Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Reads.

My dance history professor from undergrad said graduate school taught her how to read.  At this point in the game I whole heartedly agree.  It shows in my fun reading -- I'm on my fourth book in a week and a half.  But I probably must also credit my Nook since I can optimize the font style, font size and line spacing to my preference.  Maybe its also all the time I had whilst without internet (which is up and running again -- whee!)....

1) Janet Evanovich, Smokin' Seventeen (2011).

Book eighteen came out in November, dropping the e-book price of Seventeen to what I consider a tolerable.  Excellent humor.  No required thought on my part.  Perfect.  Zoom.

2) Kathryn Stockett, The Help (2011).

I feared it would end up being a novel version of a chick flick.  Boy, was I ever wrong!  I am positive that anyone with even the teeneist smidgeon of awareness reads The Help with parallel examples running through their head, be they of personal experience or historical origin.  The notion profoundly applies that those who act unto others and make the biggest public stink are often directly and/or indirectly addressing their own personal issues.  Maybe its the overexposure to 17 Stephanie Plum novels since August, but I found myself wanting to text OMG to a few who have also read The Help when I vehemently never, never, never use such "acronyms."  (For the record, I also use punctuation and form actual sentences when texting unless limited by space constraints.)

3) Oliver Sacks, Seeing Voices (1989).

Sacks is an incredibly sweet and humble doctor who is profoundly interested by both the pathological conditions and, more so, the patient themself.  The man has only one fault: using four times as many commas as is appropriate, second only to the comma usage of some writers from The New Yorker.  But for Sacks I am willing to forgive.

Seeing Voices is a discussion of prelingual deafness, meaning a child is born without the ability to hear or loses their hearing before having acquired any understanding of language.  The deficit is larger than most would expect.  The ability to form thoughts is dependent upon language, so much so that without it there is no of reasoning, no cause and effect, no concept of numbers, no concept of time, no concept of the ability to express ideas may exist without the brain having a basis for communication.  This is different from those who acquired at least some language before losing their hearing, or postlingual deafness.

The process of learning is very intricate and relies on principles of neuroplasticity, how your brain adapts to new events.  Spoken language is shown through research to be very left brain heavy, but the left side is a processor of the fine details of what is known.  Exposure to a novel event (i.e. new event -- learning words, hearing a new usage of a known word, etc.) requires processing by the right brain, where global understanding predominates rather than fine details, which then sends the information to the left side for storage and future use.  There are numerous fine details of the process, including whether long term potentiation is achieved through the limbic system (i.e. the process of an event becoming an actual part of your long term memory base), but we'll keep things simple for now.

Interestingly, American Sign Language (ASL) was only considered a true language within the last few decades.  ASL was for many years assumed to be crude pantomime and/or a series of shapes strung together.  In fact, as Sacks points out, ASL is its own language separate from signed english that has its own grammatical framework including word manipulations for tense/emotion/etc, it is highly spacial dependent for individual words and full thoughts alike, and has fluidity of thoughts and phrases.

The use of space while signing plays a huge roll.  Spacial orientation is classically a right brain activity.  It is acutely developed within signers significantly more so than in speakers, and yet because spacial orientation is linked so closely to "speaking" in ASL it becomes integrated into the left brain's language centers.  Apparently signed english is much harder to convey thoughts than with ASL, and studies cited by Sacks demonstrate that over time many using signed english organically manipulate its use to where it begins to resemble ASL and its unique grammatical constructs. 

4) Rebecca Skloot, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (2010).

Henrietta Lacks died in 1951 of an aggressive cervical cancer, but the cell sample (named HeLa) taken from the tumor growth is still alive today.  Previously no human cells survived in culture past a few days.  It was not for many, many years until scientists discovered the likely reason why her cells divided at a rate 20 times of other cells ad nauseum.  The cells were then distributed across the world to anyone scientist who wanted to research using human cells for the first time, eventually leading to the polio vaccine, cancer and AIDS research, the effects of radiation and toxins, genetic mapping, drugs....

And yet a huge ethical construct exists.  Many have heard of the Tuskegee Syphilis experiment, where blacks were used for research in a horribly unethical way.  Henrietta Lacks was not infected with cancer by her doctors, but cells were removed and distributed into what became a multi-billion dollar industry while her family was left with nothing, including no knowledge that cells were harvested in the first place.  Consent, disclosure, maleficence... you name it, the history of the HeLa cell line is wrought with it.

Next week will become a slow return to orthopedics.  I'll be working my way through all three semesters' worth of manual therapy notes and through my textbooks (like my new gait book by Perry and interventions book by Magee -- ya!) to wrap my brain around treating a patient population filled with runners and triathletes instead of normal folk's usual pathologies.  Hoping my memory is as robust as I *think* it is...

Shelves for my sanity, and the advent of spiderabbitdolphinsealworm

[Note: I have been without internet access at home since 12/17, hence the delayed topics for posts thereafter.  Tomorrow we should have renewed access, at which point I will steadily continue to catch up to all the posts I've been meaning to share.]


