Greetings from Outer Space

This is Brittany checking in from Milky Way Sector 7, Planet 8, row 4, second on the left. This summer of marathon training has been rough, especially since I've been in Outer Space and thus unable to update this blog. (There's Wi-Fi, but for some reason the only accessible sites are TFLN, #WSWCM, and the CTA train tracker, which has been a huge tease this whole time.)

The planet's boiling sunshine has been a deterrent to running these last eight weeks. The heat has been oppressive, especially in July. But the bigger deterrent, of course, is my practiced ability to not accomplish the schedule I carefully laid out for myself -- or, rather, that Hal Higdon laid out, bless his heart.

It hasn't been all bad. Last weekend I ran 15 miles with my roommate, LaJuanda (who, uh, also happens to be in Outer Space...surprise!). It was the most I've run in one day. Ever. We started at our apartment in Lakeview and ran down Lake Shore, watching the Air and Water Show and running dangerously close to low-flying jets and suburban tourists. At North Avenue we turned west and ran straight through Wicker Park to Humboldt Park.

Yes, there's a Humboldt Park in Outer Space.

The 15-mile loop took us four hours to run, but that was mostly due to the beer stop we made at Uberstein Wicker Park around mile 8.5. We spent an hour gulping water, sipping beer, and chatting with the bartender and the three patrons present on a Saturday afternoon. They were amused but impressed with us, and the bartender even played along with our suggestion to declare Uberstein a Northwestern bar. (NU only has two bars in the city right now -- Lion Head and Kendall's, both on Lincoln Avenue in Lincoln Park -- so sticking a purple flag in a new neighborhood would be pretty badass. We got the bartender's card, we'll keep you posted.)

Anyway, we left after our one beer even though I wanted to stay for more beer, both because beer is delicious and because my legs felt like they might not sustain my body weight, let alone run. We walked outside the bar, stretched, and began slowly plodding along, a solid 3 minutes/mile slower than our 5K pace. My legs felt stiff and angry. It was a painful 6.5 miles, and it was exacerbated by our getting lost in the Lincoln Park Zoo a few miles from home. (I wanted to see the lions but then we got lost near the rhinos.)

It hurt, but it was fun, thank god. It was a reminder that every run doesn't need to be a race to the finish, and that stopping to enjoy a beer or a lion along the way nourishes the soul.

But then, the following week, out of the 15 miles I was supposed to run over 5 days, I ran only 2 miles. This has been my problem: skipping the shorter, midweek runs. The long runs are terrifying to miss, because the main thing I'm scared of in this marathon is being mentally prepared to run for 26.2 miles. It takes a long time to run that far, and the longs runs are psychological training as much as physical. But the midweek runs are just as important, more for the physical, and I feel like I'm fucking it up.

Today I toughed out 5 miles. They were harder than they should have been, thanks to heat and the lapse of personal record-setting fitness level, and it took me 10 minutes longer than it should have, thanks to walking breaks.

But I did it. I fought inertia long enough to go for a run. It feels like that some days, like you have to actually battle something before you can lace up. It should be simpler -- quit whining and run, right? -- but the human element is a powerful factor. It's always easier to stay put and not do it, and I've always been good at convincing myself to go with instant gratification (watching West Wing and eating chocolate) over delayed gratification (consistently going for runs after work to build stamina to run my first marathon).

My best friend reminded me yesterday that we can't do absolutely everything perfectly all the time. If I want to focus on running, I can't also be trying to start a new job and establish a new writing schedule and update three blogs and get serious with my band and learn to cook souffle. Or rather, I can try to do all that at once, but maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself when I drop a ball every once in awhile.

The marathon is six weeks from tomorrow. This is the ball I need to concentrate on. Luckily, the gravity in Outer Space is wonky, so I have faith I'll at least keep it floating above the ground.

We did it!

Last Friday, a $35 donation put us over the $1,000 American Cancer Society fundraising goal! Given that the support and donations are still rolling in and there are 100 days until the race, I'm putting my tennis shoes where my banana bread is: The goal is now raised to $1,500! Click the photo to donate!

