One of my most vivid memories of moving to America 11 years ago, was how staggeringly enormous the quantities of food were. Wandering into a diner during our first few weeks of living in the US we naturally ordered that great American staple, the pancake, a short stack to be precise. Like many tourists, we all thought my daughter's order was for the entire table, and when we realized our mistake, we photographed the steamy stack of carbs in awe! We adjusted frighteningly fast, and for a while it didn't even register as a shock. We also learnt to order more intelligently and do 'take out' bringing half the food home. Now if we go for fondue at the Melting Pot on Christmas Eve, we know to resist the wait staff and recommendations and instead order the set meal for two as it feeds four of us really well. The combination of Pennsyvlania's delicious cheap eats, vast portions of fries and cheeseteaks, and no pavements to walk anywher, made me realize a future of obesity lay ahead of me in this new land of plenty. I had always done some running, for fun, enjoying the company of friends, jogging round the Heath in England, now it became more of a mission just to burn off the vast amounts of food that lay ahead and a more serious intent set in.
Running still keeps me on the straight and narrow in many ways, but it goes way beyond just food. Giving up a career at a similar time also made me realize there was a gaping lack of structure to my day - I could literally lie on the couch and eat bon bons all day if I felt like it. I needed some rules and purpose to my routine, other than just making dinner, laundry and running kids around.
I have found that a good training plan makes me happy. I know from the minute I get up what the work out is for the day. Regardless of how many boring or exciting plans I have for the day, the run is foremost in my mind, whether it is the track, a trail or the road it is probably the most difficult and also fun thing I will do that day. A weekend is not a weekend unless I have tackled my Friday long run, Tuesday is an excellent day for intervals as it is the hardest working day of the week and my favorite run, the tempo, is often on Sundays.
So finishing up my fall race and taking a three week hiatus in training has been interesting and challenging. I know that mentally it is critical to take some time off, and my legs were about to drop off, so it was long over due. Waking up and having to choose my workout for the day with no map or plan to buy into has been interesting to say the least. Choice is stressful - should I rest, should I take a class, should I do a social run with people I don't get to spend time with normally, should I try a new destination - what do I feel like? All of those thoughts require energy, and then you second guess them, which takes even more energy, and before you know it the day has ended leaving you dissatisfied with what you chose to make of it.
In addition to the tyranny of choice of work out, there is the rest of the 'plan' to worry about. If I haven't decided what I am running the next day that means I can eat a super spicey curry and not worry about burping all through my run, I can have as many glasses of wine as I like and not suffer the consequences, and I can stay up past 9 pm and watch mind numbing tv if I really want to. Truth is that is fun for a while, but then it gets old - I haven't even made it to New Year's and being 'free of the plan' is losing its allure.
After three weeks I simply can't take it any more! All this choice is unravelling me so when I signed up for the famous costume fest of Bay to Breakers, the electronic coaching plan that came free with registration simply called my name - whispering through the ether of the internet 'Ruthless, I need you like you need me". Before I knew it I was unconsciously sucked into entering some basic parameters, previous race times, miles per week and there it was - in glorious black and white, the creation of a new week, a new life. Now the race ain't until May, I really don't need to be training until mid February, but there is something about the structure of a week with its blend of long run, tempo and interval that I just can't resist - it feels normal and comforting and I find it makes me happy.
I have coached myself for the past year, written my own training plans, and not really shared with any runners due to moving house, different pace goals etc. So when an email popped up today with my suggested 5k/10k maintenance plan for this week I realized that I was hooked and ready to do exactly as it said without dispute. Finally being told what to do is perversely freeing, now I don't have to spend an hour arguing with myself about what to do. I can grumble at the coach if I don't like it, but I know I will be a good girl and do as I am told and be happier for it. If you can't afford a real coach, get an online friend, I promise you it is very soothing - already I am fast forwarding to the moment when I will fill in my training log on line and get that wonderful satisfaction of once again 'following the plan'.....
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
She's Behind You!
Coming off a long cross country season, number one son whimsically decided to join me for what would be his half marathon debut. More of an endurance than speed merchant he was curious to see how he would do. I tenderly explained to him the eve of the race, that as I had trained religiously for the past three months, I had goals to achieve, and would not be derailed or lose focus by my favorite son joining the party late in the day. I was not anticipating any feel good mother son experience on race day. To further ampifly my point, I made it clear that even if both his legs were dropping off I would not be speaking or engaging with him during the race - motherhood is a strong bond, but racing was racing after all.....
The corner stone of distance training is of course the weekly long run that steadily builds in distance or pace. The the boy hadn't done any ten milers since the start of the season, and he had certainly never made it beyond those easy ten. For most of the season those long runs had instead been hilly 8 milers on the trails, but he had been frustrated at paying his dues running the Frosher 2 mile courses, spending most of the race playing catch up in these races due to his slower start so he was curious to see what a longer race was like. The normal progression would be to sign up for a 10k to figure this out....but the race organizers had eliminated that option, just leaving either the 5k or half to choose between.
My only maternal advice took place earlier in the week, when I was feeling benevolent and caring. I patiently told him to go out conservatively, then to run relatively easy on the hills as they would feel gentle compared to some of the courses he had run, but to pick it up and really start racing at the 10 mile mark as that was a 5k to the finish; a race he would understand and could run by feel.
The flavor of a major race in a very small city was interesting. The Walnut Creek International (yes International I hear you say!) half marathon had all the trappings of sophisticated chip timing, umbrella arches to run through and pace corrals, and of course the aura of the famous Olympian Lopez Lomong to draw the crowds. Except there were no crowds, it took us ten minutes to get there and I didn't have to visit one porta potty.
Lining up in the 7 minute pace corral felt different, as there were less than 2,000 runners in this race, unlike the 40,000 who run Broad Street or the big races in Philly. I enjoyed the feeling of space and ran some strides with the boy, feeling surprisingly relaxed as a week of various aches, pains and incipient flu symptoms had done their usual job of evaporating as they often do at the dawn of a race. Neither of us bothered to discussed strategy or expectations, we just enyoyed the buzz of the race atmosphere.
After a couple of strides I returned to the start and noticed the extremely impressive presence of Lomong, dressed as if for winter in full length tights despite the balmy 42f temperatures. Standing surprisingly alone and unmolested by fans, he was due to be leading a pace group and as he was an 800m- 5k runner, and trained at a much faster pace, was bundled up in hat, gloves etc. Like a giddy teenager I whipped out my sharpie and asked him to sign the back of my Running Housewives of Blue Bell vest which now I can not wash and is crisping up niceley, but surely a collectors item. Lomong merrily obliged and was exceptionally charming when I also asked for a photo op. The boy looked on somewhat long sufferingly but was nice enough not to mock me, I think he was somewhat in awe of Lomong himself, but was much too cool to show it.
Within minutes the starting line assembled and in such a small field we found ourselves relatively near the front. Being careful to establish my pace from the outset I set off conservatively, at about 10 seconds faster than my goal race pace. I watched in dismay as Laurence had his fastest start of the season, running alongside Lomong like a happy puppy, as he quickly disappeared into the light fog. The boy had a chance to run alongside an Olympian in the face of which his mother's advice was of course total garbage!
I tried to focus on my pace, and not to think about what I was going to do when I found my progeny crumpled by the side of the road or limping on in pain at mile 10. Going out too fast in a distance run is not a winning strategy, for some reason that additional early effort draws on your reserves of energy much more than you think, and most runners prefer to attempt a negative split for such a long race. One of the things I like about distance running is the strategy and I made sure that the first part of the race felt easy, my legs were feeling tapered and eager to turnover. Then, just at the point in a race when normally I would have been in danger of going too fast, as it takes about 4 miles for the middle age muscles to start activating, the hills began. The looming presence of each hill was strangely muted, eroded as it was by a now blanket of heavy fog. Being able to see only four feet ahead had its advantages, you didn't need to stare the hill down or worry about what was coming, you just worked at it.
Turning the corner onto Ygnacio saw yet another climb and it was a point at which I started to labor into the beginnings of a side stitch. Attacking the hill hard enough so as to not lose too much time, but not so hard you were finished too early on in the race was a tricky balance, but that side stitch at the end reminded me to keep my breathing more even and the effort more relaxed.
The dramatic zig zag down the hills of Ygnacio was a hoot - I have always loved a good downhill, my quads are defnitely more up for it than the hamstrings and it was fun to pass all the people who had in turn passed me on the hill. Every mile that passed, that I failed to see the boy, actually cheered me up, as I thought he was probably doing just fine if he was no where in sight.
At mile 7.5 I started to glimpse a familiar arm action and grey tee shirt up ahead; and there he was. He was clearly slowing down, hitting that no mans land of getting tired but no hope of finishing soon; two thirds of the way done and he was running out of gas - he had clearly gone out way too fast! I maintained pace and subtly drew alongside long enough to break my own rule and said 'hello' in the way only a mother can - loaded with meaning. Without even a sideways glance the toe rag shot off and put 15 seconds of daylight between us. He clearly did not want my company either, or was anticipating 'helpful' coaching tips about how he had probably mispaced his race.
At mile ten many runners seemed to be lagging, and I watched as the boy surged forward again, passing a few of them, now totally lost in the fog and turns of the Heather Farm park section. At mile eleven and a half I saw him again, slowing slightly and, again, came within 15 seconds of him, it cheered me up that he was at least hanging in there and wasn't by the side of the road whimpering. It was also tantalizing as I realized I couldn't quite catch him after his fast start.
Miles 12 to 13 were more challenging, we hit a very muddy trail that slowed everyone down and made it hard to summon the energy for lifting the leg higher. Running up the final short hill on the bridge crossing Ygnacio I could still see him and decided now was the best time to add any kind of kick, wouldn't it be fun to cross the finish line together just like when he ran me in for 5 miles at the Philadelphia Marathon. Coming off the hill I powerlessly watched him disappear from view as my burst of speed proved to be somewhat flat, and watched him cross the finish line as I tried to power towards it - still with that same 15 seconds ahead of me. We finished 69th and 70th in the race.