Every four months or so I develop a substantial itch to change something, be it a purge-cleaning of the apartment, rearranging a room, or sometimes simply getting a haircut.  But the itch isn't as benign as it seems -- for every day I continue to ponder the itch but delay satiation it grows in factorial intensity.  It is especially intense if it goes unrecognized for six months instead of four, as was the case this time around.


Since the latest itch struck at the start of our two weeks of finals, it emitted its own aura of anger that had Nathan quite worried about me.  Needless, to say, Nathan has shown great patience with the whole thing.  I mentioned my need to fix the situation to my mother over the phone.  At a certain point she asked, "How are things with Nathan?  Are they okay?"  I replied "Yea, they're fine.  Why do you ask?"  After the fact I realized she misinterpreted my manic wrath of the piles as displeasure with our relationship.  Oops.  I am just glad that the itch helps my failing-due-to-grad-school housekeeping. 


I like to limit my belongings to a small assortment of functional items.  Clothes I haven't worn in a year get donated (aside from a select few nostalgic pieces), I'm not into filling my space with chotchkies, and I like having visible wall space.  Nathan has much the same set of preferences, though his heterosexual male self is belied by his method of "organization."  Piles exist, floor space is exposed, nothing is rotting in corners or underneath crawl spaces, but the walls are lined end to end with said piles without much heed as to how and where.  


I've been there with working in retail, where after a long day or sorting through dirty items and constantly cleaning up after inconsiderate shoppers who disassemble an organization you moments ago achieved through three hours of tedious work.  And the holiday season??  Forget about it.  When you get home after work, particularly since work shifts never end on time, the last thing you want to do is pick up your own living space.  You take solace in knowing that is all your items that are all over the place, so you don't mind living in the clutter for a few more days that turn into weeks.  Since Nathan is the store manager, he tends to put in as many as three extra hours per shift on any given day.  I don't expect him to come home and scrub or clean.  


The other caveat: there is only one closet available to Nathan and I, a 36-inch wide closet in the bedroom that we must share.  No utility closets, no storage in the basement, nothing.  So piles exist because you have to acquire a structure on which to store them.  


Voila, an itch boiling over for two weeks encapsulating the entire friggin' apartment.  


Last post I mentioned sleeping for nine and a half hours after going to bed at 8:30 p.m. the Saturday following my last exam.  I awoke Sunday on a mission that mostly maintained its momentum for the next 48 hours.  By then we had two 72"-high metal wire shelving units standing in parallel with a little room between for a few extra, larger items.  Boxes from all across the apartment finally have a home.  The damn guitar case that flops everywhere and tripped me every three days for the last who-knows-how-long is now stored.  The shipping material from the various Ebay things Nathan has intentions of selling (in what I hope is the near future... *ahem*...) is now out of sight.  I even moved my four-drawer file cabinet out of the bedroom to be included in this makeshift closet.  Now I just need cheap, wall colored sheets to cover the outside and it'll be done.  


It is fair to say the manic two weeks of the semester became a manic two days of desperate cleaning.  Even now, over a week after completion, I find myself standing in front of the configuration with hands on hips exclaiming "Hah!  I win!" at inanimate objects.  Yet another quality that makes me prime debutante material.  


Miss Sadie, on the other hand, immediately took to the challenge.  The units have a three-inch ground clearance.  I barely had all the boxes stored and brushed the dust off my hands before Sadie wormed her little self beneath one of them.  Took her twenty seconds of squirming to get under.  I don't think she accomplished much aside from laying on her belly scratching at the floor like a walrus to turn directions.  Then it took her a full minute of squirming to get out.  I just stood there, glaring, saying "I told you not to go under there.  I won't say 'I told you so,' but don't expect me to help you get out, either."  She didn't mind.  Miss Mischief needs no assistance.


That guitar case I mentioned is stored on top due to its irregular shape.  Sadie loooves to lay on canvas of any sort.  One sheet covers the unit's kitchen-side temporarily, perfect for scaling her way to the top.  The first few attempts had her turning horizontal and crawling in an uncoordinated zig zag until she finally got to the top.  Sadie's feline name has acquired a new addition of spider, upping her ante to spiderabbitdolphinsealworm.  Seriously....

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Final exams: check.

I laughed out loud multiple times during that last exam.  The absurdity of one professor’s contextual questions for McKenzie technique; the little jokes that playfully teased a professor from different courses while regarding differential diagnosis; naming one case study’s patient Page Turner, a 46 year-old librarian who power lifts and has “obvious hypertrophy.”  My hands shook while completing the last five questions, realizing I was almost done, but they somehow steadied in the two seconds it took to walk to the front of the room.  

I withheld from jumping and dancing right there in front of the class, though admittedly I now wish I had done so.  We so needed release from the delusional tunnel vision of the last two weeks – hell, from the last two and a half years.  But I did not want to gloat, did not want to make anxious those whom I know are not the best test-takers despite being incredibly smart.  I left the room, walked to the end of the hall, and saw a first-year student at the water fountain. 

