Year: 2012

Bull Run Run

April 14, 2012

 

Normally Aaron is photographer extraordinaire.  But this year he was going into Boston untrained on account of his Achilles and didn’t want to stand around all day.  And he had a whiny girlfriend who moans about rising before 6.  Plus, this year we had Bobby ‘So you got a new dog?’ Gill to fill in.  (Yes, that was my not-so-subtle way of inquiring who his new lady friend holding the leash at his side was, as Bobby had allowed 30 minutes to lapse without any sign of an introduction.)  Aaron and I were happy to simply be photo back-up, sleeping in til good ole 6:30am and just camping out the whole day at the Marina.  Compared to working the whole night at Visitors Center at MMT (my only other volunteering experience), shooting pics at BRR was easy peasy.  And fun.  By mile 77 at MMT I see a WUSsie come through every couple hours.  At Bull Run it was rapid fire — Neal, JLD, Sean, Keith, Mario, New Guy Mike, Michele, Doug, Kerry, Joe, Boots, Kirstin, in something like that order.  And unlike MMT, these runners looked HAPPY.  And it was SUNNY.  Ooh, I think I found my new volunteer calling.  I actually won’t be able to volunteer at MMT this year because I’ll be flying to London for work.  I will miss it — that is certainly a unique experience up there, the closest you get to feeling like a nurse on the Civil War battlefield.  But not only do I like sitting all day in the sun (I found a perfect log to plop on), it turns out that I really like to take pictures.  (The rest of our pictures are here).

 

 

 

 

116th Boston Marathon

April 16, 2012

 

In the months leading up to Boston, it became clear that Aaron and I had divergent visions of what ‘running the Boston Marathon’ meant, mine involving a complex web of social engagements and traditions, Aaron’s involving the most minimalist path to Hopkinton and back.  Aaron’s way was to fly in the night before, plop all his belongings in his drop bag, trot through Framingham, Wellesley, and Brookline, grab his stuff from the bus in Copley Square, dash through the secret shower, and hop on a plane back to Reston.  If Aaron had a kitty, he’d be back before it even woke from its long kitty nap.

But for me Boston is a major social event, the planning for which begins some time in, say, January.  I run as part of the Center Volunteers in Medicine (CVIM) charity team based in State College, PA (although great lengths are gone to in order to ensure that we are never mistaken for the kind of charity runners that don’t have to run a Boston qualifying time).  CVIM provides medical services for employed adults in State College who lack health insurance via doctors that volunteer a couple hours every month.  I run for CVIM every year, I love supporting the team, but I am an absolutely horrific fundraiser (Me: ‘CVIM is such a great cause.’ Friend/family member: ‘So do you want me to contribute money?’  Me: ‘Oh, no, I think you donated a couple years ago, you don’t have to donate every year.  I’m not even running hard this year.’)

The actual race is probably the least important part of the Boston Marathon experience for me.  It’s about the road trip with the State Collegians, popping into Dunmore for pizza and more of the Cali clan, about seeing Boston friends like Peter Bacon and Sarah Schwertner, about seeing my Grandma, who used to watch her uncle Lauri run the Boston Marathon as a girl in the 1920s and 1930s and hand him oranges, just like the kids still do today.  (Lauri was apparently a perfectly fine name for a Finnish man in the 1920s).  It’s about the post-race party.  It’s about all the adventures and mishaps that inevitably arise when a large group of 20+ runners and their family are herded through the long, complex itinerary of events that have been planned for the weekend, the least of which is the actual race starting from Hopkinton.  The wrench in the tire.  The Newton-Wellesley Hospital and the Housewives of Orange Country.  Anything that involves Peter Bacon.

But relationships are all about compromise, right?  [Back in June I was running with Sean and he asked me whether Aaron really knew me yet – it was early in the relationship and he wanted to make sure Mr Schwartzbard had an inkling of what he was getting into.  I told him that Aaron described our relationship as like a United Nations meeting where I got the votes of the US, China, Russia, France, and Germany and he got the vote of Ghana.  Sean quickly grasped that his concerns were unfounded.]

