April 15, 2013: Boston Marathon Bombing

Monday, April 15, 2013: Marathon Monday is one of the many holidays my company does NOT grant. Dragging my feet, I painfully made my way to work, upset by the absence of traffic on I-93, basically meaning that I'm the only one working out there. The American dream, they say.

During the morning, I was designing some nuclear related structures on my left monitor and following the live coverage of the marathon on the right other, you know, that monitor that nobody can see from the corridor.

Project Manager's Cubicle. Note the live coverage of the women's race on his right monitor.

I've seen marathons on TV when I was a kid, or even recently during the London 2012 Olympic Games and to be honest, I've never had the smallest interest for it. It's a bit like watching the Tour de France without being a cyclist yourself, it is incredibly boring except for watching the gorgeous landscapes of the countryside. But now that I am actually training (or, at least, planning to train) for a marathon, the angle is quite different. There is something fascinating watching these human beings cruising at 13mph for 2 hours in an aerobic state when you know you can barely withstand at 10-minute 10mph run in an anaerobic state. Agreed, these people are professional and spend hours a day training; agreed, they are probably unable to invert a 2x2 matrix; agreed, they probably can't beat the Level 8 of Android Chess Free. But guess what, they actually do much more than that: they are the technological showcase of humankind and what's more, in one of the oldest "sport" practiced by homos. And I'm not only talking about the 2h10min finishers, I'm talking about anybody that with great efforts have managed to push their body beyond their "design capacity". Have you thought about that, Messrs. Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev? Have you thought about that when you meticulously packed nails and metal shrapnel into a pressure-cooker bomb?

So, nobody bothered me this morning and I could see Lelisa Desisa & Rita Jeptoo finishing the marathon. I was also heavily texting my girlfriend who was watching and cheering for friends at mile 24. Yeah, she "luckily" had the day off. The week off, actually.

Then, around 3pm, I received this text message from her:

I first thought it was a minor incident like a generator explosion; I wasn't too concerned. Especially because my girlfriend is an idiot (by the way, she typed that). A few minutes later, everybody in the office was talking about it so I checked out Twitter and when I read "hundreds injured" and saw the pictures. It was then when I realized something major was happening.

Within an hour, I had calls from all over the world from my family, and emails/facebook messages from friends to check whether I was OK. Most of them actually thought I was running the marathon. Well, I kinda wished I could qualify for it, i.e. running it under 3h05min, since running for charity is not an available option to me (remember? "Not for impoverished children in Africa. Not for cancer. Not for AIDS." That's part of the blog description). Nevertheless, I'm glad so many people checked on me. Not THAT many, giving it second thoughts...

Meanwhile, my beloved girlfriend ran to her friend's place that's only 5 minutes away from the "crime scene". Mobile network were shut down in Boston so we had to communicate via the good ol'internet and Skype. She was very shocked by what happened. What made it even worse was the perfection of the day that took place int he morning. It was a sunny day and she was for the first time getting REALLY excited about this marathon project of mine, saying unheard of things like "you're gonna do so well!", "I have ideas for your t-shirt!", "I will make the best movies!". She was also having a blast encouraging other runners like "Steve", who was close to be hitting the wall, and was able to continue running thanks to her cheering. On the phone, she was describing how there was no race, no religion, no language: everybody helped each other as they were family members. "I'm so proud of humanity today" she told me. But Messrs. Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev decided to ruin this grande family reunion.

After work, I went and picked her up at the BU bridge, to bring her to a safe place. My place. Just a few blocks away from 410 Norfolk St, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Where the killer lives.

The day after, Tuesday, I took off to Florida for vacation. Surprisingly, the Logan Airport was not too much of a shitshow and the flight was only delayed half an hour. Not too bad for the day after a terrorist attack.

Thursday night, I was partying in Duval St, Key West, FL like the world was ending. At 2 AM, I came back to my room with my girlfriend and found ourselves intoxicated by both the extremely sensationalized news on CNN and the 15 pina coladas we had drank over the past 2 hours. The breaking news shockingly read: "Police officer killed at MIT." Needless to say, I didn't bang my girlfriend that night.

"I'm sick of this! These marathons are ruining my sex life." 

Friday, we woke up to a multitude of annoying text messages from friends asking about our safety. (And when I say "our", I actually mean "her." I'm a dickhead and no one cares about my well-being). CNN informed us that all of Greater Boston was in lockdown and most importantly, we learned that the young fucker, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, lived on Norfolk St. in Cambridge. Literally five minutes walking from my place. We've probably crossed paths many times.

