Don’t judge a woman until you’ve run a mile in her compression hose

I used to see this woman running all the time who wore a super-short running skirt and what I thought were white knee-high socks. I am a nice person all in all, but I do have a bit of a snide side, and I remember thinking to myself, “Nice look you’ve got there, Wonder Woman.”


Actually, she was a bit more like Molly Shannon’s SNL “Mary Katherine Gallagher” character than Lynda Carter. I kept waiting for her to shout out “Superstar!” and then stick her hands under her armpits to sniff them.

But a few weeks ago my left calf started to hurt, more when I ran but achy when I wasn’t running, too. I tried hot baths, hinting to the pedicurist to “dig a little deeper” during the lotion-application part of the treatment, Advil, ice, heat, arthritis lotion, everything. My calf tightness would loosen up after about four miles of running, but return after I stopped.

I mentioned this during my run on Saturday, and one of my Team in Training teammates suggestion compression hose.

I had no idea what they were, but when I asked to see a pair at Runner’s Depot the next day, wouldn’t you know it? With my running skirt, I indeed look like a nervous Catholic school girl. Just call me Superstar. Sometimes when I’m nervous, I like to stick my fingers under my armpits and smell them…

Actually, the pair I got is purple, and I only wear them on my left side, so maybe I look more like The Joker from Batman than Mary Katherine.

A few other “judgments” I had of other runners when I first began running—that I now wish I could take back:

Smirking at the fanny pack: I remember thinking, when seeing a hyper-equipped runner, “Are you running or are you going on an elephant safari?” But this was back in the day when all I thought I needed to run were sneakers and headphones. Now for my longer runs I wear a fuel belt (which is just a nice name for a fanny pack) equipped with water bottles, sport beans, reflector lights, a sweat rag and more.

Snickering at Richard Simmons wanna-bes: Seeing an old, skinny man running in nothing but tissue-paper-thin running shorts or briefs always gave me a case of the giggles. But eventually I figured out that the weight of your clothing really does have an impact on your performance. True, you won’t see me dressing like I’m ready to Sweat to the Oldies or running in the equivalent of Spandex underwear. But on a really hot day, I’ll choose the lightest weight shorts and tank that I own. (I even weighed two different running skirts once on my digital food scale.)

Turning my nose up at treadmill addicts: Long before I became a runner, I might hop on the treadmill for 15-20 minutes to warm up before lifting weights, taking a kickboxing class, etc. I never understood why there were people who seemed to live on the treadmill. They’d be on it before I got there and still plugging away when I left my kickboxing class. “This is a great gym!” I felt like exclaiming to them. “Why don’t you get off that boring machine and explore it?” But now I realize that they were probably long distance runners stuck indoors because it was raining outside—and I wouldn’t have wanted to stop what I was doing to take kickboxing, either.

Oh well—you live and learn, and you learn not to judge. So if you see a runner with one grape-juice-purple leg limping past you, try not to laugh. Otherwise, one day, that purple one-legged runner might be you.

10 miles, baby!

So...10 miles. In 90 degree heat. No major injuries to report, no new blisters (I can't tell you how much I swear by the combination of Nike Lunar Glides and Dri Fit socks and about a half a cup of talcum powder on each foot). I was just under a 10 minute mile at 1:38. And I didn't puke up my Powerade! Life is good.

But I had one strange, awful moment about two hours after I finished running my first double-digit run with my team.

It was 9:30 am, and I was happily watching my 6 year old's Little League game (he also was having a good day--my little switch hitter got three nice hits!) when I suddenly and desperately needed to relocate from the bleachers to the lovely Weston Regional Park ladies' room. All I can say is, I'm glad I went when I went. My presence was most definitely required.

After that lovely visit, as I was walking back to the stands, I began sweating profusely--you'd think I was still on mile 8--and shivering. It was in the 90s by then and I was shivering!

A nice mom on my son's team saw me looking like, I don't know, a heroin addict in withdrawal (confession: I'm a huge "Intervention" fan so I actually have an idea of what a heroin addict in withdrawal looks like), and brought me a cold Dasani, which helped tremendously.

So did eating the saltiest hot pretzel they had to offer at the concession stand. (I actually said to the teenager working there, "No, can you give me the one that's completely white all over?") Man did that salt taste good! And just like that, I was all better again.

I returned to the bleachers and after thanking the Dasani mom for her kindness and convincingly explaining to her that I was a running addict, not a drug addict, I enjoyed the rest of the game, my 3 1/2 year old's ballet practice an hour later--and the two hour nap I took when all of that was over.

