Author: martha

[Inspired by conversations with Art, Joe, and the rest of the WUSsies at CPBG]

In the model of Eats Shoots and Leaves, we intentionally have left the title of Eat Shit & Run ambiguous in order to apply to a wider range of WUSsies: (a) the majority of whom simply eat, shit, and run, as well as (b) the singularly spectacular Sean Andrish, who actually eats shit and runs, very fast and very far.  Undoubtedly, Sean also must shit, but Eat Shit Shit & Run seemed a bit wordy and lost our double entendre.

Entering his mid-forties amid a burgeoning pool of elite ultra competitors has not been gentle on our dear Sean’s ego.  His tongue has not taken kindly to the taste of the dust kicked back at him by the young upstarts, who recently have been spilling over from road running into the ultra scene in droves.  But, as I have explained to Sean on many a Wednesday night run, Legend Never Dies.  He could slip way back to the middle of the pack, and everyone would still fawn on Sean the Great.  Images stick, in the same way that parents continue to treat you as if you were still eight, even when you are CEO of a major conglomerate, have two children of your own, and are perfectly capable of finding the mustard in the fridge.  (In the case of Sean, some moms do not believe their adult sons can purchase their own sticks of deodorant.)

Sean Andrish: Legend Never Dies could have been a perfectly apt title for this book.  We hope no one interprets our selection of Eat Shit & Run as any kind of slap at Scott Jurek, or the virtues of quinoa that are extolled in his Eat and Run manifesto.  None of us would disagree with the premise that all humans would surely benefit from healthier diets that include less processed food.  But we aim to make a simple point: the belief that following Scott Jurek’s culinary advice will make you fast because it made Scott speedy is no less preposterous than advising runners to adopt fellow speedster Sean’s diet, which seems to consist of no actual nutrients.  If vegan eating was as essential to human endurance running as Jurek has posited, one must conclude either that (a) Sean could become the world’s fastest ultra runner if only we could substitute quinoa cakes for his breakfast of Mt Dew and poptarts, or, intriguingly, (b) Sean is not in fact human.

Although tempting to imagine what kind of space alien kidneys might reside within Sean, our strong inclination is to go with Option 3: the Individualized Diet.  Perhaps the likelihood of omega 3’s enhancing Sean’s performance may be no greater than Mt Dew’s new faux-healthful breakfast drink Kickstart giving Jurek’s mojo a boost.  We are not suggesting that Sean’s aberrational athletic performance on a zero nutritional value diet debunks the large body of scientific evidence that suggests a diet of Mt Dew and hotpockets is not good for America.  Rather, our argument is a bit subtler: athletes, as with humans in general, can thrive off of extremely variable diets, with Sean representing his own, rather unique, end of the spectrum.  We doubt that the Sean diet is a good fit for more than 0.01% of the population.  But we also doubt that an extreme vegan diet is the ideal fit for most runners, particularly female athletes.

Unfortunately, a health book with the message This diet MIGHT work for you is not nearly as compelling or marketable as a book that purports to improve the health of all, resulting in the proliferation of books that advocate a narrowly defined diet for a large number of people (ie, anyone willing to buy the book).  Although good for profit margins, such an approach goes against the Genomic Age of science that we have been rapidly entering since the sequencing of the entire human DNA genome in 2000.  Some day sequencing an individual’s entire DNA genome will be standard practice, and treatments and medications will be personalized to fit an individual genomic make-up.  Humans vary considerably in physiology, and a major current problem in treating human disease is that conditions such as diabetes and cancer are highly heterogeneous, meaning that even patients with similar outward symptoms can respond very differently to various treatments and regimens.  To oversimplify, the current approach to treating complex multifactorial symptoms such as type II diabetes can be likened to a mechanic who sees a ‘check engine’ light in your car.  Rather than diagnosing the specific problem, he simply goes down a list of possible part failures (engine, transmission, tires…) trial by error until the car starts working again.  Not a very time- or cost-efficient way of getting your car back on the road.  In an age of individualized genomic medicine, doctors will be able to pinpoint the precise problem that is giving rise to high blood sugar, for example, and treat with targeted therapies, rather than blindly trying different meds until something works.