"No one leave your house all day! We'll take the ban off as soon as it's time for Friday Night Dollar Drafts at Coogan's"
-Governor Deval Patrick

Let me summarize why this whole thing is a mind-fuck of epic proportions:
1. The attack happened at a marathon, a showcase of humanity, and it's been on my mind 70% of the time since February.
2. An MIT police officer was slain at MIT, where I purchased my diploma. I mean, where I graduated.
3. The terrorist who concealed bombs and explosives in his basement, lives an uneasy thousand feet away from my domicile.

This is uncomfortably CLOSE. Way TOO CLOSE.

Now mind you, I registered for the Boston "Run to Remenber" months ago...but it seems like the race will not be what I initially expected for two reasons. Reason uno is because this 1/2 marathon has experienced a rapid increase of registrations because everybody wants to make "Boston Strong" by showing the world they are not afraid.

First T-Shirts, next ass tattoos.

I'm sure race will have spirited attention from the media, too (unless they find some political scandal that they can overdramatize in the meantime). Reason deux is more personal:  as of today, I have not fully recovered from my tendonitis and I'm having a hard time running just 3 miles at a slow pace. And this half-marathon is only one month away.  Double-challenging. Double-fucked. Can't wait to see the national news footage of me absolutely struggling to make it through just 6 miles on repeat.

Well, as for now, we'll have to see how I do this Sunday in my meager, lowly 5k (which I'm pathetically aiming to complete in a whopping 40 minutes).

Whatever. I'm going to eat a Fiber One bar and shit my brains out. 

April 12, 2013: And that's what we call, my friends, tendonitis.

     Guys, I’m sorry. And that’s a difficult, unfamiliar phrase for me to type. I’m sorry that I have neglected this blog for three and half weeks. I know you probably are pissed at me (especially my new-found Russian fans), and perhaps you have been forced to fill your void of online entertainment and hilarity with shitty, useless Amazon purchases, or with lame-ass blogs written by some white girl named Katie who posts & boasts on a daily basis about her fundraising successes for churches in Bosnia. For your waste of money on Dutch Ovens, and your waste of brain cells on Katie’s mindless dribble, I’m sorry. But I do have a reason. A very good reason. Like a dog with his tail between his legs, I’ve been hiding from my blog of dickheaded running, leaving my last post to bask in all of its praiseworthy, fuck-yeah-bro-you-ran-13.2-miles-no-problem glory. The truth is, a lot of shit has gone down in the past twenty days. So much to the point where I will need to create several blog posts. Please continue reading if you’re interested in learning:

    1.       How I went from the laudatory moment of easily running 13.2 miles to the pathetic struggle of completing only 1.2 miles (at the speed of an elderly woman on her brisk morning walk).

    2.       About my experience with the Boston Marathon Attack, and how it will affect my own marathon training.

    3.       About my awesome vacation in Florida, where I spent an exorbitant amount of money, drove a Mustang convertible and partied like the world was ending.

    On April 1st, I had proudly announced my recent grabbing of life’s balls in the form of a salary raise and a completion of an impromptu gym-regulated half-marathon. Well, it turns out the raise was actually sub-par (for dickhead standards), and even worse: I severely injured my left foot in pushing myself to run this distance.
    Now, I realize you guys aren't interested in learning the harsh truth that I do indeed make more money than you (don’t complain, you’re probably on Facebook all day long). You read my blog because you’re genuinely interested in either my well-being, you possess a passionate love for the sport of running, or you’re really fucking bored and your job blocks websites like Cracked or Buzzfeed. So let's hurry back to my handicapped foot.
    After this wonderful 2h02m half-marathon, I felt pain in my foot, but it was eclipsed by my overwhelming pride.  Honestly, I was under the impression that the pain was “normal”, since running such long distance was a premiere to me. So, in the following days, I applied considerable amounts of Arnicare, gently obliged my girlfriend to massage my foot 3 times a day, and regularly soaked my foot into a premium $9.99+tax (in Taxachusetts, 300%) ice bucket I found at Lowe’s. Speaking of Lowe’s, I still can’t believe they declined my credit card when I was trying to buy $200 worth of gift cards because my “ID was  damaged”. Sorry, but I can purchase an automatic rifle with minimal background checks, but I’m prohibited from buying a T-Mobile gift card? Fucked up country, this U.S. of A.

The picture was taken moments BEFORE I was rejected like a Chechnyan.

