One More Time, Bev

Forward my mail to Stepford, Italy.

2010-08-06T19:00:00.031-04:00

Project La Cucina Italiana has been replaced by Project Sasquatch, my seriously committed weight loss program. Or not.

Fortunately for Bev, the three-week La Cucina Italiana project, where carbs overwhelmed my kitchen and my backside simultaneously, sundowned on our anniversary on July 21 (and a little beyond because I couldn't bear the hang-dog husband). Now that the gift has been given and the anniversary is over, I'm no longer a Pasta Hostage. That's the good news.

The bad news is that Michael has become seriously attached to La Cucina Italiana. He loved the splendor of sumptuous meals lovingly served upon his arrival from work each day.

Yah. Who wouldn't? But Stepford is NOT in Italy. (Is it?)

The problem is that I'm crazy about the boy and hated seeing him picking over a grilled cheese sandwich, trying to think of something nice to say: "Uh ... you should be a food stylist, Bev! Who says that the slices of bread have to line up? If I look straight down, it's like a little Star of David. Only with cheese." It was praise, but it rang hollow. The light had gone out of his eyes.

Guilt overwhelmed Runner Bev.

So tonight as a special Friday night surprise, I prepared "Petti di Pollo Ripieni Cotti alla Brace" (Grilled Stuffed Chicken Breast). I cut slits in the chicken and filled those pockets with cheeses, roasted peppers, and fresh basil. While the chicken was baking, I prepared roasted rosemary, garlic, and olive oil for drizzling. It made an awesome bread dip.

The dish almost didn't make it to the table. Michael dragged through the back door, saw food, and ... well, you know when an Orca knifes the surface of the bay and rips a seal right out of the water? Or when a big frog flicks out his tongue from three feet away and an unwary fly vanishes? Or when a pride of starving lions finds a fresh wildebeest carcass? Well, that was Michael with Petti di Pollo. One minute it was there. And the next minute it was gone.

It had been replaced by light in his eyes.

What's Runner Bev to do now? How do I balance a serious weight loss program with preparing Italian food? Which matters most? Width of my hips or light in his eyes? With apologies to another Browning:

Dear Michael, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height (and weight) my hips can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace ..."

Guess we're going for extra miles.

Trouble in the hood.

2010-08-04T08:45:00.024-04:00

Yesterday, being Tuesday, was trash pickup day in my neighborhood. Since this is my third blog on the subject, I leave little doubt that this is an exciting time in Runner Bev's training schedule!

I LOVE running on Tuesdays when the recycling bins are out in the morning. As I slip by, I relish those quick glimpses into the secret lives of my seldom seen neighbors. I have always taken guilty pleasure from knowing who got a new laser printer and who is obsessed with both Cat Fancier magazine and Shotgun News (a collision of interests that ignites the imagination and could explain a few things around here).

It never occurred to blogger-blabbermouth Bev that a neighbor would ever discover my blog, let alone read it.

Wrong.

One neighbor found the blog. And now all the neighbors know that I eyeball their recycling bins and write about them. We had a Facebook discussion that went rather well, I thought, once I got over hyperventilating and throwing up on my keyboard. I went back and re-read what I had written over the past months. It was sweet-spirited and respectful. No one could have been alarmed. No one could have been anything but amused by my mild curiosity.

Wrong again.

I'm guessing that my photographing that one recycling bin took "mild curiosity" into stalker status.

Look what I found yesterday morning. Coincidence?

Bev is on a diet.

2010-07-27T09:42:00.007-04:00

A Hilton desk clerk took a photo of me yesterday with Diana and Adele. When I saw it, I freaked. I knew I was getting heavy, for this is what sloths do when under intense professional pressure and given the challenge of a punch-card from Bagel Bakery, but I was completely caught off guard by my inability to create a flattering angle for that photo. Say, like standing behind a sofa or posing way off in the distance. Like in another county.

I can no longer whine, “My head’s just too small.” Or “I’m perfect weight … for someone 6’7”. I’m just too short.” Or “It’s an optical illusion created by hanging around with slender friends.”

After a month of eating pasta and being chained to my desk, I am not really surprised that I have bypassed “obese,” “morbidly obese,” and “super morbidly obese,” and gone straight to “sasquatch.”

I’ll let you know how the weight loss progresses, but I don’t want to reveal the starting tonnage. (Please don’t go into “comments” and guess. This will only strain our friendship.) To give us all a starting point, I found a numerology Web site and typed in SASQUATCH. From the resulting number 28, we’ll begin decrementing. And by the way, numerology also did a nice little character assessment. I left off all the negative attributes. Let’s pretend for the moment that they don’t exist, and if they do, they’re neither hideous nor shockingly spot-on.

ON TO THE WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM: 28 Pounds to Lose!

-------------------------------------------------

NUMEROLOGY RESULTS FOR SASQUATCH

You entered: sasquatch
There are 9 letters in your name.
Those 9 letters total to 28
There are 3 vowels and 6 consonants in your name.
Your number is: 1

The characteristics of #1 are: Initiating action, pioneering, leading, independent, attaining, individual.

RUN, BEV, RUN!!!

Friday night dinner OUT!

2010-07-24T17:28:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, after a long afternoon meeting that spilled over into the evening, my two darling writing-conference-partners and I decided to have dinner together before going home. Because I had not eaten out since Project La Cucina Italiana, I was suddenly seized by the possibilities of something different. Gainesville has a gazillion restaurants, so anything was going to be fine with me. I let them choose.

They wanted to go out for pizza.

Our marriage is in trouble.

2010-07-22T21:41:00.018-04:00

Dinner was the prelude to a disturbing evening. I'm supposed to be blogging about running, but we've drifted into Italian food, so we'll just get that over with and get on to the evening (which is how I usually think of dinner anyway). Tonight I waltzed to the table with plates of linguine nestled in creamy, citrus-flavored sauce so subtle and mysterious that we were halfway through it before we could figure out which flavor was gerbil-chervil and which was sauteed orange zest. It doesn't photograph well, but it tasted better than it looks. Pretty good in an exotic (yet artery-clogging) way!

Spaghetti all’Aroma di Arancia

Spaghetti Scented with Orange

And then like Dr. Jekyll and Pasta Hyde, the evening took a strange turn ...

After dinner my adoring Michael, who last night affirmed that I was a goddess forevermore, offered to take me in his truck to a warehouse store to stock up for the Anhinga Writers’ Studio Summer Workshops next week. What a good guy.

Still flushed with love and linguine and concerned by the sheer bulk of my purchases, he then generously offered to let me borrow his truck next week so that I could take all our conference stuff to the Hilton without having to make multiple trips in my bitty Honda.

I was touched, but hesitant. He drives a Ford F-150. It’s like an aircraft carrier with car keys and a Gator decal. Worse, it’s his baby. I told him that I would need to practice a little in order to feel confident in docking the Saratoga at the Hilton.

So three miles from home, he pulled over and with a flourish, turned it over to me. Fearlessly, I slid behind the wheel and threw it into gear. I glanced at Michael.

His face said, “You go, girl.”

But his body language said, “OH DEAR GOD WE’RE GOING TO DIE HELP ME GIMME BACK MY KEYS YOU CRAZY PERSON BRAKE BRAKE BRAKE!!!”

I pulled out into traffic anyway. From outside the truck, the drive home was perfection itself. But inside the truck, it was another matter altogether. Michael Browning was slowly decompensating. The man can hold a beating human heart in his hand and not even break a sweat, but put Bev behind the wheel of his truck and he loses his mind in six of the longest minutes of his life.

I won’t describe it. But I will tell you that I parked halfway up the driveway, got out, and walked the rest of the way to the house. A goddess can only take so much.

He has been sitting out there in his darkened truck since we arrived home. I watch him from the window. His forehead is pressed against the steering wheel. They’re both safe and happy again.

Tomorrow night I’m ordering Chinese.

The Anniversary Blog

2010-07-21T21:34:00.009-04:00

I realize that it’s bizarre to blog on the evening of one’s anniversary, but the simple truth is that I have discovered the Holy Grail of recipes and it would be morally wrong for me to keep this to myself.

This will only take a sec.

Besides, Michael is occupied in making lists of ways to worship me, gifts to buy me, vacation spots to take me, and ways to express his adoration. (I think I'm getting a pony!) It’s not me, really. After THIS meal, any cook's grateful partner would be making lists.

Tonight’s dinner did it. This was a meal so sublime that we should bronze the leftovers.

Maiale con Puré di Pere e Mirtilli
Pork Chops with Pear and Blueberries

Darlings, listen to Bev VERY carefully. Click the link, print this recipe, prepare this dish, and serve it to the person you love most in the world. Tonight.

This dish is so luscious, so sensuous, so smooth and sweet and soft and scrumptious that beyond Michael’s plate, more than three decades of time melted away from my side of the table. All the years that have engraved themselves into my face. All the tough stuff and sad stuff and stupid stuff of life.

Vanished.

For one hour, I was his bride again. I could see it in his eyes. I could hear it in his laugh.

Blueberries and pears in wine sauce on pork. That’s all it took.

Our dinner hours have been transcendent and magical. We laugh and share stories and make plans and love each other over plates of food. Who knew? Project La Cucina Italiana was supposed to be a gift from the first of the month through tonight, but after tonight I clearly understand that food is love in more ways that I could have known. There’s no stopping me now.

Besides, we haven’t tried sautéed gerbil yet …

Gotta go now. I have no idea how long "grateful" can last. (wink)

Tomorrow we run! (I said this was luscious. I didn’t say it was low cal.)

HE'S ALIVE!!!

2010-07-20T20:21:00.010-04:00

Before we begin tonight’s blog on the Kenyan Runner’s nightly desecration of the culinary heritage of Italy, we must address the delicate issues involving my accidentally overdosing Michael Browning on prunes last night.

Monday dinner, as you know, was a dramatic turning point in Project La Cucina Italiana: when Michael suddenly realized that there’s a fine line between a chef and a felon. I thought it was a little overly dramatic to screech his chair back up against the wall, point to my beautiful dish, and declare it to be the unholy pasta version of attempted manslaughter. As an upstart chef, one never wants to hear the word “apocalyptic” applied to one’s artistry. And yet …

Last night was so ugly.

Deeply concerned about Michael today, I phoned him in the midmorning to see how he was feeling. He seemed to be fine. When I discreetly inquired (using euphemisms, for we are Southern), he gave no details of his personal digestion, citing medical confidentiality and HIPAA violation. He IS a PA, after all.

And guess what! He came back to the table tonight … but only after studying the recipe I had taped to the cabinet door above the counter where I work. Smart man.

TONIGHT'S FARE
Penne alla Riccotta con Asparagi
Penne with Ricotta and Asparagus
WITHOUT FREAKING PRUNES!!! GET OVER IT!!!
(Uh, sorry. Still a little touchy.)

I highly recommend this dish. It’s beautiful in every way. It’s also fairly simple. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking that two dishwasher loads for one bowl of noodles sort of defines “fairly simple” in this project.

Tomorrow night is our anniversary, so I will disappear from my desk a few minutes early and get to work on turning the evening into a celebration of a marriage that has been going strong for more than 30 years and even survived last night. July 21st will be the first time EVER that we have not gone out on our anniversary, testament to the joy in our kitchen, the fun in our dining room, and Michael’s capacity for humor and forgiveness. Oh, yeah.

And just so you know, I’ve planned menus beyond July 21st. That's LOVE, baby.

TOMORROW, WE RUN HARD!

Tonight's dinner guarantees FAST run tomorrow!

2010-07-19T19:43:00.015-04:00

Tonight’s little taste of heaven was Petto di Pollo con Indivia Belga e Prugne: Chicken Breast with Belgian Endive and Prunes served with rice and a little crusty bread.

This recipe, as handed down for thousands of years and no doubt polished to high gloss in the test kitchens of La Cucina Italiana by a team of Italian Master Chefs, was perfection itself. Probably.

We'll never know. Bev had to play with it. The rice was beige. The chicken was beige. The cooked endive was beige. So as I plopped the deep purple prunes into the pan one-by-one, I became increasingly enchanted by contrast in color. They started looking pretty sassy to me. I liked their dark moxie. So I added more. Lots more. Without bothering to calculate Pruneage Per Portion (PPP).

Blythe and blatant disregard for the PPP might have been a mistake with apocalyptic consequences according to Michael, our medical professional.

He says that the prune thing is NOT an old wives’ tale and that very likely, being over-pruned will create an interesting challenge tomorrow.

I choose to believe the threat of [that which we dare not speak, for we are Southern] will only serve to motivate us to run faster and perhaps closer to home.

Uh oh. Deepest apologies in advance to Michael and whoever is on the operating table tomorrow … or standing in the operating room beside him … or sitting behind him ... or in his way in the hall …

GOOD NEWS for later this week! Look what I found! Powdered Gerbil at $42.99 a pound.
(I wonder if it’s a diuretic?)

Is rodent Sicilian or Roman?

2010-07-17T16:43:00.009-04:00

Michael is fishing with his buddy Chic in the Gulf for the next two days, so I'm off the hook for cooking tonight. (No pun intended.)

I DID notice that when the boy packed, he cleaned out our refrigerator, which means one of two things: Either he really loves all his Italian food and cannot be parted from it or he's pretty sure they're not catching anything for their dinner tonight. Either way, I'm good with it.

I took the opportunity of his absence to get the grocery shopping done for next week. La Cucina Italiana made my mouth water as I planned meals, but as we've discussed, I have to be meticulously selective. I am unable to find a lot of the ingredients required by these recipes. In fact, I can't even identify them by food group ... or genus ... or planet.

Today I needed chervil. I've heard of it. So in all likelihood, it exists here somewhere. But I have NO clue what it is. Thinking it might be a cheese, I went to Publix Supermarket and exhausted the cheese section. Not cheese. Then I tore up the produce section. Not produce. Finally exasperated, I asked a customer service rep where they stock chervil.

She said (and I'm not lying), "If we have it, it's over near pork. But honey, I don't think we do. Not many people eat gerbil."

I could barely choke out, "Thank you so much."

Somewhere this evening, there's a worker from Publix who thinks I'm just short of a cannibal, for Bev is apparently planning to prepare Sauteed Gerbil con Pomadoro with fava beans and a nice Chianti ... feh feh fehfehfehfeh ...

When I perfect my recipe, I'm sending it in to La Cucina Italiana. Let all those real Italian chefs try to find THAT ingredient! HA!

P.S. Should we serve this with PETA bread???

LONG RUN TOMORROW MORNING!!! (sort of)

Improv, Italian style

2010-07-16T20:40:00.015-04:00

Okay, I'll admit it. Friday nights are problematic. Bev always finds herself in a coma, face down on top of piles and files and undone stuff. Freaking and fretting. Wanting the weekend to get going. Too guilty and exhausted to plan actual frivolity and fun. Knowing that the past week stopped being productive last Monday around 10:00 a.m. and feeling a sort of pressure that borders on the magma buildup under Old Faithful seconds before it erupts, but not in a way that inspires awe. In a way that inspires Xanax.

And to make it all worse, Michael was late getting home tonight.

So Project La Cucina Italiana got off to a really, reallyreallyreally bad start. BUT Bev swore on David's fig leaf that until our anniversary on the 21st, there would be an Italian meal on the table EVERY night without hostility. Amendment to the oath: " ... without (head-spinning, green-pea-soup-spewing) hostility." Okay, I was a little crazed tonight.

