Running the Bases

Last weekend, I joined in as thousands of baseball fans flocked to Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park. This by itself is not unusual. But this time, the crowd wasn’t there to throw batteries at players or puke on police officers, but to run the inaugural Phillies 5k. Not bad for a town Men's Fitness once named America's Fattest City.

I went into the race with two big goals:

1.       Pose for a picture with the Phillie Phanatic.

2.       Win some Carlos Ruiz-related memorabilia for a good friend’s mom, who has a wee crush on Chooch.  She refers to him as Mon Petit Fuego—“because he’s my little fireplug.” Adorable.

The race itself was a blast, with friendly (really!) participants and spectators, a flat, flast course that wound through FDR Park, and a post-race party on Ashburn Alley. As for my goals...well, in baseball terms, I went 0 for 2. Additionally, I managed to break just about every smart-running rule possible, including the most important one of all: Do not attempt to keep up with furry green mascots in plastic pace cars, no matter how flash you're feeling at the start.

On the bright side, I didn’t come away completely empty-handed. In addition to a bottle of Dasani and a green banana, I took home a baseball autographed by Placido Polanco. I suspect it would have been less painful to catch one during a game, but with my lack of coordination, it might be awhile before I get back to you on that one.



Polly, if this is why your elbow was bothering you last week, I owe you one.



I’d originally planned to refuel on ballpark concessions, but funnel cake and hot dogs al fresco are somewhat less enticing when its 35 degrees outside and you’re drenched in sweat. I decided to seek shelter, preferably someplace where omelets were served.  And here’s the one thing I did right: I signed up for the race with friends. Not just any friends, mind you, but the kind of pals who cheerfully help you satisfy your Oregon Diner craving, even though they just had dinner there the night before.

The best part: The Phillies threw two vouchers for pre-season tickets into every goodie bag. There’s nothing that could get me more psyched for opening day. Except maybe this video (language may be NSFW, depending on where you W).

Welcome to My Sugar Coma

The Morning Call whoopie pie smackdown is officially complete. My brain (and tongue) is still a little fuzzy from the experience, but here are some of the most memorable moments, in no particular order:

Our test session took place in a fancy-appliance showroom -- and might be the only instance where whoopie pies have ever been served on a granite-topped island.

In choosing our panel of about 8 testers, food editor Diane Stoneback said she was looking for people who "sounded like fun...and maybe a little bit crazy."

Three of us were cyclists.

Like members of a sugar-addicts' support group, we all took turns introducing ourselves and our reasons for attending.

In doing this, we discovered that we'd somehow chosen seats so that all the PA natives were on the same side of the table, and all the New Englanders (or descendants of New Englanders) on the other--with Geoff from Canada in the middle. Spooky.

To cleanse our palates, we drank coffee from a built-in espresso machine, which fits into the kitchen wall the way an ice dispenser sits in a refrigerator door. I am in awe.

Thanks to the above-mentioned caffeine--as well as the hours-long fast I inflicted upon myself in preparation--I was literally shaking with excitement at the start.

We were each given SIX WHOLE WHOOPIE PIES to eat, and plenty of doggie bags. I am in deeper awe.

It turns out that sampling six whoopie pies is much like drinking (a little) too much beer. You will crave salty snacks. You will be inexplicably happy. You may even find yourself doing things like singing along to Taylor Swift at the top of your lungs and supressing the urge to call people for no reason.

All whoopie pies are not created equal. Some of them stuck to plates. One had eerily spongy icing.
And at least one baker out there has a serious lard addiction. Others were the culinary equivalent of fresh legs and a 30-mph tailwind.

I'm not out to scoop the hand that fed me, so you'll have to wait for the Morning Call's coverage for the whole story. (And so will I--we don't yet know which state won.)

I think it's naptime now.

Tasting Whoopie

Whoopie pies, for the uninitiated, aren’t really pies at all—they consist of a thick layer of icing sandwiched between two rounds of cake, sort of like a soft, oversize Oreo.