A large placard with 'Run Like Your Mother is Behind You' will be waved in the air anytime I need my kid to go faster. The familiar thud of my foot fall and irritatingly heavy breathing was so well known to him that he didn't even need to see me, it had made him speed up with an almost pavlovian response, which no words of encouragement or advice could ever come close to replicating. Even in his finish line pictures you can see my looming presence rounding the corner behind him, emerging from the thick blanket of fog to impinge and possibly photo bomb his moment of glory.
Texts and emails and phonecalls from running buddies congratulated me on a lovely mother son experience, how nice they said that you could enjoy it together, and how nice of you to let him beat you at the end! If only they knew.....
Later that night he sidled up to me and said one thing 'guess that just leaves the marathon I haven't beaten you in yet then....'
The corner stone of distance training is of course the weekly long run that steadily builds in distance or pace. The the boy hadn't done any ten milers since the start of the season, and he had certainly never made it beyond those easy ten. For most of the season those long runs had instead been hilly 8 milers on the trails, but he had been frustrated at paying his dues running the Frosher 2 mile courses, spending most of the race playing catch up in these races due to his slower start so he was curious to see what a longer race was like. The normal progression would be to sign up for a 10k to figure this out....but the race organizers had eliminated that option, just leaving either the 5k or half to choose between.
My only maternal advice took place earlier in the week, when I was feeling benevolent and caring. I patiently told him to go out conservatively, then to run relatively easy on the hills as they would feel gentle compared to some of the courses he had run, but to pick it up and really start racing at the 10 mile mark as that was a 5k to the finish; a race he would understand and could run by feel.
The flavor of a major race in a very small city was interesting. The Walnut Creek International (yes International I hear you say!) half marathon had all the trappings of sophisticated chip timing, umbrella arches to run through and pace corrals, and of course the aura of the famous Olympian Lopez Lomong to draw the crowds. Except there were no crowds, it took us ten minutes to get there and I didn't have to visit one porta potty.
Lining up in the 7 minute pace corral felt different, as there were less than 2,000 runners in this race, unlike the 40,000 who run Broad Street or the big races in Philly. I enjoyed the feeling of space and ran some strides with the boy, feeling surprisingly relaxed as a week of various aches, pains and incipient flu symptoms had done their usual job of evaporating as they often do at the dawn of a race. Neither of us bothered to discussed strategy or expectations, we just enyoyed the buzz of the race atmosphere.
After a couple of strides I returned to the start and noticed the extremely impressive presence of Lomong, dressed as if for winter in full length tights despite the balmy 42f temperatures. Standing surprisingly alone and unmolested by fans, he was due to be leading a pace group and as he was an 800m- 5k runner, and trained at a much faster pace, was bundled up in hat, gloves etc. Like a giddy teenager I whipped out my sharpie and asked him to sign the back of my Running Housewives of Blue Bell vest which now I can not wash and is crisping up niceley, but surely a collectors item. Lomong merrily obliged and was exceptionally charming when I also asked for a photo op. The boy looked on somewhat long sufferingly but was nice enough not to mock me, I think he was somewhat in awe of Lomong himself, but was much too cool to show it.
Within minutes the starting line assembled and in such a small field we found ourselves relatively near the front. Being careful to establish my pace from the outset I set off conservatively, at about 10 seconds faster than my goal race pace. I watched in dismay as Laurence had his fastest start of the season, running alongside Lomong like a happy puppy, as he quickly disappeared into the light fog. The boy had a chance to run alongside an Olympian in the face of which his mother's advice was of course total garbage!
I tried to focus on my pace, and not to think about what I was going to do when I found my progeny crumpled by the side of the road or limping on in pain at mile 10. Going out too fast in a distance run is not a winning strategy, for some reason that additional early effort draws on your reserves of energy much more than you think, and most runners prefer to attempt a negative split for such a long race. One of the things I like about distance running is the strategy and I made sure that the first part of the race felt easy, my legs were feeling tapered and eager to turnover. Then, just at the point in a race when normally I would have been in danger of going too fast, as it takes about 4 miles for the middle age muscles to start activating, the hills began. The looming presence of each hill was strangely muted, eroded as it was by a now blanket of heavy fog. Being able to see only four feet ahead had its advantages, you didn't need to stare the hill down or worry about what was coming, you just worked at it.
Turning the corner onto Ygnacio saw yet another climb and it was a point at which I started to labor into the beginnings of a side stitch. Attacking the hill hard enough so as to not lose too much time, but not so hard you were finished too early on in the race was a tricky balance, but that side stitch at the end reminded me to keep my breathing more even and the effort more relaxed.
The dramatic zig zag down the hills of Ygnacio was a hoot - I have always loved a good downhill, my quads are defnitely more up for it than the hamstrings and it was fun to pass all the people who had in turn passed me on the hill. Every mile that passed, that I failed to see the boy, actually cheered me up, as I thought he was probably doing just fine if he was no where in sight.
At mile 7.5 I started to glimpse a familiar arm action and grey tee shirt up ahead; and there he was. He was clearly slowing down, hitting that no mans land of getting tired but no hope of finishing soon; two thirds of the way done and he was running out of gas - he had clearly gone out way too fast! I maintained pace and subtly drew alongside long enough to break my own rule and said 'hello' in the way only a mother can - loaded with meaning. Without even a sideways glance the toe rag shot off and put 15 seconds of daylight between us. He clearly did not want my company either, or was anticipating 'helpful' coaching tips about how he had probably mispaced his race.
At mile ten many runners seemed to be lagging, and I watched as the boy surged forward again, passing a few of them, now totally lost in the fog and turns of the Heather Farm park section. At mile eleven and a half I saw him again, slowing slightly and, again, came within 15 seconds of him, it cheered me up that he was at least hanging in there and wasn't by the side of the road whimpering. It was also tantalizing as I realized I couldn't quite catch him after his fast start.
Miles 12 to 13 were more challenging, we hit a very muddy trail that slowed everyone down and made it hard to summon the energy for lifting the leg higher. Running up the final short hill on the bridge crossing Ygnacio I could still see him and decided now was the best time to add any kind of kick, wouldn't it be fun to cross the finish line together just like when he ran me in for 5 miles at the Philadelphia Marathon. Coming off the hill I powerlessly watched him disappear from view as my burst of speed proved to be somewhat flat, and watched him cross the finish line as I tried to power towards it - still with that same 15 seconds ahead of me. We finished 69th and 70th in the race.
A large placard with 'Run Like Your Mother is Behind You' will be waved in the air anytime I need my kid to go faster. The familiar thud of my foot fall and irritatingly heavy breathing was so well known to him that he didn't even need to see me, it had made him speed up with an almost pavlovian response, which no words of encouragement or advice could ever come close to replicating. Even in his finish line pictures you can see my looming presence rounding the corner behind him, emerging from the thick blanket of fog to impinge and possibly photo bomb his moment of glory.
Texts and emails and phonecalls from running buddies congratulated me on a lovely mother son experience, how nice they said that you could enjoy it together, and how nice of you to let him beat you at the end! If only they knew.....
Later that night he sidled up to me and said one thing 'guess that just leaves the marathon I haven't beaten you in yet then....'
Monday, December 3, 2012
What's it all about Alfie?
There is runnning.....and there is racing...the two are really not the same. The zen runner goes out and just runs for the sheer joy of it, based on feel, only ever pushing the pace for periods of time that feel right, but mostly running in a comfortable zone. When you run to race you learn to follow the master plan, to do speed work when your legs are not 'feeling it', to do long runs when the weather is disgusting or you have a cold and should probably be taking it easy.
Envious though I am of that zen runner, I don't think that could ever be me - without the pressure or the goal setting of a race I revert to the lazy marshmallow version of myself, and would be lying on the coach watching tv, filled with self loathing. I really enjoy the preparation and rhythm of a build up to a race, the 3 months of training, the base miles before training, the discipline of knowing day by day what the work out should be. However, the week before a race I am never a very happy camper.
This week is no different. On Saturday I am due to run the Walnut Creek International Half Marathon and should be excited. But like all runners, neurosis is already setting in. Firstly, my entire left leg feels like it might drop off, hence the need for a serious massage soon. Secondly, I finally ran the course this weekend. Not sure if that was a good idea. Preparation is key, but it is supposed to build confidence not annihilate it. Running what was supposed to be an 'easy 10 miler' on a wet and wild Saturday amidst heavy traffic, mounds of wet leaves and branches, I found the effort of ploughing up the two miles of hills on Treat and back down Ygnacio trying. Looking at a colourful elevation chart when you register is one thing, running it is another. It finally dawned on me that hitting such a long hill so early in the race was going to be a major challenge. This was no flat and friendly local town race, I had been deceiving myself, and I was going to have to run that long hill conservatively enough to survive the second half of the race, but not so slow I wiped out the benefit of all the hard training I had put in.
Still, on the plus side Lopez Lamong was due to be there - he had been one of the lost boys of Sudan, running for three days over the boarder to Kenya at the age of 6 to escape his attackers, and then surviving refugee camps before finally being adopted by Americans and becoming an inspiring olympic athlete. One of my favourite running videos of all time was watching him turn out a 59 sec 400m final lap in the 5k when immediately prior, he had tragically miscounted and sprinted to what he thought was the finish; he had virtually stopped when the camera man wildly gesticulated that he should probably do another lap, and he pulled it off, still winning the race substantially. L'il bitch was also going to run, exhausted by the end of a very long cross country season he was going to take it fairly easy, but bring a sharpie and try and get Lopez to autograph anything he could find, body parts included.