He unknowingly asked, “How’s it going?”

I threw my bag on a chair with bravado.  “I’m done.” 

“Wow, you finished?”

I slam-dunked my pencil and eraser into the bag.  “DONE!”

And I proceed to jump and dance like I was on fire.  Moments like this beg for uncoordinated, haphazard, flailing exuberance.  Anyone who knew me in undergrad would have been ashamed to admit I was once a dancer, and that’s just fine by me.  A minute after I finally calmed down, Danielle came down the hall with a big smile on her face.  Cue yelling, bear hugs and reinstated exuberant spaz-dancing.  Add cheering, and this was how each subsequent classmate was received, one by one, decibels increasing linearly.  Those who finished later said they could faint hear each time someone reached the group down the hall.  You’d have thought we’d each won the Superbowl as the underdog.

The younglings went off for their itinerary of lunch (with beer), massages (with beer), and specific bars for their specific drink specials as the night progressed (obviously each with beer).  I lack such social and alcohol tolerance, so instead I opted for long put-off errands, a visit to Heather and baby Sid since they will be moving to the west coast come January, and starting my first post-semester fun read. 

The next morning (Saturday) I ran in the Ted Corbitt 15k in Central Park at 8 a.m., wondering as the race began if I was a complete idiot for volitionally giving a hard effort the day after the semester’s end.  Turns out my usual tendency to perform better when slightly tired held true.  Not to mention running much longer distances than 9.375 miles on a regular basis means that by the time I start swearing to myself since I don’t have much patience for shorter races the race is, conveniently, nearly over.

That night I was in bed by 8:30 p.m., did not wake until 6 a.m. the next morning.  That how we “old” folk celebrate – early to bed and early to rise, enjoy the next morning with no schoolwork compromise.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

One more to go...

Twelve hours from now I'll begin the last exam of my graduate didactic career.  You have no idea how ready I am for this.

Lots of changes are already happening, including no longer going to Tejas and instead staying in NYC to work with traumatic brain injury (TBI) at a major neuro hospital's outpatient clinic.  Super uber ultra stoked for that one.  I'll have tons of stories, since there are an incredibly amount of behavioral issues involved with TBIs.  More on that to come.

In the meantime, I am have about two weeks' worth of oversaturation taking its toll.  Four o'clock in the afternoon feels like midnight (and I usually go to bed at ten).  My vision is blurry even when wearing glasses, which is unique to finals week rather than a suddenly outdated prescription.  The kittehs either run in manic crazes or lay in apathetic lumps depending on which affect I exude for their absorption on a given day.  The apartment is an absolute mess by my standards, though probably back to its former self if you were to ask Nathan or our roommate.  Words and phrases from my notes are morphed into the lyrics of whatever song is in my head.

Imagine the musical tune of Wham!'s "Last Christmas" (since that's what was blasting at the grocery store when I picked up dinner and thus what remains in my head) but with the lyrics: "madibulomeniscal inferior compartment is hinge joint contributing the roll/spin of early mandibular depression."  Can't you hear it?  Rather than the line "but the very next day you gave it away (gave it away)" you sing "inferior compartment is a hiiiinge joint (hiiiinge joint)."

Oh my....

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

16 days and counting

That is, 16 days if you count any and all days between now and our last didactic final exam of graduate school.  If you count only those days requiring an appearance at school, this drops to nine remaining days.

I'm definitely feeling it; simultaneously looking forward to the coming summer's life changes, and yet nervous over the need to make decisions (including financially locking myself into those decisions) for a time frame in which I don't know what to expect.  The good news is that there is light at the end of the tunnel, one way or the other.  Supposedly our last two affiliations will finally be posted "by the end of this week."  For us that means tomorrow.  For the prof in charge of assigning us that may mean Friday.  I am lucky that I already know my fourth and final affil (Tejas with little kiddos!), but I would love to know where I am going for January-March (and when I start)....

Lots of studying, project completion, research smatterings, etc, are left to do.  Last night I was studying for today's exam.  Merus has become an intermittent lap cat now that the temperature has dropped.  Sadie, on the other hand, still prefers in-your-face attention.  She'll sit at the edge of your notes, then do a little wiggle-creep maneuver to sit on the corner, then another wiggle-creep to sit smack in the middle of the page.  I pick her up and set her across the table.  She sits on the paper.  I pick her up, move her off.  She sits on the paper.  I move her off, onto the floor.  She sits on the paper....  Intrepid, that one.  So much so that it yielded this:


Friday, November 25, 2011

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving seemed enormously calm compared to the six day push for deadline of a musculoskeletal paper the day before -- etiology, pathophysiology, comobidities and a treatment case study of C8 radiculopathy secondary to herniation.  I was one of the lucky ones whose diagnosis had a vague but present body of literature to work from.  Some unlucky classmates had to write a scientific paper based on absent scientific knowledge for diagnoses such as Scheuermann's disease and pubic ramus fracture.  We were all mentally fried and loopy come Wednesday, and after class none of us could turn it off.