Taking Ghana’s soft voice into consideration, the Marthon Security Council ruled that the compromise would work as follows: we would fly up Sunday afternoon and fly back Monday after the race, in complete adherence with the Schwartzbard Boston tradition.  But crammed into those 30 hours I would be allowed as much social activity as I could squeeze in and possibly still run a marathon.

So after grabbing our race bibs at the expo (and some snazzy new headgear), we had our first social engagement: a wine and cheese with the Weingers, family friends who have a lovely house in Newton and graciously hosted Aaron and me and my parents, who had driven in from Vermont after visiting my brother and his two baby girls, Summer and Savannah.  Ron Weinger went to Brandeis with my father, where my non-Jewish father achieved his premier athletic accomplishment as an intramural football champion.  However, I think it’s more remarkable that my father was immersed in Jewish humor for four years at a Jewish university and still can’t understand what Seinfeld is about.

The next social engagement was dinner at Appetito in Newton with the Weingers, my parents, and the State College gang.  Of course Tom’s group was 45 minutes late, but at least it was for a good cause this time, buying orange ribbon for us to pin on our singlets on race day.  The ribbons were to commemorate the fifth anniversary of the Virginia Tech shooting.  Five years ago, our CVIM teammate Jen Herbstritt spoke to her brother Jeremy on the phone before the race so he could wish her luck; by the time she finished he had been shot and killed in the Virginia Tech classroom.  I get goose bumps just writing that sentence.

We reconvened with the State College crew Monday morning at Hopkinton State Park, where John Domico demonstrated comprehensive lube application so that we could all leave massive greasy butt marks on the seats of the cheese bus that took us to the Athlete’s Village at Hopkinton.  It was a three-ring circus keeping our unwieldy large group together.  We waited for 20 minutes by the port-o-potties because we thought that Mike Weyendt was having trouble dropping his Hershey kisses (Mike had long ago finished his business and gone off to drop his stuff while we kept the port-o-potties company).

 

I dropped back to Corral 6 to run with John Domico and Jim Moore.  I was absolutely determined to run easy and have fun and not destroy my legs before the Promise Land 50k two weeks later.   I even wore my ‘fun skirt’ to remind myself of my mission should my legs start getting too forward, and carried a disposable camera to keep myself entertained.  I was actually glad that it was near record-high temperatures because that was even more reason to take it slow and easy.  And the heat actually made it more fun, getting splashed with sprinklers and hoses by kids along the way.  The fans seemed to sense that on this hot day we needed them even more, and were clutch in handing out extra water and cold popsicles.  You couldn’t go 100m without something being offered.  We took pictures, we jumped on trampolines, and our CVIM group kept expanding as we caught Tom and Andrew around mile 8 or 9 and later Mike and Meira.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things got a bit chaotic in Wellesley because everyone (particularly Tom) was stopping for kisses.  I tried to get a picture of the big red lipstick mark on John’s cheek, but the picture didn’t come out.  I got a kiss, but unlike the Katie Perry song, I didn’t much like it.  It was much more fun to watch Tom getting his 40 or so kisses, just ambling down the line of girls, soaking it up.  Happy boy.

Coming out of Wellesley our group had been splintered by the siren calls of the Wellesley femme fatales.  Out of nowhere Mike Weyendt appeared.  Running with Mike, I was reminded of my Achilles heel.  No, not literally – that little tendon is Aaron’s Achilles heel.  My Achilles heel is running slowly.  It kills me.  Every time I try to rein in my pace so that I can run with other runners at a slower pace I get some nasty injury.   In August I was limping after Cascade Crest more than Aaron after pacing him through a slogging final 30 miles.  Even just a fun little run with a co-worker in Lima in November left me limping for months because of another inflamed tendon on the side of my foot.  So not unexpectedly, after running a half marathon socially with my friends, coming into Newton my left hip was screaming.  And the scream traveled down my left IT band into the outside of my left knee.

