I am not one to give nutritional advice. First, I’m not qualified. Second, I’ve been known to eat a bag of chocolate chip decadent cookies for dinner. Third, and chocolate covered almonds for dessert. My standards are deliciously low. But not this low: Continue reading →
My latest cookie discovery, straight from the pages of The Athlete’s Palate, is almost as good as my Not-At-All Famous Cookies. And by “almost” I mean a million times better.
The book is filled with mouth-watering recipe creations for training and recovery, all developed by chef-athletes. Of course I’ve ignored most of the recipes in favour of the treats. I started with Bridget Batson’s Quinoa Cookies. They are categorized as breakfast cookies. That’s right, cookies are a breakfast food. Told you so Mom and Dad.
I would post the recipe but I don’t want to get in a copyright war with Runner’s World. I would share the cookies but I ate them all. In two days.
p.s. For the first month I owned this book I totally thought that was a guy on the cover.
Smart? I food sin. Sometimes I’ll eat an entire box of Decadent Chocolate Chip Cookies and call it dinner. I know that isn’t Smart. I know I’m eating a box of refined sugar and fat. Yummy, chocolately refined sugar and fat. But what if the marketing geniuses renamed them Smart Decadent Chocolate Chip Cookies? They would they suddenly be good for me, that’s what if. It must be true, because TV doesn’t lie and commercials tell me if the word Smart is in the product name it must be good for me and the children I don’t have. I’m only eating Smart stuff from now on. It’s called My Marathon Diet. I expect it will shave ten minutes from my PB.
I recently stumbled across an intriguing article by Joe Henderson on “running your weight“:
Very few runners ever “beat their weight” in a marathon. That is, run fewer minutes than their weight in pounds — which requires a 130-pounder to break 2:10 and a 200-pounder to run sub-3:20.
Over-simplified formulas appeal to me. That’s why I love Yasso 800s. To run your weight you take your weight and convert it to a marathon time. Based on this rule of thumb, the best performance for women would be a lot faster than men. Husband outweighs me by 50 minutes, I mean pounds. I certainly don’t outrun him by 50 minutes.
This formula discriminates against women, the best of whom seldom run within 30 minutes of their poundage. The fastest woman for her size appears to be Marian Sutton of Britain, who weighed about 140 pounds when she ran 2:28 (a weight-to-time factor of plus-eight).
The greatest man, pound for pound, probably was Derek Clayton. The Australian set a world record of 2:08:34 while weighing about 160 — an amazing minus-31 factor. Much more typical is Bill Rodgers, who PRed at 129 minutes and 128 pounds.
According to her website, Paula Radcliffe is 5’8 and 117 pounds. Paula’s weight (117) + her lady handicap (30) = 147 or 2.27 (1.57 without the handicap). Her best (the world’s best) is 2.18.55. Better than her handicapped time, but not even close to running her weight. I’m an inch shorter and 7 pounds lighter than Paula. I should be 7 minutes faster than Paula Radcliffe. I am not. My weight + my lady handicap is 2 hours 20 minutes. In other words, elite speed running. I am not a 2.20 marathoner. I am not an elite marathoner. I’m just built like one. I am not living up to my genetic potential. Thankfully I am living up to my couch potato potential.
I really have only two options. Speed up so my pace matches my weight or fatten up so my weight matches my speed.
How close have you come to “running your weight”?
Title Reference: It’s Not Easy being Skinny – The Fray.
Things I ate while watching The Biggest Loser Tuesday night:
1/2 large pizza
1/2 red pepper, 1/2 tomato, 1/4 zucchini
1 bowl of cherries
20 stone wheat crackers
2 pieces of licorice
one dark chocolate bar
4 cookies
Calories I burned while watching The Biggest Loser Tuesday night:
110. Mostly in trips to the kitchen.
Calories I gained while watching The Biggest Loser Tuesday night:
I don’t know. Do not add up the list and tell me. Ignorance is bliss. Bliss may not be at racing weight by spring.
Things I wondered while watching The Biggest Loser Tuesday night:
Why the” names” of “family members” on the other end of the calls home were captioned in quotes. Is it so humiliating to have a relative on national TV trying to win a weight loss competition the kin need to go into the witness protection program?
How many pieces of Extra Healthy Extra Chewing Gum will fit in an Extra Healthy Ziploc Baggie.
If Bob is secretly evil.
Why watching hungry people sweat makes me so damn ravenous.
Title Reference: Heather Small – Proud, a.k.a. The Biggest Loser Theme Song.
I have (mostly) been a very nice girl this year. Sure I ate too many cookies, but I know you will forgive that gluttonous transgression. Please excuse the tardiness of my list; I’ve been terribly busy doing good deeds. Like all beauty queens, what I really want this Christmas is world peace and bouncy hair, but until then these treats will warm the cockles of my heart (I’m not an anatomist, but does my heart even have a cockle?).
Calories. A one year supply of (i) Powerbar Gels – Vanilla. Only PowerBar. Only Vanilla. (ii) Lemon-Lime Gatorade. Only Gatorade. Only lemon-lime. (iii) Luna Sport Moon Energy Chews. Any flavour will do. I’m not picky.
Arm Warmers. I recently bought leg warmers. Not for running, but for stylin’. It worked for me in the 80s. With extensive experience wearing warmers, arms are the next logical step.
A Pedicure. Once upon a time I had pretty toes. Then I ran an ulramarathon.
Snot Spot. My nose runs when I do. It’s not a character flaw, it’s biology. Don’t judge me and my need for a Snot Spot.
Compression Socks. I have yet to find a pair tight enough to compress my twig-thin calves. Although the “science” behind compression is sketchy I have a thing for knee-high socks.