The next task at hand, baking pie for the first time, suddenly became ridiculously overwhelming.  I've never made a crust before, the closest thing I have to a rolling pin is a Nalgene bottle, and John requested pecan pie -- pecan!  I already informed him that there wouldn't be any of the traditional custard stuff, or "goo" as I not-so-fondly refer to it, and I'd want to make it less sweet.  He was okay with this.  My two-hour walk home from school was filled with crust debate.  Graham cracker crusts are easier and rolling pin-less, right?  I have graham flour at home.  But what makes it "graham" flour?  And anyways, all the recipes call for graham crackers, which already have other stuff mixed in with them.  So do I buy graham crackers when I already have graham flour?  Will it stick together and actually work regardless?  So it continued ad nauseum. 

When I arrived at the uptown Fairway it was only as customer filled as regular rush hour.  Previous years brought Thanksgiving eve shopping throwing down elbow to elbow and kick to kick with all the other customers regardless of how simple your shopping list may have been.  So this year I was quite relieved, as I could stand staring blankly at all kinds of baking paraphernalia for as long as needed until electrons finally decided to jump back into my head and help me make a decision.  But, hark!  In the organic aisle was premade crust with no vegetable shortening or lard, and the first ingredient was whole wheat flower rather than sugar.  And it came with a tin -- this is good, since I hadn't realized until then that I did not own a pie dish.  Seemed like a cop-out, but a few electrons graced me with the reality that being in grad school means I'm excused from not making my own crusts.

Then the search for pecans.  In my search online for a less-sugary, karo syrup-less recipe I found out that pecan trees are the only nut tree indigenous to the States, from Georgia, Texas and another state for which I forget.  So why are they so friggin' expensive??  Dang, y'all.

The pie ended up a success.  I ended up adapting from a recipe online (Richard's Pecan Pie) -- used 16 ounces of pecans, and in lieu of the water/sugar combo used 1/2 cup maple syrup and not quite 1/2 cup of molasses.  Anything I bake ends up twice the weight of what the rest of the world produces for the same product, and this pie was no exception.  Not quite the 6 lbs Guiness Stout gingerbread from three years ago, but still hefty.  I'm just glad it worked out and I didn't scorch the thing.  This being my first pie, I pulled it out of the oven and had no idea how to judge if it was actually done.  T'was a lucky guess to trust it to finishing itself off on the counter.

A few from John's place, taken with the Bronica.  Hadn't used the Beast in quite a while, since its too big to cart around on a daily basis.  Means the shots were more playing than what I otherwise would have taken.






And, of course, the kittehs.  This was from Tuesday night, deadline at hand.  I managed, somehow, to tire them out...


Friday, November 11, 2011

NYC Marathon race report

The primary adjective for which I can describe the NYC Marathon is MASSIVE, requiring one to drop their voice low and gesture with wide spread arms.  It is by far the biggest event I have ever been a part of.  Think of a rock concert in a huge arena, with people separated just enough that you can sneak through for 26.2 miles.  That's about how it felt the entire time.  Previous races there's always some song playing in a loop in my head -- none of that here.  No need for any mental operations, what with the endless distractions.  Pretty sure that's the main reason I was able to hold the faster pace than originally anticipated.  But, hey, I'll take it.

Stats: 3:21:43 for an average 7:42/mi, 428th female (of 17,272), 3675th overall (of 47,438).  I was shooting for 3:30:00 because that would qualify me for the Boston Marathon in 2013.  (2012 registration was opened and closed back in September.)  Happy girl!

The hours before went something like this:

4:40 a.m. -- Alarm #2
5:10 a.m. -- Suit up
5:30 a.m. -- Dash to make the 5:35 south bound 1 train
6:30 a.m. -- Arrive at the ferry's Whitehall Terminal.  Proceed to bathroom line.
6:50 a.m. -- Board ferry to Staten Island (SI)
7:20 a.m. -- Arrive in SI.  Proceed to bathroom line.
7:50 a.m. -- Walk to shuttle for transport to the start
8:15 a.m. -- Still on shuttle.  Taking the long way (planned that way for traffic's sake, I'm sure).  Bus driver loves to pummel the brake.  80 degrees.  We're standing in the aisle.  Awesome.
8:40 a.m. -- Finally arrive at the start village.  Only about 25,000+ other runners there at the same time.  Fifteen minutes left to find our color section and corral before they close.
8:50 a.m. -- Find and enter corral with five minutes to spare.  Glad I didn't need to run to make it.  Start putting myself together -- replace over clothes with trash bags for warmth, donate said over clothes, don calf sleeves and arm warmers, douse all necessary body parts with Aquafore, etc.
8:55 a.m. -- Corrals close.  Proceed to bathroom/latrine line.  Line does not move.
9:00 a.m. -- Corrals collapsed, to move forward for the start.  See last latrine before the start line open, jump in for PPP (pre-performance pee).  Jump back into the masses to wait in the start area.  (See first picture below.  Blue start in the lower right corner, orange just to front/left of blue, green not visible.)
9:10 a.m. -- Cannot see pro women, but get to hear their start.  Time to get excited.  Eat pre-race electrolye Chomps. 
9:35 a.m. -- Still wearing trash bag (will not remove until 9:39), shivering to stay warm during the National Anthem.  Wondering how Nathan is feeling. 
9:40 a.m. -- Mayor Bloomberg sets off actual cannon for the gun.  Go time!  I crossed 0:01:30 after the gun, Nathan crossed after 0:03:30.