    Three days later, I still couldn't climb up my stairs without a "7 out of 10" pain (you know, the 80% subjective, 20% I-don’t-wanna-look-like-a-crying-bitch scale of pain used in the doctor’s office). I WebMD’d the shit out this injury, and even found myself pleading for help from the losers on Yahoo Answers. Between these sources, I learned that the problem with my foot could be as simple as a too-tight shoelace issue, or  as bad as multiple stress fractures. The pain became unbearable. Therefore, I decided to go ahead and use those “sick hours” that have greatly accumulated over the last 4 years, and drive myself to the nearest walk-in clinic. Mind you, I still drive that incredible lil’ beauty of a car, the Mazda 3 hatchback, and it’s a standard (I prefer to actually switch gears and be in control of my vehicle rather than simply press the gas pedal whilst I eat an Egg McMuffin and text about the score of the Sox game). It even hurt to push in the clutch. That’s how bad this was.

SULLY, AH YOU TELLIN' ME THAT PEDROIA HIT A HOMAH?!

    In the emergency room, the doctor pretty much told me that my X-Rays didn't yield anything to be concerned about. He gave me the quintessential, elementary school nurse medical advice: rest it, elevate it, soak it, and then take 600mg of Ibuprofen four times a day. He did say and write "no alcohol" but I think he didn't realize it was FRIDAY. So I got myself a few vodk'advil before going out and it actually felt pretty good.

FUCK ME, I'M INJURED AND WOOZY OFF VODK'ADVILS

During the rest of the weekend, I didn't couldn't exercise at all besides casually walking around this wonderful city of Boston. It's a great place to be in April, witnessing the first emergences of spring.  Notable, geriatric activities included: being one of the very first bike users of Boston's new Hubway system and... eating, eating, eating. I'm talking pints of Fro-Yo, butter croissants, ice-creams cones doused in chocolate, fiery chicken wings, sugary Cokes... I basically gained 45 lbs by the end of the weekend. It was seriously like being on one of those fucked up documentaries featuring fat-asses who consume 25,000 calories a day. Bon appétit, bitchez.

Girlfriend doesn't support my marathon, but certainly supports my unhealthy binge eating.

In the following week, I exercised by miserably riding the stationary bike at the gym, captivated by the cadences of fellow runners on treadmills, bitterly remembering that it had been ME on that very hamster wheel, crushing 13 miles only a week before.

I briefly attempted to run on April 10th, but was horrified to find that I couldn't even make it around the block without agonizing pain.

 In this dark period, I couldn't even bring myself to write a post about it. Until now.

Then came Marathon Monday in Boston.

 April 15, 2013, I went to work, watched the men and women finish, went to lunch, worked a bit, and received this text message.

It was 2:50pm.

To be continued.

April 1, 2013: And that's what we call, my friend, a half-marathon.

You may think it's an April Fool's joke - at first I thought so too - but for some undetermined reason, I casually ran a 13.1 yesterday after work (I used to hate these people using "13.1" and "26.2" but whatever, I'm here to be hated).

Now mind you, the longest distance I've ever ran before this historic moment was 10 miles, and it was around the bois de Boulogne, a.k.a. the Parisian Central Park. Except it's not central but rather peripheral, and it's not frequented by 5 min/mi Nike+iPod enviable runners, but mid-40's 16th-arrondissement couples with 3 children. And your run-of-the-mill heroin junkie, of course.

So what happened? I'm not sure, as I originally just wanted an easy 6 miles. But for whatever reason, this dreaded hexad was quite the demoralizing struggle. It actually took me more than an hour to force through it. I think I felt lame and judged by the treadmill (as well as the sweaty and fit Asian runners next to me), so I decided to go for a couple of extra miles. After 3 more, I experienced a spontaneous revival of energy and courage, and I increased my pace to a solid 8.35 min/mi. And kept it 'til the end.

The soft, nebulous filter is meant to represent the dreamlike quality of this particular phenomenon. 

All in all, this accidental, impromptu half-marathon has me hyped up not only for Chicago, but also for the half that I'll be running Memorial Day Weekend.  The past two months have been challenging, what with the lifestyle change necessary for training, and the impact it's had on my friendships and relationships with people. I already was a huge prick before signing up, so I'm sure you can imagine what the drastic descent into dickheadity has been like. Last week sucked: between my own father doubting my abilities to finish these races, my girlfriend's constant carping about training time, and my super-healthy triathletic colleague/friend's annoying texts about his comfortable 20 mile run after a Saturday night of bacchanal binge drinking.... I was starting to lose faith in myself.  Oh yeah, and I also got a ticket for speeding.

This week, Fate has rallied behind me and given me a raise at work, a less-bitchy girlfriend, and a completed half-marathon to prove that I can do it.

The only bad thing is (c'mon, I'm a dick; I could never end on a positive note): The Boston Marathon page blocked me from advertising my witty and charming blog! Fuckers. 

Such a thought-provoking and inspiring prompt from the geniuses writing the Boston Marathon Facebook page.