The New York Marathon is a tremendous running experience, and since it’s one of the largest marathons in the world, it requires the runner to execute some planning and logistics in order to survive the experience. The race takes anywhere from 3.5 to 5 hours. The trip to the start takes 90 minutes, you’re stuck waiting at the start for 3 hours, and the death march to retrieve your bag is another 20-30 minutes. Tack on 45 minutes for staggering back to your hotel room and the ING NY Marathon becomes about a 9-hour expedition through the boroughs. You’ll spend more time sitting around waiting to run than you’ll spend actually running the marathon, and five hours of shivering can put a severe buzz-kill on your race day unless you plan ahead.
I like to be early, a poor habit for the NY Marathon. By 6am, I was in the starting corral; however, the race didn’t start for 3 hours. There were bagel stands, Dunk ‘in Donuts coffee trucks, and powerbars for breakfast, but sitting in the open for over a hundred minutes is a great way to ruin your marathon by getting cold, stiff, and cramped. Here are some tips for handling the pre-race.
• Use the gear bag. Most marathons provide a clear bag which you can pack some items, like dry clothes and a cell phone. NY is chilly in November, and you have a long walk at the end of the race. In a long, cool race, you’ll start to lose body heat as your move into the third hour of the race. A dry shirt and jacket is a life-saver for an exhausted, chilled runner.
• Wear several warm layers on the journey to the starting line. I had a fleece jacket, which I packed into my race bag at start time so that it would be returned to me at the finish. I also bought a couple of cheap Wal-Mart sweat shirts. As the sun rose and my body warmed to the effort of the first miles, I peeled away the layers.
• Take an early trip to the Port-a-Johns. The line is bound to get longer as the wait to run draws shorter. This will keep you from finding yourself desperate with nowhere to drain yourself while also getting you out of the chill for a few minutes.
• Park your butt on the lee side of one of the coffee trucks. This will keep you out of the wind, and the engine warmth will help. Take care not to be in a position where your breathing fumes, though, or you’ll have a long, nauseated trot to the finish line.
• Wear gloves. Fleece running gloves are a must for this race.
• Pack a couple hand-warmers; and activate them early, before the sun starts to rise. It is always coldest in the moments before dawn. If you can get through this period staying warm, then the sun will rise, raising temperatures as well as your state of mind.
• Eat your breakfast before you leave the hotel room, and don’t skimp on the calories. It’s a long wait before a long run. Smack the peanut button on the bagel and stuff a couple of bananas down your gullet. You don’t want to start running with an empty stomach.
• DO NOT start eating your gels or Sport Beans to stay warm! While this will put sugar in your system and raise your temperature, it will also start your system burning the sugar, and you’ll bonk early in the run as your body tries to adjust to an endurance event while overloaded on fuel.
• Take a book. The minutes will go by far faster if you have something to read. I took a $5 biography of John McCain, and damn near finished it before chunking it in the garbage as the race started.
• At the 15-minute mark before you move to the start line, take a last port-a-john trip. Select the line with the fewest females. It takes them far longer to use the bathroom.
Eventually, the wait ends and you are herded to the starting line, where you stare up the slope of the Verrazano Bridge. The crowd and energy are immense. Nervous laughter bounces across the crowd as runners pretend to laugh at stale jokes they heard with only 10% of their brains. The other 90% was scrolling through the pre-marathon litany of doubts. (Will I bonk at mile 19? Does that tiny cramp mean I’m going to have to pee? How much will I hurt 3 hours from now?) Then, the gun pops. Far ahead, you see a blur of motion as the first runners climb the lower slopes of the bridge. The blur of motion moves closer and focuses into bright dots of orange, green, white, and blue as runners closer to you begin moving forward. Then, heads around you move and your own feet stutter a few steps… stop… stutter… pause…and then you are running. You pass the huge digital starting clock, hear the double-tap “beep” of your timing chip crossing the line, and you are running the New York Marathon.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Honeybee War, First Assault
A colony of bees took up residence in our backyard about two years ago. I wanted to get rid of the hive, but Julie pleaded the case for the disappearing honey bees, citing everything from our environmental responsibility to the potential for economic devastation should honeybees continue to disappear and thus fail to pollinate American agriculture products, such as corn and soybeans. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colony_collapse_disorder Apparently a lot was riding on the safety of the honeybee nest growing in our orange tree. Until Sydney was stung on her foot last weekend. It wasn’t a big deal to Sydney, who wasn’t even sure what happened. We got the news from my dad, who was babysitting for us while we were in New York (our first trip sans kids in 5 years). Julie and I were standing on 6th Avenue, near Central Park when the Julie’s cell phone buzzed. Julie listened, thanked Dad for the call and put the phone back in her purse. “I want you to kill those f_ck’n insects,” she said, taking a bite of her falafel sandwich. Sucks for the corn crop, but I had my orders.