Although there have been some groundbreaking successes in individualized medicine, such as the treatment of children’s cancer, where the high cost of sequencing the entire human genome is surely justified, the costs are still too high for this practice to become standard.  But we don’t have to know our precise genetic makeup in order to apply the principles of individualized medicine to more sensibly approach our diet.  Just as a one-size-fits-all model of medical practice is rapidly becoming debunked, a one-size-fits-all model of diet is clearly an unuseful oversimplification.

Following fads is a natural part of being an American.  (I was going to use a reference to lemmings, but I recently found out that the story of herds of cliff-diving lemmings is entirely myth.  For reasons not entirely understood, lemming populations are prone to sharp fluctuations.  During times of extremely high growth, large numbers will migrate to less-populated areas, a journey fraught with the perils of exposure to predators and dangerous river crossings.  The sight of lemmings drowning in high numbers perhaps gave rise to the popular perception of mass suicide).

It is unlikely that anyone, even the charismatic Sean Andrish, is capable of breaking the deeply ingrained (pun intended) American food fad obsession, which would seemingly require some twisty double lightsaber that could subdue the media with one end and human evolution with the other.  But if there is anyone who can be a poster boy for The Great Dietary Reality Check, it is Sean.  Sean, who can win a 100-mile race with nearly 30,000 ft of elevation change, having subsisted on a diet of Mt Dew, poptarts, hotpockets, McDonald’s, and epilepsy medications.  (Yes, these feats are all the more impressive given that Sean has a variant of epilepsy that is extremely poorly controlled, despite brain surgeries and chip implants, and a continually carouseling regimen of pill that sometimes make it impossible for him to lift his feet.  Every time I hear on the radio that someone was hit by a metro train I have to wonder if Sean had another seizure by the tracks again.)

Readers will likely come away from this book split into two camps.  One group will feel vindicated, thinking You know, I always thought those diet books were a loada crap as they bite into their bacon cheeseburger.  On the other hand, those looking for dietary rules and guidelines, like that adorable USDA pyramid with the cartoon drumsticks and bread loaves, will probably feel left hanging.  For the folks in the former group, we knew you weren’t going to change your diets anyway, so we hope you at least find this book entertaining.  For those in the latter group, we can’t provide a panacea, but we hope this book still provides some insights into the range of diets that can still be healthful for running, the potential risks of following extreme dietary fads that are beneficial to only a small percentage of people, and a general framework for how to go about determining whether a diet is a particularly good fit for you or not (which basically boils down to: When I eat that do I feel like crap?.  Health books can be useful for providing ideas and personal success stories to consider and possibly experiment with, especially for those trying to overcome fatigue or stomach ailments.  But at the end of the day you have to find what works for you.  When I started dating a vegetarian, my meat intake naturally plummeted.  But so did my energy during runs.  It turns out my boyfriend can win races munching his veggies, but some girls clearly need their t-bones.  We’re not at the point where genomic testing can reveal why my boyfriend and I have such distinct physiological differences, but frankly it doesn’t matter.  Eat what works for you, and let others eat what works for them.  And whatever happens, keep running.

WUS Weekend at the Chophouse

January 26-27, 2013

 

The Tuesday before the planned WUSsie escape to Canaan the slopes were grass.  But on Friday and Saturday the valley delivered.  Snowshoeing for all!

It was pretty darn cold.  But Keith taught us how to keep our hands warm.

After hauling his sled for six hours through the mountains (he’s training for Iditarod in February), Adam was treated to a very special snow pony.

On Sunday the skies cleared and we were treated to a beautiful, sunny snow run.

Keith was kind enough to carry the snow pony snacks in his pack.  Out of his pure love for the ponies.

