My kitteh eats vegetables. Arugula, brussel sprout, carrot -- bam! Sadie is a gnawing maniac, and there was no regurgitation after the fact. Merus, on the other hand, doesn't quite get it. Not that she needs to; she makes a great background observer when confused as to the purpose of the main event. Two other videos were also posted lately -- a collection of shots from various afternoons of lazing in the chair, and Merus' attempt to eat my laptop cursor. They have become smarter as to knowing there's something fishy about a camera, and lately when I pull the camera out they stop all activity and/or leave the scene. But, luckily, the goofy and ridiculous persist if it place the camera somewhere and leave it on while I act as though nothing is different.
Bib numbers and start information was released for all runners in the NYC Marathon. If I recall correctly, there are some 47,000 runners in total.
All runners are divided up into one of three colors to determine which start path you run: blue, orange, green. Blue and orange running across the top level of the bridge and green running on the lower level.
All three colors are divided into waves according to start time: wave 1 at 9:40, wave 2 at 10:10, wave 3 at 10:40. Wave 1 will consist of a certain portion of each color, as will wave 2 and wave 3.
Then, within each color/wave combination are corrals that further subdivide people according to predicted pace according to bib numbers. 7000-7999 are grouped together, 8000-8999 are grouped together.
As a whole, those in wave 1 are faster than wave 2 which is faster than wave 3, and same goes for the early versus late corrals. The lower the bib number (closer to 1) the faster the runner, the higher the number (closer to 66999) the slower the runner. You may notice the discrepancy between 47,000 runners and the penultimate bib number; not all bib numbers are assigned, as maneuvering room is needed through the long-term organization of it all. Here is a chart where you can see it all in one graphic. The elite, subelite and local competitive designations refer to those in the first corral of each color (the super fast low numbers).
Me? I'm orange, wave 1, corral 12. That means I get to start at 9:40 instead of waiting around for an extra hour, I get to run on the top level of the Verizano Bridge, and I'm the third corral within my color/wave and thus get to avoid the zoo of a start that happens to those later in the pack. I'm incredibly stoked! The race is still 6 weeks away. Hard to keep calm in the mean time, though luckily school is at hand and eventually there will be midterms.
Did I mention how cool it'll be to run across the Verizano? There are no pedestrian or cyclist lanes, so the only time a person can cross it (without riding in a vehicle) is during the marathon or during the clusterf*** of the 5 Borough Bike Tour filled with 40,000 people who don't know how to ride their bike.
Yesterday's theme was neuropsychology, made evident once transferred to the A train heading home with a schoolmate. As we waited for riders to exit the subway car I heard a man yelling repetitively. A quick side glance yielded arms full of a large, folded cardboard box and four or five bags. To use local terminology, he was just another crazy. They are the homeless, the hungry, the drug addicted, the mentally and/or physically disabled, often possessing more than a few of these traits. They are a regular occurrence throughout the city. New Yorkers are well practiced in maintaining a straight face that denies ever noticing something abnormal as they venture to a distant location on the subway platform, to another subway car, or to the opposite side of the street. And somehow that radar that fails in warning you of friends making a sneak attack from behind is suddenly in full force and blinking a red mental warning light that this person will walk the extra 20 feet necessary to board onto your packed subway car, because the car conveniently in front of them is lacking some element of mojo. Lucky us, this yelling crazy not only boarded our subway car, but also traversed from the far end to the area we stood at two-thirds of a car away. Oh lucky us....
My thoughts returned to previous eventful evening rush hour commutes. The homeless man whose pants fell down around his ankles, belt and all, and he stood there smiling at nothing in particular while his parts, front and rear, dangled for all to see. The guitarist who forewent moving between cars at every stop for a new potential paying audience in lieu of sitting and belting his songs the entire way to Harlem, only to be joined for the last two stops by a saxophonist who blew even louder into my face from 4 feet away. The guy who insisted on shuffling through a packed car and, once blocked by a six and a half foot guy with no illusions of spontaneously creating space to let him through, progressed from mumbling unintelligibles with the occasional "anything... help me out... appreciate..." to "AAGGGHHH! UUUGGGHH! Gimme the money!" and immediately returned to his previous unintelligible mumbles without so much as lifting his head. I was grateful to have missed the man licking the outside of his shoe as though it were the remnant bowl from mixing brownies amid a famine (I think I posted the YouTube of this in a previous post with warnings of grossness).
My mind was brought back to the current crazy when he restarted his repetitive ramblings. "Jamaica Jamaica Jamaica Jamaica Jamaica Wash-ing-ton Heightssss Jamaica Jamaica Jamaica Jamaica Wash-ing-ton Heightsss... no tengo no tengo no tengo no tengo no tengo no tengo dinero dinero no tengo no tengo nada nada nada nada nada nada nada nada...." Apparently he found the space next to my friend and I welcoming. Divert eyes, step back a foot, face away. "I keep you company. No men no men no men no men no men I keep you girls company." My friend gave the polite Cleveland, Ohio smile meaning "oh you crazy, you run along now." My response: an audible "Nope!" and stepping 5 feet back while shaking my head, motioning for my friend to join me.