On the Verizano Narrows Bridge.  For Nathan, he's the red shirt and tan capped fellow on the left.  Crossing this bridge was a unique experience, as the bridge is for automobile use only.  It is the only bridge in the boroughs with no pedestrian or bike lanes.  The only time a pedestrian may cross is during the marathon, or during spring's annual 5 Borough Bike Tour.  (No, I have no and will never ride in the 5BBT.  The 40 mile tour becomes a 40 mile stretch of coasting elbow to elbow with 39,999 others who last rode a bike 10 years prior.  Cow herd.  Moooo.  Awful.  I refuse.  Hence, this was my first opportunity to be on the bridge.)


Once we land in Brooklyn, you quickly make your way to 4th Ave around 90th St.  Proceed north until you reach downtown Brooklyn at what would make 0th St if it existed.  Along the entire stretch, supporters were shoulder to shoulder and about 1-2 people deep, excluding the areas like the 10k timing mats (see below, I'm in the bottom left).  Orange was on the west side of the street in the sun, while blue and green were on the east side in the shade.  I'm glad the long stretch was early, because those parameters are hell on my mind if later in the race.


I saw my friend Breanne holding a "Go Bucky Go!" sign albeit on the opposite side of the street from me.  Runners were backlit, so she had a hard time seeing that I was standing on the median directly across from her, jumping and flailing and screaming her name.  Sound did not carry, EVER, during the race because supporters were so long.  After 20 seconds I decided to continue on and tell her later that I saw her.  Kat was working an ambulance (non-race affiliated) around that area, but was called to pickup 10 minutes before I passed.  Missy was around mile 7, and while I wasn't able to see her she did at least see me. 

After 4th Ave, we curve around downtown (around the Brooklyn Academy of Music area), all routes converged into one and we make our way north through residential areas of Clinton Hill, Williamsburg and Greenpoint on our way to the Polaski Bridge.  The route narrowed, but luckily there was no elbow knocking.  Somewhere in Williamsburg two orthodox or Hasidic men tried to cross to the street.  There's only one way to cross during a marathon -- you jump in and run diagonally forward and across so that you don't plow into anyone.  These guys ran perpendicular to the race.  The first man was smart enough that once he stepped onto the street he was committed to getting across and out of the way.  The second man lacked spacio-temporal abilities.  He was also rather large.  Once a third of the way across, he stopped, panicked, ran right-left-right-left in an undecided manner, then ran back to where he began and narrowly missed plowing into a male runner and me.  Think Frogger with a prayer cloth.  I hope he eventually made his way across unharmed. 

The event caused a small gap in the race, enough that my schoolmate Myriah and her boyfriend Jason spotted me.  I couldn't hear Myriah, but luckily Jason's voice carried through and they were positioned back from the street's edge crowd and a few steps up on a stoop.  I turned and threw my arms in the air when I saw them.  The encounters are brief, but incredibly revitalizing.  I had no idea where we were, though later Myriah said this was around mile 11.5.

After the Polaski Brige we made our way through Long Island City (Queens) to the Queensboro Bridge, leading towards our first jaunt though Manhattan.  The bridges were the only quiet time, with only the sounds of feet and heavy breathing around you.  I LOVE the Queensboro bridge.  It was probably the largest incline of the race.  I welcome the variance with open arms -- we were at mile 15, and finally got to use a slightly different muscle set and give a break to our joints.  At least that's my opinion on the matter.  I think this is Nathan on the Queensboro, though hard to say if its actually the Polaski.  Either way, he's on a bridge.  Nathan was happy to see that his weight was still kept forward more over his toes, rather than leaning back on his heels.


After the Queensboro we U-ied left onto 59th street, then left again so as to head north on 1st Ave.  Mile 16.  Here the supporters were 6+ deep and held back by barricades.  The street was much wider than Bkln and Queens, some six lanes or so, so there was ample room.  Schoolmate Laura was posted at 68th with extra gels.  I was downing gels every 30-40 minutes, and my quicker than anticipated pace necessitated more.  I want to say my final gel count was 5, excluding the pre-race Chomps, and I used every single water station.  Anyways, Laura had a sign that on one side rooted for me and on the other side rooted for Nathan.  It may seem a small favor to hold extra supplies for a runner, but it saved me from blacking out during the last two miles of the race (more on that later).  Onward ho.  Nathan reached Laura about 6 minutes after me, so considering our times crossing the start he was only 4 minutes back.