 

 

 

Willis River Trail Race 35k/50k

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Bear Lake Park, VA

The Willis River Trail Race (formerly known as the Swinging Bridge 50k) was supposed to be a nice little confidence booster leading up to my much-anticipated crusade to redeem myself this year at Holiday Lake, after losing the lead last year in a fit of vomiting at the last aid station in what I consider the most demoralizing race finish of my life — even worse than the time I collapsed on Boylston Street in the last stretch of the Boston Marathon in 2009 (where I was able to get up and stagger across in 2:55 for 42nd place female).

Although I was able to cling on the win in the 35k at Willis River, and felt fluid and strong for most of it, the Barfies returned with a vengeance, representing a marked set-back in my long-running quest to become an ultra-runner (pun intended).  Overall it a great warm day and a fun winding course through Bear Lake Park, situated about an hour west of Richmond.  As Sean had warned me, everyone continually went off-trail and half the challenge was just staying on the darn course.  Just as I started to put a good gap on second place I would go off-course and end up behind her again — it happened at least three times.

But after 17-18 or so miles of pure cruising at Willis River, feeling completely in control of the race despite the off-course detours, it all started again.  It begins innocuously enough, with a soft gag on whatever I’m trying to eat.  A mile or so later it develops into a dry heave, where my stomach contracts hard and I just vomit a little into my mouth.  The next time I heave it all spills out of my mouth (I’d like to be able to claim it was a pretty projectile vomit like the one in the picture here, but really most of it just dribbled down my face, chest, and onto my knees).

The only difference between here and Holiday Lake was that there was a 35k option, so I knew that if I just toughed it out a couple more miles I could stop running and forget the last 10 miles of the 50k.  With a fiery determination to finish without giving up the lead I dug in and run through the dry heaves and at least 3 full-fledged vomits.

The trail went on interminably, twisting and winding, and at one point I seriously considered just curling up in a little ball on the side of the trail and taking a little break from the great unpleasantness for a while.  But I knew that Holly Bugin (winner of the UROC 50k, 4th at MMTR) was still on my heels (in part because I kept getting lost) and it wasn’t long to the finish.

As I approached the finish I started to vomit again, but slowed my pace down to hold it in.  But when I crossed the line I just let it all out in front of an audience of spectators and other finishers.  Some of their reactions were classic.  Our friend from Canaan, Luke, was there, and he gave me some water after I crumpled into a pile of wet leaves.  Aaron trotted in a little later and happy to screw the 50k, call it a day at 35k and go home.  I got some warm stuff on and was able to chat with some of the folks at the finish — Sophie and Mike Bailey (who’d twisted his ankle and dropped) and Caroline Williams (who’d gotten so lost she had to drop too), as well as Matt and Holly Bugin, whom I’d run part of the race with.  But ultimately I had to get my sick self home.

Where do I go from here?  I have deep reservations about revisiting what was such an awful experience last year at Holiday Lake, especially when I clearly have made no progress on fixing my stomach.  I’m really dejected because I love to trail race, and I’d love to move up into longer distances, even try a 50-miler.  I’ve got the half marathon trail run distance down pat, with a 4-for-4 undefeated win streak for half marathon trail races (3x WHM + 1 Dam Half), and I feel like there’s a lot potential in my legs to go the distance.  But I’m not going to slog through misery each time I run long.

I might try some different nutrition products.  I was recommended Hammer gels and Generation UCAN.  At first I thought Aaron’s suggestion that I skip the 50k and just jump to 50mi sounded crazy.  But maybe a longer, less intense cruise would be easier on the gut?   Heck, at this point I’m willing to try anything.

 

 

 

Q. How can a WUSsie score a big bear hug from a random blonde girl on the street?

A. Apparently by almost getting murdered by a beige Nissan on Porter Street in broad daylight.

Seriously, strangers on Connecticut Avenue were crying and hugging me in the street.  They had all seen it coming, probably in slow motion, from their perfect vantage point on the other side of Porter Street.  They saw the beige sedan blow through the red left turn arrow coming south on Connecticut Avenue and swerve left onto Porter, probably above 40 mph, just as I was blithely trotting through the cross-walk with the walk signal in my favor.  The sedan was coming from behind me, so I never saw it until it was an inch from my right hip.  By the grace of the running gods and a couple crucial inches, the car swerved by without contacting me.