Plans went awry as plans do. This called for creativity. Being frugal, I had frozen a crazy-great tomato sauce from the pot roast thing last week. So it went into a fabulous improvisation over angel hair pasta sprinkled with cheese. "Improvisimo"? Good enough for me.

I call it Spa-gotcha. (Look! I'm starting to speak Italian kinda!) Because I dished it up with a flourish and the hovering grace of Aunt Bea, Michael was never the wiser. He didn't know it was a leftover. He doesn't know about leftovers. Remember: Up until a few days ago, he thought popcorn was a hot meal. There is never leftover popcorn.

Michael thinks I was in an apron between 6:00 and 7:30. I wasn't. I went for a run. This sweat isn't from chopping and stirring. It's from lumbering around the neighborhood. But don't tell the man. I like it when his eyes are filled with wonder. I like it when he's ... grateful.

TOMORROW LONG RUN AT DAWN WITH OUR FRIENDS!
SEE YA ON THE TRAIL!

Pasta touted as magic food

2010-07-15T21:27:00.009-04:00

“FOR PMS RELIEF, EAT MORE PASTA.”

The headline jumped right out of Prevention Magazine’s promotional insert in our paper this morning! Once again, Bev is cutting edge. Gotta say …

Referring to the miracles of pasta, the little blurb expounds: “… like magic in soothing PMS symptoms, including roller-coaster hormone swings, up-and-down blood sugar levels, mood changes, insomnia, anxiety, food cravings (especially for sugary, weight-gaining foods) and other PMS symptoms.”

I regard PMS as the perview of amateurs on the Psycho Scale I use to measure my own "bad days," but unwilling to turn my back on claims like this one, I've declared that Michael is less cranky this week; he is not bloated; and I can't spot anything roller-coasterish in his behavior. Is this man lucky or what?

Tonight’s menu: Orecchiette alle Verdure (little noodles I couldn’t find anywhere, tossed with every vegetable grown in Florida). With a half pound of chopped, pureed spring onions as the dominant flavor, we nearly verged on over-scallionage. But with all the red and green, this festive dish was Christmas in July! In fact, I put on Christmas carols and hauled out a few ornaments for table decorations. Nothing says "COOL OFF, KENYAN RUNNER" like plastic holly. Michael has stopped questioning the trappings. He focuses now only on his plate. (This ability to hyper-focus and remain calm at the table is probably a function of his abated PMS symptoms.)

RUNNERS: GO HARD OR GO HOME ... and Buon Natale!

Did Parsley save Rosemary in time?*

2010-07-14T18:23:00.012-04:00

The Goddess of Grigliata announces tonight’s menu:

Grigliata Gamberi e Pomodore con Riso Pilaf
("Portrait of Michael in Rice")

Runner Bev knows you’re getting a little bored with the endless blogging about tackling Italian cooking with olive-oil-soaked recipes printed from the Web site of La Cucina Italiana clutched in my fist, but until our anniversary on July 21st, Michael is getting dinner every night without my usual hostility. It’s a gift. It’s a stretch.

But it’s also novel in our household. And to be runnerish, these dinners are calculated to be part of our running programs. Low fat. High carb. Fresh. Healthy. Nutritionally, this new menu is superior to say … uh … almost anything else I might have come up with for dinner. This is good.

What’s NOT good is that Michael rushes home now after work. This is bad because he’s a Physician Assistant who operates with heart surgeons. I got the feeling tonight that there might be a guy alone, still on the table; Michael mumbled something about a working aorta being highly overrated and duct tape having many uses.

I couldn’t really understand him. His mouth was full.

And here’s what else is NOT good: I designed this project as a gift up to our anniversary on July 21st. What am I going to do on July 22nd? And can Michael come live with YOU?

But angst notwithstanding, here’s what I’ve discovered in the week that we’ve been all Tuscan Sun at night. A happy dinner hour makes for a happy runner family. And that, my friend, is worth peeling all the gazillion little leaves off the bitty twigs of thyme.

RUN STRONG!

*Apologies to Simon and Garfunkle. And many thanks to writer friend Darlyn Finch, who penned this question on a card during a Q&A at one of Paul Simon’s events and passed it to him. She guesses that because he deliberately skipped her card, he had heard the question before. I, on the other hand, had not. I found it HYSTERICAL!!!

Deck the halls with bowls of Farfalle la la la ... la la la la.

2010-07-13T19:29:00.010-04:00

Still on the carbo loading kick. Still pawing through La Cucina Italiana and looking for magic.

Tonight we had Insalata di Pasta con Verdure e Salsiccia. Notice tonight that the new Italian dish's name trips lightly and chef-fortlessly o'er the tongue? Is it that Bev has, in one short week, become so Tuscan that she no longer sees the kitchen as the true Portal to Hell? Or is it that Bev has discovered that Italian wines provide superior hydration for the runner: all the liquid of Gatorade with all the anesthetic effects of Sodium Pentothal (including blabbermouthism)?

Don't ask. Won't tell.

Tonight's fare was interesting, but problematic. The three main ingredients -- Farfalle noodles, zucchini, and eggplant -- are all three completely without flavor. The recipe called for sausage, but I think sausage is evil, so I allowed only a little to sneak into my bag at the market and made it ride home in the trunk. I'm guessing the dish needed it. The tomatoes and basil had to work too hard to drag subtlety over the finish line. My bad.

No problem. I grow bold now. A little creative doctoring turned a confusing whisper of a meal into a PARADE!

Runner Boy's patience was magnificently rewarded. In spite of tonight's momentary delay and adjustment of recipe, he's finally started to trust that dinner IS coming to the table, and it's going to be spectacular (Italian translation: favolosa, leggendaria, mitica, straordinaria, incredibile)! At the very least it's not going to be popcorn.

Tonight I am once again a goddess. But goddess isn't good enough. I want to be a runner. I'm carbo loaded alla Farfalle, but I want to put this load on the road. How is it that the Italians are so thin?

Runner Bev is now officially a goddess.

2010-07-12T20:29:00.013-04:00

Paccheri Imbottiti al Pomodoro. This is Italian for "Bev, you are a freaking goddess."

Michael, with shining eyes, approached the dining table slowly and whispered, "What is this?" I gave him the short version. He looked upon his plate as an altar upon which I had offered up LOVE spelled out in mushrooms.

Sorry. Runner Bev is supposed to be blogging about running. But sometimes running is about food. And sometimes food is about love. This is one of those nights.

The goddess may be the world's worst runner, but tonight she rules La Cucina Italiana without their knowing. Michael knows. And tonight, he is all who matters.

Tomorrow morning we run.

La Cucina di Bev open for business

2010-07-11T16:28:00.018-04:00

Project Cucina Italiana -- total success tonight. FINALLY. Michael actually came to the table willingly and without having to be dragged.

What did Runner Bev put on the table? Mozzerella cheese slices with tomatoes and basil drizzled with Italian dressing, a hunk of bread with bean spread, tiny roasted potatoes, and (drum roll please!) Galletti alla Diavola Affumicati con Frutti di Bosco (translation: spicy smoked chicken with berry sauce from heaven). Oh yah.

Recipe here.

I would hang around to discuss the entire experience and the antioxidantalism of a boatload of mashed berries, but you just gotta look at the pix. Michael really liked this dinner. Really. Liked. This. Dinner. Really.

The man looks unnaturally grateful. Gotta go. :-)

I wanna burn fat, but this is ridiculous.

2010-07-10T22:52:00.012-04:00

The Whartons don’t let their athletes eat. They make us "fuel." They use this subtle distinction in vocabulary so that we will always be clear that food is nutrition with purpose. It’s FUEL for working out. (This keeps us from squandering fueling opportunity on cookies.)

But today the concept of purposeful food intake took a sinister turn as I was putting gas into my car in Orlando and noticed the instructions on the pump for the first time. The word “fueling” caught my eye.

Read carefully with me.

Unless you pat your car before you fuel, you could burst into flames!

So tonight before dinner, I ran out and patted my car and then returned to the dining room table, nervous, but fairly certain that I could avert spontaneous human combustion. (NOTE: spontaneous human combustion is admirable ONLY on the track as you accelerate down the straight-away.)

Yikes. I want to burn fat, but this is ridiculous.

NOTE: I've been in Orlando, so La Cucina Italiana project will resume on Sunday in Gainesville. Stand by for more serious kitchen action. Unless I burst into flames in the meantime.

This runner is now an official Ciao Hound.

2010-07-08T19:26:00.015-04:00

TRIUMPH! La Cucina Italiana and I got food on the table!

Granted, we got off to a rocky start last night. Michael was startled and confused by the sudden appearance of actual food on our dining room table … especially a plattered ball of beef the size of his head smothered in tomato sauce and served with side dishes and real forks.

I’ve spent our entire married life convincing the boy that popcorn IS a hot meal. And last night he realized there could be more. This was a delicate, pivotal moment in our marriage.

Undaunted by Michael’s nervous breakdown last night, tonight I prepared Pasticcio di Ziti. Translation: Ziti baked in some flashy, high drama tomato sauce. Cost: $29.44. Servings: looks like maybe 25 --- I couldn’t lift it. I served it with crisp green salads, crusty bread, and Cabernet.

The cool thing about the Pasticcio di Ziti is that it contains Pecorino, prosciutto, and Parmigiano-Reggiano. I’ve concluded that most any food that starts with a “P” and ends with an “O” is delicious … which is good, because we WILL be eating this again and often. And by “this,” I mean THIS particular pan of Pasticcio di Ziti. Like forever or until we can consume 23 more portions, whichever comes first.

Now I answer the question that hangs in the air: “What happened to the Risotto with Clams, Crusader Bev Who Blames BP Oil for the Eternal Downfall of Clamming?” Simple. I couldn’t find all the ingredients that I needed to prepare the recipe, so my little package of clams became a simple appetizer tonight. The Clam Cram continues, but Bev isn’t driven insane.

And here’s tonight’s question: “O Princess of Shortcuts and Swapping Ingredients, is it true that a dish tastes best when it’s prepared with ALL the real and right stuff?”

Oh, yes, my darlings. Oh, yes, indeed. Tonight I got smootched!

So the next question will be: “How do Italians stay thin?”

I’m guessing that tomorrow’s run will have to be longer and more brutally paced than today’s. At this rate, by the time we get to our anniversary, Michael will be a happy boy and I'll be large enough to command my own gravitational pull. I'm now beginning to understand the long flowing robes favored by Roman senators and the Pope.

-----------------------------

By the way, George Hirsch, marathon runner and publisher of the American edition of La Cucina Italiana, will be here on July 28 to keynote our Anhinga Writers' Studio Summer Workshops. His name doesn't begin with a "P" and end with an "O" ... but our evening with him will be DELICIOUS!

Cooking up trouble

2010-07-07T21:54:00.004-04:00

Greetings from the Kenyan Runner’s Kitchen, where the newly discovered flavors of Italy blend with the goodness of Advil.

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I postponed my intended inaugural Italian meal, Clam Risotto, and prepared instead Ragu Alla Napoletana – roughly translated: “Pot Roast in Tomato Sauce That Cost $68.53.”

Discovering the bait and switch, deeply disappointed friends challenged me on the sincerity of my impassioned case for eating all the clams we can (the “Clam Cram”) before the BP oil gush overtakes the harvest for the next 500 years.

To be honest, after my clam-soapbox, it was difficult to justify my switch to pot roast, and whip up that same impassioned political frenzy over beef. But it’s entirely possible that a cow could theoretically walk into the Gulf, maybe get sticky, and possibly reduce the herd. It’s a reach, I know. The truth is that I simply couldn’t find all the ingredients I needed for the Clam Risotto this evening, and I had a better chance with the Ragu tonight.

Of course, there was a LOT of ingredient-swapping going on. The recipe calls for “lardo.” I have no idea what “lardo” is. It’s not lard, because lard is called by name later in the recipe. It sounds like something that would cause a Wharton’s head to explode, but then again, eating beef would cause a Wharton’s head to explode. So we won’t tell beloved coaches about tonight, okay? In my own defense, I put great effort into making the Ragu Alla Napoletana as non-artery-clogging as I could. Red wine—even 3/4 of a cup in the recipe—is GOOD for the heart. Right?

Michael arrived home to a fragrant kitchen with pots bubbling and Bev halfway through the bottle of leftover red wine, belting out a Puccini aria. While another husband might have been delighted by this sudden passion for Italian cuisine (or any cuisine at all), Michael was instantly suspicious. Sigh. You think you know a man.

He’s still downstairs, ruminating over what just happened. Dare we tell him that Bev is deeply into the magazine La Cucina Italiana now and there’s no turning back? I think my serving clams tomorrow night might kill him.

Thursday’s run is going to have to be a long one with intervals (slow run with short bursts of fast pace). Gotta burn off some of this lardo. And this time, my darlings, we know EXACTLY what it means …

Bev is cooking PASTA!

2010-07-06T21:39:00.012-04:00

Michael thinks I'm a terrible cook. Gotta be honest; he's right. Our dinner table is woeful if left up to Bev, who thinks one should leave the intricacies of food prep to the professionals at Taco Bell. Our anniversary is this month, so in a gesture that can only be described as one part adoration and one part guilt, I vowed to do better in the days leading up to the Big Night. A month of dinner on the table sans hostility is my gift to hubby.

But Bev is not creative. If it doesn't come in a box, Bev panics. You know. You've been reading.

Enter publisher George Hirsch's La Cucina Italiana magazine. The Whartons once told me that if I followed every word published by iconic marathon runner and publisher George Hirsch, I would be a great runner. Okay, George was publishing Runner's World at the time and has since moved on in his illustrious career to publish the American edition of the top Italian cooking magazine in the world, but what the hey. Italian is pasta. Pasta is carb. Carb is for Kenyans. George is George.

I'm in.

This magazine is gorgeous and full of recipes! For my first meal, I've zeroed in on Risotto with Clams. I got a little stuck on ingredients not found in Gainesville ... uh ... Florida ... uh ... on Planet Earth. If anybody knows where a girl can score Carnaroli or Vialone Nano rice, do call.

But unrecognizable ingredients notwithstanding, the CLAMS are the sacred part of this dish. In Florida the clam harvest is in high gear, gathering and salvaging before damage from the BP oil gush takes out the leases in the Gulf just west of here. Who knows how long we'll be able to get them? Everyone is eating them as often as possible now in a collective, tearful, "Good bye." A chowderless world is going to be a bleak one. We want to remember the good times, so we're trying to cram the clams.

Buon appetito! (Translation: Italian-Kenyan for "Enjoy the clams, even if Bev is preparing them").

In George Hirsch's honor, I'll also be running a few extra miles tomorrow morning to burn off the 13,029 calories per serving.

For those of you who think that diving into a plate of Risotto with Clams is an un-Kenyan thing to do, remember that the Kenyan marathon runners train six months out of every year in ITALY. Oh, yes, they do. I know. I've been with them. Well, not WITH them ...

-----------------------------

By the way, George Hirsch will be here on July 28 to keynote our Anhinga Writers' Studio Summer Workshops. Don't tell him about the crack I made about Carnaroli or Vialone Nano rice, okay? I don't want him to think I'm a Philistine. I want him to think I'm a Kenyan who can cook.

Oh, what a tangled web we run ...

2010-06-28T08:24:00.009-04:00

Being the first runner on the trail in the morning is a special privilege indeed. I run on dirt that seems primeval and pristine except for animal prints -- deer and raccoon and something with large paws and claws (the source of which I do not allow my imagination to consider; "kitty" will do).

I glide through clear, soft, cool morning air, lost in thought.

