city slickers

So, I'm behind with blogging about it (ha! what else is new), but last week I ventured over to London Town to see the beautiful Babs in her not-so-new digs and hit the town and paint it red... or something. You know me, I'm not that exciting, really.

We did, however, make sure to see at least one piece of theatre while I was there. Two nights is not a lot of time to fit much in, and an early flight meant I was up for pretty much 24 hours the first day. I had the best intention of getting up for early/cheap tickets on Tuesday morning. I did, I promise. However, my annoying brain had other plans, and with the positively lyrical rain lulling me to sleep, we missed early tickets for pretty much every show on our list. 

Twas a happy accident. With some impressive theatrical sleuthing on Babs' part, we decided to see Roots by Arnold Wesker at the Donmar Warehouse. It was a wonderful night for many reasons...

one. You really can't go wrong with £7 tickets. Even standing, the show was spellbinding. 

two. It was a stunning show. I called it intellectual, Babs called it intelligent - the more I think about it, the more 'intelligent' seems to hit it on the head. It was cerebral and heartwarming, thoughtful and emotional, smart and authentic and grounded. 

three. Jessica Raine is a breath of fresh air. Watch her in Call the Midwife. She's a dream. 

four. Linda Bassett is immaculate. 

five. Dean Thomas from the Harry Potter films was there. I love London where, you know, that just happens on a Tuesday evening. 

The theatre itself is fantastic as well. I was happy to see it, as Coriolanus with Tom Hiddleston (eep!!) is opening next month there. I was keen to see the space in anticipation of coming back in the new year to ogle over T. Hid's Shakespearean prowess. It's small, verging on claustrophobic, but lofty. Perfect for Coriolanus. 

As usual, I didn't take a single picture. Sigh. Instead, salivate over this Coriolanus poster, courtesy of T. Hid's twitter.  

Drool. 

The National Theatre is screening a real-time broadcast of Coriolanus at the end of January for anyone who isn't within reasonable distance to attend in person. Which I am. Muah ha ha. 

Roots was bookended with awesome Mexican food, cups of tea and lots of wine. I love London.

race day.

So, I ran a race the other day. 

This year I ran my first ever half marathon. That would be 13.1 miles (or 21.2 kilometres, whichever sounds more impressive). I have to say, It was perfect race conditions. All week had been unmercifully windy, and I was nervous that I wouldn't have the stamina for it. But it was a light, cool, sunny, perfect 18 degrees with just a touch of wind. Couldn't ask for more. 

I've been training for the past 10 weeks for this, so you think I'd feel prepared. Everything I read said 'trust your training' or 'don't worry, the miles are behind you and will carry you through the race', but on Saturday morning, as I stood among seven thousand other runners, I couldn't help but feel shaky and nervous. 

I know, the photo quality on my phone leaves something to be desired, but right after the racing gun went and we started trotting forward, the clouds broke and it was nothing but blue skies and harsh sun and perfection. 

I was shooting for a sub-2:00 race, and I didn't make it. Not even close. 2:08 and change was my time. I struggled at mile 8 with nausea, and as I paced my way into mile 10 I hit a hill and a wall. 

BUT I DID IT. 

Though disappointed in it at first, that time is mine. All mine. Earned, inch by inch, and getting through it as you do life: by putting one foot in front of the other, stubbornly, determined, perhaps slightly mad. 

As in insane. Because you have to be to voluntarily run those distances as your weekend entertainment. And yet, be careful, because it's addictive. I'm already eying the Paris half in March and the Shakespeare full in April (how could you not!? Come on, a Shakespeare Marathonnnn). 

And besides, now I have a time to beat. 

back at it.

... you can't get rid of me that easy, I'm afraid.  

While summer slipped away far too easily, I have found myself back in Dublin just in time for the sun to disappear and the wet and the wind to make themselves comfortable. That's ok, I don't really mind. Sure, after three months of sun and heat, a girl can get tired of idyllic weather and long for the quiet, muted greys of an Irish autumn. 

Right? 

Anyway. 

Cure for all weather-related (could I even go so far as to say life-related) woes is baking. 

Today calls for blondies and chocolate and peanut butter whoopie pies. 