So, that weird, sweaty moment during the baseball game aside, I'd say I survived my first Florida 10 miler. Next time, I think I'll have some super-salty pretzels, or maybe just a big container of Morton's, waiting for me right after my run, though. The body does strange things when it gets low on electrolytes.

Finish Line Fantasies

Sometimes when I’m running, I like to imagine what would be the ultimate finish line crossing experience. I’d sprint past it on fresh legs, as if I’d just taken a quick lap around my development, not a grueling 26.2 miles; the Black Eyed Peas would be playing “Pump It” live from the sidelines; the race organizer would say, “What are YOU doing here? We weren’t expecting to see you for at least another hour! Marge, someone get this lady a bottle of water!”

But after my speedy-but-stressful10k experience last weekend, I realize that simply crossing that 26.2 mile mark in one relatively uninjured piece is all I can really aspire to. I’d say my top three priorities for the Miami ING would be:

1. Completing it.
2. Not requiring hospitalization during the race.
3. Not requiring hospitalization after the race.

Should the racing gods grant me those three wishes, I would get just a bit greedier:

4. Not being in excruciating pain (giant bloody blisters, shooting shin splints)
5. Not being in bearable but still very unpleasant pain (tight calves; sore butt)
6. Not having any bathroom emergencies

And getting a little greedier than that:

7. My husband and kids would actually see me cross the finish line, and wouldn’t be stuck in Miami traffic or frantically trying to find a parking space on South Beach
8. My iPod, heart rate monitor, headphones, fuel belt and sports bra would all do their jobs and not break mid-race
9. I would look something other than confused, miserable or angry when crossing the finish line—happy or proud would be great (A little race picture history: first 5k, looked frighteningly determined; second 5k, looked about to puke; first 10k, well, I think the picture below says it all)

Finally, my least important but most burning fantasy would be to:


10. Get a good time.

But if that doesn’t happen, and #1-9 do, or honestly, #1-5, I will still consider the marathon to be a totally fantastic experience.

Cool down (please, cool down, already!)

It’s October. Shouldn’t I be hearing crispy leaves crunching below my feet as I run, instead of the sudden demise of a poor snail that was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time; shouldn't a sweet, maple-scented breeze be tickling my nose rather than an unpleasant reminder that Secret deodorant isn't keeping my B.O. a secret? In the season of jack-o-lanterns and knee-high boot fashion spreads and Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Lattes, shouldn't a few pores of my skin and hairs on my head not be exuding copious fluids after just a quarter-mile warm-up jog?


Well, this all would be the case, if I didn’t live in sunny South Florida. The weather report at 6 am this morning for my Broward County zip code was 79 degrees with 72% humidity (“feels like 86 degrees,” explained the Weather.com graph, and that would probably be 86 degrees, presumably, to a person who was not engaged in intense physical activity.)

I became a real runner over the summer, when it was even hotter than 79 degrees at 6 am--and my Team in Training mentor has told me that if you can run 8 miles in the heat during the peak of a Florida summer, you can run anywhere.

That is somewhat of a consolation as I find myself daydreaming about running through a sprinkling of gold and amber leaves while following the path on Boat House Row in Philadelphia, where I was born and raised; as I imagine the thrilling chill of wind against my face (wind! what an exotic delicacy) as I comb through the cobblestone streets of Baltimore, where I spent the second half of my 20s; or hugging my jacket (remember those cuddly fleece things?) closer to my body while crossing the Key Bridge from Georgetown to Arlington, Virginia, where I spent the first half.

But, in November, if I still lived in any of these places—or in St. Louis, where we spent the two years before we finally settled here (how cool would it be to run circles around the Arch?)—I probably wouldn’t be able to burn off my Thanksgiving dinner outdoors without worrying about slipping on an ice patch.

And from what I recall of the first 32 years of my life, before I became a perennially sun-kissed (and sweaty) tropical being, there’s a time when cool weather transforms from being “nice and refreshing” to “a big hassle;” and eventually you stop smelling the leaves and instead start smelling wet wool (all those cozy pea-coats drenched in freezing rain and snow.) Wet wool smells a lot like a wet dog--I can guarantee you that Glade doesn't have a scented candle created to emulate this distinctly northern odor.

So I will try to count my blessings. But I do look forward to the day (which I thought would have arrived already) when I can run without carrying a towel with me, which I need to constantly mop the sweat out of my eyes, so I can see where I am going.

