This past weekend I decided to run back-to-backs again. It had been a while since I did that and I realized that in my quest to get back to the Beast in August, I need to start focusing on runs that will help me reach that goal. For any major event like a 100, back-to-back weekend long runs are a must do in order to properly prepare your legs for the hours of fatigue and general torture they’re going to endure. What better way than to give them a bitch slap after 3 consecutive marathon or longer weekends!

Saturday was marathon #20 for me, the National Marathon. In its 5th year, I was a bit hesitant to sign up for it under my own name and pay the ungodly entry fee so I bought a woman’s bib off Craigslist for 40$ and took on the persona of Dina Ashley. In the past, the race has been sucky, to say the least. I’ve never run the full but the course runs through the ghetto and the medals and finisher festival was always lousy. Plus, the goal was to pace my friend Matt through his first full marathon. I wasn’t sure what the results would be so I felt like running under someone else’s name would prevent my current times from getting marred, should we end up having a rough go of it (no offense Matt, really, but I’m anal that way…) I also was not going to leave him behind so this was my first race I ran solely for someone else, my partner for all 26.2.

​We started off well enough – his goal (besides finishing) was a sub 4 hour. I kinda thought after this winter that might be a bit tough but I’m not about to tell someone else how to run their race so I agreed to the pace and we were off. It worked through the first 2.5 hours. Then the wheels came off. Like any first timer, he was surprised at how bad he could feel after running for that long and at 17, he proclaimed it was time to start a walk break. And we did. Many times over. We’d run a bit, then walk a while. Run a bit, walk a while. I could tell it was rough for him as he got quieter and I started trying to be more talkative to keep his mind off the pure hell that is a first time marathon. It’s really hard to get excited when you’re physically spent, mentally exhausted and the loud mouth cheerleader next to you keeps saying “you can do it Matt! Only 8 more miles!!!” In looking back, that was probably not what he wanted to hear. The thing is, I knew he could do it. I knew we’d finish it. It’s just at that moment, it’s incredibly hard to convince someone else of that. He’s a born runner, particularly a distance one, so I knew this would be the worst he would ever feel. As any long time marathoner knows, they do get better, faster and easier.

We finally came upon the finish line and true to form, he perked up and began the tough but exciting last .2 to the finish line. As his partner, I was shouting and cheering him on the entire final leg. In looking at the photos, he’s focused, I’m ecstatic. And then it was over. And I felt as proud as a parent watching their child do something amazing for the first time. I always run for me, but that day I ran for him. We finished in 4:30, my slowest, but one of my most meaningful race experiences (third only to my two Boston qualifiers, of course)

I had to take off not long after that in order to get cleaned up, and get down to VA Beach, 3.5 hours south of DC, for the Shamrock marathon, the next day. That race, too, was ridiculously expensive so I bought another bib off CL, this one for Ashley Beebe (yes, TWO Ashleys! What are the odds I’d be running as Ashley in both?) I made the mistake of getting the cheapest hotel room I could find, a drug den in the bad part of Norfolk. On the upside, staying in a really shady hotel ensures that you won’t miss your wake up. I actually was wide awake at 3 am after listening to my neighbors squabble outside my door over whether or not he was going to leave his wife for her. Needless to say, I was up and on the start line at 5:30 am. For an 8 am race. Literally, the only people there were the night shift cops and the sound engineers setting up the start and finish lines.

I waited around for the start on the second day, of an unseasonably warm weekend. This was good though because if I had to sit on the start line in the freezing cold, I would’ve probably passed out in my car and missed it altogether. Gun goes off and we’re heading down the main drag and I realize, crap, I’m in the middle of a second race and I’m just worn out. Oh well – no time to think about that so rather than obsess on it, I found a few new friends and started chatting.