But it was so close.  The pedestrians on the opposite side of Porter stood agape.  I think the near-murder they had just witnessed had terrified them as much as me. When I staggered the rest of the way across Porter, a girl with long straight blonde hair and thick black eye make-up hugged my shaking body so hard I thought she would never let go.  She must have been so relieved that my brains were still in my head instead of splattered on the road.  For nearly half a block people continued to pat me on the shoulder and make sure I was alright.  I was in too much quivering shock to make any response beyond a short nod and ‘uh-huh’.  Being in shock feels like scuba diving, when all you can hear is your own deep breathing, with a blurry world going by in slow motion.

My only regret is that the car was speeding too fast for me to get a license plate number.  I made a police report, and an officer was dispatched to Porter Street speed camera to see if the suspected vehicle had been caught on film.  I told the officer I thought it was a beige sedan, possibly Nissan or Toyota make.

As Sean Andrish can tell you from our Wednesday night runs, I am a magnet for lunatic drivers.  Although today’s incident was by far the most harrowing, this is by no means the first time I’ve been side-swiped by a car while obeying pedestrian law.  We have long joked about this phenomenon, and my attempts to combat my curse by wear bright yellow reflective clothing.  At least I’m a cat lady and get nine lives, although I have probably used up most of them by now.  Today alone counted for at least four.

 

We’ve previously determined that since Aaron is already practically perfect, he gets a bye on having to make any New Year’s Resolutions [although I might nominate something along the lines of: Try not to get so annoyed with Martha when she does something (a) dumb, (b) messy, (c) dumb and messy].  But I, to use one of those match.com-overused colloquialisms, remain a work-in-progress, and I’ve got some big ticket items for 2013.  Looking ahead, if I can avoid crumpling in a corner, 2013 in going to be a monster year: I’ve got work travel to Italy, Ireland, Scotland, Thailand, Australia, Minnesota, and Iowa (and that’s just through July 2013).  Potential trips to Myanmar and France as well.  If I’m not totally exhausted/out of shape from all this travel, Aaron and I are tentatively thinking of joining the Blue Train in June to the Black Hills of South Dakota for my first 50 miler (Aaron and the rest of the gang can do the 100).  I’m also considering making a major career move back into academia as a tenure-track assistant professor (of Biology), although I’m still waffling on that one.

I know that a 50-miler seems like peanuts to most of the WUSsies.  But I, for reasons I have explored in previous blogs, have a Grand Canyon-sized gulf between self-perceived and actual capability (with the former being substantially lower than the latter).  This incongruity has become increasingly apparent in recent years, in large part because Aaron is there to continually point out to me how out of touch my self-perception is with reality.  And I’ve only recently begun to realize that this phenomenon is quite rare and particular to myself — that other people actually tend to experience the reverse effect, developing inflated self-perceptions.  Psychologists refer to this as the ‘better-than-average’ effect: the vast majority of people think they are better than average, when of course that statistically is impossible.  As the classic example, an impossible 93% of US respondents described themselves as better than average drivers.  A year ago I went to a talk by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Joseph Hallinan who described this phenomenon in depth.  Over-confidence is a plague of human existence, leading not only to traffic fatalities but also a plethora of high error rates in other categories — from the surgery table to identifying suspects from the police line-up.  Tragically, these error rates could be dramatically reduced if people didn’t way over-estimate their own capabilities and allowed for greater measures of uncertainty.  As I sat in the audience, I was amazed by how different it must be to experience life through the eyes of someone with over-confidence — to be the guy who hits on the woman way out of his league at the bar, or who dashes out in the lead of a road race only to consistently fall to the middle of the pack, or to be the med student with enough self-assurance to think Yes, I’ve totally got the stuff to be a brain surgeon, to CARVE INTO PEOPLE’S HEADS. 