To avoid pre-race stress I keep reminding myself that I choose to race. Indeed, I forked out 70 bucks for the treat, and should therefore be deliriously happy about it. I could easily have saved the money and had a regular Saturday sleeping late and watching the kids at their sporting fixtures. Starting to coach Cross Country had made me think about some of these things. Watching girls from the best teams in California throwing up from sheer nerves at the start line of the States Cross Country meet focused my thinking. One of the pieces of advice I had been giving the high school runners was not to worry about what you couldn't control. For instance often your place in a race is to a large extent beyond your control - who knows what elite 45 year olds will be there on Saturday. Even pace is not always something you can dictate. I had chosen a fairly ambitious training pace and hit my goals about 70% of the time leading up to the race. Throw in 2 miles of hills and the pace goal might well need to shuffle a little. Increasingly, I have found that the more one gets consumed with pace goals or place goals the more stress sets in; you can feel every muscle in the body tighten, the stomach rebelling, rational thought disintegrating with panic and none of these side effects help you to run well. The longer I run the more I realize there is only one thing I can control. That is running hard. As long as I pay attention to my form, keep relaxed and tall, maintain a steady rhythm, manage my breath, the rest will take care of itself and I will be satisfied with the outcome regardless.
At the final XC banquet one of the seniors made a speech that was gratifying in its honesty and hilarious in the context. It was not the usual back slapping, emotive celebration of the sport you see in the good ol US of A. He described how as a freshman he had come out for Cross Country and found it very challenging and not much fun at all, but he had found himself coming back because he liked the people. Now, as a Senior the running still 'sucked' a lot of the time, it was painful and difficult. But what he liked about it was its difficulty, as every day he faced doing something that was a battle with self. He casually added he also liked the way he felt about himself afterwards, and still enjoyed the people.
Choice is a beautiful thing and this week I choose not to be neurotic!
Envious though I am of that zen runner, I don't think that could ever be me - without the pressure or the goal setting of a race I revert to the lazy marshmallow version of myself, and would be lying on the coach watching tv, filled with self loathing. I really enjoy the preparation and rhythm of a build up to a race, the 3 months of training, the base miles before training, the discipline of knowing day by day what the work out should be. However, the week before a race I am never a very happy camper.
This week is no different. On Saturday I am due to run the Walnut Creek International Half Marathon and should be excited. But like all runners, neurosis is already setting in. Firstly, my entire left leg feels like it might drop off, hence the need for a serious massage soon. Secondly, I finally ran the course this weekend. Not sure if that was a good idea. Preparation is key, but it is supposed to build confidence not annihilate it. Running what was supposed to be an 'easy 10 miler' on a wet and wild Saturday amidst heavy traffic, mounds of wet leaves and branches, I found the effort of ploughing up the two miles of hills on Treat and back down Ygnacio trying. Looking at a colourful elevation chart when you register is one thing, running it is another. It finally dawned on me that hitting such a long hill so early in the race was going to be a major challenge. This was no flat and friendly local town race, I had been deceiving myself, and I was going to have to run that long hill conservatively enough to survive the second half of the race, but not so slow I wiped out the benefit of all the hard training I had put in.
Still, on the plus side Lopez Lamong was due to be there - he had been one of the lost boys of Sudan, running for three days over the boarder to Kenya at the age of 6 to escape his attackers, and then surviving refugee camps before finally being adopted by Americans and becoming an inspiring olympic athlete. One of my favourite running videos of all time was watching him turn out a 59 sec 400m final lap in the 5k when immediately prior, he had tragically miscounted and sprinted to what he thought was the finish; he had virtually stopped when the camera man wildly gesticulated that he should probably do another lap, and he pulled it off, still winning the race substantially. L'il bitch was also going to run, exhausted by the end of a very long cross country season he was going to take it fairly easy, but bring a sharpie and try and get Lopez to autograph anything he could find, body parts included.
To avoid pre-race stress I keep reminding myself that I choose to race. Indeed, I forked out 70 bucks for the treat, and should therefore be deliriously happy about it. I could easily have saved the money and had a regular Saturday sleeping late and watching the kids at their sporting fixtures. Starting to coach Cross Country had made me think about some of these things. Watching girls from the best teams in California throwing up from sheer nerves at the start line of the States Cross Country meet focused my thinking. One of the pieces of advice I had been giving the high school runners was not to worry about what you couldn't control. For instance often your place in a race is to a large extent beyond your control - who knows what elite 45 year olds will be there on Saturday. Even pace is not always something you can dictate. I had chosen a fairly ambitious training pace and hit my goals about 70% of the time leading up to the race. Throw in 2 miles of hills and the pace goal might well need to shuffle a little. Increasingly, I have found that the more one gets consumed with pace goals or place goals the more stress sets in; you can feel every muscle in the body tighten, the stomach rebelling, rational thought disintegrating with panic and none of these side effects help you to run well. The longer I run the more I realize there is only one thing I can control. That is running hard. As long as I pay attention to my form, keep relaxed and tall, maintain a steady rhythm, manage my breath, the rest will take care of itself and I will be satisfied with the outcome regardless.
At the final XC banquet one of the seniors made a speech that was gratifying in its honesty and hilarious in the context. It was not the usual back slapping, emotive celebration of the sport you see in the good ol US of A. He described how as a freshman he had come out for Cross Country and found it very challenging and not much fun at all, but he had found himself coming back because he liked the people. Now, as a Senior the running still 'sucked' a lot of the time, it was painful and difficult. But what he liked about it was its difficulty, as every day he faced doing something that was a battle with self. He casually added he also liked the way he felt about himself afterwards, and still enjoyed the people.
Choice is a beautiful thing and this week I choose not to be neurotic!
Sunday, November 4, 2012
'Tough Times Don't Last, But Tough People Do'
Running friendships are pervasive - like comrades in arms, you share a unique and, what would otherwise be, lonely experience, with a few. The intensity of the training together day in day and the extreme emotion that racing elicits creates special relationships. Like the rings found within a tree, those experiences and friendships become part of you.Training with Merciless for the Philadelphia Marathon we discovered late into the training plan that her life was inexpicably diverting from 'the plan' and she was pregnant with her 5th child, the lovely Berkeley. Despite having already put in the gruelling 20 milers, brief soul searching brought her to the view that she must understandably stand down from the race in the interests of as safe a pregnancy as possible. Running Boston with Q-Less this year, we had both felt the loss of our other two team members. Giving birth meant no prospect of a Boston qualifying time. The fact that the two missing team members came out anyway to support was huge. Nonetheless hadn't been able to requalify due to her knee injury, and Merciless, even brought baby Berkeley along to help with the cheer section, eat the occasional deep fried pickle with her lobster roll, and down some Sam Adams along the way.In the midst of some post pregnancy blues about the challenges of getting out running again, I had had a moment of genius and suggested Merciless and I register for NYC as I had found out you only needed a half marathon qualifying time, so we both signed up. I knew the timing was very ambitious, six months after giving birth but it could be deferred, thus preserving that precious half marathon time until she could get back in shape again. When registration came for this November I had to sadly decline, I had known we were moving cross coast and it would no longer work out, but was thrilled Merciless was re-entered. A race was a sure fired way to get her out from the diapers and back to her usual running mojo.Now with 5 kids ranging in age from 16 - 18 months running was not easy - just finding the energy, one hour a day can be a huge challenge and she was having to get major miles in. Many of them were with Berkeley, a long slog with a really heavy stroller, and an occasionally vociferous companion. Being a Mom to that many kids was no doubt rewarding, there she was cheering on all of her kids at their cross country races day in day out, coming up with the 'running healthy' meal plans, washing the muddy uniforms, it was only right that one day out of the year the kids should be cheering her on and I was excited to hear the whole family was making the trek to the marathon to do just that.As the many miles away as I am from Blue Bell I was strangely starting to have sympathetic marathon pains, every day she tapered I was wondering how she felt. That feeling of your legs returning to life, the unexplained energy reentering the veins, the slight itch you feel as a race approaches. They were such visceral sensations I could almost feel them for her, even if I didn't get to run the marathon with her, I was already set up to enjoy her progress and cheer her on through the internet.I found myself scanning weather channels just as I do before any of my own races and was alarmed when I heard about the approaching storm. Seeing the scenes of awful devastation in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York was painful. New York had been hit really hard, and back in Blue Bell many of our friends were without power, the fun hurricane parties were over, and still Merciless who lives in an old farmhouse was struggling in a hotel some miles away as they were on their 6th or 7th day with no power. Then the debate about whether Bloomberg should give the go ahead to the marathon or not became heated. Across Facebook and the internet runners were being villified as selfish individuals littering streets with their gels and drinks, taking upscale hotel rooms and diverting vital services from the New Yorkers in their hour of need. Views were polarized as to whether the race should go ahead. Hearing the rants I couldn't help agree that of course police and sanitation should be focusing on those in need instead of a race. But I could also see Bloomberg's perspective. A marathon is a celebration of honest hard work and a hugely inspirational symbol of the resilience of the human spirit to anything that life or the throws hurls at it. Added to that the $34 million raised for charities and the hundreds of lost revenue to the city and you could see his dilemma.In the case of high profile decisions affecting millions usually the best course of action is to take views, weigh the evidence, but make a decision relatively quickly, and then STICK to it. By changing course at the last minute he had inadvertently created another population of distressed and displaced people. Now you had Texans, the Dutch, South Africans, the world and his wife descending on a city awry with so many suffering natives.Not knowing a race is going ahead when you have trained religiously for four months is excruciating - some had raised thousands for charities or were running to commemorate loved ones, they had hopefully boarded planes and even gone to the expo before they heard the change of heart. Hearing the news in the middle of our local cross country championships that the race had cancelled and Merciless was on her second martini was like getting a kick in the stomach. Right now she had no house to go to, and now no race to look forward to and that empty feeling you get when you realize something you have worked so hard towards has become pointless.Despite the backlash of the media, runners are not selfish folk preoccupied solely with personal goals; their training is often internalized but but not their spirit. Hearing all the stories of runners stranded in New York with tins of food to give out as they run the streets solo without the famously warm welcome of the New York crowd did not surprise me, nor did the donation of hotel rooms to those without power, freezing in their homes. Today's newsfeed was filled with pictures of runners showing up to help the relief effort, rather than run their race.There are many who think the Mayor made the right decision but at the wrong time and I think that is a pretty fair assessment. There are marathons in cities every week around the US - wouldn't it be a wonderful thing if the marathon refunded the costly registrations and race organizers around the US came together to try and offer places in all of the other races organized in states where there is no storm damage. In distance running resiliance and flexibility are two of the most important qualities and I know those marathon runners will use their training to purpose and get out and run another race and probably raise a huge amount of funding for the emergency effort in New York and New Jersey and those suffering the aftermath of the storm. Just like life, the race goes on......