And then suddenly the air is electric around me. Snapping and crackling like a zillion volts of charge exploding across my face, shooting out to either side. Shock and fear grip me. I flail around, trying to save myself.

I have run though a spider web so large and so strong that shattering all the tensile threads of silk is audible and actually slows me down. I'm caught.

It's a typical morning for a Florida runner.

When we are entirely too enthralled with watching our feet (fixated on snake avoidance) and we fail to pay close attention to the air in front of us, we WILL accidentally run through a spider web. It is inevitable. But ... this isn't just any spider web. This is a Florida spider web. Roughly resembling a tuna net. Home to a spider the size of a baseball glove. And he has spent all night weaving his silk across the trail to trap unwary, tasty prey. As a meal, a catch your size is a delight, but you are messier and more destructive than he had counted on. This is why he's now in your hair, pissed off.

This morning BEV was the spider's catch.

The spider and I both survived. He's busy reweaving and repairing his web, still pissed off. And I'm still swatting at every twitch of my body, sure that he's still on me somewhere in spite of a shower.

Today's lesson for the first runner of the morning is this: Watch the trail. The WHOLE trail. Look up frequently. And carry a stick that you can wave in front of you to take down the spider silk as you glide through. The second runner will thank you. And don't worry that all the spiders of the forest trail will begin to recognize you as the webinator that you are ... and they know where you live ...

The Bev Weather Cam

2010-06-25T19:55:00.002-04:00

Bev is obsessed with rain now.

2010-06-21T18:26:00.007-04:00

Tourists who visit Florida have this fantasy that our state is about SUNSHINE! And while the brochures are telling the truth, they often neglect to mention that it rains every afternoon.

It has to. Without an afternoon soak to cool us off, Florida would be like a sweat lodge on the Sahara.

Runners have to decide. If you want to run dry, you gotta go in the morning. If you don't mind the downpour, the day is wide open.

This photo was taken out my front door, and although it's in color, it looks black and white, doesn't it?

I know that this week I've been fixated on weather rather than discussions of running. I can't help it. It's that time of year again. And all runners are attuned to "outside." I love the afternoon rain and the beautiful contrasts in a forest that darkens and disappears into mist, and then reappears in flashes of lightning.

I love being a Florida runner ... wet or dry. Okay, mostly I love it DRY. (Notice I took the photo from INSIDE the house! HA!)

Running on the beach ... does it get better?

2010-06-20T23:10:00.004-04:00

If it's true that a photo is worth a thousand words, I'll spare you detailed blathering on escaping the insanity of last week and finding peace with sand in my shorts at the end of a gentle day.

While Florida can be a harsh place to run (heat and humidity!), it can also deliver a silent, pastel moment that lets you know that all is right with the world. This photo was taken last night right before a half moon rose. I swear I'll never whine about the storms again ... until next time.

FLORIDA: Weather or not we like it

2010-06-18T20:19:00.010-04:00

What part of the large thunder-buster on the right did I not understand when I looked up and smiled on the blue sky and fluffy white cloud???

I had an important appointment to keep, but within minutes, had to pull over and let the monsoon have the right of way ...

... and I wondered what the weather is like where YOU live and run.

Como frijole? How've you bean?

2010-06-18T10:37:00.004-04:00

As we all know, I have been on a fresh food kick for the past month. For a girl who lives in a forest, this can mean almost anything because even road kill qualifies as “fresh food” if you get out there fast enough with your shovel ...

But we’re talking about fresh-off-the-farm VEGETABLES, darlings.

Friend Nete, always looking out for my best interests, signed me up for a bushel of shelled white acre peas at Rogers Farm north of here. Yes. I was REGISTERED for peas. Michael and I had to drive up there and claim them by appointment or risk ticking off the farmers, an agricultural “dis” that I’m sure has consequences involving waking up with a pit bull head in your bed.

Going to the farm for peas was glorious! First, I've never owned a bushel of anything. (Maybe I've owned a peck. But I can’t confirm that; I don’t know what a peck is.) And second, the experience of bellying up to claim MY peas and seeing my name in pencil on a damp list was thrilling.

Anyhow, I got so caught up in the moment, I also bought a bushel of lima beans, which required no registration. Free-range lima beans? This was heady stuff.

I went right to work to "put them up" like Nete taught me. (Yes, freezing lessons.) I even wore an apron. I gotta say. When the work was done, there was something marvelous about admiring a freezer full of vittles that will see ya through the winter. I felt so Earth Mother. So Pioneer Woman. So utterly Little House on the Prairie.

Then I remembered that I don’t actually LIKE peas and beans.

Uh oh.

I wonder if the Kenyan marathon runners’ quest for carbs is this complicated. Is this where we get the term COMPLEX CARBOHYDRATES???

Heart Rate Monitor no longer my fave.

2010-06-17T14:17:00.014-04:00

Every runner is on a quest for The Edge. Often it comes in the form of specialized equipment. I found the ULTIMATE!

Look what the county installed for runners who use the bike path right outside my neighborhood! It’s a state-of-the-art Runner’s Speed Monitor. Using a sensor, the RSM detects the runner and flashes speed up on a digital read-out. How great is that???

As in all technical equipment for athletes, trial and error were required to learn to use it to my full advantage.

I couldn’t get it to record me, no matter where in the road I positioned myself as I raced toward it. But I noticed that it easily detects and records cars. Being an analytical person, I concluded that the sensor might be set to pick up metal. So I covered myself in aluminum foil – a gleaming outfit (with hat) not easy to wear when the temperature is over 100 degrees. And I ran repeatedly toward the RSM.

No dice.

Unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, I knew there had to be a way for me to play with the newfound RSM. I did some testing in my car. Alas. I discovered that the lowest speed the RSM can record is 12 mph. This is a five-minute mile. Clearly, this RSM was developed for the Kenyans. Holy Nairobi, Batman!

Frankly, I am not that good. Yet. So now I have new goals. Hit 12 mph. Light up the RSM. Lose the foil.

It’s a Kenyan thing.

Virtue from the garden!

2010-06-09T11:56:00.004-04:00

Runner Bev is aglow with virtue today.

Friend Nete, who lives in the farming community of Newberry -- just west of Gainesville, has been raiding a neighbor's garden. (She has an engraved invitation, of course. The woman is NOT a felon.) Anyhow, she phoned last night to say that the bounty had been generous and she had a truckload of freshly picked vegetables with plenty to share! WOW! It's been forever since a garden-raider stopped by my door!

Our refrigerator is LOADED with tomatoes, cukes, yellow squash, and green peppers as fat as baseballs.

Our plates runneth over. There is NOTHING so amazing as summer harvest on a runner's dinner table!

And I'm not saying that our menus are not ALWAYS so healthful, but you gotta know that the table is unusual if I'm photographing a salad. And notice the shot is tight. Is this because I cropped out the hot fudge sundae? I'll let you wonder. In the meantime, I'm feeling saintly and organic.

Run is trashed and I couldn't be happier!

2010-06-02T07:57:00.006-04:00

Today is TRASH DAY in my neighborhood (delayed to Wednesday because of Memorial Day). You know how exciting trash pickup is for Runner Bev. It means that the recycling bins were out this morning ... and I spent an hour trotting beside them. As you know, I LOVE the recycling bins. They provide me odd, speed-of-light, sidelong glimpses into the daily lives of neighbors. I never slow down. I never stop. I never stare. I never paw through and study. My rule is that a quick glance from corner of eye is sufficient and will not trigger restraining orders. A neighbor's right to privacy is as sacred as my unrelenting curiosity. Both can coexist.

Knowing small things about neighbors deepens my love and respect for them. This isn't a neighborhood of strangers anyhow. We are brothers and sisters of the hammock, bonded by harsh conditions and occasional disasters that demand that we all pull together with chainsaws and sandbags and generators.

But on most days and for the most part, we give each other space. You don't live out here because you're particularly social. You live out here because you need to align your soul with the deeper rhythms of seasons in forest and swamp. The neighbors are bonuses.

The run this morning was a study in who celebrated Memorial Day weekend with a bash and who celebrated with just his cats.

New place to run

2010-06-01T10:37:00.007-04:00

Memorial Day provided a day and a half at our beloved Cedar Key on the Gulf of Mexico just west of Gainesville. Thought it was a good idea to touch base with Cedar Key and see it one last time before the oil spill reaches its pristine wetlands, clam farms, and abundant, secret fishing spots.

Don't rush, BP. Wouldn't want you to strain yourselves before AUGUST, when you think you might cap the gusher.

Sorry for the rant. I'm in love with the Gulf. It's where I go when my heart is unhappy or when my drained batteries need to be recharged. And I'm majorly confused and increasingly enraged by the Oil Spew without End. Today is the first day of Hurricane Season 2010 ... and I know things that inlanders don't know about disasters on top of disasters, so I'm thinking they should probably cap the well before the next time we see Jim Cantore on the Weather Channel -- sideways rain pelting his face and shredding his slicker as he struggles to remain upright and screams into his microphone from the howling beach at Cedar Key, warning us to vacate Florida immediately. Which could be TOMORROW. Oh, yah. This could get a LOT worse. It will. Mark my words.

But I digress (as I sometimes do).

Because the purpose of this blog is to yak about running, I wanted to let you know that Cedar Key, with soft island breezes and quaint neighborhoods and vast vistas of Gulf, provided a wonderful backdrop for running. A change of scenery can really spice up a workout program. And we have motivation to RUN in Cedar Key. It is populated by teeny winged demons called, "No-See-Ems." These are nearly invisible, entirely weightless insects that plague areas rimmed by marsh. One minute you're an oblivious innocent with a blood supply. And the next minute you're on fire and breaking out in welts. You can't see a No-See-Em, but you can FEEL 'em. Good news. You can also outrun 'em.

My hair looks like a Chia Pet

2010-05-24T14:36:00.003-04:00

Today's Gainesville Sun's cover story was on bad storms a'comin'. Either the news was s---l---o---w last night or these storms are cover-worthy, baby.

When one lives in the world of hurricanes, one tends to regard cover stories on weather as significant.

When will I learn???

I crept out the door this morning and stared heavenward for the entire run, listening for the low roll of thunder somewhere out there. Never happened. But because I was distracted by the possibility of badness and ran with my face in the air, I didn't notice that my ponytail band had slipped off and fallen by the wayside somewhere between headlines about storms and pounding down the dry-as-a-bone path. By the time I realized that the mop had been liberated, it was too late.

My hair frizzed up like a lion's mane. I looked like an albino Chia Pet. Terracotta face. Foo foo head. So lovely.

Today has been glorious and gorgeous. If there's a storm looming, it's going to take its sweet time. I guess it will start to pour just about the time I get my hair washed and dry again.

Shoe whisperer

2010-05-20T09:45:00.003-04:00

I look down at my running feet ... and instead of being impressed by the blur in perfect cadence and balance, I am appalled at how dirty my shoes are. They blend into the pathway so that all I can admire are sock tops. Gleaming white sock tops are not impressive. They make my feet look gone.

You're also thinking that filthy shoes are also stinky, aren't you? They might be. But I'm a Southern woman and we are honor bound by our inherent belle-ness to redefine sweating as "glowing." And for sure "glow" cannot make your eyes water and cause plants to wilt.

Glow notwithstanding, I was able to locate my shoes in the dark this morning. Admittedly, that can't be good.

The shoes are getting a bath today. I gotta tame the game.

Trading a run for something better

2010-05-19T09:48:00.005-04:00

I was out too late last night. Well, I wasn't OUT too late, but I have this quirk about winding down at the end of a wound-up evening. It takes about two hours for me to slow down my racing thoughts enough even to consider sleep. Bad quirk. Requires planning.

Anyhow, I got to bed too late and awakened too late and started my run too late and it was too hot already ... gripe gripe gripe ...

Shaddup, Bev!!! All's well that ends well!

I ended up running into neighbor David, a retired attorney who is passionate and disciplined about walking in the morning. I hadn't seen him in a while, so I slowed the morning down, pulled in beside him, and joined him on a walk that took us on a route I seldom run.

We talked in the companionable way friends do when they're powering down the road side-by-side in shorts. There's something different about conversation on the move. Maybe because it's spoken in shorter bursts of breath, you tend to kind of cut to the chase. Maybe because when you're sweaty, you tend to be more real. Maybe because the conversation enfolds the shared experience of the walk -- sighting a herd of five deer, mediating a standoff between two lawn service guys and an unleashed dog with a serious dislike for men with rakes, and comparing news updates on neighbors as we passed their homes.

I don't know. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I enjoyed it. David is an amazing man with a rich, deep, colorful life. Stealing an hour with him was a great way to begin a day that had every potential for being ugly.

Now, if I could just get over the fact that I didn't run ...

Recycling bins.

2010-05-18T09:51:00.004-04:00

I love running on Tuesday mornings. This is when the recycling bins are put out. In Gainesville, each home has two bins. One for paper. And one for plastic and cans and bottles and stuff like that.

An observant runner with a compulsive curiosity about how other people live can learn a lot from a sidelong glance into a recycling bin once a week as she trots by. I know who reads more than one paper. I know who shops from catalogs. I know who has lots of parties. I know who hates to cook and relies on canned goods for sustenance. I know who has cats. I know who drinks alone. A lot.

But mostly I know that all these homes are occupied by people who are crafting lives the best way they know how. And then courageously, without worrying about what a runner sees, they put their evidence on the roadside. It's touching to me that they are so trusting, so living in the light, so unconcerned about judgment.

I live among good folk here in the Hammock.

Let it rain!

2010-05-17T09:12:00.002-04:00

I waited to run until the thunder got bored and moved on to Georgia. But the rain lingered. And then *I* got bored. So, staring out into the downpour, I decided that I was gonna get all sweaty anyhow and then I was going to shower, so rain was merely redundant. I jumped out into it.

The only downside of running in the rain is that my shoes get wet. And I can’t guarantee that they will dry out before the next day unless I’m willing to throw them into the dryer. But then I have to put up with the thudding for a half hour or so … and I worry endlessly that the heat will degrade the insoles and the shoelaces will come out as macramé.

Oh, the life of a runner can be so complex. For a sport so simple, I make it so difficult.

But running in the rain is a special gift in the steamy swamp where I live. It’s a “Get Out of Jail Free card.” Running in the rain is cool. And the swarming, blood-sucking insects are waterlogged and can’t run me down.

So while the day might seem gray and dreary to a mere mortal, to a runner, today is glorious. I’ll take it! Carpe diem. Carpe towelum.

The DARK side of running

2010-05-12T22:18:00.002-04:00

I had an out-of-town runner with me today at lunchtime. The outsider remarked that Gainesville’s streets and sidewalks were devoid of runners, surmising that the heyday of running here must be over.

HAHHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!! HA!!!

What part of 100 percent humidity, 99 degrees of steaming heat, and radiating black asphalt did this guy fail to consider???

In Florida, only a few runners brave the heat of the day.

Most of us are out just before dawn, when the ambient temperature is the coolest after a night of … uh … no sun. (This is meteorology at its most technical, so pay attention.)

The closer we get to summer, which starts in February, the earlier we rise to try and get mileage in before the sun comes up.

Also, as a nice bonus, some people water their gardens before dawn too. (If they wait until after sunrise, sprayed water evaporates in midair.) So we can do some nice sprinkler-running to stay cool and to look a lot more sweaty than we actually are. We look good. There’s nothing like a soaked runner to inspire awe. In fact, if I lay out my route just right, I can look like a wet rat within minutes, giving the illusion that I have at least ten miles under my belt before I even get warmed up. Walkers move over and give me room. Other runners just wink as they pass and shake out their wet hair. We know what we've done.

