Asking for a friend: Do you really need a hamstring?

Coming in hot to the NYC marathon—no fully attached muscles required

Happy Halloween! This issue of DTMS offers a couple treats about running, weird rumors, and perms that help you look the part. There’s also one trick to help you not say the thing you’re never supposed to say. Get it? Probably not. But you will.

Let’s get rolling.

Things that make sense

The uncontrollables. One of my friends is a mindset coach for athletes and she likes to say focus on what you can control and don’t worry about the uncontrollables. As someone who is fond of knowing how everything ends (I wikipedia the finale of every Netflix show before I finish it) I don’t love unplanned outcomes. But as I spent the spring and summer readying for the New York Marathon, which is this Sunday, the uncontrollables were most definitely in charge; I was just along for the ride. At the very beginning of my training, I fell on a run and partially tore my hamstring. The injury made running impossible for two months, and threw the marathon into question. Can you run with half a hamstring? Where does a hamstring go if it’s not hooked to the top of your leg? Also when will it come back? Wikipedia didn’t have definitive answers. So I embarked on a six-month journey of wondering, hope, and letting go of outcomes. Maybe I would run. Maybe I would walk. Maybe I wouldn’t go. Spoiler: I did not love it. But I did learn that there’s some freedom in accepting that some things are beyond our control. I plugged through a bare bones training program, unsure if I would complete it. Over the weeks, the pain changed from one of injury to a soreness that I associated more with growth. And knowing that this sounds totally cheesy, I think I grew a little too (not taller, but personally). Anyway, I’m grateful to report that I’m writing this on a plane headed to NYC. It won’t be a fast race, but it feels somehow more meaningful.

The marathon start—getting there was a win. Photo by NYRR

Marathon rumors. Every big marathon has its subculture, and there’s nothing I love more than to dive in and figure IT ALL OUT before the big day. For Boston, everyone is obsessed with the marathon jacket. What color will it be. When can you wear it. What if someone wears it before the race. It’s the kind of inane, inside baseball drama that generates hilariously outsized opinions. And I am here for it. Now I haven’t run across any jacket controversies for NYC. But there’s still tea. The quick setup: The marathon starts in waves that are divided into colors: blue, orange and pink. The latter two colors run on the second level of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and the blue wave runs on the top of the bridge. Now, people online are convinced that the blue wave runners pee on the orange and pink runners below them. Runners post comments about how to avoid the pee (don’t run near the outer edge). A French newspaper even wrote about this pee-gate drama. Is it true? Maybe? Facts in favor: Bathroom line are long. Facts running counter: The marathon will disqaulify anyone caught doing this. Others contend that any falling liquid is most likely water dripping off the bridge deck. I’m not saying this rumor makes sense. But I am saying that during a week of stressful election news, marathon rumors, silly tea, and low stakes pee scandals are a welcome reprieve.

Emotional support antibiotic. Remember when I said that I stopped trying to control uncontrollable things? I may have lied a tiny bit. I’m not proud, but in the runup to this race, I’ve felt like I was getting a cold. Nothing crazy, but a little congestion that made me nervous. Can I do anything about it beside rest? Not really. But I did try to strongarm an urgent care doctor into prescribing me some drugs. My thinking: If I took an antibiotic proactively, then maybe I could stave off any potentially worse illness and feel 100% awesome on Sunday. So I asked the doctor for an “emotional support antibiotic.” I thought it was smart and hilarious—it would make me feel better mentally and maybe physically. However, she thought that I was contributing to global antibiotic resistance. She did not laugh. And I paid $75 for her to recommend Sudafed.

I just wanted a Z-pack. Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

Falling to let go. So I mentioned I fell, but I didn’t say how. Or maybe why. Let’s just say that prior to that run, I was upset. I was trying so hard to control the decisions of a loved one—decisions that weren’t mine to make. And though well-intended, this strong-arming caused a big fight. I went on that trail run ostensibly to cool off, but ended up more riled up. That is, until the universe decided to remind me that I wasn’t really in control by tripping me up and then punching me in a face (when I tore my hamstring falling, I also busted my lip). Needless to say, I hobbled home humbled. And while I feel like the delivery was a bit heavy handed—I was a fan of my hamstring—the message was received.

Doesn’t make sense

So many Timmys. Speaking of uncontrollables and New York City, there was an Timothee Chalomet look-a-like contest last weekend that drew a huge crowd (some estimate thousands) of people dressed like the actor in Willy Wonka, Paul from Dune, Bob Dylan Timmy, and more. Salon called it an “absurdist circus” while Slate went with “Twinkamegeddon” and said it was a tribute to Gen Z’s general unseriousness. The police showed up to regulate the unpermitted event. The organizer, a You Tuber, went rogue and marched the crowd to a second location. Then the real Timothee actually showed up. Chaos. What doesn’t make sense? First off: How do so many people have such amazing curly hair? One article reports that lots of NYC young men have been getting perms called “The Chalomet.” I imagine these are different than the home perm my mom used to ruin my life circa 1987 to 1989. Second off: Dune. I’m just saying it. I watched both movies, and left fully confused. Then I Wikipedia-ed the entire book series to see how it all came together. And my takeaway is: Huh? It makes no sense.

That’s a lot of hair. Photo via the New York Times

Book industry things

Fiction novel. A well-known and well-liked literary agent posted a funny meme on Instagram this week about agents and writers “haunted houses.” It included things like misspelling in query letters. It also mentioned agents cringing at writers who say they’ve written “a fiction novel.” I’m embarrassed to say that I had to google why that was an issue. And within the book industry subcultures, apparently this is known one. According to The Week, those in the know know that fiction novel is redundant (novels are fiction by nature) and saying that phrase outs writers as newbies to the industry. Did I frantically re-check my queries for the offending term? I did, and fortunately, my phrase of choice has been “fiction debut.” But it reminded me of an interview I had with a prominent wealth manager when I used to write more regularly about money and people with lots of it. After I asked him about some detail of a “trust fund,” this man stopped the conversation to note that he could tell immediately that I didn’t come from wealth. Because people who know better just say “trust.” The fund part is redundant. I remember being mortified. But then also laughing because he was right. I didn’t have a trust or a fund. And I wasn’t born into a generationally wealthy family who taught me how to say it. There’s value in knowing the terms of any new community or culture; it how you start to belong. But it’s also good to remember that unless you’re born into something, we’re all out here learning. And hopefully, there’s grace for a few redundancies while we practice speaking the language.

A few questions before I go: Has the universe ever punched you in the face? Are you fine just not knowing how a series ends until you watch it? And have you ever said something that outs you as a newbie to a group? I got major side-eye at my first Phish concern when I said my favorite song (the only song I knew was Bounce Around the Room).

Have a fabulous weekend that I hope is filled with uncontrollable FUN, zero face punches, and knowing just enough jargon that you seamlessly fit in. (If you happen to be at a Phish show, say Chalk Dust Torture).

Thanks for reading,

Kelly