I had only one option: speed up.  I had to drop Mike, I had to run on my own, or I didn’t have a prayer of finishing this run.  Running hard up the hills helped a lot, helped shake things out.  The quicker miles shook out some of the pain, and by the time I saw my parents at the top of Heartbreak Hill, I was more confident that I would be able to finish.  I took some pictures with my parents, stretched out my hip a little, and headed for the finish.  I didn’t want to run hard, I wanted to stop in Boston College for beer, I wanted to slap kids hands, I wanted to swerve to run through sprinklers.  But in pain all you can do is look forward and take heart that every step is getting you closer.  I felt badly about abandoning my friends; I wished they knew that if it weren’t for the pain that I would still be back there with them.

Aaron was amazingly waiting for me at my drop bag bus, and he and I met my grandmother and aunt at the Marriott after the race, as well as my parents.  I word it that way because even though the six of us were all sitting together in the restaurant, there was a huge invisible gulf between my parents and my aunt.  There are two kinds of family problems: those that revolve around money and those that don’t.   The last thing you want to do after you run 26 hot miles with killer knee pain is hang out in a cloud of family financial tension.

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But I wanted to see my grandma.  She’s 93.  I’m terrified that one of these days she’s not going to know who I am.  She brightened up when we talked about her uncle Lauri and she recounted the story of how she used to stand out on the street and hand him oranges.  And how Lauri stopped running the marathon when his brother Onni (my great-grandfather) died of tuberculosis.  Onni was a short-distance runner, a miler.  I have some of the silver award pieces he won that my grandma has given to me over the years.  My grandma also gave me the diamond engagement ring that Lauri gave to his wife.  I can’t recall his wife’s name but she was horrid, I’m told.  But her ring is amazing.  I didn’t have any diamonds to give my grandma, but I draped my finishers medal around her neck.

My knee still kills, a reminder of how I’m always punished when I try to ease my pace to run socially with friends.  Still, it was fun while it lasted.   One of these days I’ll master the Boston Fun Run — maybe in 2015, given that I run Boston on a three-year cycle.  Every time I run towards that never-nearing Citgo sign in those final miles, I swear that it will be my last Boston.  But let’s be serious, I know I’ll be back.

This site has its first birthday this month.  Quite a year it’s been for the Wussies:

Best new WUS tradition:  Beer Mile/Donut Run

Worst new WUS tradition: Margarita pitchers after the Beer Mile.

Craziest WUS performance: Adam at Arrowhead 135 and Sean at Zane Grey 50 (tie, and given wussie predilections, I doubt we’ll ever just have one winner in this category)

Most predictable WUS performance:  Keith, every race.

Best WUS sprint-to-the-finish: Neal’s 2nd Beer mile.  Frankly, we’re surprised Neal’s Succeed ad didn’t highlight Neal’s gut-wrenching Beer Mile #2 finish, holding off Bobby Gill’s chest lean at the wire.

Worst WUS sprint-to-the-finish: Martha’s Holiday Lake barffest.

Best WUS list-serv commenter: Mario, for anything posted after 10pm

Worst WUS list-serv commenter: Matt’s dad

Best dressed wussie: Ryon Lane (Keith’s shorts a close 2nd)

Most clandestine WUS couple: Joe & Boots

Least clandestine WUS couple: Torstin

Most improved WUSsie: Ragan.  Tenure, baby.