Oh yes, I went there. I added butter and sugar and bourbon and love to the mighty peanut butter and made it even mightier. 

I was obviously too excited (read: hungry) to take any pics of the 'pies post-assembly. Which means if I want to show them to you I'll have to make them again. Too bad. 

trail running

My brother sent me this little meandering on long distance running, and it got me thinking (as well as laughing). I mean, what is the allure of this particular past-time? The uncomfortable, continuous, unending cycle of lacing up shoes and pounding pavement, fighting against your beating heart and pressing into wind, rain, snow, humidity, sun, when every other sane person is asleep and dreaming.

But I'll tell you, when you catch a sunrise running through quiet morning mist, or sail past nighttime fields lit with fireflies, or find a trail all to yourself on a lazy afternoon, when you're met with just the world and your own self-imposed limitations, you hit your stride and for a brief moment in time you feel that you could go on forever. 

Enough of that silliness. I'm going into my third week of training, and it actually feels pretty good. Which makes me afraid that I'm doing it wrong, or that it will suddenly get much harder and I'll hit a wall (figurative or otherwise) and never run again. And I'm reading horror stories about toenails falling off and people over-hydrating and under-hydrating and I just have to stop thinking about it. And do you know what helps putting worry out of your mind? 

Running. 

training.

It's the middle of July, which means only one thing: Dublin half-marathon is ten weeks away. Which means it's time to start training. 

This will be my first 13.1 mile'er, and I'll tell you I'm nervous enough. Training schedules can be a major aid is managing your time for you and guiding you through scheduled runs, cross training, intervals, tempo runs, LSD's and strength training. It can be a lot to manage, making sure you're hitting your distance when you need to and taper in time without burning out. 

I've decided to enlist the help of Runner's World training programs, hosted by Training Peaks. It sets up in calendar a ten-week training schedule, and lets me track everything I do, and even helps with my cross-training (which I suck at. s'true.)

I've never done more than a 10k race, so I'm stoked/nervous/apprehensive/want to find a way of running this race without eating gels. Seriously, they're icky. I think I might try the coffee with breakfast in the morning and running beans to boost my caffeine and carbs during the race. I can't eat what's essentially warm, extra-gloopy pudding packets half way through battling 13 miles. It's just not gonna happen.

First day of training was an easy (emphasis on the easy) 3 miles. Of course I ran at noon in the middle of 35 degree heat at 70% humidity. I figured it was good training... because, you know, Dublin in September is all hot and humid. Wouldn't want to be caught out. 

ps these are my new babies, aren't they beautiful!? The pink is even almost growing on me. 

the start of something.

Things have been quiet around here (read busy). The Davsters and I have some stuff in the works, and this week everything sort of came to a head. It's a relief to have everything in order and moving and I feel like we've finally climbed out of a weird limbo. 

In the meantime... 

I'm pretty much eating my weight in cherries on a daily basis.

I have to start training for the half marathon in September. 

It's too hot to run, so night runs are becoming more frequent. 

I love running that time of night - the fireflies are out and you can see Venus and the moon. 

I'm missing pretty much the biggest heat wave in Dublin ever. Figures. 

It's hot here too, so it's not that bad. 

I'm feeling landlocked. I need a beach. 

Happy weekend, all. 

at its freshest.

We have this amazing cherry tree in our backyard. We planted it when the ground had barely gotten accustomed to the freshly laid sod. For the first ten years it bore no fruit, simply growing as a beautiful piece of our landscape. Then one year, as if out of nowhere .... cherry blossoms. Perfect, snowy white blossoms. And after that, of course, comes cherries. 

Normally we gather a bowlful before the birds come pick the tree clean. But this year there seems to be more than enough for birds and Carroll's alike. Every time I look out of the kitchen window I catch little robins hopping around the grass under the tree, picking up fruit as it falls from the boughs. Hopefully they won't look up anytime soon and strip the tree of all its cherry-goodness. 

I spent my morning with a coffee in my hand, nearly making myself sick on fresh cherries, warm from the the sun. 

Up next is cherry pie and cherry compote and maybe even cherry cobbler. 

Oh man. Seriously, does life get any better?