Once we returned to St. Pete, I pulled on my best bee fighting garb: camouflage gor-tex jacket, gloves, jeans, and combat boots. For my head, I grabbed the kids butterfly trap, kind of a net barrel with wire circles to hold the shape around my pea brain. Julie had determined that a bug bomb would fit perfectly into the hollow tree know which formed the hive’s front door. By her clean logic, the bug bomb would plug the knot and the fumes would waft upwards through the hollow tree, leaving a trail of tiny insect bodies and bringing peace once again to our backyard.
Roark, my faithful weimaraner, decided to accompany me on the hive assault, more from sheer curiosity at my wardrobe than any desire to be of assistance. Together, we carried the ladder around the house and propped it up against the offending tree. I shoved the bug bomb in my left jacket pocket, a can bee killer spray in my right pocket and started climbing. Bees buzzed about my head as I reached the top of the ladder and balanced against the tree. With my head against the tree, I could hear buzzing from what seemed like every bee in Florida. And it was getting louder. It was time to get this show on the road, before something bad happened.
I looked down at Roark for moral support, but he was occupied taking a poop in the garden. Pulling the bug bomb from my pocket, I felt my training take over. A quick burst of bug killer to clear the entrance while I pressed the release on the bug bomb, and then, with one fluid motion, I crammed the bomb into the tree knot. And it didn’t fit. The can was about a centimeter too big and wouldn’t stick in the hole. Bees charged out through the opening. I chucked the bomb back over my shoulder, jammed my finger down on the bug killer, and aimed the spray into the tree. Full auto.
The air grew foggy and foul as I emptied the bug spray into the hive, and I could barely hear over the crescendo of buzzing, which had grown so loud it was vibrating the ladder. Finally, with the can empty I jumped off the ladder and headed for the pool enclosure. Roark covered our retreat by running in circles around the tree with the bug bomb foaming from his jowls. I would have worried about the health of any other mutt, but Roark dresses in at about 190 and I’ve seen him consume an entire tray of brownies quicker than you read this sentence. He would be fine.
Once I reached the screen door, Roark dropped the can and executed his retrograde, running past me into the house and jumping up on his sofa with a loud fart. I closed the door and went into the kitchen, where Roark joined me to help fix dinner. We decided boiled sweet corn would be the appropriate choice. We should enjoy our vegetables while we can.
Once we returned to St. Pete, I pulled on my best bee fighting garb: camouflage gor-tex jacket, gloves, jeans, and combat boots. For my head, I grabbed the kids butterfly trap, kind of a net barrel with wire circles to hold the shape around my pea brain. Julie had determined that a bug bomb would fit perfectly into the hollow tree know which formed the hive’s front door. By her clean logic, the bug bomb would plug the knot and the fumes would waft upwards through the hollow tree, leaving a trail of tiny insect bodies and bringing peace once again to our backyard.
Roark, my faithful weimaraner, decided to accompany me on the hive assault, more from sheer curiosity at my wardrobe than any desire to be of assistance. Together, we carried the ladder around the house and propped it up against the offending tree. I shoved the bug bomb in my left jacket pocket, a can bee killer spray in my right pocket and started climbing. Bees buzzed about my head as I reached the top of the ladder and balanced against the tree. With my head against the tree, I could hear buzzing from what seemed like every bee in Florida. And it was getting louder. It was time to get this show on the road, before something bad happened.