Running in Gainesville is fun only under the cover of dark now. Which means that nightlife is getting cut short, and we’re all becoming less fun. But, oh baby, are we getting fast!

You just won’t witness our prowess at noon. At noon, we're tucked into air conditioned restaurants, carbo-loading. Like INTELLIGENT people.

The Gainesville runners' secret revealed

2010-05-11T20:53:00.008-04:00

My home—Gainesville, Florida—is the running capital of the South not because we are populated by the champions from all over the world who sneak down here to train. (They do. Ssshhhh … )

Not because hydration fluids were invented here and we are the home of Dr. Robert Cade and Gatorade. (We are.)

Not because we have the greatest running trails on the east coast. (We do.)

Not because we have the finest sports medicine experts in the country. (The docs all run.)

Here's the truth.

We dominate the sport of running because starting NOW, we are populated by squadrons of savage biting black flies and blood-sucking mosquitoes that leave giant welts … and worse. If runners are slow in Gainesville, we’ll be overtaken by merciless, winged tormentors. There’s a fine line between running and fleeing. So EVERYONE is fast. The minute you step outside the door, you gotta outrun these bad boys in order to preserve your health and sanity. Failure puts you firmly on the food chain. Suffering and disfigurement tend to be great motivators.

And as the Florida heat and humidity encourage blood-letting insectitude, the training gets better and better! By the end of summer, you’re either winning races or are in the care of a tropical diseases medical practice.

I know that I can sometimes sound like a one-runner Chamber of Commerce, extolling the fabulousness of Gainesville. Forgive a proud Floridian who loves the swamp with such passion that I cannot contain my enthusiasm for the virtues of training here.

If you’re interested in visiting and going on a run with us sometime, just let me know. You’ll love it here! I’ll load up on Calamine and Benadryl just in case you fall behind. (Does Nike make a Haz Mat suit???)

The Running of the Pit Bulls

2010-04-29T20:47:00.006-04:00

I went to Georgia to teach writing last weekend. I got caught up in the fun of old friends in new places, and hard work and easy laughter. So even though running was high priority, hedonism overrode my good judgment.

I was in Georgia, staying in a vintage farmhouse that rises from a field of cultured mist at the end of a long drive flanked by trees. I swear I can hear strains of “Theme from Gone with the Wind” as my car inches reverently up to the house. Gracious Plenty Farm is cast with the requisite cow, horse, and small herd of goats. My hostesses, Socha and Andi, note that the animals are not working farm animals. They are large pets masquerading as lawn ornaments.

But I digress.

Their farm is next door to a pit bull rescue center.

Let me repeat.

Pit. Bull. Rescue. Center.

Call me overly cautious, but I deemed it stooooopid to tie on running shoes and head out into the Georgia morning alone in an area where pit bulls might be migrating in search of new digs and a food supply they can outrun.

Even the cow looked nervous.

So I chose to play with Socha and Andi, commune with my fellow writers at the Generations Gallery in Indian Springs, teach, eat, and sleep. No running.

What an undisciplined wussie.

Had I been brave, I might have had my own Ernest Hemingway moment. Spitting in the eye of danger, Hemingway didn't hesitate to hurl himself into Pamplona Running of the Bulls. But I clutched when I had the opportunity to replicate his greatness. Somehow, Butts County Running of the Pit Bulls seemed less romantic and heroic.

In retrospect, I know I missed an opportunity that may never come my way again. I’ll be braver if there's a next time.

Run well, my darlings! Warm weather welcomes us!

We're taking a Marathon Mulligan!

2010-04-16T14:36:00.003-04:00

So far, 2010 has been so insanely horrific that people have stopped asking, “Hey, Bev, how’s it going?” They’re afraid I’ll answer. If you’ve been paying close attention to the blog, you are vaguely aware that I’ve been up to my Floridian elbows in alligators. The blog has evolved into material less about the joy of running and more about the annoyance of whining.

Gang, I’ve decided that we need the running version of a Mulligan. We gotta have a do-over. No year should start like this.

When we launched 2010, I was on a singular mission to run New York.

Derailed completely.

It is said that if you want to hear God laugh, make plans. He must be hysterical about now. Life broadsided me so hard that it knocked me to my knees. Running took a back seat on the Seventh Level of Hell. And then New York rejected me, which in retrospect was probably cosmic retribution for my getting sloppy about running when life went upside down. I committed the unpardonable sin. Runners run, no matter what. And I just didn’t.

As a writer, I sometimes see life in terms of plot and character and outline. I’ve concluded that I need a rewrite here. A new chapter is in order. I’m getting busy, babies! I’ve set my keyboard on STUN!

I’m declaring today to be New Year’s Eve. I’m starting 2010 all over again. Right here. Right now. If it’s true that the manner in which you spend New Year’s Eve is the manner in which you will spend your year, then I’ll be spending the day working hard, the early evening with beloved friends, and midnight running into tomorrow.

Happy New Year, my darlings!

I wish you a year of joy, peace, prosperity, and PRs. Me too. Let's do it better this time.

I'm training for the NYC. Yeah, I am.

2010-04-11T20:21:00.001-04:00

I’m training for the New York City Marathon.

No, not THAT one.

The OTHER one.

I might not be able to run the ING New York City Marathon on November 7, but no one can stop me from training for it. I enjoy having the discipline of a worthy goal, so I’m continuing.

We were all wondering what the REAL Plan B would be after the Ben and Jerry’s melted.

Also, as Phil Wharton reminds me, there’s a marathon somewhere EVERY weekend. Even if it’s in my head.

Run strong!

Salt in wound not enough.

2010-04-08T20:42:00.004-04:00

Got home early tonight from Hospice, so exhausted that I can hardly function. Opened email before collapsing face-first into bed.

Found a second, duplicate memo from the New York Road Runners, reiterating my rejection from the ING New York City Marathon. Ya know. Just in case yesterday's podcast, the rejection on my personal Web application, and this morning's email rejection memo were not enough.

One has to admire how thorough they are.

One also has to marvel that one of the flavors in the Ben and Jerry's collection from last night is NEW YORK SUPER FUDGE CHUNK. One way or the other, a tenacious runner finds a way to do New York.

Salt in wound.

2010-04-08T14:19:00.005-04:00

Just in case I didn't fully understand being rejected yesterday, New York Road Runners sent me an email today to make sure I got it.

"I GOT IT, MY DARLINGS. THANK. YOU."

I know that sounded testy, but I'm sure that's just the Ben and Jerry's Sugar Hangover talking.

Everything is going to be okay, babies. Really. I've learned so much from running the New York City Marathon many times. Maybe there's even more to learn from being rejected by the New York City Marathon! I'm just sayin' ...

Until we can figure this out ...

2010-04-07T21:37:00.006-04:00

Plan B
Transitional Program for Runner Rejected
by New York City Marathon
(Wharton Approved)

New York did not accept me.

2010-04-07T12:46:00.003-04:00

I did not get into the ING New York City Marathon. Following my name, it says, "Not accepted."

You've been with me for months on this ... and have caught the smallest glimpse into the Seventh Level of Hell over the past month, so you know that not being accepted into the marathon is entirely consistent with the Seventh Level. In fact, really, honestly, frankly, would we have expected anything else?

So I know what you're thinking: Bev is going to fall apart now.

No.

We now go to Plan B.

You are intrigued. You ask, "Allrighteee then! What is that, Bev?"

I have no idea.

Just know that I'm okay. Now, following the lottery drawing, I'm going back to Hospice, where I will ponder life, death, and Plan B. Tomorrow, I'll come back to you with Plan B. Prepare to be amazed!

Happy in the Seventh Level of Hell

2010-04-06T11:45:00.004-04:00

Oh! What a beautiful morning!
Oh! What a beautiful day!
I’ve got a wonderful feeling …
… get real … nothing is going my way …

I don’t care. I ran this morning. Like a thief, I surfaced out of the Seventh Level of Hell and snatched the best of the day while no one was looking to take it away from me.

The gift of running is mine. And buddy, I need it.

TOMORROW AT NOON IS THE LOTTERY DRAWING FOR THE ING NEW YORK CITY MARATHON!!! So today is a day of hope and guilty, delicious anticipation. Today, I know that something marvelous is possible!

Tomorrow at noon may prove me wrong, so for right now, I’m hanging onto it. Yes, I am. A miniscule pinpoint of light is brilliant and easy to see in the darkest dark. I’m blinded by brilliance. It’s a wonderful gift from New York … even if it lasts only 24 more hours!

Delusion is a useful mechanism. When all is going wrong, it's marvelous to think that one thing could go right. It might preserve my sanity today. It's been two whole hours since I begged someone to shoot me. See???

Wednesday will come.

2010-04-05T21:36:00.008-04:00

Is it wrong to smile just a little while standing at the window at Hospice? Probably. But the spirit of a runner is unconquerable.

Just beyond the window is a birdfeeder that Hospice volunteers keep full so that every bird in Gainesville knows to come here for lunch. Just beyond the birdfeeder is a small berm. And beyond the berm is a vast, verdant soccer field where children come to play and runners do laps around the edges.

Running is a big part of my life. And now when I am unable to run because of sitting bedside with a beloved in a tough situation, watching other runners snaps me back to sanity. With death all around me, the runners keep me mindful of the cleansing that comes from a good sweat, the heartbeat rhythm of footfall, the power of breath, the joy of freedom when your body is tuned up like a Ferrari, and thinking that Gatorade has no medical purpose; its sole raison d'etre is to hydrate an athlete after a long, hot run.

Tomorrow morning, before I come here again, I’m going to get up extra early, and no matter how exhausted I am, I’m going to run hard even if only for a little while.

The ING New York City Marathon Lottery drawing is in two days. Standing at the window at Hospice, I'm clear that someday life will go on. Someday November 7 will come. And I’ll still be here to claim it.

I’m smiling.

NEWS RELEASE FROM ING NEW YORK MARATHON

2010-04-01T14:07:00.005-04:00

FROM THE NEW YORK ROAD RUNNERS:

For the first time in history, we’re launching the ING New York City Marathon in a live broadcast that you can watch from any computer on 7 April.

Do you want to know whether you’ve been accepted? Tune in at noon on Wednesday, April 7, to find out who’s been selected in the 2010 lottery, including eight entrants announced on air who’ll win VIP prizes. Are you excited about the battle for the New York crown? We’ll also announce the first two professional runners.

Catch the Live Launch
You don’t want to miss the action-packed show. You and your friends and family can tune in from anywhere around the world.

When the show ends, you can log in to your NYRR profile to check whether you’ve been accepted to run on November 7, 2010.

Celebrate in New York with NYRR
The celebration will continue all day and into the night.

Join the experts on April 7 to start planning for the ING New York City Marathon 2010 at the first NYRR Learning Series of marathon season.

Visit our site for soon-to-be released launch parties throughout New York City that will connect marathoners with friends and fellow runners.

We want to celebrate 41 years of running through the five boroughs—don’t miss the action beginning on April 7 and continuing through race day on November 7.

(So, will Bev allow herself to be a little juiced up? Yah. Just a little)

Reporting from over the edge.

2010-03-30T19:39:00.005-04:00

After being faithful to posting regularly for several months, I fell off the planet. I know. I know. Lurkers and curious people who contacted me off blog know that I’m alive.

I want you to know it too.

Prophetically in my last posting, I noted that for everything there is a season.

I am writing this little entry from Hospice, where I’m sitting vigil for a beloved who cannot stay here with us anymore. Her winter season draws to an end.

This journey began exactly three weeks ago with a trip to the emergency room. I continued to run (sort of) and post (scattered thoughts) throughout the first two difficult weeks in the hospital, but when we headed toward Hospice, I dropped away from my morning keyboard and stopped pretending that I could cling to normalcy.

The past weeks haven't been about me, but since my blog is about running, I tell you honestly that running has been dashed on the rocks by grief, long days and longer nights at bedside, lack of sleep, meals that have been eaten out of vending machines, work that’s not getting done, birthday cards I forgot to mail, a garden overtaken by weeds, wet laundry molding in the washer because I can't get it to the dryer, and a household falling apart from neglect.

There will be time later. Another season.

In the irrevocable face of death, I am suddenly clear again on The Essential. Guys, when it’s all said and done, all that matters is love.

Just thought I would remind you too … in case you’re like me and forgot that life is too damned short.

As for running, it will wait a little longer.

I’ll post again when …

Update on actual training and diet. Finally.

2010-03-18T06:56:00.003-04:00

Several of you have asked how I’m doing with my running and my never-ending battle with weight. You want details. Okay, okay. Here’s the official update.

RUNNING: My running was going fairly well until ten days ago when a critical life-event in our family yanked me right down to the floor, where it still has its boot on my throat. It’s going to be this way for a while.

“For everything there is a season” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). The past couple of weeks have not been the Season of Running on Schedule. They’ve been the Season of Trying to Run Every Day and Failing Pathetically.

But just so you don’t think I’m a lost cause, my power as a runner and the disciplines I’ve developed in overcoming fatigue and keeping my emotions in check come in handy as I grapple with real life. When everyone around me is imploding and I’m tempted to cave in, a familiar feeling comes over me. I’m digging down into that wellspring of resolve that we discussed a while back. It’s the Mile Twenty Marathon Miracle Moment, when we learn first and forever to hunker down. "Quitting is NOT an option. We’re runners, doncha know! BRING IT ON!"

WEIGHT: More discussion in April. But for now, know that I’m trimming down right on schedule. I’m not rail thin. I’m not plush and Rubenesque. I’m unremarkable, longing to be remarkable ... but in a good way.

Because my running is now erratic, I’ve dropped caloric intake. Because my psyche is under intense assault, I’ve made sure that my diet supports sanity. In fact, I brushed up on my research last week when I could see bad juju coming down.

There are the obvious dietary suggestions: Easy on the caffeine. Lots of water. Fresh fruit. High quality protein. Frequent, small meals. And chocolate.

What’s this you say, Bev? Chocolate?!? Part of a Stay Sane Diet?

Oh yah. Research indicates that to stay alive in times of extreme crisis, chocolate needs to be in your lunchbox. Chocolate contains tryptophan, an essential amino acid that plays a key role in producing serotonin in your brain. Serotonin reduces anxiety and modulates mood. Chocolate also releases endorphins, the runner’s well kept secret for that inexplicable, happy grin at the end of a long run. It reduces pain and triggers the perception of extreme well being. I did the math, buddy. Chocolate emulates some of the benefits of running surprisingly closely.

And I’m having no trouble buying it. It’s Easter. If you want to find Bev, just look for the woman with a milk chocolate rabbit in her pocket. If both ears are gnawed off, things aren’t going well, but I’ll be fine.

See ya on the trail. Maybe tomorrow.

Only Bev could combine Russian and Zen.

2010-03-17T06:04:00.001-04:00

It is said of Russian author Dostoevsky that he played a little bar game with this friends. Each man would hold the palm of his hand over a candle flame until he could stand it no longer and pulled away. The one who could hold it the longest, won. Dostoevsky was renowned for his ability. When admiring competitors wondered if he didn’t feel pain, he said something like, “Of course I feel pain. The trick is in not minding.”

Running a marathon hurts. Maybe the trick to running one is not minding. “Yah, it hurts. So? Say, could you help me shove this bone back through my thigh and reach that duct tape for me? How’s your momma?”