One woman (her name escapes me now) told me in great detail how she’d started running and wanted to make it to Boston. Today was her day – she needed 4:05. So I agreed to be her partner because I didn’t care what time I got. Sub 4 would’ve been nice but really, this was all a training run. We managed to get behind the 4 hour pace team which puzzled me. I do this 5-6 times a year, professionally, we shouldn’t be slipping behind. I didn’t have my Garmin but hell I know what a 9:09 feels like. She informed me that the team captain also was not stopping at ANY water stop. I have to get on my soap box here and give the proverbial smackdown for this. Bad pace leaders frost my ass and this guy was very obviously trying to “bank time” which is a BIG marathon no-no AND he was skipping water stations, which, for a 3:15 group, I understand. A 4-hour group often has newer marathoners and skipping stations does little more than stress out runners who stop, then attempt to sprint back to catch up. So I informed her of all of this and she sticks with me. She begins growing very agitated around 11, saying that her watch said we were “off” – too slow. I tried to reassure her we weren’t but she didn’t listen. Fine, we’ll speed up I said. I was trying to be a good partner but this was rid— :: BLECH.:: I hear an odd sound and look over – she’s gagging and dry heaving. I knew we were well in the low 8 minutes, it was hot as all get up and she’s now starting to throw up. Thankfully we were on the boardwalk and there were enough people and aid to take over. I wasn’t about to take care of this woman at this point when someone far more experienced than I was around. Plus, dammit, don’t bust on my mad pacing skills! I PROMISE I WILL GET YOU THERE, PEOPLE! I do this for running companies on a national level. I know what I’m doing, really.

Anyway, I continue on. I’m feeling surprisingly well for a hot day. We weave around through the beach area, then up a beautiful wooded area and into a military base. We’re at mile 21 or so by now and I start to realize that I’m bored. You see, even though I DO run for me, I’m a social runner at heart. I need stimulation and people to talk to. 4 hours of repetitive anything can be boring. I try to jump into a conversation with some people around me but there’s a lot of issues going on. A woman has collapsed at 21 and the paramedics are working on her, the guys behind me are having gastro issues and the men next to me are either chatting about WMDs or plumbing installations (seriously). YAWN. So I did one thing I’ve never done before – I plugged in my ipod and decided that it would be a great time to get in some speed work. And I took off.

There is nothing so wonderful as finishing a race on an upswing. I love negative splits for just that reason and I decided to make each mile a shade faster for those last 4, choosing to sprint the very final .02. Passing all those people, feeling strong and steady, hearing my name getting called out over and over – oh wait, but it wasn’t me. “ASH-LEY! ASH-LEY!” At first I ignored it but then I would smile and wave and say “thanks!” really loudly because the Rocky theme was blasting out my ear drums. And then I crossed the line, 3:58. My weekend was now done and I felt great.
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I came home and quickly changed again, this time for an awards dinner with Bill Rogers as the speaker. “Boston Billy” as he’s known didn’t say much of anything insightful or interesting that night. He’s never coached, he doesn’t like talking to people and he only wants to beat Joan Benoit again at some point in his life. Definitely not who I am. However. I knew that as different as we were, we had a partnership as well. We both run because it’s who we are, two, of many, peas in a pod. 

I do tell better jokes, though.

This past weekend I ran the lower potomac marathon. It was a tiny local marathon that many have raved about due to its no-frills course and all you can eat pasta buffet. Both were accurate representations of this small race.

Since it was so low key, my post is low key. The positives:
- gorgeous first half
- abysmal second half
- really good food at the end with really nice Seaman School cadets to wait on us
- wonderful volunteers

The negatives:
- ultima
- ultima
- ultima

Ultima is a no-calorie electrolyte drink. It causes insane gastrointestinal problems.
At the end of the day, I dropped about 3 lbs in weight due to abdominal cramping and explosive diarrhea (hey I never said this blog was pretty.. only my legs as a result of all this running) BUT I also won another age group award – I came in second with a time of 3:58 in my age group which was a 10 year block (whoo hoo!) and got a lovely marble plaque. I also was the 9th female overall. I also got to see Michael Wardian who’s just an unbelievable feat of running nature. And as usual, I made some very nice friends besides those next to me in the bathroom at the end of the race.
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It was a day of highs and lows but it didn’t leave me low in spirit.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of pacing at Albany, GA in the 5th annual Snickers Marathon Marathon. The candy company makes an energy/protein bar called the “Marathon” bar and since they have a large facility in Albany and Albany is known for its peanuts (and Ray Charles, I found out!), it makes perfect sense for this small town 3 hours south of Atlanta to have a marathon (they also are located next to the grit capital of Georgia, Warwick but my love for grits is not comparable to my love for running… I’m also digressing) 

As you know I’m coming off a weekend of extreme highs and lows with the Beast. I felt good after it but this week has put me back down into the dumps. I didn’t finish it and often, runners experience what’s known as “Post-race Depression” It’s akin to having a baby or getting married where you get all jazzed up for the big event, it comes and goes and then, well.. nothing. Life resumes. I had this after my first marathon, after my first 50 and now, after my first attempt at 100. I had been crabby and edgy for the better part of the week. I wasn’t even that optimistic about this race until I got to ATL, arrived at the marathon expo and looked at all the apprehensive, excited, tired, happy and just plain terrified faces mulling about. It’s a very quick and easy way to take one’s mind off whatever is bothering you as you suddenly realize that you are not alone in your thoughts. 