Thank you so much to everyone who has already donated, many of whom have shared their stories with me of how cancer has touched their lives. My list of rock star donors includes:
Ashley Benson
Susanne Bessette-Smith
Jason Branden
Dennis & Fran Ferrazzano
Mary Hawkins
Michael Kato
Andrew & Julie Levin
Brenda Grevson Marshall
Gabe Matlin
Andrew Nieland
Don & Kirsten Patterson
Jim & Denise Petersen
Jon Ramos
Kevin Rinz
Michelle Rutz
Vanya Smrz
Michelle Spina
Todd, Cindy, & Lauren Steinke

It's Friday night and I'm about to go to bed so I can wake up at 5 a.m. and run 11 miles with CARA. I'm feeling grumpy about this, especially because a) I am not a morning person, and b) I just waved goodbye to my roommates and friends, who are on their way to a fun night out on the town. C'est la vie!

What it looks like to go the distance

I am completely mesmerized by this video. A guy put a camera on his head and took 8,273 photos while running the entire length (18 miles) of the Chicago lakefront path. He ran it last week and posted the time-lapse video on YouTube yesterday.

If you've ever wondered what it actually looks like to run for more than two hours (a thing I've only done twice, for half-marathons), this is it.

Thanks to Erin Dostal for the heads up on this video.

Week One Confessional

Forgive me, blog, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.

I didn't run five miles on Sunday, as planned. I could give you excuses -- it was hot, my family was in town, I had a ceremony to attend -- but I'll be honest: I could have made it happen. I could have chugged some water, tied my laces, and gone for an evening run along Lake Shore, after the ceremony was over and everyone had left. But I didn't.

I feel despondent when I fail to reach a goal, especially one as simple as following a schedule. I mean, it shouldn't be that hard. That's one of the reasons I wanted to train for a marathon -- the schedule is a cinch, well-vetted by others, tried and true. But it's hard. It's hard to work out six days a week, even if I've been doing nearly that for three years. It's a matter of shifting mindset from "working out for fun/fitness" to "training for an athletic event." It requires more physical exertion, sure, but the bigger challenge is mental.

This is why people at all levels hire personal trainers. With a trainer, there's someone there to gently suggest exercises (or to flat-out yell) throughout your workout, no matter your mental state. A trained eye can see when you're not trying, when you're holding back, and when you start to give up, and they push you. My trainer and friend Nikki knows before I've even raised my arm that I'm going to half-ass it, and so she teases my efforts until I strain, grunting and sweating, completing more push-ups and sit-ups and planks than I knew I could. She sees what I'm capable of and she forces me to achieve it. It's maddening in the moment but satisfying afterward, when you know you've done something better, faster, farther than you had before. But I have trouble recreating my efforts outside her watchful gaze. It's difficult to push yourself to the point of exhaustion on pure grit.

Some people are natural athletes who can recreate this push without outside reinforcement. They find it within themselves to pedal until their legs burn, to stroke until they've swum the channel, to run until their ankles turn to jelly. In my better moments, I am a member of that group. I reach a comfortable cruising speed, and when I realize I'm not breathing as hard as I could be, that my body is adapting to the plateau, I go faster. It's a literal burst of speed, and I'm tickled when it happens because it's evidence of not only my body but also my mind getting sharper.

But just as often, I fail to kick up to that gear. I phone it in. I complete the mileage or the sets, and then I go home and eat cookies. Those are the moments when I realize the importance of outside motivation. Maybe world-class runners are always giddy to sprint solo out the gate, but I'd bet you a five-pound dumbbell that there are days when even Olympic athletes would rather sit on the couch eating potato chips and watching Full House. We're all human.

So the solution, in my mind, is to be aware of how my emotions are affecting my will to train. I strive to be better at taking care of business on my own, and in conjunction I will continue to rely on the support network I've developed, the people whose gaze makes me stand straighter and complain less -- trainers, running partners, running groups.