One of the benefits of maturing as a thinking runner is learning how to plow through killer stuff that would cause a mere mortal’s knees to buckle. But not a runner’s. A runner toughens up on the road, and best of all, is able to carry tolerance for pain of all sorts into real life. Unflinching, we win “candle games” every time. Why? Because we don’t quit.

So how do we actually eliminate the word “quit” from vocabulary? Not easily, but oh so naturally!

First there is DECISION: This is the passive part, where the intellect is engaged. It lays a plan. The runner decides that no amount of exhaustion or pain or despair is sufficient to call a halt to the run. “I won’t quit.”

Then there is CHOICE: This is the active part, where the decision is put into gear. The runner follows through … and runs no matter what. “I am not quittng.” And later, “I didn’t quit.”

The distinction between decision and choice is subtle and Zen-like. But understanding the differences will keep you from looking back on a run that didn’t go your way and wondering, “What just happened?”

Running is about making choices that carry out your decision to tie on your running shoes. If things don’t turn out the way you want, you re-choose—sometimes on a second-to-second basis. Choice is immediate. It’s action. It’s now. You decide to run the marathon—an overarching goal, but you choose to take each step to the finish line. Quitting is not an option.

If you start a marathon with ANY doubt that you will finish, you won’t finish. This comes with an ironclad guarantee.

Okay, enough Wisdom of the Ages, Grasshopper. You’ve thought your running plan over and made your decision. Very nice indeed, but a little too abstract and passive to be truly useful. Now choose, and watch what happens. (You’re gonna love this.)

See you on the trail!

Bev admits the truth. Finally.

2010-03-16T07:37:00.001-04:00

The ING New York Marathon lottery closed at midnight last night. For all of you who refrained from entering the lottery or withdrew your names because you just couldn’t bear to add yourselves to the gazillion runners in competition for the one little number the NYRR might draw for ME, God bless you.

The lottery drawing will take place on April 7.

We shall all now return to Bev’s obsession with a key date … beginning NOW. Everyone, synchronize your runner’s watches! Countdown 33,120 minutes. (NOTE: If your watch is on a Polar heart rate monitor, this is 2,318,400 heartbeats.)

The good news is that I can start being completely honest with you about how magnificent the ING New York City Marathon is. I haven’t lied exactly, but I have been deliberately nonchalant to keep from fueling any misguided enthusiasm that might have led a charged-up runner to think, “Hey, maybe I should run New York too! I’ll enter the lottery with Bev!” That would have been a bad idea. Until today. Now I’ll tell ya the truth: Yes, you SHOULD run the greatest marathon in the world … just not this year when I want to do it.

I know. I know. I know. No one in the history of the world has been more self-centered.

BTW, for those of you who have been following the travails of life on Planet Bev over the past little while, I did run last night. No need for you to come get me now. As they were shutting down the lottery in New York at midnight, I was padding down a dark road in Gainesville, thinking quiet New York thoughts. It seemed an appropriate act of communion.

Running in the grip of distraction.

2010-03-15T07:01:00.003-04:00

I’ve said too much. A reader did the email version of rolling her eyes, declaring that yesterday’s rant was un-Southern and a betrayal of my inherent belle-ness. (Who knew we had The Belle Code"???)

Mea culpa.

Evidently, I am honor bound to rise from the ashes, dust my crinolines off, sew new running clothes from the velvet drapes, stand in silhouette against the sunset sky with wind in my hair, and declare in my very best drawl, “With Gawd as mah witness, …” and then come up with something optimistic.

No offense meant, but WHAT PLANET ARE WE ON HERE, GUYS???

First, I lack ashes and crinolines, but do have Nike and New Balance. Second, makeshift garments might have been stylish for Scarlett, but chafe a runner. We prefer technical clothes. Third, wind in my hair makes me look like Dog the Bounty Hunter in drag. Fourth, I drawl only when I’ve had a glass of wine and I want something.

As for coming up with something optimistic, I CAN do that. And will. Right after I run. Until then, all bets are off, baby. This bad time is reality as real as it gets.

Until I can work out a way to wrap my unrelenting distraction around running to stay sane, I suggest that you join me here by the fire. We’re going to get into a circle, hold hands, and sing “Kum Bah Ya” in honor of the closing of the ING New York City Marathon lottery tonight at midnight.

And then we’re going to tie on our running shoes and make life oh-so-much better. If I have not been able to run by tonight, I’m going to post my address. Come get me.

Musings of a runner who didn't run today.

2010-03-14T20:30:00.003-04:00

New York and the marathon lottery seem very far away tonight. Life here in Gainesville barged in again this week with its demanding, shrieking, clawing, clutching "GET OVER HERE, BEV!!! NOW, MISSY!!!"

Life is like this sometimes. So freaking inconsiderate.

Due to factors WA-A-AY out of my control, I didn't run today.

(I wonder if GUILT is aerobic?)

Say, Bev, you sound stressed, like you could use some healthy on-the-road decompression. Ya think??? It's ironic. When I most need to run, I'm least able. If I could get out there and blow off some of this soul-sucking bad juju, I would be able to stop hyperventilating and start speaking in full sentences. Now, how great and runner-like would THAT be?

The coming week is going to be a bear cat. Without running shoes, it might even be fatal. All runners know I speak truth.

Watched like a hawk ...

2010-03-13T21:22:00.013-05:00

They're ba-ack!

It's officially spring in Gainesville. We know because we hear the hawks calling to each other through the treetops. We see them sailing through the air as they hunt.

And when a familiar couple hooks up, as they do every year, we'll have an overflowing nest of puppy-hawks? ... uh ... hawklings? ... uh ... hawklets? high in the tree right across the road. It's so great to watch them grow from demanding, loud-mouthed fuzzballs into powerful, sleek aerialists.

But mating and establishing this year's hawk-families will come later.

For now, their job is to torment me. Every morning around 10, this magnificent beauty in the photos perches just outside my office window on the second floor, reminding me eye-to-eye that spending the day indoors is just plain nuts. There's a time for work and a time for letting yourself soar free. And while I almost NEVER get that right, the hawk knows what's best for us. (Except for the part about hunting rats; while I know rats probably are delicious, I'm leaving THAT to her.)

BTW, Phil Wharton kicked butt at River Run today in Jacksonville! Email ATTABOY here: http://www.whartonhealth.com/

Marathon Runner’s Public Service Announcement

2010-03-12T07:20:00.002-05:00

As you plan your weekend running, remember on Saturday night to set your clocks forward by one hour. We’re going into Daylight Savings Time. “Spring forward; fall back.”

Now, now. Think kindly upon this springtime, life-wrenching, schedule-shredding, sleep-disrupting, cranky-making inconvenience; it’s intended to save energy … just not yours.

So now our following the Kenyan runners’ practice of “move with the sun” will be messed up for a little while as we all adjust. We need to ask Phil Wharton for another Kenyan training secret in the short term.

As for Phil, he lives in Arizona, one of the two states that do not observe Daylight Savings Time. (Allow me to make you smarter than a fifth grader. The other is Hawaii.) Phil will be on schedule, moving with the sun, while the rest of us are still figuring it all out.

Pop Quiz

Question: Hey, runner, when do we turn the clock back again?

Answer: November 7. Yes! If it sounds familiar, it’s because it’s the date of the 2010 ING New York City Marathon. If you got this right, you get an A. If you pictured Bev in New York on the starting line on time that morning, you get an A+.

Group hug, even if you’re sweaty.

Why We Run: Reason #8,739

2010-03-11T07:15:00.012-05:00

I have spent the last two days sitting in a hospital at the bedside of a friend in deep trouble. There is nothing like time spent staring at needles and tubes to put perspective on health, fitness, wellness, and the lovely normalcy of life when ya just live it without giving a thought to all that could go wrong. Sometimes it is in a hospital that we see some of the most dire consequences for decisions that probably were not our best and reap the benefits of those that were.

I also discovered about myself that I've become much more Southern than I thought a Hawaiian could. I found the blunt discussions of bodily functions to be ... uh ... unseemly and frankly too personal for a gentleman caller (uh ... this would be The Surgeon) to be asking of a lady (his suffering patient). I know I know I know. You don't have to tell me how ridiculous it is to recoil. In my own defense, I will tell you that no one is aware of the Scarlett O'Hara mentality but me. I have remained stoic and silent throughout, although I DID Google "the vapors" when I got home this morning, just in case I have to explain having to swoon onto the couch with a lace hankie pressed to my forehead at the next discussion of poopage. (How un-marathon-runner-like will this be???)

I'm home now for a few hours, trying to catch my breath and catch up on sleep and work. But before I do anything, I'm going to tie on my running shoes and go out for a little while to reestablish the simple rhythms of footsteps and raindrops. It's been a bad month in terms of brutal reminders of mortality ... and worse (yeah, there is worse). Running has saved my sanity. Sort of. And believe me when I tell you that MY running has also saved the sanity of other people who could not have endured me.

And this, my friends, is Why We Run: Reason #8,739.

Reasons #1 - #8,738 are "To Run NYC Marathon on November 7."

I wish you an amazing day (with nary an attack of the vapors).

Shifting time.

2010-03-10T00:27:00.001-05:00

Both Jim and Phil Wharton have phoned to check on me in the past two days. Each asked the only question worth answering: “How’s your training going, Bev?” (They are professional enough to suppress the urge to choke on the word “training,” although my lumbering down the road only loosely qualifies.) When anybody but a Wharton asks how it’s going, I feel compelled to respond with something confident and runner-like: “Awesome! All systems GO! New York! WHOOO HOOOOO!”

But with Jim and Phil, I feel safe in admitting that the eternal struggle of holding life together has been made more complicated by adding serious running into the mix … and as a consequence, training seems ragged and uneven right now. Phil was right when he wrote in his blog that time is the greatest difficulty in fitness.

For every big thing you add into your life, you have to let something go. Time is finite. You cannot create more. You can only reallocate the hours you have. The conundrum of training on this level is that very soon it will demand sacrifices I have not yet figured out how to make. Something will have to give, but what? And until I make some difficult choices, how will I keep it all together?

Tactfully, neither Jim nor Phil responded to my sniveling with something insane like, “Don’t worry if the training hasn’t come together, Bev. You probably won’t even get accepted into New York anyhow! Pppfffttt … your chances are zip. That lottery’s gonna look like the full U.S. Census with the entire population of Kenya thrown in for good measure. There are only, like, 46 open slots for the starting line. Do the math.”

Hey, I know all this. I’m not stooooopid. But hearing it out loud would send me right over the edge, running shoes and all.

Instead, the Whartons ignored the horrifyingly self-evident and continued the coach-runner strategizing that keeps a girl filled with hope and Gatorade, and on the road—all the way to New York on November 7th.

We’ll figure this out. I’m very clear that any adjustments in the Time-Space Continuum required by serious training will be rewarded beyond human imagination. I’m well acquainted with the riches that running brings. Besides, there are PLENTY of things I can sacrifice to free up more time. I’m just thinking out loud here … laundry comes to mind …

Hey, New York, get ready! Here I come! One more time! YA HEAR ME???

Phil is coming to Jax!

2010-03-09T06:17:00.012-05:00

The One and Only Phil Wharton is coming off the mountain in Flagstaff and flying to Jacksonville, Florida to run in the elite field of the Gate River Run 15K next weekend!

You’ll be able to follow the race and get results through the Internet and the Florida Times-Union.

But here's something you will not find in the news services.

Phil is flying from Arizona to Jacksonville early to work at the end of this week in an inner-city children’s fitness program.

He’s a teacher. He’s a coach. He’s a prophet. When he stands up and speaks about fitness, his passion whips stagnant air into tornadoes. He can actually levitate the most stubborn, diehard sloth right off a couch. Before the poor schlub even realizes that he’s vertical, he’s canceled his sloth-subscription to TV Guide and is frothing at the mouth to exchange his remote control for a pair of running shoes. “Please! Anybody! Where’s the nearest Sports Authority???”

Everybody has fun when Phil’s around, but especially kids. They’re as crazy about Phil as he is about them. Phil and Jim Wharton donate a lot of their time to kids’ fitness programs, trying to ensure that the next generation will enjoy phenomenal health and fitness throughout their long lives.

If I can rearrange life on Planet Bev, I’m going to play hooky and sneak up to Jacksonville for an hour to watch Phil work his magic. Kids aren’t the only ones crazy about Phil.

Awards and rewards.

2010-03-08T01:20:00.001-05:00

And the Oscar for Best Actress in the Role of “It Doesn’t Matter if My Name is Not Drawn in the NYC Marathon Lottery” is …

Wait for it … Wait for it …

We watched the Academy Awards presentations last night for a while. Nearly went snow blind from glitz and camera flash. Nearly slid into a diabetic coma from sweetness in acceptance speeches. Nearly stress-fractured bones in the palms of my hands from applauding excellence and hard work.

This is as it should be always. Great work deserves great honor. Every dog has his day, baby!

It got me to thinking about running in the dawn when no one but you knows you’re out there. Silent and secret, the run is excellence for its own sake. Sometimes it’s even perfection. It contains all the drama and comedy and pathos of the most complex script. An entire life—all that a runner is or ever will be—can be played out within one single hour. But no one else knows. When the run is complete, there is nothing left behind in evidence except a wet towel and private satisfaction in knowing that on this day, you did it. Again.

Runners of the dawn deserve standing ovations and golden statues. I think we should form a committee and show up at each other’s doorsteps from time to time to celebrate quiet greatness.

And then we should run once a year through the five boroughs of New York, where our standing ovation goes on for 26.2 miles. Our carpet isn’t red, but it’s there and it will get us over bridge grating. No one will ask “who” we’re wearing; our clothes and shoes are plastered with familiar logos. As for golden statues … well, each of us would rather have a medal on a ribbon at the finish line of the ING New York City Marathon, right?

See ya in New York, you winner, you!

Five pounds by Easter! Easy!

2010-03-07T08:12:00.001-05:00

I was browsing magazines in a particularly slow checkout line at the grocery store yesterday. One of the covers tried to seduce me with a promising article on diet: “Lose five pound by Easter!”

Hey, that sounds good to me! I’ve had my eye on that same magazine for two weeks. But I think I’ll wait one more week before I buy it, read the article, and deploy their genius method for losing five pounds by Easter. Wouldn’t want to rush this. In fact, if I don’t buy it until the end of the month, I will STILL lose the five pounds. The magazine cover says so.

Seriously, I am appalled by how gullible we humans can be when we’re desperate.

And I’m even more appalled that I’m thinking that this magazine MIGHT have the solution to my weight problem. And that I can wait until even the day before Easter …

Laying claim to the morning.

2010-03-06T07:43:00.001-05:00

It’s a beautiful spring weekend, but I’m behind on my work, so while the rest of Gainesville cavorts (yes, they cavort; it’s FLORIDA!!!), I will be chained to my desk for the duration, trying to make up for time lost to life’s most non-negotiable demand.

This is punishment.

This is penance.

But I know the work will go better if I run first, so I slip the bonds of indenture and sneak out into the cool morning air … before guilt can bag and tag me, and drag me back into servitude.

If I lay claim to the best of the day, then the rest of the day doesn’t need to be mine really. I love being a runner. I hate being a grownup. I strike a deal.

I wish you a great weekend! Whatever you do, throw in a little extra fun … for me, okay?

Suspending the suspense.

2010-03-05T08:23:00.005-05:00

I’m about to disappoint you bitterly. I’m so sorry. I whipped us all into a collective frenzy of excitement over the lottery drawing on March 15 for the New York City Marathon, but ...