According to one Pennsylvania legend, the treats got their name from Lancaster County farmers, who’d yell “Whoopie!” whenever they discovered the confections in their lunch bags. But now, it seems there’s trouble in Paradise – some folks in Maine claim that the treats originated there, not in the Keystone State. And Starbucks recently began offering a sissy petite red velvet version, which is sure to only add to the confusion.

Hey Starbucks: A Lancaster County whoopie pie called. It wants its missing piece back.

We may never know who invented these goodies, but the Allentown Morning Call is determined to answer the question that really matters: Which state makes the best whoopie pie? I don’t usually read the paper in print, but in a most fortunate twist of fate, I happened to spot a copy a couple weeks ago at my local bike shop. Upon reading that the paper had put out a call for prospective taste testers, I immediately rushed home to write my essay:

Dear Whoopie Pie Test Team Selection Committee:

Why should I help you test whoopie pies? Let me count the ways...

1. As a lifelong Pennsylvanian (save for four sadly whoopie-pieless years when I went to college in Virginia), my appreciation for the whoopie pie goes back decades.  

2. I believe that magical things happen when cake meets icing--so much so that I recently started blogging about it.

3. I do my best to spread the joy of whoopie pies across state lines. I've been known to go to as many as four stores in search of the perfect whoopie-pie hostess gift, and I even once carried a six-pack of them on a flight to Texas, which earned me a little extra quality time with the TSA officers. (No, they didn't "touch my junk"--and yes, I got to keep the pies.)

At least one person at the paper has an odd sense of humor…because I will be joining the test session today (after some treadmill time). Whoopie! I guess Duff Goldman was busy or something. Will Pennsylvania’s honor be upheld? Or will we emerge from the smackdown with pie on our faces? 

Not Guilty, Part 1

When I was in middle school, I joined a club swim team coached by a gentleman named John McFadden. A career teacher, John clearly loved his student-athletes—but he also had a most unique way of voicing his displeasure.

And we displeased him often.

It's important to note, however, that whether we arrived late, sat on the wall, splashed water at a member of the opposite sex, or simply swam slower than John deemed acceptable, he didn’t call us lazy. Or stupid. Or slow. He didn’t, in fact, call us anything. Instead, he’d bellow,

“THAT’S NOT GOING TO GET YOU TO THE PROMISED LAND!”

The Promised Land could be anything from a state championship to an Olympic Trials qualifying time—or, in my case, the chance to be the slowest girl on my high school team’s fastest relay.* (It’d be a few more years before I’d figure out that my Promised Land was, in fact, on solid ground and not at sea.)

At the time, I wasn’t too concerned with John's word choice. I was more worried about how many push-ups we'd have to do as penance. But now, I can’t help but wonder if his coaching style is part of the reason I don’t feel guilty when I miss a workout. Yes, you read that right.

I’m not saying I don’t regret skipping exercise. Besides the fact that I’ve missed out on something that’s frequently fun and always good for my sanity, I know it’s going to take me that much longer to drop my 5k time, or to be able to keep up with a fast group ride, or to be able to finish a half marathon in a new city with enough energy to bar-hop that evening. But guilty? Not so much.

I still do push-ups, though...when I feel like it.

Hollywood wants us to believe that success in sports is directly related to character. And that’s fine, within reason. I mean, I enjoy kicking back with Chariots of Fire and a warm beer as much as anyone.** But when you’re facing a hellish work deadline and the basement’s flooded and your best friend is sobbing to you over the phone that her guinea pig is having seizures (don’t ask), sometimes it’s best to take morality out of the picture, postpone the freaking tempo run already, and spare yourself the inner debate whether this decision is consistent with your New Year's resolution to grow as a person.

Whatever. It's just going to take you a little longer to get to the Promised Land.

Admittedly, I have no idea if John would agree with all this. As much as I’d love to buy him a warm beer and ask him why he used the phrase, he went to his eternal Promised Land a long time ago.