Runner’s Log. Last year a friend gave me a runner’s logbook for Christmas. It was the first time I ever tracked my yearly workouts. Although confronting my laziness was a wee bit scary I hope this year those empty entry blanks will motivate me to fill my evenings with something other than TV watching and blog-writing. I lost an entire week of training to Dexter.
Sunscreen/Sunglasses. I’m really not 68 and I’m starting to feel guilty taking home those age group awards.
Road ID. For the day when I’m struck and rendered unconscious by a monster truck.
PaceTat. I’m too gun-shy (and indecisive) to get a real tattoo, but this paceband tattoo is just genius.
Marathon Mugs. I like to feel impressed with myself while I drink my morning tea. A marathon mug, like this one, reminds me of my awesomeness.
A first-place trophy. Seriously, I really want to win something other than a finisher’s medal or an age-group award. On a completely unrelated note, can you also make me a whole lot faster?
Your friend,
Runshorts.
p.s. I’m leaving my special Runners’ Cookies for you and the reindeer. I know you’ll need the energy for your ultramarathon of gift giving.
Title Reference: Amy Grant – My Grown-Up Christmas List. From the album Home for Christmas. 1992.
On Saturday I did two things I have never done before. I ran a 5K race (#1) in costume (#2). All 2400 runners in the Santa Jingle 5K dressed in Santa Suits. With jingle bells affixed to our shoes. Actually, 2396 runners dressed in Santa Suits and four party poopers wore their usual running gear. And no, a red/green/white top with black tights does not count as a Santa Suit. Experienced Santas brought their own black belts. Mine broke after about 30 seconds of use. This Santa has enjoyed too many cookies. The site of so many Santas running along the shores of Lake Ontario was … totally awesome. One little kid cheering on the sidelines nearly lost his mind with excitement. I think he’s expecting 2396 gifts under the tree Christmas morning.
My pre-race good luck smooch to Husband felt a bit odd with him (and me) in full beard. Like I was kissing a stranger. I’m still coughing up white fur. In our wedding vows he promised to love, honour, and never grow a moustache and/or beard. At least I think he did. The vows were in Spanish. I do not speak Spanish. We ran together at a relaxed pace (i.e. about 20 sec/km slower than my usual tempo run), although after a week of illness related starvation and sleep deprivation “relaxed” didn’t feel so relaxing. We did not wear our timing chips, so my curious cyber stalkers will need to sleuth a little harder than usual to uncover my time.
Kit pickup was a bit slow race morning as tons of people like me descended on the tables at the last possible moment. The race was delayed about 15 minutes, I thought because of the mass tardiness but there are rumours about a car accident on the course. The waiting area was brimming with festive excitement and good spirits and no one seemed terribly bothered by the late start. The lady who decided to change the words of our national anthem into a Weird Al style parody of the cold weather, however, bothered my over-tired and grumpy brain. So I gave her my stern look. She stopped. Hordes of optimistic walkers toed the starting line unintentionally causing a red and white pileup over the first 500 metres. As soon as we turned onto lakeshore the route opened up and it was easy to pass and be passed. The air was crisp but the sun bright as it bounced off Lake Ontario. By kilometre one all the overdressed cold-fearers were shedding layers like they were trained in the art of exotic dance. The Santa belts were flying.
Although the sacred race rule is never let a costumed runner beat you I modified the rule for this particular race. Never let a kid or a pet in costume beat you. I’m reasonably certain I beat all the dog-deer. But damn, some of those kids are fast.
p.s. Check out the race footage. I’m the one in the red suit.
Title Reference: Jimmy Boyd – I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. 1952.
A reindeer can reach a top speed of about 32 miles/hour (51 km/hour). The circumference of the earth at the equator is 40,075 km. My calculator tells me that it will take Rudy 785 hours to circle the globe, assuming a constant top speed and the ability to run on water. That’s over a month (32 days and a bit) to complete the full loop. Too bad for the kids who don’t live along the equator. The twelve days of Christmas suddenly seem woefully inadequate.
Lucky for us reindeer can fly.
Title Reference: Chuck Berry – Run Rudolph Run. B-side to Merry Christmas Baby. 1958.
I just paid money to do two things I have never done before.
Thing 1: Run in costume. I almost always race in the same outfit, give or take a layer. My race outfit. Tried and true it doesn’t shift, chafe, or look repulsive in photos (repulsive being a relative term after 35K). Not this time. This time I will run in full Santa gear, beard included.
Thing 2: Run a 5K road race. You think my claims to be created entirely from slow-twitch muscle are in jest. I jest not. My marathon race pace and my 5K race pace are the same. It takes me a full 10K to warmup; a 5K race ends before I begin. So I shall start with a 5K fun run, not a serious 5K race. How fast can I go with a little round belly that shakes when I laugh like a bowl full of jelly? I’m just running for the milk and cookies.
Check out the video footage from the inaugural 2008 Running of the Santas. I’m not so sure about the winning Santas. Did anyone else spot the imposters among them? The lead man managed to stop along the way to shave his beard and he still won the race. Suspicious. The winning female somehow lost her red pants. Santa does not wear black running tights. Very suspicious. The second place male isn’t in costume at all, he seems to be wearing an old red t-shirt over a white shirt, with those tell-tale black tights. Fake-Santa needs a better disguise. Or a new tailor. The third place male also stopped for facial grooming. That’s not something I’d want to do in a hurry. I’m not one to subscribe to conspiracy theories, but I don’t think the winners are real Santas.
Running With Scissors was part of the fun last year and it was his suggestion that inspired me to sign up. This year 2000 bearded, overheated, and overstuffed Santas are anticipated. That’s a one-year increase of 500 Santas. I was tardy about registering and was punished with a kid-sized costume. Look for me. I’ll be the one in short pants.
Title Reference: Quote from the poem Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clark Moore. 1823.
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