Here I gave a big sigh, reminding myself that I now know the
innumerable possibilities that might explain his behavior. Frontal lobe
involvement resulting in impulsiveness and reduction or loss of what is
known in neurology as executive functioning.
Lymbic system and temporal involvement resulting in impaired memory.
Vestibular involvement resulting in an attempt to stimulate through loud
verbalization and repetition with synchronous head nodding. Any of
these could be caused by malnourishment, drugs be they prescription,
over the counter or illegal, infection, cognitive involvement due to a
neurological disease either congenital or acquired, early onset
dementia, post-traumatic stress disorder, allergic reaction(s), vitamin
B-12 deficiency....
As awkward as these encounters are within public, 99 out of 100 crazies
are in fact harmless. In a rehab environment, I have a chart that
includes medical and therapy evaluations as well as oversight by doctors
and others of the health care team. That level of understanding does
not trump the need to give behavioral reminders, the intention being
that with enough time, patience and consistency neuroplasticity
may help resolve a portion of problematic behavior. Depends on the
patient and the level of involvement as to how much change may be
possible. But since you know the reason behind the behavior, you may
also know how to guide the patient. In public these people are simply
strangers, and more often than not they have nowhere to receive care.
I then remembered the article I selected for this week's
Organization & Management course, where for the first half hour
(sometimes full hour) we discuss various articles and news items from
the previous week. My selection was "Push underway to cut drugs for
dememtia patients" by Matt Sedensky of the Associated Press. A Medicare
audit of 2007 performed this past May showed one in seven dementia
patients received prescription antipsychotics, and 83% of these were
"for off label purposes." Think of an elderly family member in a
subacute or skilled nursing facility who seems absent of personality.
They don't have behavioral abnormalities because they are drugged into a
stupor. Many facilities noted within the article performed internal
audits and in the last few years have reduced the number of patients on
antipsychotics from as many of ~30% of patients down to the ~7% whose
evaluations actually warrant the use of such drugs. One facility director reports taking dementia patients off of all drugs aside from medicinal aspirin
(cardiac purposes), resulting in patients with an interest in life and
families reporting that the patients act more like themselves -- without
behavioral detriment.
My favorite part: a comment from another facility director
stating that basic adjustments, such as feeding patients earlier, were
enough to ensure no or minimal behavioral incidents. Meaning: treat the patients like deserving human beings. Neuropsychology/neuropsychiatry has for a very long time been separate from neurology. I've never understood this. Oliver Sacks is one of many doctors who has always spoken for recognition of behavior as a genuine neurological entity.
Therapists spend many more hours with patients than doctors, interacting
with them from anywhere between 20 minutes to 90 minutes at a time. I
find human physiology and medicine extremely interesting, though I am
steadfast in my choice of therapy over medicine due to elements such as
this.
Back to the crazy at hand. He continued ad nauseum as the
train pulled away from my home station, my ears ringing for a few
minutes as though I had exited a bar playing very loud music, my mind
reflecting on the amount of people I pass daily who could potentially
become my patient in the future. It is a peculiar place, being a third
year student with impending graduation and with bits of reality
squeezing themselves into the mix.
I'll sign off with well wishes to baby Sid, who a few days ago
became one month old. I have a handful of film that is expired but I
intend to use anyways, hence the old-school feel. The first was taken
at not quite three weeks, the latter at not quite four weeks. The
whippersnapper in him is coming out, grunting and kicking out of his
swaddle, representing my mama friend quite nicely :)
Somehow still able to run after 31 miles, with the finish line 50 feet away.
[This was meant to be posted two days ago, but internet problems and travel got in the way. So it goes. Back home now, having attended only one day's worth of classes this week thanks to hurricane Irene flight snafus, spending time with my energetic kitties (who seem ridiculously small after spending time with other, normal and/or big cats in KC), finally getting my apartment put together, and getting back to normal life.]
Lo! Ultra marathon #2 is in the bag, and I even came out of it with a photo that makes me look like a runner! Nice work, Dad. It's probably because the finish line was about 50 feet away and I was desperate to sink into an ice bath and drink a soda.
I'm very satisfied with my time and performance: 31-ish miles in 4hr 44min 36sec, which was good enough to finish as the 4th woman and 21st overall. Went through 5 or so bottles of Gu Brew, 6 or 7 gels, wrung out my shirt 11 times, minimal inner thigh chafing, no alien toenail aggravation, and only one very small blister at the end of my left 4th toe that I didn't notice until the next day. I also finished by 10:45 in the morning; after 9 a.m. was hot enough, and I was glad to be done that much before noon. I couldn't imagine still being on the course once afternoon sun angled in for full frying effect. After the race I immediately consumed half an orange from the bins just across the finish (why wasn't this food available mid-race?!?), a bottle of Pepsi while submerged in belly deep ice water, and quarter of a watermelon once plopped into the shade not far from the Gore-Tex tent ice bath. I wasn't able to speak much until I got half way through the watermelon. Big thanks to my family for bringing that and the Pepsi for me. Odd the things you need after such an endeavor...