This expo was in the hotel which also served as the start line for the race. As pacers, the group is assigned specific times to man the booth at the expo, often answering questions and helping people choose their goal times. I was on from 6-9pm but by the time my shift started, there were very few people coming. Most had come earlier in the day, eager to get home and try to spend the evening relaxing. Nevertheless, I had several eager runners approach and chat as well as a number who came back when they were told the 4 hour pace leader wasn’t there yet. My favorite was a woman who came down from her room with a piece of paper in hand. She was sent down by her roommate who was running with a list of questions for me. The woman patiently wrote down the answers to the questions and even filled out her friend’s bib with her name and “4:00” on it. I had to chuckle – it was like the roommate running was a celebrity and this was her personal assistant. I had another gentleman, well into his 60s, sign up, Warren. He said “How many men do you think are running this race over 60?” I said I figured not too many which made him brighten up when I added that no matter what his pace, he’d might get an age group award. There was Robin, an experienced Ironman competitor who wanted to qualify for Boston and at 45, she needed 4 hours. I told her she was only doing part of her “normal” full race, that it would be easy for her – she still looked incredibly nervous. I mean, an Ironman! My god those freak me out… Then there was Caroline who was British (with a gorgeous accent) from Florida, attempting her 6th try to get into Boston. I assured her that we would do it together. After a while of this, it’s easy to see how you can suddenly feel a renewed sense of self-worth. I started my shift sullen, I finished it smiling. 

The next morning, we all met in the lobby at 6:15 dressed in our new outfits supplied by runningskirts.com. This would normally not be anything out of the ordinary except for the fact that the men also were donned in running skirts. If you’ve never seen 5 grown men in very short tight lycra running skirts, you’ve missed out. Male runners tend to have nice legs and this crew was no exception, however, there is something just goofy in seeing a cheetah or a plaid print skirt set atop of two muscular hairy stems. The plaid wasn’t so bad – it looked almost akin to a kilt but the cheetah print that several opted for was just, well, bizarre. One of the runners in my pace group commented that they looked “ridiculous”. I thought it was rather humorous myself but to each his own I suppose. 

​We started off in the early morning twilight with the sun rising over the river. It was absolutely beautiful. I fell into my pace and began chatting with the few people on either side of me. I happened to look back as we rounded the first corner and saw a sea of runners, all beautifully lined up behind me. There was easily 40 or so and I recognized most of the faces. The ones who came up, talked to me and wore a bib as well as those who gave the expo table a suspicious and fleeting glance the night before, choosing to scurry past rather than approach. Here was my army of many and I was thrilled to be leading them into victory.  

As the miles ticked off, I learned a little about most of them. Caroline, as I had previously mentioned, was really going to make this THE day – she had done everything right, carbo-loaded and was feeling good. Robin was in her zone and decided to stay ahead of me, with an occasional comment on a story I was telling. She had done her last Ironman in just under 11 hours and was hopeful that work would pay off in this race. Warren would occasionally get up beside me, grunt a bit, then fall back. His daughter was an art teacher who graduated from Hollins college, a small all-girls school located in my hometown as listed on my bio. Brett was a lawyer and this was his second marathon and he wanted to break 4 hours the first time but just missed it. This was retribution. Pauline was a single mother with a teenage son and with 4 hours, she could make it to Boston, but she admitted that she couldn’t afford to go. And how could I forget Randy, who was 44 yesterday and for his 44th birthday, he wanted to break 4 hours? 4 was his lucky number, he said. 