I looked down at Roark for moral support, but he was occupied taking a poop in the garden. Pulling the bug bomb from my pocket, I felt my training take over. A quick burst of bug killer to clear the entrance while I pressed the release on the bug bomb, and then, with one fluid motion, I crammed the bomb into the tree knot. And it didn’t fit. The can was about a centimeter too big and wouldn’t stick in the hole. Bees charged out through the opening. I chucked the bomb back over my shoulder, jammed my finger down on the bug killer, and aimed the spray into the tree. Full auto.
The air grew foggy and foul as I emptied the bug spray into the hive, and I could barely hear over the crescendo of buzzing, which had grown so loud it was vibrating the ladder. Finally, with the can empty I jumped off the ladder and headed for the pool enclosure. Roark covered our retreat by running in circles around the tree with the bug bomb foaming from his jowls. I would have worried about the health of any other mutt, but Roark dresses in at about 190 and I’ve seen him consume an entire tray of brownies quicker than you read this sentence. He would be fine.
Once I reached the screen door, Roark dropped the can and executed his retrograde, running past me into the house and jumping up on his sofa with a loud fart. I closed the door and went into the kitchen, where Roark joined me to help fix dinner. We decided boiled sweet corn would be the appropriate choice. We should enjoy our vegetables while we can.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
I Fix the Shower without Breaking Anything
Julie decided it was time for me to fix the shower in my bathroom. It had been leaking a bit for about three years, which I hid by keeping the door closed to hide the dripping sound and the window cracked to prevent mold from blossoming. Never cleaning the toilet or sink contributed to the room’s privacy. However, this weekend Julie’s parents are coming to babysit the princesses while Julie and I go to New York, and Julie’s fear of embarrassment overcame her fear of disease. So, she donned some rubber boots and latex gloves and slid the door open with her nostrils pinched shut. Once she cleaned the shower she discovered the constant stream of water drizzling from the showerhead. And she told me to fix it before we left for New York.
Wednesday, I left work at lunch and drove home to tackle my bathroom project. Since I had to start by turning the water off, Julie helped out by starting a load of laundry and firing up the dish washer. That gave me time to munch on a turkey sandwich and ponder my impending handyman failure. Once the spin cycle started, I commenced to fix’in.
The shower in my bathroom is a step-in deal that some idiot dreamed up circa 1959. Whoever the genius was, he had sense of commitment, as evidenced by the complete lack of an access panel to the plumbing fixtures. The only way to reach the pipe fittings and faucet parts is through the small round holes in the tile wall through which the handles emerge. It’s a pain, to say the least. On the good side, the handles have been attached since before I was born, so their good and tight.
Thirty minutes of twisting futilely on the wrench without budging the jammed cold water faucet and I was ready to try a different approach. Long experience and a short attention span have taught me that leverage is everything in these little projects, so I went rummaging around in the garage for something appropriate for freeing the faucet from its aged prison. What I found was my Marine Corps entrenching tool. I opened it to 90 degrees, placed the base against the tile wall and the shovel’s lip under the handles base, and leaned against the handle. POP! The handle shot off and cracked against my ribs. Success! Five minutes later I was on my way to the plumbing store with both faucets on the passenger seat of my truck.
Palmer’s Plumbing is a surreal experience. I traded 12.65 in cash for two freshly re-worked faucets with new gaskets, a 3/4-inch hex wrench, two new faucet seats, and a 20-minute instruction on installation which was given by the old-world Italian gentlemen who owns the store. He’s a class act. He leaned across his counter, held the faucets out to me, and talked me through the installation procedure. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, “not like a guy I tried to explain this to last week. He wouldn’t listen. He was one of those young computer guys who knows everything, not like you at all.” I took the hint, shut my mouth, and paid attention.
