, , , , ,

Well my morning was a bust as I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the elite women’s race in Boston. Shalane Flanagan held with and often led the pack until mile 20 or 21. So close! She did incredible. Rita Jeptoo killed those last few miles. Can you imagine heading out to run a marathon and going out not just to finish or set a PR, but to win it? Congrats to Meb Keflezighi, the first American to win Boston since 1983! 

This is the last day of my cleanse, my own little dietary marathon. Perfect timing too as I’m going out of town to stay with my sister by the shore for some time. The Jersey shore is stunning and almost deserted this time of year so its perfect for running – except on weekends. I’m hoping to get a few foggy days so absolutely nobody can see me plodding over the sand. Running on sand is hard! Running through fog is like finding yourself the lone survivor in an 80’s horror movie. Win-win.

This is the part where cleansers confess any cheating. Not it! I didn’t slip and that’s because I stayed away from the Danger Zone, also known as my little sister. She’s a compulsive baker and has a knack for sugary vegan, gluten free treats. I’m packing what’s left of my kale to ward her off for the few remaining hours of April 21st. Tomorrow I will dive into a bowl of her homemade dark chocolate coconut milk ice cream, after my run.

A visit to NJ also means changing up my running routine. The routes around her town are flat and shade-less so it’s early morning and late afternoon until I get a running cap. She is very much not a runner, so she rides her bike and I go at a faster pace to keep up. These faster runs are twice as tiring, but we keep grapes and water in her basket so I don’t see it as running faster so much as chasing the fuel.

The train out of Penn Station leaves NYC through a tunnel. We enter NJ minutes after departing, but I’m not at home until stepping off the train and taking that first deep breath. Sometimes the salt air is masked by rush hour fumes, but you only have to walk a few blocks to hear the waves crashing. This time of year you can hear the fog horn a few miles away, guiding boats coming in and luring those inside back out.

Speaking of the sea, Annie Neugebauer breaks down, or unpacks “Inland”, one of my favorite poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Her post reminded how muscular great poetry is.