WUS injured reserve list: Brian, Brittany, Aaron, Ryon Lane, Bobby Gill, Tom Corris.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been putting in a lot of miles this March.  More than 17,000.   No, not running miles: miles squeezed in Economy, back and forth across the Atlantic, planing and de-planing and asking for more peanuts.  Let’s see, how many plane movies have I watched?  Harry Potter (the last one and the second to last), The Descendents, My Week with Marilyn, Sherlock Holmes, The Prestige, Anonymous, Margin Call, The Muppets, Twilight Saga, and a host of TV shows.  First it was 10 days in Barcelona and skiing in Andorra with Aaron’s parents to celebrate his mom’s 70th birthday.  Then it was a week in Istanbul for the XIV International Symposium in Respiratory Virus Infections.  It’s been March Mayhem.

The highlights of the Andorra trip were definitively Barcelona and Aaron’s parents.  By the lack of Aaron’s parents’ WUSsie vocabulary (they had absolutely no familiarity with terms like ‘WUS’ ‘wussies’ ‘Seanie’ ‘Portabella’ ‘Bird Knob’ or ‘Horton’), you all probably don’t know Dick & Rosemarie Schwartzbard very well.  Which is a pity, because they’re kind of rock stars.  Rosemarie blasted by me a couple times on the slopes, although Aaron is convinced that’s because I was wearing a giant puff jacket that could have sailed me back to Barcelona if I hadn’t been eating so much Holiday Inn buffet every night.  And frankly, I wouldn’t have minded riding the winds back to Barcelona.  While the skiing was okay in Andorra, and the town/country (Andorra is technically a country) was decidedly lacking in charm, Barcelona was a city I will definitely be dragging Aaron back to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I touched down in DC, ran the National Half Marathon, and then was off again across the Atlantic to Istanbul to present my evolutionary analyses of influenza viruses in swine at the meeting.  I managed to escape to see some of the city as well.  Istanbul is a pulsing metropolis, the third largest city in Europe (after London and Moscow), with a burgeoning economy and a rich culture as one of the centers of the world for much of its history.  The best tourist site by far was the Hagia Sophia, which displayed the immense wealth and power of the empire and its importance in the early spread of Christianity.  Built in ~500 AD during the Justinian era (~1450 the building when the city was overtaken by the Ottoman Turks the building was converted to a mosque, with the Christian images plastered over, but these have since been restored).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the end of a long voyage, happiness is coming home to the cuddles of a kitty.  We’ll have to have extra cuddling during the month of April.

National Half Marathon

Saturday, March 17, 2012

 

When Brian checked his watch at the Mile 7 mark I nearly smacked him.

‘Brian!  You KNOW you’re not supposed to do that!’

Brian seemed perplexed.  Wasn’t the entire point of his dragging himself out of bed to be my pacer that morning so that he could, well, give me some indication of my pace?  How exactly would one do that without glancing at a watch?

‘No, no,’ realizing that explanation was in order.  ‘You’re not a pacer, you’re a companion.  Just do your Brian thing and tell jokes and make the miles go by faster.’

Fortunately Mr. University-of-Michigan-doctorate-bound Greeley was a quick study, and instantly transitioned into his newly configured role, relieved of any duties or responsibilities except to Simply Be Brian and make the miles tick by in the middle part of the course.

‘You gotta go get Sam!  I saw him right up ahead,’ Brian enthused.

I rolled my eyes.  Sam was one of those youngster pace-pushers,  leaving the group a mere 10 meters into the Tuesday night run, forcing us to yell from behind, ‘Sam, go LEFT.  Sam, go RIGHT!’  Also, I missed the start of the race again.  By six minutes.  I left my house at 6:30am, more than enough time to get to the 8am start.  But the metro was a nightmare, so many runners cramming into over-stuffed trains.  The train ahead of us was so over-filled that they broke the doors and had to detrain, leaving my train stuck in a tunnel for 20 minutes and then cramming all the detrained runners into my train.  Just getting out of the Stadium-Armory metro took 20 minutes.  Fortunately I had my VIP access to the elite port-a-potties or I would have been 20 minutes late to the race.  I told Aaron that I was not going to piss myself again this year.  But starting in the back in the thick of the pack was impossible – I kept getting squeezed and blocked in, taking some elbows to the chest.  I didn’t want to be one of those asshole runners but the runners were spread thick across – there was no outside alley.