Mr. Palmer runs his shop with his wife and daughters, making it the only place I can imagine where grown men obediently listen to women explain how to fix toilets, plumbing, and sundry other household items. It also leads to some unexpected experiences. While waiting for my faucets to be finished, I heard a female voice say, “just look at my cleavage.” Every man in the building looked. A young lady, I’m guessing a granddaughter, had brought in a homecoming dress to show off. I tried to look away but we were all busted and a chorus of feminine laughter echoed through the narrow store. “You don’t expect to hear ‘cleavage’ here,” one of the ladies chuckled. “Maybe ‘ball-cocks’ or ’nipples’ but not ‘cleavage’.” They were still laughing with the other customers when I walked out through the back door.
A short drive home and I climbed back into my shower and re-installed the faucets, amazed that I was able to complete the task without busting any pipes or shattering my own fragile ego. As I put my tools back in the garage, Julie poked her head through the kitchen door. “Are you going back to work?” she asked. I shook my head and smiled, visions of romantic awards for my hard work filling my mind. She smiled slyly. “Good, I need you to help me move some stuff so I can paint.” Shit.
Wednesday, I left work at lunch and drove home to tackle my bathroom project. Since I had to start by turning the water off, Julie helped out by starting a load of laundry and firing up the dish washer. That gave me time to munch on a turkey sandwich and ponder my impending handyman failure. Once the spin cycle started, I commenced to fix’in.
The shower in my bathroom is a step-in deal that some idiot dreamed up circa 1959. Whoever the genius was, he had sense of commitment, as evidenced by the complete lack of an access panel to the plumbing fixtures. The only way to reach the pipe fittings and faucet parts is through the small round holes in the tile wall through which the handles emerge. It’s a pain, to say the least. On the good side, the handles have been attached since before I was born, so their good and tight.
Thirty minutes of twisting futilely on the wrench without budging the jammed cold water faucet and I was ready to try a different approach. Long experience and a short attention span have taught me that leverage is everything in these little projects, so I went rummaging around in the garage for something appropriate for freeing the faucet from its aged prison. What I found was my Marine Corps entrenching tool. I opened it to 90 degrees, placed the base against the tile wall and the shovel’s lip under the handles base, and leaned against the handle. POP! The handle shot off and cracked against my ribs. Success! Five minutes later I was on my way to the plumbing store with both faucets on the passenger seat of my truck.
Palmer’s Plumbing is a surreal experience. I traded 12.65 in cash for two freshly re-worked faucets with new gaskets, a 3/4-inch hex wrench, two new faucet seats, and a 20-minute instruction on installation which was given by the old-world Italian gentlemen who owns the store. He’s a class act. He leaned across his counter, held the faucets out to me, and talked me through the installation procedure. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, “not like a guy I tried to explain this to last week. He wouldn’t listen. He was one of those young computer guys who knows everything, not like you at all.” I took the hint, shut my mouth, and paid attention.
Mr. Palmer runs his shop with his wife and daughters, making it the only place I can imagine where grown men obediently listen to women explain how to fix toilets, plumbing, and sundry other household items. It also leads to some unexpected experiences. While waiting for my faucets to be finished, I heard a female voice say, “just look at my cleavage.” Every man in the building looked. A young lady, I’m guessing a granddaughter, had brought in a homecoming dress to show off. I tried to look away but we were all busted and a chorus of feminine laughter echoed through the narrow store. “You don’t expect to hear ‘cleavage’ here,” one of the ladies chuckled. “Maybe ‘ball-cocks’ or ’nipples’ but not ‘cleavage’.” They were still laughing with the other customers when I walked out through the back door.
A short drive home and I climbed back into my shower and re-installed the faucets, amazed that I was able to complete the task without busting any pipes or shattering my own fragile ego. As I put my tools back in the garage, Julie poked her head through the kitchen door. “Are you going back to work?” she asked. I shook my head and smiled, visions of romantic awards for my hard work filling my mind. She smiled slyly. “Good, I need you to help me move some stuff so I can paint.” Shit.
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