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Racing Californian Style
Runners are blessed individuals for many reasons; only this strange breed get excited at 'yet another' birthday. In running land, birthdays bring you closer, or actually catapult you, into an upper age group. As our bodies slow down, the flesh weakens and our race times slide we can comfort ourselves that we are not alone, and take solace in being the 'baby' of a new division.
Hubby turned 50 and ofcourse I signed him up for a Birthday 5k - what better way to start such an auspicious day! He looked rather quizzical about the lack of breakfast in bed, but I could tell this would make him happier than snuggling in bed with a tray of bacon. This was a new racing experience, the first time we had raced Californian style and we were excited to see the local scene.
The day began filled with the promise of gorgeous weather; sun rise bringing that soft lambent glow that infuses the ridges and golden hills cradling Walnut Creek with a well meaning warmth. The race was a mere five minute drive so no waking at dawn and downing oatmeal in the dark, it was utterly civilized. We met groups of East Bay runners outside LuluLemon where balloons and music were starting to signal the race preparations were afoot. That wonderful pre-race buzz of adrenaline and excitement were in the air.
Studying the course on a map; I could see it was a fairly simple downtown route, run as one loop for the 5k and as a double loop for the 10K. I was not much cop at shorter faster races so naturally picked the 10k, and despite having run many marathons, 10 milers etc, was interested to see what my time would be as it would actually be my first 10k.
After much hoopla and anthems the gun went off and the crowd hurtled down Walnut Creek's Main Street. As usual in a 5k, I lined up near the front, fully knowing I would be passed by 50% of the people behind me within minutes. With that out of the way I concentrated on running a nice even pace. The beauty of a double loop is that you can be accurate in your splits, and I decided to run a 21 minute 5k and see if I could hold on to it for the second lap. The first go around was fun, lots of spirited kids as it was a race for education, and some terribly jolly cheerleaders 'giving it everything' who were stationed at the turn around mark. As the 5k racers sprinted for the finish line I turned and followed the signs for the 10k and headed off into the lonely second lap where I could see maybe 3 or 4 men up ahead and no one else near me. The second time around the cheer leaders were just as great, but there cries echoed hollowly now as very few people were running or spectating. I was definitely getting tired and it was no longer the fun filled scene it had been; however running a time is running a time and, lack of atmosphere was not going to daunt me. At about 4.5 miles things started to get more challenging, so I decided to just keep holding pace and not attempt any increase or sense of speed. My strategy was to not pick it up until about 5.5 miles then to see what I had left.
As usual I was wearing my hand dandy garmin and had noticed that the 5k mark was a little way into the second loop, which surprised me, but lets face it GPS is at best only 90% reliable. Running alongside a chap of about 30 we headed into the last mile or so of the race. Suddenly I saw the same 5k finish line, and next to it the 10k sign showing where the second loop began. In my running induced delirium it seemed to make no sense. I glanced at my watch and it read 5.1 miles, this couldn't be the finish line, it was a mile too early? I headed straight rather than turning and an official screamed at me to go to the finish line sign. Ofcourse I argued and said 'we have only run 5.1 miles". He shrugged and said 'course might be a bit short'. My kids were watching and yelling out 'sprint Mummy', they know I have no kick and stopping to argue with a volunteer about where to go hadn't really helped my stride. Within seconds the race was over and I felt curiously robbed. This had been no 10k, my time was really impressive - but for one reason and one reason only, it was a 5.2 mile race. I still had no 10k time.
There was a generally jubilant air as runners seemed euphoric with the day - for many they had run a huge personal best, as the 5k was half a mile short too. At the awards ceremony every age group was celebrated, kids up to 19 were in one year age groups, then there were 5 year brackets. There were an enormous number of medals for everyone. I had scooped the third prize award in my age group but as the crowd thinned and all the kids piled off with their medals it became increasingly embarrassing and I was hoping just to slink off. The kids had gone home to make a birthday brunch, but hubby insisted I get my medal with the picture of a walnut on it. Standing on my olympic size podium next to another runner I felt silly, we hadn't even celebrated the runners who had won the race. Instead of having overall winners and then age groups they had given virtually everyone a medal and yet none of us had run either a 5k or a 10k that day.
It later transpired the course was so short because the cheerleaders didn't go out far enough at the turn around point. Perhaps in their kindness the sweeties had wanted to save runners pain so set up camp a little closer than they should. Of course it wasn't the cheerleaders fault, they did a fabulous job of adding glitz and glam - but someone should have supervised and checked their placement.
Yes it was a good fundraiser, yes it was a fun event, but for runners a time is everything, so don't mess with the measurements and don't throw the cheerleaders under the bus! Running Californian style was certainly different.......and it had won that age old battle of style over substance.
Hubby turned 50 and ofcourse I signed him up for a Birthday 5k - what better way to start such an auspicious day! He looked rather quizzical about the lack of breakfast in bed, but I could tell this would make him happier than snuggling in bed with a tray of bacon. This was a new racing experience, the first time we had raced Californian style and we were excited to see the local scene.
The day began filled with the promise of gorgeous weather; sun rise bringing that soft lambent glow that infuses the ridges and golden hills cradling Walnut Creek with a well meaning warmth. The race was a mere five minute drive so no waking at dawn and downing oatmeal in the dark, it was utterly civilized. We met groups of East Bay runners outside LuluLemon where balloons and music were starting to signal the race preparations were afoot. That wonderful pre-race buzz of adrenaline and excitement were in the air.
Studying the course on a map; I could see it was a fairly simple downtown route, run as one loop for the 5k and as a double loop for the 10K. I was not much cop at shorter faster races so naturally picked the 10k, and despite having run many marathons, 10 milers etc, was interested to see what my time would be as it would actually be my first 10k.
After much hoopla and anthems the gun went off and the crowd hurtled down Walnut Creek's Main Street. As usual in a 5k, I lined up near the front, fully knowing I would be passed by 50% of the people behind me within minutes. With that out of the way I concentrated on running a nice even pace. The beauty of a double loop is that you can be accurate in your splits, and I decided to run a 21 minute 5k and see if I could hold on to it for the second lap. The first go around was fun, lots of spirited kids as it was a race for education, and some terribly jolly cheerleaders 'giving it everything' who were stationed at the turn around mark. As the 5k racers sprinted for the finish line I turned and followed the signs for the 10k and headed off into the lonely second lap where I could see maybe 3 or 4 men up ahead and no one else near me. The second time around the cheer leaders were just as great, but there cries echoed hollowly now as very few people were running or spectating. I was definitely getting tired and it was no longer the fun filled scene it had been; however running a time is running a time and, lack of atmosphere was not going to daunt me. At about 4.5 miles things started to get more challenging, so I decided to just keep holding pace and not attempt any increase or sense of speed. My strategy was to not pick it up until about 5.5 miles then to see what I had left.
As usual I was wearing my hand dandy garmin and had noticed that the 5k mark was a little way into the second loop, which surprised me, but lets face it GPS is at best only 90% reliable. Running alongside a chap of about 30 we headed into the last mile or so of the race. Suddenly I saw the same 5k finish line, and next to it the 10k sign showing where the second loop began. In my running induced delirium it seemed to make no sense. I glanced at my watch and it read 5.1 miles, this couldn't be the finish line, it was a mile too early? I headed straight rather than turning and an official screamed at me to go to the finish line sign. Ofcourse I argued and said 'we have only run 5.1 miles". He shrugged and said 'course might be a bit short'. My kids were watching and yelling out 'sprint Mummy', they know I have no kick and stopping to argue with a volunteer about where to go hadn't really helped my stride. Within seconds the race was over and I felt curiously robbed. This had been no 10k, my time was really impressive - but for one reason and one reason only, it was a 5.2 mile race. I still had no 10k time.
There was a generally jubilant air as runners seemed euphoric with the day - for many they had run a huge personal best, as the 5k was half a mile short too. At the awards ceremony every age group was celebrated, kids up to 19 were in one year age groups, then there were 5 year brackets. There were an enormous number of medals for everyone. I had scooped the third prize award in my age group but as the crowd thinned and all the kids piled off with their medals it became increasingly embarrassing and I was hoping just to slink off. The kids had gone home to make a birthday brunch, but hubby insisted I get my medal with the picture of a walnut on it. Standing on my olympic size podium next to another runner I felt silly, we hadn't even celebrated the runners who had won the race. Instead of having overall winners and then age groups they had given virtually everyone a medal and yet none of us had run either a 5k or a 10k that day.