Once in the high 80s/low 90s I heard "BUCKHOLZ!" and saw Davis lunging out from the crowd to get my attention.  All caps = yelling.  Davis: "LOOKING GOOD!  HOW'S IT GOING?"  Me: "SO FAR SO GOOD!"  I was nervous that I had just vocally broken Murphy's Law, since I was nearing mile 18.

Here my mine switched on for the first time in the race and I was talking to myself.  Time check: a smidgeon faster than the 18 mile Tune Up race 6 weeks prior.  Okay, time to cruise.  Don't force yourself slower if you have to fight yourself to do so, but cruise.  You're ahead of schedule.  (I was holding a 7:30/mi pace -- yikes!).  Just cruise.  Just cruise.

Not to long from there we entered the Bronx.  You only spend a mile or two in the Bronx, but for them its a big party.  Spectators were dancing on the side of the road.  Wait a sec, I'm in the last portion of the race.  How'd I get here already?  Don't worry, just cruise.

Then, the 138th St bridge heads west across the East River into Harlem before turning south on 5th Ave.  My eyes wandered for a moment up the westward hill that we would not climb -- just beyond that hill was home.  Luckily turning south was more appealing than the hill, or else I'd have been inclined to run home and go to bed...

I forgot to mention that 130 bands and deejays were spread throughout the race.  The Bronx and Harlem are particularly special to me, and the party is a definite lift.  The distance from 138th St. to the start of the park at 110th flew by.  After Nathan passed Laura, she went up to 5th Ave at 103rd St.  She saw me, but I was on the other side of the road and didn't know to look for her.  I was doing okay, not hitting the wall, but I was starting to feel the impact of the previous 22 miles and thus wasn't really hearing anything.  Then we hit the small barely-there hill at 102nd St.  I was glad for the variance, but I definitely felt it this time.  Just cruise.  Just cruise.   The top of the "hill" is at 96th, and I noticed many of those around me suddenly pulling up with cramps.  If I was second guessing my cruising speed before, at this point I was thankful.  I was also glad that the most difficult part of the race would take place on my home terf where I knew exactly what to expect from the lay of the land.

Then we hit the quick right-left into Central Park for the home stretch.  Oh boy.  Feeling it now.  My head was feeling funny.  I consumed my last gel somewhere around here, thankful to have something to (hopefully) stave off hyponatremia.  Lift your knees, keep it straight, no penguin or cowboy waddle-running.  Two miles to go.  My pace wasn't falling too much, had dropped to about 8:00/mi.  But then the head stuff got more intense.  I wasn't passing out, I wasn't stumbling, I wasn't cramping.  But my vision was getting a little black in the corners, and it keep appearing and disappearing.  Oh boy.  Keeping going.  You're almost there.  I started breathing with my mouth as wide as I could muster.  Think cross country skiing, where their mouths hang open with gunked saliva and and snot along their upper lip.  Their trying to bring in more oxygen with a larger portal.  I didn't know what was causing the blackness, but I figured oxygen was in dire need regardless. 

Here's Nathan in Central Park:


And here's me.  The pic on the left is while still heading south in the park, while the right is once we had exited the park onto 59th St., ran three blocks west, and then re-entered the park for the final .4 of the race.  The left looks calm only because my visor's shade blocked you from seeing the exhaustion in my eyes.  See my fingers in weird hooked positions instead of relaxed?  Distal fixing.  The same thing a baby or toddler does when learning an activity for the first time.  On that 3 block stretch of 50th St. people were pulling over with cramps one after the other after the other, including one guy 3 feet in front of me.  My very ungraceful and uncoordinated attempt to dodge to the side and avoid collision was successful, but lands on the list of most ridiculous moves every performed.  The right photo is much more accurate as to how I felt. 


I promised myself that I would not even begin to "sprint" (as though a real sprint were possible!) until I crossed beneath the banner proclaiming only .2 remaining.  I was thrilled to see that they included "300m," "200m," "100m" banners, as my my mental knowledge of what .2 should be and my depth perception most definitely did not agree at this point.    

And then, the finish.  Nathan's finish line shots were all from distant cameras.  They also got video of the finish.  Pumped my fist a few times, then my hands went to my hips, and the video stopped just before getting to see my wonderful 0.5 mph penguin hobble.  (No coyboys or penguins allowed during a race, for the same of my knees, but afterwards it is all fair game.)


And, of course, the photos with the finisher's medal.  (Side note: I look much more like my older brother in this shot than I ever remember looking before.  Huh.)


We left our stuff for after the race, including a set of keys, at our friend John's apartment the night before the race.  John lives within spitting distance of the finish.  Meant we never had to deal with the baggage trucks.  Probably saved us a half hour on each end of the race.  The "spitting distance" turned into a 30 minute penguin slog from the race end to finally reaching his apartment.  I stopped to get prophylactic ice wrapped around each knee and stayed warm in the heat retaining sheet (i.e. emergency blanket) they give everyone after their photos with the finisher's medal.  I was glad John's name was listed on his buzzer, but I completely forgot the apartment number.