It’s not happening.

Sorry that had to be blunt and brutal. I think it best to deliver bad news swiftly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid on the count of two.

I went to the Web site of the New York Road Runners last night to find out what time they will announce the Marathon Lottery Chosen Ones. Bad news. I made a mistake. The lottery closes at 11:59 p.m. on March 15, but the New York Road Runners will not draw that night. They’re going to wait until “late March.”

I’m going to stop the countdown because I have no way of pinpointing “late March.” I will resume obsessing every day after March 15 … until.

I wonder what the New York Road Runners will be doing with all the lottery applicants’ forms between March 15 and “late March.” Thousands and thousands of games of Rock, Paper, Scissors? I know they're the most experienced in the world at marathon administration and totally know how to manage their lottery, but I can't help feeling sorry for them. When I signed up in early January, my lottery number was OVER 500,000. More than two months later, the mind reels.

I know it might have appeared to the outside observer that Bev had gone a little psycho over the 15th. But I remind you that I'm a rough, tough marathon runner ... much more in control than that. In fact, I am Zen-like in my serenity. "If a runner falls through the cracks and no one draws her name, was she still running?" Let us remind ourselves, Grasshopper, the treasures of marathon training are like a million hidden jewels embedded within many, many months of hard work and discipline—not within the ONE day of running on November 7th in New York.

You didn’t believe that any more than I did when I said it, did you??? I just spewed Diet Coke all over my keyboard. Let us laugh hysterically together!

Stalked by death on the run.

2010-03-04T06:57:00.006-05:00

As a Florida runner, I have looked death in the eye many times on the trail. And still I run.

Alligators, snakes, spiders, hurricanes, tornadoes, stuff that drops out of trees, poisonous insects and plants, men with evil intent lurking in shadow, wild animals, vicious dogs, deep sink holes that open up suddenly and swallow whole sections of trail in seconds …

All of it is child’s play in the face of the new peril that prowls paradise.

Pigs.

San Felasco Hammock State Preserve and our neighborhood in the forest have been invaded by pigs. Thousands of them. Evidently pigs find each other attractive, so there’s a whole lot of pig-love going on. By my calculations, they begin breeding when they’re a month old, their gestational period appears to be maybe a week and a half, and the minimum litter of piglets numbers about twenty. Their population is multiplying exponentially like a science experiment gone insane. I might find the plethora of pork perversely fascinating if it was happening somewhere other than here. But frankly, we already had enough to contend with. (Remember January and the comatose iguanas?)

At first, the occasional pig-sighting was novel. The Hammock dwellers tolerated them benevolently.

Then the pigs became annoying.

The Hammock dwellers installed impenetrable fortresses around well pumps and air handlers and the few surviving plants.

Then the pigs upped the ante with back-hoe-bulldozer-chainsaw-bush-hog destruction, trenching and deep rutting every night until we now dread the revelations of daybreak.

The Hammock dwellers hired professional trappers and maybe broke up some close-knit pig families with the Porcine Relocation Program.

And now the pigs have turned murderous. This week a hapless dog was attacked and nearly disemboweled by a sow.

The Hammock dwellers sounded the official neighborhood warning: The pigs are ticked off. They’re out to kill.

Uh oh. So now when I run, I round each blind corner more mindfully. My fear is that somehow the pigs know that some of the neighbors had bacon with their eggs for breakfast, and they’re out for revenge. Could this be the dawn of retribution?
COUNTDOWN TO THE ING NEW YORK CITY MARATHON LOTTERY DRAWING: 11 DAYS

Lottery countdown strategy taking shape!

2010-03-03T06:57:00.007-05:00

The drawing for the 2010 ING New York City Marathon lottery is on March 15. We all have that date marked on our calendars as the day that Bev will be accepted into the marathon, don’t we? The pyrotechnicians have been hired? The caterers have been called? Right?

Just making sure that we’re all together on this ...

ATTENTION! MARATHON RUNNERS OF THE WORLD! If you have not already entered your name into the lottery, do NOT do it now. The lottery is too packed, and I need the New York Road Runners to find and draw my one little name from among the gazillion applicants.

If you enter now, and you get in and I don’t, you’ll have to live with that guilt forever. I care about you. Really. Personally. I don’t want you to live with the grief of knowing that you ruined my life. At the very least, you will not enjoy the marathon at all. You’ll see my face in the crowd of spectators at every turn and you’ll wonder how I got everywhere before you did … with my black veil and all.

If you have already entered the lottery, withdraw your name now. Save yourself this pain.

If you email me proof that you either have refrained from entering or have withdrawn your name, I’ll send you the list of all the great marathons in the world that will make you happier than New York ever could. That’s how much I care about you. Really. Personally.

And if you bought into ANY of this, I have bridge I want to sell you for cheap. Nah. Not the Brooklyn Bridge again. This time it’s the Verrazano Narrows.

COUNTDOWN TO THE ING NEW YORK CITY MARATHON LOTTERY DRAWING: 12 DAYS

Marathon Cooking School

2010-03-02T07:21:00.005-05:00

This morning we begin serious discussions about a runner’s kitchen and training table. We need to put recipes into our collection that meet the unusually high demands of marathon runners’ bodies.

Applying the artistry of a chef with the precision of a scientist, we must prepare food that’s delicious, nutrient-dense, clean and pure, organic if possible, and perfectly balanced in carbohydrates, proteins, and fats.

Unfortunately, I have no time to eat, let alone cook, so the first dish we’re going to prepare together is “Rice Cakes.” I saw that smirk on your face. Stop! If it makes you feel better, I’ll go all Food Channel on you: Gâteau de Riz Pour le Marathon.

Most rice cakes are free from additives, so what you see is what you get. Rice. In a cake. No need for second-guessing: “Say, is irradiated, genetically engineered, butylated hydroxytoluene with heptyl paraben as tasty as it sounds?”

The humble rice cake does the job of holding a “sandwich” together or hosting an open-face as well as toasted bread. So here’s the genius part: Keep the other ingredients righteous. Smear on a little almond butter and pureed fruit spread or sliced banana. Or try avocado and cilantro and a whisper of chopped Spanish onion. Make right choices, slap ‘em on top of a rice cake, and you’ve got yourself a quick grab-n-go meal that’s FUEL … and as a bonus, moderate in calories.

(IMPORTANT NOTE: In reference to yesterday’s posting, putting Girl Scout cookies on a rice cake causes entropy. Do NOT attempt this at home. Leave it for trained professionals.)

COUNTDOWN TO THE ING NEW YORK CITY MARATHON LOTTERY DRAWING: 13 Days

Cookie Alert!

2010-03-01T06:29:00.005-05:00

With my New York City Marathon training now ramping up into a fairly respectable base (by Bev standards), March is the month for achieving a virtuous training table. With a double-pronged approach to trimming down the muffin body—working out like a crazy person and eating right—I have to see some weight drop as mileage and intensity of workouts increase. Repeat: I have to.

And I know this is going to be reallyreallyreally hard because the Girl Scouts are now on their omnipresent cookie campaign and I’m a sucker for any cause that develops amazing girls into amazing women. I can’t tell you the heroic personal sacrifices I’ve made over the years on their behalf. Thin Mints. Samoas. Tagalongs.

This year I’m bribing the tenacious Scouts and their beleaguered mothers with generous checks to gather up their cookies and back away from the runner slowly …

Looking good! But why?

2010-02-28T07:14:00.006-05:00

The Closing Ceremonies in Vancouver are tonight and the flame will be extinguished. I’m really going to miss the games. As a runner training for the New York City Marathon, there have been many lessons to learn from the past two weeks.

There were the heaven-sent moments of courage and inspiration, when athletes dug deeper and reached higher than anyone knew a person could. I took notes.

But the most important epiphany I gleaned from the Games is that as an athlete, you gotta look good. Really good.

I picked up this little gem in NBC’s sidebar feature on the American team’s headquarters, an impressive “home away from home” in the Olympic Village. The reporter skipped the dining hall and workout facilities I HOPE were there and zeroed in on a fully staffed hair and makeup studio the size of Madison Square Garden, occupied not by figure skaters and ice dancers whose sparkle is their signature, but by … others.

Say it ain’t so!

I always thought that a runner (or any athlete) was never more beautiful than when he or she had just finished getting the job done. Hair hanging like a Rastafarian in a monsoon. Singlet splattered with Gatorade and other fluids we don’t even want to know about. Drippage. Face red. Eyes hollow. Completely spent. Possibly nauseous. Totally gorgeous.

But after Vancouver, I know I was dead wrong. At the end of events, athletes gotta look red-carpet-good as though the effort of sport exacts no cost, takes no toll, leaves no trace. Is this even possible without the vast talent of NBC? And if it is possible, why would we think the illusion is important or care?

(Note to self: Buy waterproof mascara and spray-on bronzer. Add Glamour magazine to subscription to Runner’s World. Marathon training is becoming freaking overwhelming.)

It's cold. It's drizzling. It's perfect.

2010-02-27T08:19:00.002-05:00

It’s cold in Gainesville this morning and I’m jumping-up-and-down excited!

Before I continue, let me attempt to soften appalling insensitivity. I sincerely apologize to all living creatures north of here. I understand that Gainesville’s cold is not “real” cold … and that your cold is. I know it’s no fun at your house. And in your eyes, Gainesville is downright balmy. If it makes you feel any better, it's drizzling.

But I’m excited and I can’t help it. When it’s cold in Gainesville, it’s the rarest gift for a runner. If I close my eyes on my run this morning, I can pretend it’s November 7th in New York and I am rounding Columbus Circle and nearing the finish line in Central Park. (Note to self: Keep NYC fantasy brief. Open eyes before I slam into a parked car.)

So, I’m so sorry for all the rest of you. But a guilty little part of me is quietly celebrating here in Gainesville. Cold day. Warm heart.

I wish you all a great weekend. Stay cozy.

My clothes tell the truth.

2010-02-26T06:43:00.007-05:00

A little while ago, I spoke with America’s Dietitian, Kathryn Parker, RD, LD, about why people (uh, like Bev) sometimes have trouble getting control over food plans and how we distinguish between "enough" and "too much of a good thing." She stunned me with the simplified science for which she is well known. She hurled a famous Parker Lightning Bolt:

“With food, the difference between what you NEED and what you WANT is what you’re wearing.”

Don’t tell Kathryn, but in the back of my closet, I keep a small, secret stash of favorite clothes that haven’t fit forever. They are from a time when I understood that food was fun, but mostly it was fuel for training. I ate what my athlete’s body needed.

The clothes in the front of my closet, the ones I wear now, are chosen to cover mounds of too much “want.” When I stopped running and fell off the wagon, I landed in a pile of caloric goo that softened the landing and my midriff at the same time.

Losing your grip on the basic truths of food is a slippery slope, pal. Once I began that slide, no amount of clawing and clutching could stop it. I live in the South, where mayonnaise appears to transform any food into a culinary candidate for the cover of Gourmet magazine, where barbecue is a sacred art form, and where life is so fast paced that it’s acceptable to grocery shop at a gas station on your way to or from something (anything) more interesting than cooking.

I prayed for a bottom. Pleasepleasepleasepleasehelpmestop!!! I had nightmares about firefighters having to chain-saw through the wall of our den to remove me with the Jaws of Life and a crane while a documentary team shot video of Richard Simmons weeping and holding my hand and assuring me that we would get through this together.

But no. Hitting the bottom was far less dramatic.

I quietly bounced off it in October in Central Park as I stood and watched the New York Road Runners build their finish line for the 2009 New York City Marathon—when I remembered that I am a marathon runner and this is my marathon.

If what I’m wearing matches my NEED, then to get there, I’ll wear running clothes.

Thanks, Kathryn. We don’t call you America’s Dietitian for nothing.

The braid is to blame.

2010-02-25T06:19:00.002-05:00

I braided my hair into a long, neat plait in the back to keep it out of my face this morning.

And my run fell all to pieces.

No, I’m not superstitious. I’m not suggesting that changing my “do” brought bad juju down on me. But for sure, the braid is to blame.

I realize this morning that I run to the soft rhythm of a ponytail. Long and swishing, the ponytail helps me keep my pace steady and relaxed. The braid, on the other hand, was a little tyrant, constantly tapping me on the back, insisting that I pick up the pace: Get faster. Go harder. Come on. Come on. Come on.

I dread to think what a bun would do. I would probably just stand in the driveway for an hour, prim and paralyzed.

Note to self: Add “hairdresser” to list of coaches and consultants. I’ve always known that little things make huge differences on a 26.2-mile run, but marathon training is more complex than I remember.

Alice in Runderland

2010-02-24T07:11:00.005-05:00

I'm training for the New York City Marathon! Am I going to be able to pull this off? Why the sudden question? Am I merely out of practice in believing in impossible things?

Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said. “One can’t believe in impossible things.”

“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

—From Alice in Wonderland

I forgot to run.

2010-02-23T07:27:00.006-05:00

This morning I discovered myself WALKING! I honestly thought I was running. But no. I evidently just simply forgot to run. Whoops. When my wandering attention snapped alarmingly back into sharp focus, I looked down and suddenly noticed my feet in mosey-mode. The pavement wasn’t a blur. Heck, I could count grains of sand on the road … and had plenty of time to do it. No sweat. No panting. No messy hair. No damp, red face. No runny nose. No dripping mascara. No righteousness of a runner. Just meandering down the road, thinking lah-dee-dah thoughts (if there were thoughts at all). Maybe I was even humming some lah-dee-dah song.

What madness is this? I’m on a singular mission to freaking train for THE New York City Marathon. I’ve got only a few months to hammer this out.

And I FORGET that I’m running???

Oh, this cannot be a good sign.

This is a tragic reversion to the undisciplined life of a couch dweller that uses forward momentum on foot to get from the den to the kitchen and back during commercials.

This can’t happen ever again.

I don’t know how I’m going to guarantee focus, but I’m thinking an iPod cranked up full barrel, a Rent-A-Runner partner with a bullhorn and a tazer, the neighbor’s evil tempered dog Rommel unleashed by agreement on certain mornings, and a commitment to run only in driving rain (with lightning) might be involved. I can never again allow the mind to wander and take the feet with it.

We all know that the marathon is largely mental, but we don’t want to underestimate how important … uh … actual running might be. I’m just saying …

When youth is no longer on your side ...

2010-02-23T06:28:00.004-05:00

The Olympics have delivered one more lesson. During one of the skating events this past weekend, the NBC commentator said of a couple's particularly ebullient performance, "Youth is on their side!"

Is youth always an advantage in sports? Well, yeah. Pretty much.

I made a short video of my running yesterday by placing my little camera on the ground and running away from it so I could see my foot strike. I ran far enough that my entire body entered the frame. When I went to study the video, I made the HUGE mistake of accidentally playing it back in slow motion for a few seconds.

I'm not going to describe it. I'm just going to tell you that it took me an hour to come out of the fetal position. I have no idea what's wrong with my foot strike. I never got that far. Who cares??? Forget that I no longer have youth on my side. I'm now far more concerned about age on my butt.

But the marathon is a sport where being a little older is okay. In fact, it's possible for an older marathon runner to finish ahead of a younger runner because judgment factors heavily into covering 26.2 miles and with age comes wisdom. I've seen a lot of young lions who went out too fast and imploded too many excruciating miles from the finish. And I've seen older runners who designed tactical races that to the casual observer, might have seemed reined in at the start, but were calculated for negative splits and guaranteed finishes.