It later transpired the course was so short because the cheerleaders didn't go out far enough at the turn around point. Perhaps in their kindness the sweeties had wanted to save runners pain so set up camp a little closer than they should. Of course it wasn't the cheerleaders fault, they did a fabulous job of adding glitz and glam - but someone should have supervised and checked their placement.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Chasing the Unicorn to the Wild West
Our lives seem to turn in ten year cyles. When my hubby turned 40 we had turned our world upside down and moved from England to America - a boozy leaving party at the golf course and we were off into the wild blue yonder of another country. Of course his 50th coincided with us doing a similar move, moving from one side of America and leaving the suburbs of Pennsylvania for the East Bay in California. My parents and sister wondered if we were just going to keep going and drop off the edge when he turned 60 - what was with all the moving?When we had moved to Pennsylvania our kids were young and I met people instantly over play dates, PTA and school activities. Our ten years in Pennsylvania had been laced with some wonderful friendships - not least the running housewives of Blue Bell, who were irreplaceable. Every time I said goodbye to one of them I couldn't help but cry, then I vacuumed some more, then cried some more. Needless to say our empty house was very clean by the time we drove to the airport.New starts mean new efforts - the kids grumbled when the first day of school loomed about how hard it was going to be when everyone had already brought their middle school friends with them to their first Freshman day in High School; the Senior was dreading knowing no one and could not decide what to wear. My usual style of sympathetic motherly advice was 'don't start bleating to me - you are going to arrive at a great school, where some body has hand picked other kids who are the same age as you, many will have the same interests as you. Making new friends will never be as easy again as it is for you today'.I of course was feeling much more sorry for myself. Walnut Creek was gorgeous, stunning in all its natural beauty of trails and mountains, and was bathed in an eternal golden glow of unbelievable California weather - but what was paradise without company? We had some fabulous family friends who lived here too, they had moved from Blue Bell a few years earlier and we were excited to be close to them, but really, we couldn't completely monopolize them, they had their own friends and their own life and I would have to find one of my own.The kids had gone off for their exciting adventure, hubby was busy innovating - that left me, the dog and the dishes! It was much harder to meet people now, the kids didn't want me anywhere near 'their play dates' or their school. The answer to a funk is always the same for me - lace up the shoes and make yourself feel better. I took to one of the many charming canal trails outside my door - shady, quiet and impossible to get lost on, they were such an easy way to get miles in.After about twenty minutes I saw two ladies running up ahead - they seemed to be about my age and looked like sprightly runners. My desire for new friends was such I bounded up to them like a golden retriever and engaged them in lots of conversation. They were plugged into i-pods and reluctantly unglued their ear pieces and graciously answered by insane babble about how I was new to the area and wondered what the running scene was like....blah dee blah blah. After some time they were branching off to home and one of the ladies suggested I get in touch with her through her office web site as she was an orthodontist. Elated at my new friendship I dropped her a line and suggested making a time to run again. I was so proud of myself! Well a week or so went by and I realized she wasn't going to answer....ever ...she clearly thought I was totally insane, had a good running partner already and frankly didn't want her ear chewed off by an over excited English runner.I listened to the kids tell me about their days at school and they were doing a terrific job of navigating all the new groups and figuring out who they wanted to hang with. I on the other hand was making baby steps and figured it would be about ten years until I had found half the friendships they were making. Then a week or so later I was runnning on the same canal path and distracting myself from my solitary running, by finally getting on with some speed work. Half way through a mile repeat I spotted a lady up ahead with a border collie off leash. Usually I ignore dogs; at most they want to say hi or just play, or they ignore you. So I carried on running at full tilt towards him - then I realized at the last minute that he wasn't going to move out of the way. He didn't seem to care I was wearing my pink distance newtons and I was half way through my mile repeats - he definitely had other intentions, and they didn't look good. I braked suddenly and swerved wildly towards the canal as he seemed to be leaping right at me - then he did just, that jumped up with a maniacal gleam in his eyes and sank his choppers right into my bum!Needless to say I reacted in my usual fashion I screamed at its owner to 'get it on a bloody leash'; she called the dog over to her, but didn't leash him. Then in a quavering tone the heavyset lady with shockingly bad highlights turned on me too; "my dog has just witnessed my father die, he is deeply upset, as am I, and I needed to let him 'romp' to get over it!, and that is why he is off leash' . A tirade of self pity from the owner ensued, about how none of it was her fault; she never once asked if I was OK, she never asked if she could pay to replace the brand new shorts the dog had ripped through. When she seemed to run out of steam I asked her to leash her dog, she vented some more, I asked her to leash her dog, she vented again - finally on the third request the leash reluctantly went on. After an incident like that, you can always think of smart things to respond with. Hearing someone's Dad has just died does knock out all of your anger, and you have to assume that no reasonable person would even think to lie about such a thing. So all I came up with in an aggrieved and injured tone was 'I am truly sorry your Dad died, but you seem to be entering a spiral of descent, because if I have to call the police and report the fact that your unleashed dog bit me today, he could then be put down if he has bitten before....and will any of this honor the memory of your Dad?' She stomped off, taking her attitude and bad highlights with her leaving me deflated and off beam.I ran on slowly, all the steam taken out of me, the dog had only bruised the skin, hadn't broken it, so no real need to be worried, but I was shaken up. It had spoilt my run and my day. Ahead of me was a group of other women running - dang if it wasn't a chance to turn a bad day into a good one and make new friends after all. This time I limped up, rather than bounding up, and asked if they had by any chance seen an off leash border collie - and had any of them ever been bitten on this trail before? This time there were no ear buds - but a bunch of very welcoming, sympathetic ladies. They weren't quite the housewives, for a start they all had impressive careers - a vet, obstetrician, radiologist, photographer and jewelry designer - but they were chatty, fun and kind. Guess what, next day they emailed me for another run. That night at dinner it wasn't just the kids who had interesting stories to tell - I had found running company at last.....
Thursday, April 26, 2012
A Rare Sighting Reported on Miles Drive
The need to race again was palpable and left me a bit twitch. The usual running psychosis set in and I began to feel as though I had imagined I could run a marathon that fast, even though in training we had hit every pace number, I began to wonder if it had even been a viable goal from the start. There was only one way to find out. Prior to Boston I had planned on volunteering or cheering at the school's local 5k. My son and husband were registered to run, but usually I skipped this race as I was just a few days post marathon and generally was in no state to run.
The Spring Zing had a lot of history. It had started ten years earlier, and I had run with my neighbor Karen pushing our four year olds in a double buggy alternately up the hilly course, at that point not really a runner. A month or two later, new to the country someone asked if I wanted to 'run it' the following year. I foolishly said yes, assuming she meant, take part as a runner. She had meant Chair it, and I was too embarrassed to explain my mistake. So a year later I was chairing it and had the good fortune to put together an incredible committee of parents, who helped us pull in a massive $43,000 to provide playgrounds for the school. The race had become very established, news of the custom pasta chef and the awesome prizes had spread, and registration grew. In the ensuing years it raised enough to go on to build a school in Ethiopia also called Shady Grove, that is still flourishing. The race had history and every year my son had run it, getting faster and bigger. Like the rings on a tree you could age all of the kids through this race. Starting off as the run/walk crew, many had turned into efficient distance runners and had grown up on Spring Zing, motivated to run with and against the teachers and parents who took part in it.
L'il Bitch didn't want me to race, convinced I would hurt myself. He did have a point, this could be major humiliation socially as everyone I knew was there. I hadn't run all week, apart from a gentle 3 mile stroll with the ladies. I wasn't even sure I could run fast, but I knew I wanted to feel something different to the slow motion heat battle that had been Boston. To add to my conspicousness, none of the other Housewives were racing. Q-Less still had the sheen of the Boston Unicorn medal dangling from her neck. So what if it had been over four hours and slow as all get out - she had finished one of the toughest courses on the worst of days, her thoughts had moved to tennis, and instead she was motivated to harrass her youngest son through the course, sharing in the delight of his PR. A much more selfless goal. Merciless and Nonetheless manned the water stations cheering loudly, their kids were running and they were being good Mommies.
I felt vaguely ridiculous lining up at what had very much become a kids' and community race. I should have been jogging it with a youngster, instead here I was desperate to race again. I momentarily took my mind of my anxiety by winding up a couple of serious looking men next to me by pointing out Merciless' kids and L'il Bitch and telling them their times, 18 minutes, 20 minutes.....they blanched slightly at the thought of being beaten by 13 and 11 year old kids, but fingers poised over garmins, got ready to race.
Darn if it wasn't hot again, but only 73, no 89f and for 3 miles it matters much less. I couldn't whine, that sounded so boring after all the Boston complaining. For the first five minutes I felt a a sea of runners wash over me, I was moving like wet sand, but despite being engulfed bya tide of tiny legs, I didn't panic or flail. I noticed little Annika with her shoelace untied already, and felt huge guilt as I shouted out 'watch your laces kiddo', instead of pulling to the side and stopping to tie them. Ruthless was unleashed in race mode and could not stop, even for an adorable 8 year old. Moving in to the shade of Lewis Lane felt nice, out of the sun and on rolling hills, the first mile passed quickly. I drew up close to a girl in her twenties just before the turn around, and passed her, noticing reassuringly that her breathing sounded worse than mine. Within seconds she returned the favor - I couldn't resist turning to her at the second passing and saying 'Uh huh, that's how its gonna be is it?', and then slottted in just ahead of her ready for the turn around, enjoying the thrill of the race.
The first mile split was good, but not I had run faster first miles. My legs seemd to be turning like pin wheels and I felt like nothing could stop them. Except that is, the most important ingredient; lack of desire or commitment. By mile 1.5 you enter the toughest part of that course, up Miles Drive. Its not a huge hill, but it feels like a desert as there is no shade and everyone is fading. In an instant all my plans for Heartbreak Hill were projected on to Miles Drive. It didn't matter that I hadn't worked hard to qualify for this race, that the elite field's average age was 13, not 28, it was every bit as important to me at that moment in time.
By mile two I had my customary stomach cramp, a product of running faster than my usual training speed. At the back of my mind I knew that 5k training work didn't usually involve long slow 20 mile runs, or a week of rest following an abandonned Boston marathon. At mile two I played with the idea of wondering how it would feel to DNF the Spring Zing, I could easily just drop out, join the ladies at the water stand and enjoy cheering all the kids. I could back off the pace too, why get a belly ache - for what purpose?
Of course if you analysed it; there was no purpose to any of it. My sister just looks at me quizzically when I tell her about races, and says 'how horrid, why would you want to do that?'. Like life as a whole, running was just about doing something hard and feeling good about it. As I sped up into the finish line I noticed the clock had a magic number flashing. A number I had valliantly tried and failed to make two years ago when I spent an entire summer specifically 5k training. I finished the race with a 20.42, dropping 24 seconds off my previous PR that had also been set on that course at the Phil's Tavern 5k. My elation was such you would have thought I had won the Boston Marathon. I had beat my funk, Ruthless was back, and she had broken 21 minutes finally in a 5k at the ripe old age of 45.