That last one, the running group, is new to me; in fact, my first official group training run with the Chicago Area Runners Association (CARA) was this past Saturday. It was fun: The group leaders had us run in pairs, in two parallel lines, so as not to block the path, and we ran at constant timed pace, so I didn't have to think about it. It was like being a cog in the machine, putting one foot in front of the other, occasionally exchanging quips and "hoo-rahs" with my fellow runners, but otherwise not thinking very much. It was a relief to hand the responsibility to someone else and just focus on moving.

I'm still new to the club, but CARA is its own established community. People know each other from previous races, and there's even a lingo -- "Good morning, CARA!" is a popular early morning greeting along the Lake Shore path, as if "Cara" is a name and we all share it. It's a bit cult-ish, but given my years in a university marching band, I think I'll fit right in. And I'll take any help I can get when it comes to sticking to my training schedule, because the best thing you can do to exercise more/better is to find someone who will keep you honest. No excuses should be tolerated, period.

Except excuses that involve cookies. Or Full House.

Thank you!

Apparently, people like banana bread.

My offer of baked goods in return for donations spurred rapid fundraising, and now we're more than 60% of the way to my fundraising goal of $1,000! If you haven't yet, please visit my ACS DetermiNation Participant Center to donate in the name of cancer research, support, and education.

And my offer stands -- if you donate $40 or more, I will bake you a custom banana bread. And you'll love it.

A friendly reminder of the bounty that awaits your generosity.

It's Friday, so I feel like I should get to celebrate the completion of Week One of marathon training, but I still have two longer runs this weekend -- 8 miles on Saturday and 5 miles on Sunday.* In between the runs, I'm also going to clean my apartment, cook a bunch of food, throw a party, and graduate from DePaul. I have a massage scheduled for 5 p.m. on Sunday, after my family leaves. If I survive until then, it will be well-earned.

* I flipped Hal Higdon's plan so my long runs coincide with the Chicago Area Running Association group runs on Saturdays. I figure motivation in the form of other people panting and sweating around me will be effective in keeping me from stopping and rolling off the path and into the lake.

Banana Bread

I made banana bread today. I have a lot to cook this week, since my family is coming to visit this weekend to celebrate my graduation from graduate school. I'm excited to see them, and I'm looking forward to playing hostess to two sets of grandparents, my dad, my aunt, and my best friend since high school, all of whom may still be a little unsure about what exactly I got a master's degree in. I also get to spend the weekend with my roommates and friends who will celebrate with me, a pitcher of sangria, and a gluten-free German chocolate cake with buttercream frosting.

But the banana bread is for something different. As part of my commitment to run with the American Cancer Society, I pledged to raise $1,000 for the organization. I'm a quarter of the way to that goal, but I need help. And I'm willing to offer baked goods.

That's right, it's a good old-fashioned bake sale for charity. I figure since I successfully organized the fifth grade bake sale that raised enough money to buy a class pet, I can do this too. And with all due respect to Snowball the Hamster, this is a much, much better cause.

I'm fortunate in that cancer hasn't taken anyone from me, though a few close friends and family have suffered scares and surgeries. Cancer always starts the same, as an abnormal growth of cells. Sometimes that abnormal growth is no big deal, but sometimes it invades surrounding tissue, and that's when it becomes a problem. Some abnormal cells multiply until they form tumors; others are washed through the body by the blood stream, allowing multiple growths to form simultaneously.

Half of all men and one-third of women in the U.S. will develop cancer in their lifetimes, according to the American Cancer Society. The ACS has led in providing education, research, and support to the cancer community, from patients to family to doctors. They also lobby lawmakers on behalf of cancer patients and their families. I'm honored to be running an inhuman distance in the name of an organization that brings help and hope to so many humans around the country.

And just to sweeten the deal, I made banana bread.

For any donors who contribute $40 or more via my Participant Center, I offer a complimentary, homemade loaf of banana bread. It's healthy whole wheat, with no oil or butter, and I'll offer your choice of "nutrient dense" fillings: walnuts, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and/or berries.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I offer a few images from my kitchen this evening, where I baked the test loaf. I wanted to see how cherries held up in the bread. As you may imagine, they went over quite well.