Success in a marathon depends on two things: superlative, meticulous training and judgment. As I said a while back, the marathon is a great leveler of people. And while youth is an advantage, maybe chronological age is less a factor than your ability to put all the pieces together wisely.

And maybe you should NEVER shoot video of yourself running from the rear. Ever.

Second chances and heroic comebacks.

2010-02-22T06:53:00.001-05:00

I am drawing heavily from the Olympic Games for inspiration, watching carefully for stories of second chances and heroic comebacks. Fortunately for me, there are plenty!

But the Games have also taught me that second chances and heroic comebacks are hard won. By carefully listening and watching the athletes of snow and ice, I've reconnected to The Rules.

* Work hard every day. No. Harder.
* Let your mistakes be lessons.
* Fear nothing.
* Believe.
* Pull out the stops.
* Rip down the limits.
* Play full out.
* Finish with nothing left.
* Keep your team close.
* Remain humble and gracious as you grind your opponents into the tundra. The press will think you're adorable.

Even though Florida is a long, long way from Vancouver, I'm drawing energy from the winter people.

And speaking of winter people, here is a photo of my coach Jim Wharton in Central Park last week. I think he's training for the Alpine Super-G Back Stroke. Looking good! Go, Jim, GO! Strong finish!

"We believe in women."

2010-02-21T14:40:00.001-05:00

I found a back issue of Runner’s World last night: November 2005. It was the introduction of Mary Wittenberg, then the new director of the New York City Marathon. In the article, she is quoted as saying, “This is our statement: We believe in women.”

Good on ya, girl! Me too!

I ran New York for the first time in 1984, the same year that the Olympic Games hosted the first women’s marathon. The gold medal was won by American Joan Benoit in her white painter’s cap. My mom and I watched together from her hospital bed in Virginia. She knew I had entered the New York Marathon for later that fall and was fairly certain that I had lost my mind. But watching Joan Benoit cross the finish line, she suddenly saw the potential of a hardheaded, hard-driving woman in running shoes. My mom, of a genteel generation that regarded sweat as the exclusive purview of men, acknowledged, “Maybe a woman running a marathon is possible … even for you.”

She died a few days later. I think she was a little amused and kind of proud of me for thinking I could do such an outrageous thing. I carried her (and Joan Benoit) in my heart when I ran that New York.

In some ways, returning to running after a few years off is harder than starting from scratch. My head has expectations that my body cannot meet right now or maybe ever again. But that’s okay. I think I’m going to get myself a white painter’s cap and lock onto the “possible.”

See ya in New York!

Poetry in motion

2010-02-20T19:51:00.000-05:00

This morning, poetry found its way through the rhythm of running. I didn’t say it was GOOD poetry. I just said it was poetry.

ODE TO THE QUIET INSANITY OF MARATHON TRAINING

Feet hit the floor.
My body’s sore.
I’m out the door
Cuz I want MORE!

Please save your applause for the finish line of the 2010 ING New York City Marathon, where I will welcome your standing ovation for my athletic prowess and poetic genius. I might even compose another poem during the marathon ... if I can find a word that rhymes with DOES THIS MYLAR BLANKET MAKE MY BUTT LOOK FAT?

Hope your weekend is going great. See you on the road!

A great coach talks about fun.

2010-02-19T07:00:00.000-05:00

As I’ve told you, on weekends some of the Gainesville runners gather at a local bagel shop after we run. Last weekend, Thomy stopped by our booth and slid in to talk for a few minutes. In addition to co-owning a cycling shop, Thomy is also an accomplished marathon runner. And in addition to being an accomplished marathon runner, he’s also a coach for boys’ and girls’ high school cross-country and track teams. He sometimes shows up for bagels accompanied by a happy gaggle of sweaty, starving teenage athletes after they’ve worked out or raced.

But I digress ...

One would think that a man who cycles, runs, and coaches would take his sports so seriously that his chosen topics of conversation would be confined to all things technical.

One would be wrong.

Coach Thomy talked about fun. Of all the good things running is, the best is that it’s fun. We enjoy it. We’ve never been sure whether running attracts great people or attracts ordinary people and makes them great, but it doesn’t matter. We decided that either way, the net result is a solid human connected to joy.

We talked about all the friends we’ve made through running, and all the couples that have met on the roads and married and now have children, some of whom are almost grown up and are runners too. (By the way, Thomy’s wife is also a New York City Marathon runner and their daughter is on one of his teams.)

In Gainesville, marathon running has created a community of fit, happy friends who have maintained tight relationships for decades now. Some have moved away, but have never left the fold. They have merely expanded the geographic reach of our family of friends, and wear our familiar Gainesville tee shirts in other places now.

Our lives are measured not by years, but by miles on the road. Our bond is not one of blood; it’s one of sweat and Gatorade … and probably good bagels and cream cheese (low fat, of course).

Thanks, Thomy, for never losing sight of fun. Joy is the Holy Grail far beyond any finish line. Good coaches know about running. Great coaches like you know what running is about.

Rain.

2010-02-18T13:12:00.000-05:00

“Into every life a little rain must fall.”

Rain fell into my life this week, but it wasn’t “a little.” It was a deluge so overwhelming that it required an ark for survival. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the memo that I would need an ark. I didn’t have time to get out my hammer.

Life is forever changed. I am a runner, so instead of dealing with catastrophe by doing things that will surely land me in the Betty Ford Center, I’ve decided to try to “run it off.”

We all know that there are situations in life that no amount of running can fix, but we also know that a few miles on the trail can knock the jagged edges off sorrow … even if only for a few minutes. And those few minutes might be the beginning of healing. Maybe.

The problem is that I run in the morning before work. There’s an irony here. Running reduces stress. But I’m not stressed before dawn. I’m asleep. This is the only time I’m NOT stressed. The minute I awaken, I'm plunged back into the reality of here and now.

This cycle is a Catch-22 I need to resolve if I am to have any expectations at all. I’ll give it thought while I run this week.

Guile!

2010-02-16T11:26:00.000-05:00

Last night NBC announcer Bob Costas described the sports of the Olympic winter games as, “Artistry, speed, and guile.” I loved that. Wouldn’t every athlete—even a marathon runner—want his or her performance to be described in those terms?

I would!

It has been said that I bear an eerie resemblance to Sasquatch when I run through the forest, so I think “guile” perfectly describes my style and speaks to my aspiration to run the New York Marathon again.

I am one-third of the way to meeting the Olympic standard already!

Therefore, it is with pleasure and pride that I announce that immediately following my triumph in the 2010 ING New York City Marathon, I will begin training for the women’s marathon trails for the Olympic Games in London in summer 2012.

See? I told you. Guile.

Bev goes into sports broadcasting.

2010-02-15T08:40:00.000-05:00

Training for the hills of New York City might challenge most flatlanders. But not one in Gainesville. The University of Florida Athletic Association generously opens the Gator football stadium to the community for training. Doing stadium steps is a killer great workout. I take you for a few-second video peek inside the famous Swamp, where Gainesville runners learn to deal with the ups and downs of running the marathon.

Jim checks on my sanity.

2010-02-14T11:45:00.000-05:00

Jim Wharton called last night to talk about the "shoe incident." (I mentioned it to you in the posting on February 10 -- "A gift from Jim Wharton!") I thought it was over. I was wrong.

Jim: Hey, girl. Jim here. Just checking on you. Running going better?

Bev: Hi, Jim! Better. That DVD about Fred turned everything around. Again, thank you so much for the surprise. It arrived when I needed it most. You just sensed that my running was in trouble, didn’t you?

Jim: Uh, Bev, you FedEx’ed a hacked up running shoe and a half a Snickers bar to the clinic in New York.

Bev: Funny, right?

Jim: Yeah, it was pretty funny, but I’ve been bothered by the single shoe. Why only one shoe?

Bev: It wasn’t necessary to hack them both up. The other one got the point.

Jim: Bev? Did you make the other shoe … watch?

Bev: Now, that’s just plain crazy.

Jim: Yeah. Yeah, it is. Well, did you???

The conversation went on for a few minutes until I couldn't stop laughing and Jim had assured himself that his runner was (mostly) sane. Good thing Jim Wharton is an expert in the behavior of athletes, is quick to recognize the subtle signs of stress in training, and knows how to handle them. A lesser man would be filing a restraining order.

[The photos are of Jim Wharton and The Psycho Shoe at the Wharton Performance Center in New York. I love the look on his face! And for the record, the other shoe is fine.]

My running partner AJ.

2010-02-13T07:34:00.000-05:00

My dog AJ is 19 years old. Last night as she napped on the floor, she dreamt dog-dreams of running. I watched as she ran on her side, legs pumping, until breathless and huffing. For those few minutes, she was free from a body that’s failing. It was so great.

Aging sucks. She and I will both confirm that.

When we were much younger, we ran together in San Felasco Hammock State Preserve right across the road from our house. It’s 6,500 acres of forested heaven with miles and miles of trails. We tied two leashes together: one attached to her collar and one around my waist so that both of us had plenty of slack in the line. She agreed to help me train by scouting the trail ahead and setting the pace. In exchange, I agreed to stop and wait at the occasional whiff of something that needed her attention. We had fun for a long, long time.

But life happened and AJ and I got older. Eventually running in the forest gave way to running in the neighborhood. Then walking. And now just sniffing around awhile. Just so you know, at age 19, AJ can still gallop from the end of our driveway to the back door when her supper’s waiting—a testament to an elderly runner-dog’s ability to summon a power surge when food is involved.

She’s confused by my return to the forest alone. On some days, so am I. I wonder what happened to the young woman and shining dog who used to run the trails. I try not to let AJ see me putting on my running shoes. But I know that if her vocabulary extended beyond “cookie” and “good dog,” I could explain and she would understand completely and give me her blessing. She, like all dogs, wants the best for the humans in her care.

AJ and I both dream of running again. Only one of us can make it really happen now. You know what I’m going to do for her this weekend? I’m going to sniff the air as I run, and when I catch the scent of something interesting, I’m going follow my nose until I find it … and maybe even dig it up and wallow in it. Just as she would. You’d do the same for your running partner, right?

This weekend is for sports!

2010-02-12T21:23:00.001-05:00

The Olympic Games in Vancouver
February 12-28

Watch on NBC.
________________

Also, this weekend is the LifeSouth Five Points of Life Marathon here in Gainesville. We wish all the runners a WONDERFUL run!

Why the marathon?

2010-02-12T07:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday someone bluntly asked why I love running when I’m obviously so bad at it.

I cracked up.

I’ve always been bad at it. Fred Lebow once shook his head in exasperation and declared that if I ever broke four hours in New York (elevating me to the high altitude status of “average”), he was going to have me drug-tested. I worked hard for years to earn his demand that I pee in a cup. But it never happened.

I’ve never been good enough to finish in average time. Not then. Not now. Possibly not ever.

So why cling so ferociously to the marathon when I know I might never finish with a respectable time?

Simple. Not all the gifts of the marathon are measured in time.

The marathon, whether you break the tape or drag in at dusk, is generous. The gift at the finish line is clear knowledge that quitting was never an option. This isn’t something you can learn with your intellect. It has to be delivered to your soul through decision. When pain, exhaustion, hunger, thirst, cold, and fear take hold of you (maybe around mile 20) and everything in you tells you to hail a cab, the marathon teaches you to dig down and find the will to take the next step … and the next … and the next … all the way to Central Park. When you tap into that wellspring of resolve, it stays tapped forever and translates into all aspects of your life. Once you’ve crossed the finish line of the marathon, you become a formidable human in every way. It doesn’t matter where in the pack you finish. It matters only that you do.

There are other gifts. I’ll tell you about them someday. But this morning, I wanted to begin to answer the question, “Why?”

Why, indeed.

Running in a winter wonderland

2010-02-11T07:55:00.000-05:00

I talked to Jim Wharton in New York yesterday. Sometimes when I ask and he has time, he walks onto the sidewalk outside the clinic and holds his phone up so that I can listen to the sounds of the city. But yesterday when the man risked life-threatening frostbite to indulge me, there were no traffic noises, no sideswiped conversations, no dogs barking. New York City had taken the day off under the silent cover of snow. Jim said it was beautiful. It even sounded beautiful.

So this morning when I ran, I thought warm and guilty Floridian thoughts … and sent them to New York, exchanging them for the muffled chill of the Upper West Side.

I often think of New York as I run here in Gainesville. I know that at the exact same second I roll out of my door, the runners of New York are rolling out of theirs. Together, we shake sleep off our shoulders and take on the morning. As my foot hits the pavement, it’s in perfect lockstep with thousands of footsteps in New York.

Together, we are training for the ING New York City Marathon.

This is communion.

Of course, all runners (even those in my mind) are faster than I am and leave me behind, so communion is replaced quickly by abandonment issues, self-loathing, and ever-present disappointment at not being Kenyan. But for a few sweet moments, I am a thousand miles away and part of a world much larger than my own. I am in Central Park, running in the snow.

A gift from Jim Wharton!

2010-02-10T07:26:00.000-05:00

Jim Wharton has an uncanny intuition for knowing when things aren’t going well in Bev’s life. Perhaps a thousand years of friendship have spun a tensile psychic thread between my soul and his. Perhaps in his quietude, he’s attuned to darkening corners of the universe. Or maybe he inferred some meaning from the running shoe I hacked up with a butcher knife and mailed to his clinic with a half-eaten Snickers bar.

Astonishingly, without my having to say a word, he just somehow … knew.

And being Jim Wharton, he rushed to the rescue of a despondent runner whose training refuses to come together. Look what the man sent me! If ever there was the perfect gift at the perfect time, this DVD is IT.

Run for Your Life is Fred Lebow’s story. The back cover reads:
The story of how one immigrant's determination and sweat created the most significant running event in the world. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE touches the heart and soul of anyone who has a passion for running, and documents the inspirational life of Fred Lebow and the history of the New York City Marathon.

To the rest of the world, Fred Lebow is best known as the founder and director of the New York City Marathon. But to me, he was mostly a beloved friend. I miss him. Having this DVD—when I’m trying to return to running and to his marathon specifically—well, it’s like an invitation: “Come home, prodigal runner!” Seeing Fred and all those familiar faces and places reminds me of who I used to be and who I am still when no one is looking. I’ve watched the DVD repeatedly and puddled up every time.

Maybe someday I’ll tell you the story of the unlikely friendship between a back-of-the-pack runner from Florida and the great Fred Lebow himself. But for today, you need to go shopping and get to know the man who changed our lives forever with passion that galvanized into the greatest marathon in the world.

I found three places you can buy this DVD:

www.nyrr.org (New York Road Runners online store under “books” – It would be good to support them with your purchase, but don’t register for the marathon lottery, okay? The odds of my getting in are already abysmal.)

www.amazon.com (new and used)

www.fredlebowmovie.com (where you’ll also see an entertaining array of extra material)

Make popcorn, call your running buddies over, and settle in. You’re going to love this DVD. I promise. And if you see Jim Wharton, thank the man for snapping Bev back to reality.

Runners are good people.

2010-02-09T07:59:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I enjoyed the privilege of a phone conversation with a luminary in the world of running. I asked if being recognized creates awkward moments and log jams on starting lines. I could hear a smile in his voice when he said humbly, “No. The community of runners isn’t like that.”

He’s right, of course.

I have always been struck by what a great leveler of people the marathon is. I have stood many times at the starting line of the New York City Marathon on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and distractedly scanned the crowd of runners that surrounds me. I sense no nationality, age, gender, education, profession, bank balance, religion, political affiliation, ideology, language, or worldview. We’re all merely humans clad in runners’ clothes that hide no flaw. On that bridge, we’re as real as we ever get. And even though we each run alone among the thousands, we’re all people on a collective mission to bring our best to unforgiving streets, leave nothing behind, and deliver everything we have at the finish line in Central Park.