I relished the feeling of exhaustion afterwards. This was what I had wanted to feel at Boston, the sense of losing breath, of lungs exploding and legs flying. Instead it had felt hot and painful, a different kind of challenge, and one I was ultimately unwilling and unprepared to endure.
Knowing this would be the last time I would probably run this race made it all the more poignant. In two months we were moving to California. As Merciless intuited, loose ends were being tied up. So what if this was a tiny local 5k, it mattered every much as the most famous marathon in the world. I realized it wasn't the race that mattered, it is what you chose to do in that event that was important. I had fought back, instead of falling back.
Standing cheering the other runners coming in I saw teachers giving it everything - kids so excited to see their Principal Mrs Bauer, Mr Linton and Ms Carbo out there working hard. Tiny kids stopped walking when they saw the finish line and conjured up from no where a sprint for the crowds. A proud Dad called out while running behind 'this is my kid's first 5k, cheer the little girl in the pink'. This was better than Boston. This was what running could be about. Perhaps I had caught a glimpse of that unicorn after all, as I crested Miles Drive, he had been sprinting ahead, I hadn't got full sight, but a glimpse was all I needed at that point in time.
The Spring Zing had a lot of history. It had started ten years earlier, and I had run with my neighbor Karen pushing our four year olds in a double buggy alternately up the hilly course, at that point not really a runner. A month or two later, new to the country someone asked if I wanted to 'run it' the following year. I foolishly said yes, assuming she meant, take part as a runner. She had meant Chair it, and I was too embarrassed to explain my mistake. So a year later I was chairing it and had the good fortune to put together an incredible committee of parents, who helped us pull in a massive $43,000 to provide playgrounds for the school. The race had become very established, news of the custom pasta chef and the awesome prizes had spread, and registration grew. In the ensuing years it raised enough to go on to build a school in Ethiopia also called Shady Grove, that is still flourishing. The race had history and every year my son had run it, getting faster and bigger. Like the rings on a tree you could age all of the kids through this race. Starting off as the run/walk crew, many had turned into efficient distance runners and had grown up on Spring Zing, motivated to run with and against the teachers and parents who took part in it.
L'il Bitch didn't want me to race, convinced I would hurt myself. He did have a point, this could be major humiliation socially as everyone I knew was there. I hadn't run all week, apart from a gentle 3 mile stroll with the ladies. I wasn't even sure I could run fast, but I knew I wanted to feel something different to the slow motion heat battle that had been Boston. To add to my conspicousness, none of the other Housewives were racing. Q-Less still had the sheen of the Boston Unicorn medal dangling from her neck. So what if it had been over four hours and slow as all get out - she had finished one of the toughest courses on the worst of days, her thoughts had moved to tennis, and instead she was motivated to harrass her youngest son through the course, sharing in the delight of his PR. A much more selfless goal. Merciless and Nonetheless manned the water stations cheering loudly, their kids were running and they were being good Mommies.
I felt vaguely ridiculous lining up at what had very much become a kids' and community race. I should have been jogging it with a youngster, instead here I was desperate to race again. I momentarily took my mind of my anxiety by winding up a couple of serious looking men next to me by pointing out Merciless' kids and L'il Bitch and telling them their times, 18 minutes, 20 minutes.....they blanched slightly at the thought of being beaten by 13 and 11 year old kids, but fingers poised over garmins, got ready to race.
Darn if it wasn't hot again, but only 73, no 89f and for 3 miles it matters much less. I couldn't whine, that sounded so boring after all the Boston complaining. For the first five minutes I felt a a sea of runners wash over me, I was moving like wet sand, but despite being engulfed bya tide of tiny legs, I didn't panic or flail. I noticed little Annika with her shoelace untied already, and felt huge guilt as I shouted out 'watch your laces kiddo', instead of pulling to the side and stopping to tie them. Ruthless was unleashed in race mode and could not stop, even for an adorable 8 year old. Moving in to the shade of Lewis Lane felt nice, out of the sun and on rolling hills, the first mile passed quickly. I drew up close to a girl in her twenties just before the turn around, and passed her, noticing reassuringly that her breathing sounded worse than mine. Within seconds she returned the favor - I couldn't resist turning to her at the second passing and saying 'Uh huh, that's how its gonna be is it?', and then slottted in just ahead of her ready for the turn around, enjoying the thrill of the race.
The first mile split was good, but not I had run faster first miles. My legs seemd to be turning like pin wheels and I felt like nothing could stop them. Except that is, the most important ingredient; lack of desire or commitment. By mile 1.5 you enter the toughest part of that course, up Miles Drive. Its not a huge hill, but it feels like a desert as there is no shade and everyone is fading. In an instant all my plans for Heartbreak Hill were projected on to Miles Drive. It didn't matter that I hadn't worked hard to qualify for this race, that the elite field's average age was 13, not 28, it was every bit as important to me at that moment in time.
By mile two I had my customary stomach cramp, a product of running faster than my usual training speed. At the back of my mind I knew that 5k training work didn't usually involve long slow 20 mile runs, or a week of rest following an abandonned Boston marathon. At mile two I played with the idea of wondering how it would feel to DNF the Spring Zing, I could easily just drop out, join the ladies at the water stand and enjoy cheering all the kids. I could back off the pace too, why get a belly ache - for what purpose?
Of course if you analysed it; there was no purpose to any of it. My sister just looks at me quizzically when I tell her about races, and says 'how horrid, why would you want to do that?'. Like life as a whole, running was just about doing something hard and feeling good about it. As I sped up into the finish line I noticed the clock had a magic number flashing. A number I had valliantly tried and failed to make two years ago when I spent an entire summer specifically 5k training. I finished the race with a 20.42, dropping 24 seconds off my previous PR that had also been set on that course at the Phil's Tavern 5k. My elation was such you would have thought I had won the Boston Marathon. I had beat my funk, Ruthless was back, and she had broken 21 minutes finally in a 5k at the ripe old age of 45.
I relished the feeling of exhaustion afterwards. This was what I had wanted to feel at Boston, the sense of losing breath, of lungs exploding and legs flying. Instead it had felt hot and painful, a different kind of challenge, and one I was ultimately unwilling and unprepared to endure.
Knowing this would be the last time I would probably run this race made it all the more poignant. In two months we were moving to California. As Merciless intuited, loose ends were being tied up. So what if this was a tiny local 5k, it mattered every much as the most famous marathon in the world. I realized it wasn't the race that mattered, it is what you chose to do in that event that was important. I had fought back, instead of falling back.
Standing cheering the other runners coming in I saw teachers giving it everything - kids so excited to see their Principal Mrs Bauer, Mr Linton and Ms Carbo out there working hard. Tiny kids stopped walking when they saw the finish line and conjured up from no where a sprint for the crowds. A proud Dad called out while running behind 'this is my kid's first 5k, cheer the little girl in the pink'. This was better than Boston. This was what running could be about. Perhaps I had caught a glimpse of that unicorn after all, as I crested Miles Drive, he had been sprinting ahead, I hadn't got full sight, but a glimpse was all I needed at that point in time.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Misery loves Company
Sitting in one of the 22 medical tents on the course I set in for a long wait. The rather sheepish looking young chap sitting on the stretcher next to me confessed he had already been there for half an hour, when the medical workers had told him a shuttle would be by in 20 minutes. The buses and ambulances were over loaded with the number of runners needing care, this one tent had already sent 18 to the emergency room. The runner looked sad - everything about him drooped. He had blisters. The soaking wet state you needed to be in to survive the race had cost him his feet. To console him I blithely mentioned that atleast the training had been fabulous, so what if the race was a wash, I wouldn't give up the months of happy times on the trails and the mild winter for all the tea in China. He looked at me balefully and said "I hate the training, its the race I enjoy. Normally that is'. Turns out he had a flight to make, he had never given up on a race nor had he missed an international flight, and he was convinced he would make it if he dropped out. He was ridden with anxiety - should he have gone or should he have stayed.....
Glynnis showed up, tan and fit, running for a Boston Running Club. Each year she qualified for Boston and had run it 8 years. For the first time in her running career she had turned to her husband and totally shocked him with the words: 'give me the $20 - I'm not going on', she said he wouldn't believe me, but I peeled off. He had incredulously given her the emergency cab fare they always carried and the rest was done. She had achilles pain that she had never had before and decided she couldn't finish - regretful, and hard to explain to her husband. She was also unsure if she would run it again as it was the only marathon she ever did, and she would need to qualify else where if she ran it again.
Janine was more upbeat, she had one kidney, her husband had the other. Her husband was all for her giving up, the last thing he wanted was to feel she was risking her health after the sacrifice she had made for him already. She calmly and firmly decided it wasn't worth the risk, she was feeling OK, not wonderful and decided not to chance it. There would be other years. One guy sat down ashen and dripping in water and sweat and found it hard to breath for another half an hour. All around us stretchers kept on coming. I sat eating my chips feeling embarrasingly healthy, treasuring the big strap around my knee, which showed why I had thrown in the towel. The man with the blisters looked jealously at my conspicous bandaging and bindings, he had nothing visible to explain his DNF and now he had also missed his flight. A runner in his twenties, african american, with an impressively low number sat next to me on the bus with his head in his hands. He was beyond words, had dropped out at 21 and been bussed back to mile 18 in complete despair. I watched the endless flow of runners battling the heat as they poured slowly past the tent and then the bus and felt a multitude of emotions.
A friend had told me to run the race in thirds. The first with my head, the second with my personality and the last with my heart. My heart had not been in it. The heat had zapped all desire to finish and the unicorn was no where in sight.
