of breakdown were tied to the outside of bags and massage sticks poked out of backpacks.  Some recounted past races while others whispered their fears about running the infamous route from Hopkinton to Boylston for the first time.  Legs bounced and hands fidgeted, the result (at least for myself) of too many days tapering.  There was no denying it...it was Boston Marathon weekend.

The airplane ride is only the prelude, however.  Because once you set foot in Boston, the city is positively awash in marathon spirit.  It's as if a wiry, willowy tribe has descended upon the city, set to devour, not only the asphalt with clean, clipped strides, but also Boston's ration of pasta.

It's one of the few times in my life I've felt like a celebrity.  I wore some piece of Boston paraphernalia wherever we went.  Strangers stopped to ask if I was running the race.  I've never shaken the hands of so many strangers nor heard the words, "You runnin' Monday?  The marathon?  More power to ya!" repeated so often.  It reinforces that it's one thing to run a marathon...it's another to run Boston.

This year, our hotel was situated AT the Citgo sign, i.e. the one mile to go marker of the race.  Each time we walked outside, I glanced up and thought, God, I can't wait to see you on Monday.

On Sunday, we made it over to the expo to pick up my race packet.  When I held that red bib in my hand, I knew then it was real.  It was that Quentin Cassidy moment when he says, "Huh, I guess they really ARE going to have us run this thing."  *gulp*  

But we didn't linger long before heading back to the hotel to rest up.  After a pasta dinner with some friends, we returned to the room and I began my pre-race ritual: pack up the post-race backpack, set out the shoes, watch, sunglasses, shorts and socks...place the oatmeal packet in its bowl.  I had the added task of calling room service for a "pot of hot water at 5:00 a.m." since there was no coffee maker in the room.  "Yes, I'd like to make oatmeal before the MARATHON I'm running in the morning," I justified to the one unimpressed person in Boston.  Lastly, I laid my jersey out on the bed, smoothed out any of the wrinkles, then placed my bib just so before pinning it on.  Lights out at 10:00.

I didn't sleep much, or at least it didn't feel like it.  I woke up several times sure that it was wake up time, only to realize that I still had three hours to sleep.

At 5:00, the alarm went off and I popped out of bed.  By 5:45, I was out the door and on my way to the T station.  I met several other runners on the platform, and we used one another to find our way to Park Street to load the busses to Hopkinton.  No one spoke, rather we traded knowing nods of what we had been through to get there...and what we were about to take on.

The sun began to rise and burned off some of the chill in the air.  The wind blew around us and I heard the first talk of a tail wind.  There was something sadistic and counter-intuitive about all of us cueing up to board these buses, to carry us out 26.2 miles only to run the whole way back.

There was no trace of the nerves I felt last year.  Not yet.  The routine was ingrained.  I was a veteran.  I slung my big green bag over my shoulder, thankful to have brought it with me this year.  Last year, I didn't want to check a bag and spent the majority of my time at athlete's village trying to ward off hypothermia.  

I boarded the bus and was careful to select a seat that didn't include the wheel well this year.  Then...I fell asleep.

When we arrived in Hopkinton, I shook the cobwebs from my head and walked under the "Athlete's Village" arch and behind the school.  I was amazed at how many people were already there at 7:15.  The field resembled an assembly area for a small army.  Stations doled out food and supplies.  Some runners unfurled sleeping bags and blankets and promptly fell asleep.  Others played cards, read magazines, or chatted up those around them.  I found an open spot in the sun, pulled out my hotel towel, plugged in headphones and tipped my head back.  I watched wisps of stray clouds swirl overhead.  I planned to read this year but got wrapped up in both a podcast and those clouds.  Before I knew it, I was asleep again.   

8:00.  Two hours to race time.  I pulled out a bagel and some peanut butter, and quickly scarfed it before laying back down.  When I opened my eyes again, my clear spot was invaded by other "soldiers."    The loudspeaker boomed that wave 1 runners would begin getting called to the starting line at 9:10.  

I shivered with the wind blowing around us despite the extra layers I'd brought.  Hope that tailwind makes it worth it.  I made one last trip to the porta-potty then began the slow walk to the start line.  Before handing my bag up into my bus to have it transported back to Boston, I shed my outer layers and braced for the chilling wind.  I felt like I'd just jumped into the deep end of the pool in April, it was so cold.

I trotted off to the start as my warmup.  The start line for Boston is actually 3/4 of a mile from the Athlete's Village, perfect distance for a warmup jog.  The street was choked with runners and Hopkinton residents there to cheer.  I pulled off next to a church, found a tree...and began my dynamic warmup.  In my head, I had foggy visions of a sub-three hour marathon still in my head.  Could I still pull it off?  Had I really trained enough for it?  

I entered my corral with a slight flutter in my stomach.  The sky was cloudless, one of those crisp New England days, washed by the wind.  The sun beat down on my nearly bare shoulders.  I took in the crowd, both the runners and the spectators.  The spectators after all are what truly make Boston special.  To think that all these people came out to watch 25,000 people run down their street is humbling.  I thought of the most important person waiting for me 26.2 miles away at the finish.

Then the gun.  

The dam had broke and bodies flowed down the steep drop at the start.  As my stomach continued to flutter, a thought came to me from back on my second attempt at 14 miles with my training partner.  We were smack in the middle of the Key Bridge, the Potomac below us, and the nation's capital stretched out over our shoulder.  We were doing an out and back along the C&O canal when I said to him, "Here's the new plan.  I just want to get to Boston.  I don't care how fast I run.  I just want to do Boston for the experience, come what may...."

Then, I passed under the starting arch, clicked my watch, and began my second journey, worry free, from Hopkinton to Boston.

Check in tomorrow for Part II to find out what nickname I earned along the course, why I resembled a duck, and what eventually brought me to tears.