Hey BFKNers! This mini-loaf will be in my office on 41 on Thursday, June 7 for tasting purposes!

For the record, I'm really good at banana bread. Said my roommate after biting into a slice fresh from the oven: "Fucking amazing."

Click here to make a donation, and I will email you promptly for your banana bread order!*


Note: If you live outside the Chicago area, your banana bread will be delivered to your hands the next time we see each other, which I will make sure is soon.

Time to get a helmet

My Twitter* followers saw my retweet today of this article, which appeared in yesterday's Slate: All Men Can't Jump: Why nearly every sport except long-distance running is fundamentally absurd.

This is what I'm talking about.

Running is like water. It's pure health. There's nothing better. According to the article, humans evolved to be long-distance runners. Our bodies aren't covered in hair, so we don't overheat like most animals. Our butts are bootylicious because they contain big gluteus maximus muscles to aid stability on two legs. Our brains are wired to remember and record complex details, likely because our ancestors ran down their meat and then they had to remember where the water hole was, whether to take a right or a left at the fork in the mountain, what berries taste best with antelope meat. (Now playing: Rachel Ray Cooks with Cavemen)

It makes sense that humans are biologically evolved to be good runners. It is, after all, the most basic exercise. One foot in front of the other, no equipment but shoes (and even that's not necessary, according to the purveyors of barefoot running). Though it's fun to imagine cavemen dribbling skulls and swinging planks of wood for recreation, reality is that neither Michael Jordan nor David Beckham could directly apply their sport-specific skill sets to survival, namely hunting and outrunning predators.

Of course, any exercise is good exercise, and I'm relieved that cross-training is built into the marathon training schedule because I have no intention of running every day for the next four months. In Hal Higdon's plan, Mondays are designated cross-training days, which I've decided to achieve by biking to work -- a six-mile each-way jaunt from my northside apartment to the Chicago loop.

Previously, my cycling was confined to leisurely strolls down Lake Shore and quick trips to Target. But I'm hoping it's in my blood, as my grandparents are accomplished cyclists. They ride recumbent bicycles (see photos below) and are famous on organized bike rides, like Iowa's RAGBRAI, for having bubbles and bells on their handlebars, crowns on their helmets, and fake rubber feet hanging from their bikes. They have fun while cycling, which is the key to exercise.

From the backseat of a two-person recumbent bike with my grandparents last September.

That's Grandma leading the charge, with neon fake hair sticking out the back of her helmet.

 With Grandpa after my inaugural ride on the tandem recumbent.

Of course, I'd never strap a fake appendage to my bike. And I've also never ridden the 400-mile RAGBRAI or other such bike ride. My crowning cycling achievement occurred when I was 11 and I rode (almost all of) a 25-mile ride called "Hotter Than Hell" in Texas. (I got in trouble for wearing the "Hotter Than Hell" t-shirt to my fifth grade class the following week.)

But my work friend Jackie is a diligent bike-to-work enthusiast, and she offered to show me the safest route into the city yesterday. It went well, so when she texted me last night to say "Same time, same place?" I didn't hesitate to say yes.

It's like a revelation: My bike is a legitimate form of urban transport. I don't have to sit on the el in the morning, half-asleep, praying that my train doesn't get stalled (or worse, my entire line gets closed). On the bike I'm slow, and my legs burn after a few minutes of pedaling, but I know I'll get better -- just like I got better at running -- and then I'll have even more control over the speed of my commute and thus the shape of my day.

Next goal: Buy a helmet. I confess, I was playing fast and loose with my safety when I was only riding within a one-mile radius of my apartment, but this morning I got up close and personal with a CTA bus as we played leap-frog down Halsted. I didn't need any more convincing.

But if I did, this would do it.

Every sport but long-distance running may be absurd, but riding a bike without a helmet is, as we said in the '90s, downright whack.

* Follow me on Twitter!