Meeting up with an exhausted Q-Less I felt sad and guilty. She had battled on alone struggling against stomach and leg cramps, stopping to stretch occasionally. Either delirious, or paranoid that I might have returned to the race and could even be ahead of her, she kept hearing both our voices called. She looked exhausted, faint and was having problems staying up right. I on the other hand felt fine and eagerly took the bottle of blue moon the loyal support crew of Merciless and Nonetheless had ready for us.
As we marched back through the inferno that was Boston Common, people congratulated us. The first man that said well done, I felt compelled to say 'No, I didn't finish' but the others shusshed me quickly - Cheri with her medal was the real deal, I felt a fraud. Dinner that night was still fun, but I didn't feel the way I had expected to feel, never in my dreams had I thought I wouldn't even finish the race.
That night I had posted on facebook that we were OK - my parents had seen me drop off the AT&T tracking but in the UK hadn't heard if I was alright, they were just relieved I was fine and told me how proud they were anyway. L'ill bitch was convinced he would be called into the Principal's office all afternoon to be told I had died, so my actually returning was a good thing in his mind - he just texted me 'well done for getting to 18, that's more than I could have done'.
No matter how supportive your family and friends are it doesn't feel good, so I decided two days after getting over some minor pains in my quads to get out and jog again with the Housewives. It was fun being out on the trail again, and made me happy I wasn't so lame I couldn't join the fun. This was what running was about after all.
But it left me still wondering about what would have happened if the weather hadn't been so freaky, and there was only one way to settle that one - I knew in my heart I would have to race again before I could feel complete. I was nagged by the worry, that my fresh experience of giving up had actually been too pleasant. I had not finished and instead had opted out - literally and figuratively I had sat on the coach eating chips while the world toiled past me. What if this spectre continued to haunt me and hindered me from all the other races I wanted to run. The memory of Boston needed to be exorcised before I could feel good about the world again, so I started to toy with the idea of racing again...and soon.....
Glynnis showed up, tan and fit, running for a Boston Running Club. Each year she qualified for Boston and had run it 8 years. For the first time in her running career she had turned to her husband and totally shocked him with the words: 'give me the $20 - I'm not going on', she said he wouldn't believe me, but I peeled off. He had incredulously given her the emergency cab fare they always carried and the rest was done. She had achilles pain that she had never had before and decided she couldn't finish - regretful, and hard to explain to her husband. She was also unsure if she would run it again as it was the only marathon she ever did, and she would need to qualify else where if she ran it again.
Janine was more upbeat, she had one kidney, her husband had the other. Her husband was all for her giving up, the last thing he wanted was to feel she was risking her health after the sacrifice she had made for him already. She calmly and firmly decided it wasn't worth the risk, she was feeling OK, not wonderful and decided not to chance it. There would be other years. One guy sat down ashen and dripping in water and sweat and found it hard to breath for another half an hour. All around us stretchers kept on coming. I sat eating my chips feeling embarrasingly healthy, treasuring the big strap around my knee, which showed why I had thrown in the towel. The man with the blisters looked jealously at my conspicous bandaging and bindings, he had nothing visible to explain his DNF and now he had also missed his flight. A runner in his twenties, african american, with an impressively low number sat next to me on the bus with his head in his hands. He was beyond words, had dropped out at 21 and been bussed back to mile 18 in complete despair. I watched the endless flow of runners battling the heat as they poured slowly past the tent and then the bus and felt a multitude of emotions.
A friend had told me to run the race in thirds. The first with my head, the second with my personality and the last with my heart. My heart had not been in it. The heat had zapped all desire to finish and the unicorn was no where in sight.
Meeting up with an exhausted Q-Less I felt sad and guilty. She had battled on alone struggling against stomach and leg cramps, stopping to stretch occasionally. Either delirious, or paranoid that I might have returned to the race and could even be ahead of her, she kept hearing both our voices called. She looked exhausted, faint and was having problems staying up right. I on the other hand felt fine and eagerly took the bottle of blue moon the loyal support crew of Merciless and Nonetheless had ready for us.
As we marched back through the inferno that was Boston Common, people congratulated us. The first man that said well done, I felt compelled to say 'No, I didn't finish' but the others shusshed me quickly - Cheri with her medal was the real deal, I felt a fraud. Dinner that night was still fun, but I didn't feel the way I had expected to feel, never in my dreams had I thought I wouldn't even finish the race.
That night I had posted on facebook that we were OK - my parents had seen me drop off the AT&T tracking but in the UK hadn't heard if I was alright, they were just relieved I was fine and told me how proud they were anyway. L'ill bitch was convinced he would be called into the Principal's office all afternoon to be told I had died, so my actually returning was a good thing in his mind - he just texted me 'well done for getting to 18, that's more than I could have done'.
No matter how supportive your family and friends are it doesn't feel good, so I decided two days after getting over some minor pains in my quads to get out and jog again with the Housewives. It was fun being out on the trail again, and made me happy I wasn't so lame I couldn't join the fun. This was what running was about after all.
But it left me still wondering about what would have happened if the weather hadn't been so freaky, and there was only one way to settle that one - I knew in my heart I would have to race again before I could feel complete. I was nagged by the worry, that my fresh experience of giving up had actually been too pleasant. I had not finished and instead had opted out - literally and figuratively I had sat on the coach eating chips while the world toiled past me. What if this spectre continued to haunt me and hindered me from all the other races I wanted to run. The memory of Boston needed to be exorcised before I could feel good about the world again, so I started to toy with the idea of racing again...and soon.....
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Mother Nature 1 - Housewives 0
Ice, hoses, visors, blue moon, shamrocks, mint chocolate gu....none of these things will ever be the same again, every time I see them I am pulled right back to our 2012 Boston experience. Intensity is the major ingredient of a regular marathon; both the good and the bad, the experience resonates with you in much the same way as childbirth or war. This one was as intense as it could be - the temperature rising by 35f degrees to a crazy 89f at the height of the race meant we were now entering a war zone; instead of beating the clock runners were attempting to beat mother nature and the heat. All the pre marathon advice is to change nothing in your running as you should stick with your training plan - but when the weather changes so drastically you have to change just about everything.
I kept Q-less up most of the night, which she made abundantly clear to me as I woke. My worst fear had been a hot weather marathon and here I was facing one in Boston in April. Alternately hydrating and peeing, with the squeakiest hotel bathroom door, announcing my rapidly unravelling nerves to the entire hotel, I tossed and turned through the night. We had stayed close to the race start to cut down on the ridiculous 4 hours it took us to get to the race start last time. This time it was closer to 3 hours to get there, but it was much more mellow. Taking the hotel shuttle with other runners, I immediately felt calmer than I had for the previous two days. Once you are on that bus you have reached the point of no return. The Boston marathon committee had urged anyone except the super fit and the elite runners to defer until the next year. The previous afternoon our two mile warm up had been so gross and muggy around the industrial park that bailing was a serious consideration.
But runners are by nature pyscho and I knew that if I stood and watched the race go off the next day a large part of me would want to know how I would have coped with the heat. It turns out only 400 runners did defer, but 4,000 never showed up in Boston to get their packets and, allegedly, the really smart ones deferred, then bandit ran for a slow or partial marathon.
I had not even bothered packing warm up clothes, and true to the forecast, when we woke the air was a heavy 74f degrees at 7 am, with bright, unapologetic sunshine beaming down on us. In the Athletes' Village we moved from one spot to the next following tiny patches of shade, like lemmings, along with the other 22,000 runners. I had panic bought a visor and glasses at my running store, they became essential items, as Q-Less and I spent a good deal of time rubbing in anti chaff and sun cream to exposed skin.
Getting to our corral was painless, but it was a different experience to our previous Boston. Sun was bouncing off the sidewalk as we listened to the pre-race announcements and Q-Less weirdly sidled up to the tallest man she could find with a large smirk on her face, and instructed me to stand next to her at a bizarre angle, she was trying to get shade from him.
As per the emails we had thrown all goal pace to the wind, despite 6 months of hard training, we knew there was no way we could complete a 3.25 Boston that day. We set off at a leisurely 8.30 pace, on the first sharp downhill, running slower than our slow run days. Spirits in the crowd seemed good initially, I heard a southern lady shout behind to her friend 'this day is so hot, a'm gonna drop twenny pouns for sure - I wish I had brought ma skinn jeans to ware tonaght!' A few minutes later a guy behind declared 'with this kind of heat I'm finally getting rid of my beer belly and swapping it for a six pack, it will just melt off me' Q-Less responded with her usual up beat 'well, I'm drinking a 6 pack at the end of this one.'
The exuberance of the start soon evaporated in the heat and for the rest of the 5 miles I was miserable, my head was pounding as if I had already had a day at the beach, and I wondered how the heck we were ever going to be able to finish this one. I knew it would be the hardest thing I ever did. Q-Less asked how I was doing and I replied with my ever upbeat 'this sucks'.
However, the only bright spot was the crowd at Boston is incredible and today was one of the best. Every house saw families setting up stalls, giving out ice from their freezers, running their hoses to cool us down. Near the start one set up a tent and offered free supplies of cheap glasses, vaseline, oranges and water as sheer charity to poor runners. During the first 5 miles we used the time to figure out how to survive this strange new world of slow motion running in global warming. We had to stay totally wet, using every hose, hydrant and spray on hand to keep our heads and bodies cooler. The water stations were offering bath water temperature refills, so we looked for ice and every 3 miles or so we struck gold and would suck on it and put it in our water bottles.
Roaring in our ears was the crowd - the tee shirts worked. We constantly heard our names screamed - Chereeeeee, Rutheeeeeee, you can do it. Miles 6 - 14 were actually easier, I seemed to have acclimated more to the heat and figured out how I was going to survive, the pace kept it easy. I did start to feel some worrying tugs underneath my right knee cap, but figured as usual the niggle would work itself out and move to somewhere else in my body. By mile 16 the pain was worsening ominously and starting to slice under the knee cap and at the back of my mind, I knew straight away it was a brand new IT band problem beginning. Knowing that it had taken 6 months to recover from the very same issue on my other leg I started to doubt my willingness to run through it.