In those 4 hours, we talked about ourselves, our families, our lives and jobs and most of all, our passion for this sport. I don’t think I can put into words how attached you get to these individuals, each with their own lives and goals. I never leave a race less enlightened than I came. I truly enjoy the minutes I spend with everyone that I come into contact with and to know that several of them did it only serves to put meaning into my race. I’ve done my fair share of marathons and I’ve achieved (almost) every running goal I’ve ever had. Sure, new PRs are nice and I hope to finish a 100 miler soon, but as the years and races go by, I’ve learned to care less about the moment and more about the impact. Yesterday was no different. 

At mile 8, a cute young woman came skipping up, seemingly high as a kite, laughing and carrying on and jumping around. Her name was Cassie. I will never forget her because she taught me a lesson. She had talked to me the night before at the table and I convinced her that as her second marathon, she should go conservatively. Her first was a few months prior and she ran a 4:24. She had been training and doing speed-work so we agreed that she would start with the 4:15 group and if she felt good, to move up to my group around mile 10 or so. If she still felt good around 23, then she could go ahead and ratchet it up a notch. So it’s no surprise that at mile 8 when I heard her approaching, I was instantly nervous. It’s my inner “pacer mom” and when I see people that wired up that early, I worry. Most marathoners will hit a wonderfully high point from about 8-13 or so. The blood is pumping, the adrenaline is high and life is GOOD. REALLY good. Then reality hits. They start crashing and by 19 they feel like death. I know – I’ve been there. And I’ve seen it happen a lot. So as Cassie was swinging her arms and yelling at every single spectator and clapping, I kept warning her. “Cassie, save some of that!” “Cassie, slow it down a bit” I didn’t want her enthusiasm to get the better of her. I managed to convince her to carry my sign for a bit. She loved it. She loved it so much that around 18 I happened to look up and notice that she was a good quarter mile ahead of me. Oh shit. I can’t ask her to slow down and bring me back my sign. I looked at my pace group and said you all stay steady, I have to go get that damn sign. So I sprinted up to her. She looked at me, handed it over, laughed and said “Emily, I feel so good. I know it’s only 19 but can I go ahead??” She looked so excited and intense and at that moment, I could see the focus and determination in her eyes. This woman was on fire. YES! YES, go! You look great I said. And with that, she did. Never would I have thought she would’ve lasted that long but sometimes the will is stronger than the skill. 

I ran back to my group like a prairie dog trying to heard up the cattle. This was good because I could assess once again, where everyone was at. Robin was great, smile plastered onto her face, Warren had slid back a bit and was sweating. He was working HARD but he was quietly moving forward, still plodding along, one foot in front of the other. Randy was smiling and leaning forward, his form having fallen off miles before but he was happy. It was his birthday! Brett was waiting for me and moved over so I could fall back in next to him. But I was missing two. Oh no, my ladies. My Boston ladies. Pauline and Caroline. They were back just far enough that I could make them out but I couldn’t see them being able to surge ahead. This is the one downside to being a group pacer. You can’t sacrifice the group for a single individual. I wanted to run back. To round those two up, rally them, help them channel their inner Kenyans but I couldn’t. I still had about 11 or 12 to tend to plus a promise in my contract to hold my pace as best as I could. I had to let them go. 

Around 24 I started pushing people ahead of me – I let Robin go, I pushed Randy on and Brett finally agreed to leave my side at 25 as I chanted you can do it! You can do it! Go Go GO! I was doing great on time and hit 26 just right. I had to sprint in the last .2 miles, though. I had a bit of a slow SNAFU (SLOFU?) due to the jump up onto the sidewalk to wrap around the final bend. It’s a big step up onto a sidewalk curb and the tip of my shoe caught it just right. I didn’t go down but my recovery took a few seconds to come, steadying myself back up and wincing as I pulled hard at a hamstring. OUCH. It was already a bit tender from the previous weekend but I wasn’t expecting what amounted to a donkey kick in the back of my thigh right then. I saw the finish line and ran it in. I ended up a few seconds over which is never a good thing, although I was thankful to have pushed my runners ahead of me. I crossed and was greeted by 9 or 10 familiar faces and a lot of blood, sweat and tears. I’ve never had so many sweaty hugs nor have I had a line of people waiting to talk to me, thanking me for my help. It was MAGICAL. I stayed longer than I had planned and enjoyed hearing their stories, meeting their significant others and toasting (with a water bottle) to their successes.  

I made a number of new friends yesterday and I had a wonderful experience. I feel as if the ability to run and help other people when they’re running is a gift and there’s a great saying that goes “Never apologize for the gifts you’re given. Only apologize for not using them.” To my runners in the group, I’m glad that I was able to help you out. In return, you gave me back something too. In the end, we all got a gift.  