Turned out that a few elites showed for the event, with Michael Wardian heading up the 50k race at 3:02:34. Wardian cheered on the rest of us runners for our 6:00 a.m. start, with his own race starting at 6:30 to add the challenge of catching everyone. Second place overall was over 36 minutes later, meaning Wardian passed us everyone and still crossed the finish line 6 minutes before the next guy. He passed me while I was heading east along the Missouri River towards the new 71 Hwy bridge, somewhere around the half marathon point, his 5:52 per mile zoooooom looking effortless as compared to my 8-ish min/mile pace alternating with walking stints for a 9:08 per mile average. Especially because I was starting to feel the effects of running the first hour much faster than planned....
The route included turns at what seemed like every third corner. I saw a handful of KC that was familiar, but mostly I saw tons of areas that are off the beaten path or were simply unknown to me. My memory of KC's hills was correct, though I was surprised at how unrelenting they felt as I progressed farther through the course. The hills just kept going. Every once in a while a cop would remark that the course was relatively flat for the next while. I'd breath a sigh of relief and trod on ahead, only to find a nice downhill that inevitably leads to a corresponding uphill. I stopped listening to non-runner's interpretations of what was to follow, because by mile 20 the non-visible uphills felt enormous. Here I am at mile 28, coinciding with the bottom of Hospital Hill. Granted everything burned at this point, but the 10% grade over the course of a mile was not easy. I started my walk immediately after turning off Grand Street:
At the very end saying "It's all downhill from here, heh heh" was my Dad. I warned my brothers the night before that any comments of "only 27 more miles to go!" are, in fact, not funny despite what it seems to the spectator, and that I'd veer off course long enough to bob them in the heads if they pulled anything like that in the early miles. Dad says he had already walked up and back down the hill to see what it was like so he sympathized, though it's probably better off that I didn't hear him at that point.
In no particular order I remember running up and down various hills in the Plaza, running down a red brick road into Roanoke Park (I haaate running on brick, so was glad when this half mile stretch was done), along Brookside, past the Liberty Memorial, seeing Bartle Hall and the Sprint Center, running through waterfront park towards the 71 Hwy bridge, a very long traverse of the roads in Kessler Park, a lot of Gladstone Boulevard (wherever that is), many many many many neighborhoods that I can't begin to remember, running along the center of downtown roads that had 4 lanes in each direction but no cars (told ya, the cops were awesome!), past Crown Center and Hospital Hill, and then a blur of absent surrounds as I watched the street numbers grow from 38th Street to the finish at 47th Street. Somewhere in that last blur was the KC Art Institute and the contemporary museum, because that's when I knew that the finish was finally around the corner.
Full credit is due to the hundreds of cops and handful of volunteers who directed traffic. They were absolutely wonderful. Never was my passage through an intersection or traverse along a street in need of consideration other than placing one foot in front of the other. I never even needed to pause, as they held traffic when I still had a good 10 seconds of hobbling to go before enter the intersection. Quite different from the street rat traffic game one gets used to in NYC. The difference is that most races will close off streets for so many hours on race day. Since this was a long race but with comparatively small number of entrants, it didn't make sense to close of streets completely with the likely large gaps that would develop between runners. Considering that they (hopefully) did this for all 100+ entrants of the 50k as well as for all the marathoners and marathon relay-ers, they deserve a huge amount of recognition. I thanked as many as I could, and those times I couldn't speak I tried to wave and smile.
What made the greatest impact on the race was the lack of food. I've never heard of an ultra marathon that doesn't at least serve cheap white bread peanut butter sandwiches and bananas. I wonder if paying for the traffic control took loads out of the race budget. Aide stations were spaced every 2 to 3 miles apart, and most were only stocked with water and electrolyte fluids. Other than fluids, every other aid station had a small collection of gels. Usually anything past 2 hours and I need food. The thought of 5 hours without any sustenance made me nervous, all the more reason to walk more hills than planned. I force fed myself gels every 30 to 45 minutes, and by the end they were becoming hard to get down. My digestion came to a relative halt and my stomach felt bloated, but I still managed to come in under my 5 hour goal.
Three days later, Tuesday, I managed a 36 minute jog/run that for now seems to have helped my quadriceps rigormortis. It also occurred to me today that I have now completed two ultra marathons, which makes me feel much more legitimate in terms of kicking off my endurance escapades. Very satisfying in the classic endurance way -- a process of feeling absolutely stoked pre-race, then mid-race hating your supposedly good "judgement" that got you here, and once a half mile from the finish line the exhilaration returns and you can't wait to sign up for the next one. I do look forward to the NYC Marathon in just over two months time, though I also look forward to future races on trail instead of big, wide, paved roads.