John had a lovely spread waiting for us.  I am much obliged for the orange juice, how shower (of which I confirmed before hand that John does not pay for water nor does he pay to heat the water -- score!), bagels, salt and vinegar potato chips (Nathan and I ate the entire bag), the nap on his bed, and then the electrolyte drink.  Apparently when I walked into his apartment I was, according to John, rather gray and more depleted than he'd seen of me before.  That was at about 2 o'clock.  By 6 o'clock I was finally in a reasonable enough state that Nathan and I could manage to get home.  Nathan was in bed at 7:40.  I was in bed at 8.  At midnight I got up to take some ibuprofen, but then I slept until 6 a.m.  Nathan slept a full 12 hours, and I don't think he stirred once.

The week since has been more of a mental fog than physical soreness.  All the walking continues to pay off in that respect.  My attention span, on the other hand, was basically shot all week.  Feeling normal today in both regards.  Gonna go for my first run since Sunday.  Here's hoping it helps work out the pesky hip abductor trigger points that didn't appear until Wednesday evening.


Saturday, November 5, 2011

Count down to tomorrow

Picture me jumping around like a big nerd.  Yes, that is my normal.  Big deal.  Now amp it up to the third power.  Me on race day eve!  I think I've even managed to exhaust the kittehs.

*bounce*bounce*bounce*bounce*

Check my previous spectator post for links to following racers online or on your smart phone.  I think the apps are free unless you want the fancy version.  Skip the SMS text thing.  Both Nathan and I start in the first wave at 9:40 a.m.

Me: bib #12503, orange, wave #1.
Nathan: bib #10343, blue, wave #1.

The kit: white visor, light blue cap sleeve, black shorts, white calf sleeves, silver and blue shoes.  Black arm warmers will get removed once am warmed up.
Marshall Ulrich was at the expo yesterday in his own tiny booth off to the side.  He was plugging his book about his race across the US (San Fransisco to NYC). Apparently he will be at the half way point.  I would LOVE to get a high five from him.

Also, Michael Wardian will be in the elite crowd.  If you remember the results from the TNF Kansas City 50k, he's the one who swamped everyone even starting a half hour after the rest of the field.  He was easily cruising at twice my speed when he sailed past me. 

Big pre-race thanks to Laura (schoolmate, a.k.a. my Subconscious) for planting yourself along the course with some extra gels and N's allergy backup.  Same thanks to John for offering your place for bag storage and post-race meetup so that we don't have to mess with the super chaotic bag drop.

Now back to paper writing.  Deadlines are not sympathetic towards marathons....

Saturday, October 29, 2011

NYC Marathon spectatorship

One week from tomorrow!  I can barely contain myself.  

I've had more people say they'll come support me than I know what to do with.  I'm not used to it.  Only twice have I had supporters in the crowd since high school -- Nathan at miles 5 and 13 of the NYC 1/2 Marathon last March, and my family at mile 28 of the TNF KC 50k last August.  But my history of spectators is a little odd.  You'd think with a dance background I'd be used to it.  For whatever reason I was the high school kid with paranoia at being watched.  I was okay with my parents/family coming to watch, but I didn't want to know where they were sitting.  Apparently I've been this way since toddlerhood when I'd stop dancing like a maniac to Fraggle Rock the moment I realized my mom was watching.  I have a rather tenacious superego, so maybe it was too much to have others watching at the same time.  I also know that during high school I enjoyed running track but became extremely tired with the pressure of competition.  

Gladly, recreational running is completely different.  I am no longer paranoid, and my running is dictated by the "old ladies."  Yet I'm still not used to people wanting to camp out for my sake.  So when school friends ask me where they should post themselves, I get a little stumped.  

Thus, I've collected info from and added my own thoughts related to the NYRR website's Spectator Guide.  Most friends of mine live in Brooklyn, which is the first third or so of the race.  Typically, the halfway point (mile 13.1) is when a runner can start to predict what may or may not unravel their race, and mile 20 starts the epic, and painful, final push.  I usually watch from mile 21 just on the Harlem side of the 138th St. bridge from the Bronx, partly for the convenience, but partly because that's when the elite race becomes interesting.

This map is the official NYRR course map, which includes all mileage markers and nearby subway stop info.  For a downloadable/printable PDF version of it, go to the course info page, then look on the right beneath the photo.

You can follow runners and hopefully better predict when they'll land at various mile markers with a smartphone/iPhone using the Mobile Spectator App ($2.99 from iTunes App Store or Android Market, available October 28).  Follow by computer using TrackMyRunners, available race day without signing up ahead.  More info on both.