Wherever he is, you can bet everyone knows how to swim.

*That’s right: I celebrate the small victories.

**Maybe even a little more. Okay...a lot more.

In A Pickle

For my first race of the season, I’d planned on running the Ambler Frostbite 5-Miler. I’d planned to sign up the week of the event,  figuring that any race over 5k in Pennsylvania in winter would never stand a chance of filling up.

Silly me.

The weather forecast was 40 and windy, with 50mph gusts. I knew if I told myself, “I’ll just do a workout instead,” there was a good chance that workout would end up being sitting on the couch reading magazines. I had to find another race. In Pennsylvania. In February.

Which is how I found myself at the Winter Pickle Run.

Held in a local state park, the Pickle is a 3.2-mile prediction run: Before the race, you write down the time you think you’ll run, and those who come closest to their predicted times win prizes. I love low-key winter races like this, largely because of the motley crew that shows up.

There are the families, some of them out for the kids’ first 5k (yeah!), led by parents whose expressions clearly read, “We’ve had way too many snow days this year.”

There are members of a tribe I’ve dubbed the Enlightened Cyclists (think bike jerseys paired with sweatpants), who have finally realized that even a run in 50-mph winds is still better than a ride inside.

There will be the parade of frantic latecomers (although in this case, tardiness was somewhat justified -- a downed tree had blocked one of the main roads going into the park).

Inevitably, there will be one spectator with a dog the size of a small cow.

Finally, there are the chicken-legged guys in their Sunday best: Short- shorts (no matter what the temperature) and shirts or jackets from more-prestigious events. They're the ones running strides around everyone else (including the dog) in the parking lot*, looking mildly perturbed at the fresh hell developing around them. 

And of course, there were the pickles. Pickles in pint glasses on picnic tables—spoils to be bestowed on event victors. Dressed-up pickles—decked out in pipe-cleaner hats and googley eyes—which were hidden on the course for us to find.  During registration, the event director wore a brimmed hat festooned with gherkins; for the start, he changed into a full-body pickle suit, complete with Mickey Mouse-style gloves.  You really haven’t raced until you’ve been sent off by a pickle with a megaphone.

“Picklers ready…Go!”

I never did find any of the trailside pickles, but the search proved a welcome distraction from things such as my burning lungs, the flailing trees and downed power lines on the course, and the fact that an autumn’s worth of leaves was barreling down the hillside toward us at 50 mph.

After I crossed the line (nearly a minute sooner than predicted—no pickle for me), I sat on a bench in the sun, attempting to ward off the chill with free hot coffee and freshly popped popcorn, as I watched the pickle cheer, heckle and direct runners at the finish. It was a surprisingly perfect way to spend a winter afternoon. But don’t take my word for it: Your next (and final) chance for briny glory in 2011 is March 19^th.

*Full disclosure: I’m a parking-lot strider too. But I’m a big fan of pants.

Rest Day Recipe: Easy Key Lime Pie

“Turning 60 is FUN!”—The Sweet Triathlomom

A recent workout consisted of a series of sprints from car to ice-cold parking lot to supermarket to party store and back (in addition to, um, some vigorous fanning of our kitchen smoke detector). I figure I can train just about any day, but my mom only turns 60 once.

My sister and I were throwing her a dinner party, for which I’d decided to attempt one of Mom’s favorite desserts, key lime pie. Turns out it’s quite easy. I knew I wouldn’t have the patience to squeeze 12 key limes—I’m an Olympic-distance triathlete, not an Ironman—so I searched for a recipe that called for bottled juice. This one from Epicurious was a hit with our 13 guests. My family and I are lime lovers, but if you’d prefer a pie with less bite, you could eliminate the extra 2 T juice (I used Nellie and Joe’s brand). Leftover alert: The recipe calls for 4 egg yolks—use the whites that remain in vanilla cupcakes.*

*Or a really big egg white omelet.**

**Yeah, the cupcakes sound a lot better to me, too.