“My back is broad but it’s a hurting…”  Even though it’s a song lyric, never were truer words spoken. This past weekend, I traveled to Buffalo, NY to participate in a winter race called the Beast of Burden 100 miler and 24 hour ultra-marathon. This was the first year for this race and it is touted as the only “winter 100 miler” in the US. My friend and fellow runner (and experienced 100 mile finisher) Marc Griffin was going. He was looking for company and since Mother Nature has been shitting on us lately in the form of snow, I figured that the lemons life was handing my passion for running, deserved to be made into some frozen lemonade. That would be false assumption #1. 

The extended forecast seemed benign enough – a few snow showers but relatively higher temps and lack of heavy snow covering would be gracing the area. Fantastic I thought! I’ve spent a lot of time lately running around in the local blizzards and post-holing up and down the Mt Vernon Trail – how hard can it possibly be? False assumption #2.

The day before my arrival the northeast was hit with one hell of a whallop and the gods decided to do more than dump a foot of snow. They also sent in some strong winds. I knew because this race was on the Erie canal there would be *some* wind. I just hadn’t planned on a non-stop bitch slap. The course is an out and back, 4 times with about 25 miles each time, starting at Lockport NY which is about 20 miles from Buffalo and extending northeast to Middleport. You pass through Gasport in the middle which laid an excellent out and back aid station set-up. First aid station at the start/finish, Gasport 6 miles up, Middleport 6 miles further then turn around, hit Gasport, then back to Lockport and do it all over again, each time with feeling! Completely flat, net elevation gain/loss of 70 feet, really, besides some snow, what’s there to worry about? False assumption #3.  The week leading up the event was hectic at work which was great because it kept my mind off the impending doom but it didn’t get me in the race mindset until I was on the plane, with little more than 12 hours to spare before the gun went off. We were lucky to have gotten out but once we landed and I saw the howling wind and swirling snow, I knew this was going to be quite a challenge.  

The evening went off easy enough and Marc and I hit the sack before 10. I slept like a baby, and was lucky enough to wake up feeling refreshed and ready to go. Plenty of sleep, plenty of food the week before, plenty of fluids. Or so I thought. I would be proven wrong in fairly short order.  We got to the start line and it was still snowing. The trail had been more than a foot deep so the night before, the RD and his crew decided to drive a couple of snowmobiles over it to at least give us runners a fighting chance. NO ONE would finish if we had to slog through knee-deep snow for 100 miles or 24 hours. So two narrow but seemingly manageable ruts were carved out leaving about 6 inches to run in. We started out and all was right with the world. It was snowing but pretty and the serenity afforded by the sheer peace and calm was just delightful. It wasn’t that cold and I had managed to layer just the right amount of clothing and socks.  Felt good, strong – dare I say, confident – in my abilities to make this race. I’d log another false assumption on the meter but I’m pretty sure you can see where this is going.  We made small talk and I had the pleasure of meeting the other 6 or so females who were bold enough to enter this race, including Canada’s top 24 hour racer, Charlotte Vasarhelyi. The gun went off and much like another other ultra, we all shuffled forward looking more like little old people covered in neoprene than ultra-runners. We had to do an initial out and back of 3.7 miles in order to make the 100 miles perfect since the last aid station was about 1/5 of a mile too close. And when you’re doing 100 miles, 96.3 won’t cut it. This was good – it allowed us to test out our clothing and shoe choice as well as get a feel for whether or not we needed the assistance of microspikes or yax trax. Feeling like I was a total pro at this, I kept my selections when we came back to the start to turn around and begin the “real loops” choosing to shed only my heavy snow mittens for light running mittens.  You can see me at the end of this line:

​I felt good for a long time. At some point, I didn’t feel great but I chalked it up to the mental roller coaster known as long distance running head games. I don’t typically have a long time in most races where I feel down. Often if I do, it’s fleeting, popping up occasionally but for never more than a few minutes at a time, separated by much longer highs. However, there are multiple factors which can shift this balance including physical factors, environmental factors and what I like to call, FUBAR factors. Physical factors include the time I decided that greasy pizza and beer would make a great pre-race dinner (SEE MCM, 2008) Environmental factors include long days that start warm but perhaps end cold with brutal terrain (SEE TWOT, 2009) Then there’s FUBAR factors where not one goddamn thing goes right and everything becomes a factor, an endless set of obstacles to overcome, each harder than the one before. I have been lucky thus far – I’ve never had  a FUBAR factor day… until this day. It was windy, very windy. It was snowing, then sleeting, then snowing again. It was damp and cold and miserable. This would’ve been possibly manageable except as previously mentioned, I started to not feel so good. Around mile 22 or so, I stopped at Gasport which had a wonderful warm, toasty RV. I realized that I had drank a LOT of fluid but had yet to even have an inkling of a bathroom break. My lower back was also oddly achey which I had chalked up to my camelback with its 100 ounces of water until I decided to “test the waters” by visiting the tiny little bathroom on said RV. And they were not good. I was peeing blood. Yikes. Well, ok, I know enough about my general health that your body is not designed to do that. However, I had come all this way and dammit, I wasn’t going to let a little bad urine get in my way. So I trudged on.  

I made it back to Lockport, having completed one “official loop” plus the start loop, about 28 miles. I was soaking wet and bitterly cold so I changed out of what I needed to and grabbed a cannoli (seriously… someone brought CANOLLIS) and half a banana from the aid station. I will never, ever turn down a cannoli with chocolate chips on it. EVER. In the south, we don’t have those things around very often and when we do, they typically take the form of doughnuts with cream in them. This is upstate NY. I’m not passing up one of my all-time favorite treats just because I feel bad. 

Anyway, my cannoli and I were on our way and I felt better. I was at least warmer and drier and I trudged on, this time making sure to take my ipod shuffle . The afternoon sky was flattening out and the white on white was pretty sterile and depressing. It was still snowing and I found myself counting the mile markers, each appearing to grow further apart. My friend Marc had gone ahead of me – my speed slowing and my steps grew heavier. I couldn’t keep up and he seemed to be unstoppable. I got back to Gasport again, curious as to what might be going on in my body. Once again, I visited that little RV crapper. And once again, I was with heavy heart. Not much had changed except for the fact that I had drank MORE water and had less pee. My body seemed to be taking it in and where it was going was beyond me. I felt a wash of doom. I left, having mentioned my condition to the nice aid station ladies, only to regret that later. You see, it didn’t occur to me that they have cell phones and actually know the phone numbers of the people at the NEXT aid station.  

I arrived at the far aid station and when I walked in, they already knew something was amiss. I vaguely recall the experience because by this time I was dizzy and my back was killing me, I felt paranoid and angry but also spacey. I sat down and my head went down into my lap. Someone helped me onto a table and I laid there, ears ringing. Some man was asking questions. I don’t recall them and I’m not sure if it was my condition or my heart. He was incredibly cute. He just seemed so calm and rational and nice. A slight southern drawl – OMG! Everyone here speaks fast. What…? My what? He’s asking something about what I’ve eaten and if I’ve ever run before.. it blurs. I don’t remember everything but I know a nice woman was helping me get out of my clothes, another man was taking my blood pressure. I realized suddenly that my adventure was suddenly… over. I was sad. But in some ways, relieved. I was in too bad of shape to go back out – there wasn’t a thing I could do about that. Night was setting in and there was very little chance I’d make it the 12 miles back to the start. And really, as I sat there I realized it was pointless anyway. I would gain nothing except more hours of misery and the potential for collapsing somewhere on the trail and not being found. I understood then that I was done. My very first race that I’ve ever dropped out of. My first (and surely not last) DNF. 

In looking back I’m not upset. I’m proud that I tried – I persevered. Only 8 finished (and there were no female finishers) The rest dropped, some of which had medical reasons like me, others who simply could not tame the beast. I haven’t decided if I want to try it again. Time will tell – I feel like I need vindication in races that I don’t do as well as I’d like. There is talk of doing a summer version which I’d be thrilled to attempt. As for the winter one, I’m not sure. Upstate New York has a history with me that goes far beyond this blog and there’s a small part that needs to go back and face it again.  

All your sickness, I can suck it up
Throw it all at me, I can shrug it off
There’s one thing baby, that I don’t understand
You keep on telling me, I ain’t your kind of man
Ain’t I rough enough
Ain’t I tough enough 
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Yes, you were rough and you were tough… but I don’t know if it’s enough.