I thought that the easiest way I could gain self-confidence would be to achieve things I previously considered to be impossible or greatly challenging, over time eroding my sense of self-limitation.  For example, when I climbed Mt Kilimanjaro in 2002, overcoming this challenge should have boosted my confidence in an area I had always perceived to be a great weakness: climbing up hills.  Instead, my sneaky brain decided it was way easier to change my perception of the outside world than of myself: rather than giving myself any credit for the climb, my mind switched it around and concluded that summitting Kili was actually a fairly trivial physical endeavor that anyone and their spunky grandma could do.  My mind did the same thing about getting a PhD (trivial!), running a sub-3 hour marathon (just don’t go out too fast), or anything else that at one point had seemed like an insurmountable challenge. Much easier to change my perception of the external world than myself.

Anyway, the reason I have been probing into this issue of self-confidence recently is because I need to understand how it factors into an upcoming major career move.  As I start to consider ramping up my professional intensity by joining the tenure-track rat race, I’m determined to make sure that my reservations about the move are only related to lifestyle trade-offs and my reluctance to leave a current research position at Fogarty I’m very content with, and don’t stem from my lagging self-confidence and doubt about my ability to cut it as a professor.  Because I should know by now that I’ll be fine, that I always think it will be much worse than it really is.  There might be golden opportunities ahead at Georgetown University and at other divisions of the NIH, where I could have my own lab and little post-docs to boss around and do my work for me — and all I have to do is beat down that self-doubt hard enough until it’s too late to turn back.

~                ~                  ~

There is much about oneself that cannot be pinned on parental influence, and many traits that are largely independent of upbringing.  But self-confidence is one domain where parents figure mightily into and are greatly responsible for cultivating in a developing child.  Recognizing the origins of low self-confidence is crucial for beginning to reconstruct a sense of belief in oneself.  The absolute key here is for parents to inculcate in children a frame of mind where failure is not a reflection of lack of self-worth.  You can’t always make your kid be the winner, but you can surely teach them how to lose in a way that the failure doesn’t weigh them down like a giant scarlet F hanging from their neck.  Now I can think of one area where my father was actually a  spectacular success in teaching me to accept failure as a part of learning: skiing.  In stark contrast to the reviled tennis court, the ski slope was this wild, free place where I have no recollections of my father ever being disappointed or overly critical.  There was no scoreboard, no lines, no winners and losers, just big wide open hills to bomb down and enjoy.  I had skis on as soon as my feet were big enough to fit into ski boots, and pretty soon I was going down black and double-black diamonds, absolutely fearless.  My father had a rule that I should fall three times every day I skied — otherwise I wasn’t pushing myself and taking risks.   Normally kids will make fun of others who fall or fail, but my ski school instructors always created an atmosphere where huge face plants were celebrated with cheers.  The healthiest life lessons of my childhood were surely on those slopes, where falling on your face was greeted with a high-five and an outstretched glove to pull you back up, brush the snow out of your ears, and send you back on your way.  If only all of childhood could have been like that.

 

In sum: 2013 resolutions

(1) Run a 50-miler.  Try not to barf.  Okay, if you do barf, try to cut yourself some slack.  Faceplant, baby!!

(2) Explore career options.   Try to talk yourself up a little during interviews, even if you think you’re over-selling yourself.  Try to use ‘I’ instead of ‘we’ when giving job talks, even if you consider the work to be a group effort.  If you decide to stay put at Fogarty, do it because you love taking off Thursday night to drive to Canaan Valley for snow adventures and don’t want to be tied to the lab, not because you think you’ll be Professor Suck Ass.

(3) Gain back your ‘god i’m so stressed over job applications!’ 4-5 pounds you lost.  Aaron’s totally going to trade you in for someone with a little meat.  Oh wait, Aaron doesn’t like meat.  But you do — so get yourself some T-bones, dammit!