So I had been seriously cranky the first ~5 or so miles of the race.  My legs felt stiff, I was glum about being so far behind the competition, Brian would probably be waiting forever for me at Dupont.  Last year I had felt to brisk in the opening miles of the race; this year I just felt mopey.

But seeing my Mom at Dupont picked my head up out of the gutter.  And then having Brian jump provided a much-needed rush.  How cute!  He was wearing his WUS shirt too – we MATCHED!

‘WOOOOOS!’  a spectator yelled from the side of Columbia Road, reading Brian and my matching WUS shirts.  I loved it.

Suddenly I was all chirpy again.  This was fun.  I was finally hitting a stride.  We gave big waves to JLD

and Anna through Adam’s Morgan, passed by Robin and Keith who were also running the half and the full, respectively.  WUSsies all around!  Seriously, I hadn’t planned on running the half until I realized how many WUSsies were doing it – Doug, Kerry, Keith, Neal – and jumped on the bandwagon.  We were all supposed to meet at Doug’s friend’s sister’s restaurant in Dupont, Bread & Brew, for a post-race meal.

Having completed his mission of pulling my head of out of the mopey gutter and getting me back in a groove, Brian parted ways at the bottom of North Capitol street so he could get to his shift at PR running store in Cleveland Park.  My favorite part of the whole race was getting to run with Brian and seeing all the WUSsies in that Adams Morgan/Shaw/North Capitol section.  I can’t believe Brian is leaving so soon for Michigan, we WUSsies will miss him dearly.

But when I turned the corner I saw one more piece of unfinished WUSsie business.  Just ahead was Mr. Sam, his long hair and Vibrams unmistakable.  I cozied up to him with about a mile and a half to go.

‘How about we finish together, Sam?”  I suggested.

‘Okay, but I’m not registered so I’ll peel off.’

‘That’s fine.’

We ran a couple paces together before I saw the back of Sam’s shoulder as he pushed up the short hill.  I lagged behind, regaining my stride at the top of the hill to catch up.  We ran a couple more strides together when he conceded, ‘It’s okay, you go ahead.’

As it appeared that Mr-push-the-pace-every-Tuesday couldn’t hang, I pressed on to the finish with a freshness I haven’t had in a while.  Whereas last year I was struggling at the end, this year I passed ~15 in the final mile. After a tough start, I finished in 1:23 for 6th overall female and 1st in my new 30-34 age group.

And in true WUS spirit, Neal, Aaron, Neal’s sister and brother-in-law, and I celebrated with post-race grub at CPBG.  Since it was St Paddy’s Day and crazy with drunken green people some enormous bouncer tried to card me, but I didn’t have my ID and one of the regular waitresses recognized and vouched for me.  Good Ole CPBG.

After the race Aaron, my mom, and I strolled around the cherry blossoms by the tidal basin.  I found a sunny resting spot by the tulip garden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post-script: Sean and I talked about him pacing me at Promise Land in April.  If we go ahead with this plan, there will have to be some explicit rules about pacing that Seanie can either agree to or I’ll send him ahead to run with Keith.

 

1. The pacer must stay behind the runner.
2. The pacer must not quibble about the pace.
3. The pacer must not quibble about how long we are spending in aid stations.
4. The pacer must say at least one positive/encouraging thing per mile.
5. The pacer must not talk about the pace or time in any way.
6. The pacer must not breath down the back of the runner in a way that suggests she is running too slowly.
7. When the runner complains about something, the pacer must agree.
8. The pacer must lie just slightly about how much more uphill there is.
9. The pacer must be totally okay with not being in the lead.

10. The pacer must allow the runner to smack him in the face if he violates #1-9.