Last year my friend and I used what likely was a trial version of the iPhone app to track a runner we were mutually, Big D, following as well as two other runners I knew, L and C.  Big D, the first to arrive, came as predicted by the app.  L and C were to arrive in the next 30 and 60 minutes respectively.  I started cheering and waving my signs when the app located them on the Bronx side of the bridge, just in case it was off by a few minutes.  Minutes went by.  I alternated between focused crowd scanning and light scanning while waving signs.  No L or C in sight, despite the app claiming they would supposedly come off the bridge at any moment.  We rechecked her phone multiple times, and eventually the app showed L and C way past our location.  I missed both L and C completely, likely from the software getting overloaded with users. So, hopefully all the bugs have been worked out this year.  BUT!  Scroll down to see a chart I made of expected times so that you hopefully don't need the app.

A few more recommendations based on my personal history of spectating and running:
  • Pick your clothes as though its 20 degrees colder than actual.  You're standing around for potentially multiple hours, meaning not creating much heat.  If in the 50s I was usually happiest with thick wool socks, long sleeve shirt, wool sweater, down sweater, and a stocking cap to wear as needed.  If in the 40s I added wool long underwear.  Easier to take off layers than to add those you left at home.
  • Bring a stadium seat, the Sunday paper, or a few layers of cardboard so that if you want to sit on the sidewalk or curb then you don't freeze your butt on the cold concrete.  
  • Bring a thermos of hot tea/coffee/hot chocolate.  
  • Think about how visible you are to the runner (signage, positioning), how easily you can spot your runner (knowing their shirt/hat colors), which direction the runner is headed (are you on the corner that they are turning away from, or are you on the far side just after the turn?), and whether or not you are back lit by the sun which would hinder their recognizing you.  I will post a picture of what I plan to wear as the day nears and the weather report becomes more accurate.
  • The aforementioned Spectator Guide includes a few tips for those camping out for the morning/afternoon.  Of those meant for the sake of runners: "DON'T say 'You're almost there!' You should only use those longed-for words if you're holding the finish line tape."  Last August I told my family NOT to say "Three miles down, only 28 to go!" or "It's all downhill from here!"  My brother caught my Dad on video saying the downhill comment just as I started ascending Hospital Hill, and he was lucky I didn't hear him through my mumbling and huffing.
Lastly, a few things to note before interpreting the paced ETA chart...
  • These are the actual times you might expect me at various mileage points.  It give a range of my faster days and my slower days, so that you know the window at which to hopefully expect me.  Use the phone app or the online thingie to see how the race starts out.  For the first 8 miles you'll get info from runners crossing timing mats every 5 kilometers.  At and after 8 miles, every mile will also have a timing mat.  The course map marks miles with squares, kilometers (in sets of 5) with pentagons. 
  • I'm in Wave 1, which starts at 9:40 a.m., though I'm assuming that my corral will reach the start at 9:45 at the earliest.  It might be later.  
  • Runners from previous years describe not running much for the first few miles.  That said, initial miles may be slower depending on how the start works out with the masses.   
  • Notice on the map that the three sections of the start (blue, orange, green) take slightly different routes before converging a few miles into the race.  I am orange.  Nathan is blue.  On the long stretch of 4th Ave in Brooklyn, orange is on the west side of the street while blue and green are together on the right.  They all converge at mile 8 in downtown Brooklyn.
  • I'm shooting to average 8:00 per mile, but I still recommend staking out your vantage point with time to spare before the 7:30 ETA.
  • If I end up running most of the first 10 miles faster than 7:30 per mile pace, this is very very very bad.  Expect me to blow up half way through -- my average pace will progressively lengthen, and I'll end up with an 8:30 per mile (or likely even slower) pace by the end.  Also expect me to be in pain by the time I reach mile 20.  I'm hoping to avoid this as much as possible...
  • What am I shooting for?  An average of 8:00 per mile.  I'd like to say I am capable of controlling my excitement to start out conservative so that I work my way into full race pace.  In reality, I'll be reminding myself constantly to slow to a good cruising speed.  Harder to do than it seems.  My reasoning?  If I manage to not blow up and I have a good race day, I'd land just under the cutoff to qualify for the 2013 Boston Marathon.  Heart isn't set on it, by any means.  Would just be cool if it worked out, and my Tune-Up 18 Mile race times indicate that its possible (*knock on wood*).  Ultimately the day will go however my knees and energy and stomach dictate.
  • I WANT to stop for a hug and a high five from everyone.  But if things start to hurt, or if momentum becomes difficult, or if I've lost too much time from stopping earlier then I'll need to continue without pause.  If I feel like making the Boston cutoff is possible but I'm at risk for losing it, that will change how much I interact with friends posted along the latter half of the race.  If friends are posted at a dozen different locations along the way, I will be less inclined to keep stopping.  To stop and restart that much gets super hard after a few times.  
  • Even if I barely see you, believe me -- it helps ENORMOUSLY.  Some days the mental race is harder than the physical race, which is where these brief encounters make all the difference.  If I have to keep moving and cannot stop, you'll probably be able to read it on my facial expression.  Give me a high five with your whole heart, cause I'll need it.