Being blinded by sweat is a bit of an occupational hazard when you run this close to the equator. And so is stinking. Thank goodness for soap, baby powder and showers.

Official results

Hey, David and I were seven seconds faster than we originally thought! And I came in 3rd among 35-39 year old chicks, and he was the fourth fastest among men 25-29.

This is me (the 54:54 is my "net" time from when I crossed the start line to the finish; the 55:03 is from when the race started)

3 4060 JORIE MARK 35 55:03 54:54 8:50

My next scheduled race is the Weston half-marathon in December. :-)

Lessons from my first 10K

I sit here with sore glutes, an upset stomach and a LOT of pride after completing my first 10k with my brother-in-law David in a very respectable 55 minutes, 10 seconds. David's pretty fast, and he's also 8 years younger than me, and I'm pretty sure he could have run it in even a few minutes faster than that--but he was a gentleman and stayed at my pace from the start line to the finish line.

I can tell David had not only a great time in terms of when he crossed the finish line, but a great time meaning a great run. I'm jealous. For me, as much as I enjoyed the experience with running with my husband's little brother (much more enjoyable than running solo) and the sights of Key Biscayne (vultures! peacocks!), it was a rough run for me.

I made the mistake of running this 10k the way I've run my previous 5ks: which is to say as fast as I could. Plus, I'd had my weekly long run with Team in Training the previous day and I felt every moment of Saturday's 8 mile run as I took on today's 6.2. Not smart of me at all.

My theory about 5ks is that they are very short, and anyone can endure a little misery for 25-30 minutes, so I've just thrown my body into the dynamic of the race, not trying to find and maintain an enjoyable pace at all. And I'm someone who loves to feel good while running, so this is a big sacrifice--but walking away with better-than-expected times has made that worthwhile.

But a 10k is quite literally twice the length of a 5k. And 55:10 is a really long time to go "as fast as you possibly can." It made all 6 miles just crawl by for me (I remember looking around frantically for the elusive mile marker 4), which is the opposite of how a long run feels to me when I'm running on my own.

And as David pointed out, if 6.2 miles feels long, imagine 26.2.

I may have to run a few more medium-length races before my marathon so I can really learn how to run at a normal pace without getting carried away by the excitement and adreneline rush of a racing event.

Because as soon as I hear "Ready, set, go!" I GO. And really, I need to learn how to just go.

The Weights Debate

I have something really bold and controversial to say, so brace yourself.


If you’re a runner, this may provoke more ire in you than a statement about abortion, the healthcare debate or what to do with illegal immigrants.

OK, here goes: I don’t see the point of weight lifting while training for a marathon.

Before you start pelting me with bananas (or dumbbells), let me make it clear that I’m not talking about cross-training in general. I get a lot from spin classes, and I recently discovered that yoga is my friend.

But strength training, particularly high repetition strength training, seems to be doing more to harm than help my running.

On Sunday I took “Pump It Up” at the YMCA, which entailed dozens and dozens of lunges and glute lifts done with weights. I’ve taken this class many times before (before I began marathon training) and perhaps because I didn’t run a dozen miles in the days following weights workouts, I always felt good afterwards and got a lot out of the experience.

And while I was in the class this Sunday, as I was curtseying and flexing and balancing my heart out, I felt absolutely fine. (OK, not “happy,” but not like I was out of my league, either.)

But four days and twelve miles later, I’m aching like I’ve never ached before.

It’s my legs. They hurt. This is really strange, because I’ve never really had “sore” legs during the six months I’ve been running regularly. Muscles that certainly had to be conditioned from all the running I’ve done—my calves, hamstrings, inner and outer thighs and hips—are seriously unhappy right now.

I could probably “break myself in” by doing more weight training every week, but my inclination right now actually is to do less of it—much less of it.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’m not sure why I would need to be able to do 125 squats with 8 lb. dumbbells in order to run a marathon; I’m not really sure how lacing myself into ankle weights and then lifting my calves above my hips is going to help me with speed or endurance.

The irony of it all is that I’m looking a lot more “muscular” these days than I ever did when I took “Pump it Up” every Sunday and did cardio just twice a week. My biceps are defined; my thighs don’t widen when I sit down; my stomach, even, is starting to pass for the stomach of someone who hasn’t necessarily had two c-sections.

So while I’ll keep cross-training, I’m going to choose how I cross-train very carefully in the future. Yoga, yes; curtsey-lunges, no thank you. (In any case, I’m pretty sure people in the super-crowded “Pump it Up” class will be relieved to have one less person competing for space and a riser.)