When the cannon signals the start of the marathon, something sweet and secret happens in the back of the pack where I run. Instead of a massive surge forward in dog-eat-dog jockeying for position, the field quiets and spreads slightly so that each runner has a little room and no one will tangle up or trip. There is unspoken agreement that this day is going to be long and the marathon is going to be hard and none of us is going to win, so we’re going to take care of each other and make sure we all finish. People smile and wish companion-strangers well before the pace quickens and we gently crest the high point of the bridge. By the time we start down the other side, no one speaks at all anymore, but grace and respect for each other and our mission remain.

I love this about the New York City Marathon. I hadn't thought about it in a long time … until yesterday. There are lessons of the marathon that we carry far beyond the course.

Runners are good people.

Bev discusses "itch" and "yuck." Who loves ya, baby?

2010-02-08T07:31:00.000-05:00

From my email queue: I got a funny, delicate question this weekend.

When I started blogging, I had lofty plans for creating frequent explorations of deep philosophical and spiritual aspects of running. But two things have become apparent over the past weeks: First, I have a quickening sense of responsibility to my fellow runners who are now checking in with me for practical things. And second, I don’t have deep thoughts every day. So the “delicate question” meets perfect timing.

There is no good way to open a discussion of runners’ body parts described in terms of “itch” and “yuck,” so I’m just going to get to it. Candor wins out over Southern decorum.

The email question: “Hey, Bev. I have recurring jock itch. It’s easily treated and goes away, but it always comes back. I sweat heavily. I can’t help it. Between the faint, funky odor that has seeped into all my running clothes down to my socks and the frequent infections in unmentionable places, running is taking a toll on my social life. Yuck. Any suggestions?”

Yes, my friend. Bev has suggestions.

Runners sweat. Sweat is wet and soaks clothing. When a wet garment is allowed to remain in contact with a warm body part, microbial badness happens. (Yes, this is the correct scientific term.) There are ways to prevent it. Much of it is self-evident. When you’re finished running, take off your sticky, stinky clothes, and take a soapy shower. Dry thoroughly before you dress in your day clothes. Launder your running gear before you wear it again. If you can, use bleach. (Whatever you do, don't let your damp clothes pile up while you try to amass a load of "whites" sufficient to justify a bleaching. This will generate microbial badness on an apocalyptic scale. You'll never be rid of it.) And dry out your running shoes. Many runners have two identical pairs of shoes and rotate them, so one pair is dry while the other is drying.

But here’s the runner’s secret for helping keep bacteria, yeast, fungus, and other assorted “itch” and “yuck” away from the body. After you remove your laundered running clothes from the washer, but before you dry them, seal them in a plastic zip-up bag, and microwave anything without metal, still damp, for three-four minutes. Badness is obliterated. Then take your clothes out of the plastic bag and toss them into the dryer or hang them. You’ll have CLEAN clothes. Funk doesn’t survive nuking. (And yes, you can save the plastic bag and use it repeatedly. Very ecologically responsible. You can “go green” now, but in a good way.)

Okay, then.

I’m gratified that in spite of a brutally frank answer to a delicate question, we have a lofty, quotable moment this morning: “Funk doesn’t survive nuking.” We should all have tee shirts made.

Final thought: I think the Saints finally won their first Super Bowl last night because they trained every day and never gave up or stopped believing they were champions. Run well today, my friend. Dig deep and know.

Sunday is the day of rest ... or is it?

2010-02-07T17:03:00.000-05:00

It’s Sunday, the day that God gave us to rest. So what does a marathon runner do with it? Run the LONG run. What part of “rest” did we not understand?

The enduring tradition of the Sunday long run has always challenged my logic. For sure, it rips “rest” right out of the day-of-rest equation. Boldly and unapologetically, it makes mincemeat of the day. And on Monday, the toll of the long run launches the week with a tiny net deficit in energy (even though we sleep GREAT on Sunday night). As many years as I have been pondering the insanity of it, I’ve rarely been able to re-order the universe and run the long run on … say, Wednesday night. Of course, at this stage of my piddling training, the term “long run” is sort of a misnomer. It’s more like a short-distance jog with intermittent walks and a full-blown halt once or twice to admire the azaleas in bloom by the path.

But the joy of today’s “long run” is remembering that the New York City Marathon is run on a Sunday. So perhaps I’ve begun imprinting the behavioral pattern into my training that in November, will translate into: “Hey, it’s Sunday! Today is the day we run the New York City Marathon!”

Besides, as all runners do, I know for sure that running restores a person’s soul. Like rest. Only better. It re-calibrates and refreshes parts of your spirit that kicking back only softens.

Run long; run strong. We can kick back later.

Back to the countdown to New York!

2010-02-06T14:37:00.000-05:00

I need to straighten out a small confusion. I got emails and calls this week from people who wished me well in Sedona today. And as wonderful as it is to think that I could be in marathon-shape in less than a month of training (for I am noted for an aggressive taper), sadly I’m not running Sedona.

I loaned the blog to Phil Wharton in Arizona this week to use to encourage his Sedona runners. Marathon runners are like this. We're hugely supportive of each other.

Also, if one is in the New York City Marathon lottery system (as I am), one naturally hopes that Sedona runners might be so thrilled with their marathon that they won’t apply for New York. Without an inundation of Arizonans, the odds of a Floridian New York lottery applicant getting in might increase from one chance in a gazillion to one chance in a bazillion. I’m not saying that I’m self-absorbed, but I could see a small, serendipitous, personal benefit to helping Phil make the Sedona experience a successful one.

Besides, if I don’t get into New York in November, I might be running Sedona next February … and I want them to look kindly upon me. “Say, isn’t that Bev, the blogger who sacrificed her postings for an entire week just so Phil Wharton could keep us pumped up last year? I ran a PR because of her. Let her have extra Gatorade!”

But mostly, honestly, and really, I got caught up in the excitement of Sedona and red rocks. Phil and his runners have been going through all the “week before” preparation so familiar to me after sixteen marathons. I loved it. From the bottom of my heart, I wish you all well today. As Phil always says, “Enjoy the experience.”

Tomorrow, we get back to talking about the Floridian quest for New York. And the Sedona runners can sleep in. For results, go to www.sedonamarathon.com.

FRI: Countdown to Sedona from Phil

2010-02-05T09:27:00.000-05:00

One day to Go Time!

Short discussion about the "few showers" predicted: We are not going to let a little rain spoil our fun on one of the most beautiful courses in the world. Arizona needs the rain!

Here are four tips to help you make this marathon your best ... even if you get a little wet.

1. Wear light technical clothing that won't get too heavy in a downpour.
2. Use a light running cap to keep your hair dry and keep your view of the road open.
3. Wear shoes that have mesh uppers so they drain better. Make sure your socks are thin so they won't bunch up and cause blisters.
4. Bring dry clothes to change into right after the race.

Quote for the day: “Ask yourself: 'Can I give more?' The answer is usually: 'Yes.' " -Paul Tergat, Kenyan professional marathoner

I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re ready. Enjoy the experience.

Phil
__________________________________________

Forecast Sat Feb 6

Few Showers

52° High
40° Low

THURS: Countdown to Sedona from Phil

2010-02-04T07:28:00.001-05:00

Only two days left! Time to really start fueling up with High Octane Fuel. The better the food quality, the better your body will feel. If you're running the half or full marathon, now is a good time to up your caloric intake. Don’t wait until the night before the race. Remember, you want to have a full tank when you begin your long journey!

Quote for the day: "Running is a big question mark that's there each and every day. It asks you, 'Are you going to be a wimp or are you going to be strong today?'" - Peter Maher, Canadian marathon runner

Enjoy the experience.

Phil
_______________________________________________

Weather Forecast Sat Feb 6

Few Showers

51°
41°

2010-02-03T08:38:00.000-05:00

WED: Countdown to Sedona from Phil

Good Morning, Arizona Runners! Three days to go. You are tapering down now. If you're running the marathon, you have been reducing your training for several weeks. No matter what distance you’re running this weekend, now is a great time to use the extra time you would be running to focus on your flexibility. If you’re in Sedona, I’m teaching a flexibility workshop. Come on by. You can also find some great range of motion exercises on www.whartonperformance.com.

Quote for the day: "You have to wonder at times what you're doing out there. Over the years, I've given myself a thousand reasons to keep running, but it always comes back to where it started. It comes down to self-satisfaction and a sense of achievement." - Steve Prefontaine

Enjoy the experience.

Phil

Forecast for Sat Feb 6

Perfect Weather for the Marathon

Few Showers

50° High
41° Low

Hey, Sedona Runners. I'm weather-watching for you!

2010-02-02T21:08:00.000-05:00

Forecast Saturday, Feb 6
Perfect marathon-running weather!

Few Showers

51° HIGH
42° LOW

TUE: Countdown to Sedona from Phil

2010-02-02T08:13:00.000-05:00

Good Morning, Arizona Runners! Phil Wharton is taking over the blog this week! Just for YOU!

It's Marathon Week here in Arizona as we count down to the Sedona Marathon, Half Marathon, and 5k. Time for us all to start making deposits in our "Rest, Regeneration, and Recovery Bank" so we can reap the dividends on race day! On race week it's good to go to bed fifteen minutes earlier each night. If you start tonight, you'll have an extra hour of energy when you need to wake up early and feel great on race day!

Quote of the day: "Everything has a force. Either embrace it or deflect it. Why oppose it?"

Enjoy the day.

Phil

The Sedona Marathon is this weekend!

2010-02-01T13:00:00.000-05:00

The Fifth Annual Sedona Marathon takes place on February 6 ... and guess what! Phil Wharton will be there to take runners through the famous Active-Isolated Flexibility training that revolutionized sports, particularly marathon. Runners of Arizona, you have NO idea how fortunate you are to have Phil there with you right now. Athletes fly from all over the world and pay thousands of dollars to sit at his knee. And he's all yours for the marathon! Check out the special Web site for details. http://www.sedonamarathon.com/wharton.html

Sedona runners, I wish you the very best on February 6! May every step on the route through ancient red rocks bring joy and carry you closer to discovering how strong you really are when you decide that quitting is not an option.

Phil Wharton will be at the Sedona Marathon Feb 4!

2010-02-01T12:57:00.000-05:00

Phil explains the photo and reveals another secret.

2010-02-01T10:38:00.000-05:00

Howdy, Bev! Phil checking in ...

Wow! A picture IS worth a thousand words! The photo taken at the tennis court looks like we really worked 'em over the edge! Did I rip a page out of John Parker's "Once a Runner"? 40 X 400 meters really isn't that tough!

Truth be told, this is a group of high school athletes I was taking through a visualization and meditation training. The athletes were experiencing the power, flow, and relaxation from learning to "turn inward" to access their energy centers.

That brings us to your second question. You wanted another "Kenyan Secret." During my visits to Kenya's Rift Valley, I mostly stayed with Moses Tanui. Moses is a superstar in the running world. Moses was one of the great cross country runners; he was world champion on the track; and he won the Boston Marathon two or three times. During my longest stay in Kenya (4 1/2 months), Moses was my running teacher and I was his therapist for keeping his body healthy. We formed a deep friendship in that exchange.

Moses, like many of the great Kenyan athletes, was in the armed forces and competed for the military team as well. That is the reason some of his metaphors were military language or jargon. On one occasion after a extra tough workout (and by the way, all the workouts were tough to me as I was running 140 miles a week at fast paces with high altitude and hills), Moses said to me, "Philip, we were bombed today! But you know what? I am still MOSES TANUI!"

At first I thought, Wow! This altitude and training load have really spiraled this guy into an ego-fueled frenzy. Then I thought about the power of belief. I realized that Moses believed in himself more than any external confidence could give him. That day, I really learned something that has helped me through difficult moments ... and not just with running.

Thank you, Moses.

"Philip, the marathon is 42k. It is very difficult, but you must finish!"-- During a 14k run together near his birthplace.

Keep the spirit! Love the laundry "Afterburn." In Kenya, we washed our clothes by hand at altitude. That really elevated the heart rate!

Keep running, baby. New York City Marathon one more time!!!

Phil

Ran into friends this morning.

2010-01-31T10:50:00.001-05:00

This morning we had breakfast at a local bagel shop. Within a few minutes another group of runners came in, damp and rosy and starving. They all stopped by our table on their way in and we stopped by their table on our way out. Companions on the road. Lifelong friends. With one exception in this morning's chance gathering, we have all done the New York City Marathon at one time or another. Some of us together. This morning I am struck by the tight kinship of running friends who share the secret the marathon teaches. We all know something that no one else in the bagel shop knows. It binds us to each other and to the infinite potential of the human spirit.

Feeling philosophical this morning. Must be the cream cheese. Or maybe it's gratitude.

Thinking about Phil Wharton ...

2010-01-29T08:16:00.000-05:00

I found this photo of Phil Wharton surrounded by ahtletes who have just completed one of his famous workouts. I think it speaks for itself. When the man works you out, you're worked out! HA! I'm sure he'll check in with us this week to let us know which workshop this was and to reassure us that he didn't wipe out an entire tennis team. (You didn't, did you, Phil???)

I write a lot about Phil Wharton, and you'll notice correspondence and conversations with him throughout this blog. He is the "son" part of the father and son team of Wharton Performance in New York City. Jim is the father. For nearly 25 years, these two have been preparing and repairing athletes and dancers on the highest level. Their client list is "Who's Who" in sports and on Broadway stages. Filled with energy, driven, and sweet-spirited, Phil is devoted to maximizing human performance physically and mentally.

Oh, yeah. And he and Jim are helping ME train. As I said ... "highest level." (Insert gagging sound here.)

I visit Phil's Web site from time to time ... and I also dog the live webcam sites on line for Flagstaff, Arizona, where Phil lives now to take his athletes through high altitude training. Right now I'm seeing a lot of snow, which fills my Floridian soul with pity for the boy.

His Web site is www.whartonhealth.com.

Laundry burns calories.

2010-01-29T07:38:00.001-05:00

I just read another study on the “AFTERBURN” effect of running. Researchers report that when you work out hard, post-exercise calorie consumption can be elevated to burn fifteen to twenty percent more calories than were burned during the actual workout. In other words, metabolism remains juiced up long after you’ve taken off your running shoes. The benefits are exponential when you’re trying to trim down. It’s a sort of physiological bonus round.

I agree with the immutable effect of afterburn. I just disagree with the cause. No offense to scientists, but afterburn is less a result of residual metabolic activity and more a function of laundry.

Yes, my friends. Changing sticky clothes, showering and generating soiled towels and washcloths, hauling clothes and bath linen to the washer, transferring wet stuff to the dryer, pulling stuff out of the dryer, folding, hanging, and hauling stuff back to closets and drawers … THIS is the true source of “afterburn.” And don’t talk to me about “residual.” I’m directly having to allocate extra time each day – fifteen to twenty percent more time -- to keeping my workout clothes in circulation.

Statistical coincidence??? I think not.

The magnetized sign on my washer obliquely reiterates my opinion: laundry=burn (or in the case of washing running clothes, AFTERBURN).

I’m a New York City Marathon runner, so I do extra laundry every day and bear it like a Kenyan. Silent. Stoic. Soapy.

Phil, there seems to be a fine line between “Run with the sun,” and “Run with the suds.”