The hills of Newton approached and actually going up them felt great, as my knee subsided, going down was a bitch. I stopped and stretched - Q-Less screaming at me, don't sit down! she was worried I was cramping, but I explained the only way to stretch that long tendon that reaches from hip to knee was to lie back on the bent leg. I limped on and saw a red cross tent and ran in asking if they had a foam roller or anyone who knew how to release an I T band. One guy tried to do some trigger release on it, but as soon as we hit the next down hill I knew it had had no effect.
Running up the next hill a small hunched figure of a woman our age ran alongside and asked 'is this Heartbreak Hill?' sadly for her another runner responded that it was just one of the other hills in Newton, Heartbreak was still over two miles away. Coming down at mile 18 and a half I made a really difficult decision. One that runners are hard wired never to make. I decided to abandon the race completely. My two new goals were out the window. I would not finish, I would not collect my medal, receive or time, or get any shred of satisfaction from my efforts over the past six months. I would visit another medical tent. I imagined limping on and finishing, in probably a 4 1/2 hour time and saw a month or more of recovery and no running. No Broad Street, no fun 5k's, no training with the other housewifes and decided, whilst bailing on Boston had been unthinkable a few hours ago, now I was there, it seeemed the most natural thing in the world.
I made Q-Less continue despite her protestations, my job had been to slow her down for the first part of the race, and I had certainly done that - the rest was up to her. I sat in a chair waiting for the bus of shame to drive us back, and it took well over an hour. I drank iced water and ate bbq potato chips feeling ridiculously well and something of a fraud - watching stretchered runners keeling over from heat exhaustion, white, vomiting or simply fainting with the heat. I realized then and there that the unicorn was not even visible on the horizon, but I could find him in all sorts of other places, maybe Big Sur, or even in a couple of weeks at the Navy Yard.....
to be continued
I kept Q-less up most of the night, which she made abundantly clear to me as I woke. My worst fear had been a hot weather marathon and here I was facing one in Boston in April. Alternately hydrating and peeing, with the squeakiest hotel bathroom door, announcing my rapidly unravelling nerves to the entire hotel, I tossed and turned through the night. We had stayed close to the race start to cut down on the ridiculous 4 hours it took us to get to the race start last time. This time it was closer to 3 hours to get there, but it was much more mellow. Taking the hotel shuttle with other runners, I immediately felt calmer than I had for the previous two days. Once you are on that bus you have reached the point of no return. The Boston marathon committee had urged anyone except the super fit and the elite runners to defer until the next year. The previous afternoon our two mile warm up had been so gross and muggy around the industrial park that bailing was a serious consideration.
But runners are by nature pyscho and I knew that if I stood and watched the race go off the next day a large part of me would want to know how I would have coped with the heat. It turns out only 400 runners did defer, but 4,000 never showed up in Boston to get their packets and, allegedly, the really smart ones deferred, then bandit ran for a slow or partial marathon.
I had not even bothered packing warm up clothes, and true to the forecast, when we woke the air was a heavy 74f degrees at 7 am, with bright, unapologetic sunshine beaming down on us. In the Athletes' Village we moved from one spot to the next following tiny patches of shade, like lemmings, along with the other 22,000 runners. I had panic bought a visor and glasses at my running store, they became essential items, as Q-Less and I spent a good deal of time rubbing in anti chaff and sun cream to exposed skin.
Getting to our corral was painless, but it was a different experience to our previous Boston. Sun was bouncing off the sidewalk as we listened to the pre-race announcements and Q-Less weirdly sidled up to the tallest man she could find with a large smirk on her face, and instructed me to stand next to her at a bizarre angle, she was trying to get shade from him.
As per the emails we had thrown all goal pace to the wind, despite 6 months of hard training, we knew there was no way we could complete a 3.25 Boston that day. We set off at a leisurely 8.30 pace, on the first sharp downhill, running slower than our slow run days. Spirits in the crowd seemed good initially, I heard a southern lady shout behind to her friend 'this day is so hot, a'm gonna drop twenny pouns for sure - I wish I had brought ma skinn jeans to ware tonaght!' A few minutes later a guy behind declared 'with this kind of heat I'm finally getting rid of my beer belly and swapping it for a six pack, it will just melt off me' Q-Less responded with her usual up beat 'well, I'm drinking a 6 pack at the end of this one.'
The exuberance of the start soon evaporated in the heat and for the rest of the 5 miles I was miserable, my head was pounding as if I had already had a day at the beach, and I wondered how the heck we were ever going to be able to finish this one. I knew it would be the hardest thing I ever did. Q-Less asked how I was doing and I replied with my ever upbeat 'this sucks'.
However, the only bright spot was the crowd at Boston is incredible and today was one of the best. Every house saw families setting up stalls, giving out ice from their freezers, running their hoses to cool us down. Near the start one set up a tent and offered free supplies of cheap glasses, vaseline, oranges and water as sheer charity to poor runners. During the first 5 miles we used the time to figure out how to survive this strange new world of slow motion running in global warming. We had to stay totally wet, using every hose, hydrant and spray on hand to keep our heads and bodies cooler. The water stations were offering bath water temperature refills, so we looked for ice and every 3 miles or so we struck gold and would suck on it and put it in our water bottles.
Roaring in our ears was the crowd - the tee shirts worked. We constantly heard our names screamed - Chereeeeee, Rutheeeeeee, you can do it. Miles 6 - 14 were actually easier, I seemed to have acclimated more to the heat and figured out how I was going to survive, the pace kept it easy. I did start to feel some worrying tugs underneath my right knee cap, but figured as usual the niggle would work itself out and move to somewhere else in my body. By mile 16 the pain was worsening ominously and starting to slice under the knee cap and at the back of my mind, I knew straight away it was a brand new IT band problem beginning. Knowing that it had taken 6 months to recover from the very same issue on my other leg I started to doubt my willingness to run through it.
The hills of Newton approached and actually going up them felt great, as my knee subsided, going down was a bitch. I stopped and stretched - Q-Less screaming at me, don't sit down! she was worried I was cramping, but I explained the only way to stretch that long tendon that reaches from hip to knee was to lie back on the bent leg. I limped on and saw a red cross tent and ran in asking if they had a foam roller or anyone who knew how to release an I T band. One guy tried to do some trigger release on it, but as soon as we hit the next down hill I knew it had had no effect.
Running up the next hill a small hunched figure of a woman our age ran alongside and asked 'is this Heartbreak Hill?' sadly for her another runner responded that it was just one of the other hills in Newton, Heartbreak was still over two miles away. Coming down at mile 18 and a half I made a really difficult decision. One that runners are hard wired never to make. I decided to abandon the race completely. My two new goals were out the window. I would not finish, I would not collect my medal, receive or time, or get any shred of satisfaction from my efforts over the past six months. I would visit another medical tent. I imagined limping on and finishing, in probably a 4 1/2 hour time and saw a month or more of recovery and no running. No Broad Street, no fun 5k's, no training with the other housewifes and decided, whilst bailing on Boston had been unthinkable a few hours ago, now I was there, it seeemed the most natural thing in the world.
I made Q-Less continue despite her protestations, my job had been to slow her down for the first part of the race, and I had certainly done that - the rest was up to her. I sat in a chair waiting for the bus of shame to drive us back, and it took well over an hour. I drank iced water and ate bbq potato chips feeling ridiculously well and something of a fraud - watching stretchered runners keeling over from heat exhaustion, white, vomiting or simply fainting with the heat. I realized then and there that the unicorn was not even visible on the horizon, but I could find him in all sorts of other places, maybe Big Sur, or even in a couple of weeks at the Navy Yard.....
to be continued
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Boston Broilerthon
Of course the whole point of the blog had been that training for Boston was a unique metaphor for life in general. After three months of major training, and three months of getting into shape prior to that our goal time of 3.20 something had been firmly kicked out of the window by the news that the weather was anticipated to be 89f on marathon Monday. Those who don't run probably just think that is a tad warm and what's the big deal. In running the body heat you generate adds about another 20f to the temperature, so that means we would be putting our body through 109f for three and a half hours, which would almost certainly end in tears or the medical tent. Also, the late start of the race has us running from 10.30 - 2 pm, the height of the day.
So when life gives you lemons, you whine incessantly on facebook and to your poor friends, then grudgingly start making that lemonade. I panic bought a new visor in gleaming white, more sunscreen, more anti chaff stick and thanked the lord we had chosen very thin tank tops. My plan to race separately from Q-Less, went down the tube as she gleefully called me and suggested we run together so as to check on each other's impending delirium. Our goal now was simply to finish, no time in mind. The pace band I lovingly crafted with sticky back plastic now is squished unceremoniously next to my underwear, just in case New England throws another hissy fit and decides it will go back to being 50f and wet.
The race organizers have extended the length of time the course will remain open, offered deferrals and encouraged all those barring the superfit or those used to running at very warm temperatures to stay at home. Of course most people won't. There is too much investment to do that. Many will not heed the warnings regarding pace and will try and stick to plan A - there are 130 extra EMTs laid on for that reason, and I am expecting Q-less and I to see some scary sights on the way.
The only bright spot is the support crew of Berkeley, Nadine and Heide will have a fabulous day in the sun and will hopefully find some nice shady cafe to hang out in before joining what will be a tremendous crowd enjoying the sunshine. Those college kids will be up early, drinking and grilling, and enjoying what is a bizarre but rather lovely holiday for the town of Boston.
If anyone is bored and happens to tune to Universal Sports for live marathon coverage you might be treated to the sight of two very slow rather crazy looking housewives weaving down the street. You'll know it is us because the fancy race shirts will have been hurled to a ditch and we will have stripped down to tatty yellowed sports bra with names written in smeared sharpie pen, grabbing any drinks we are offered along the way.
Suspect we won't even see a glimpse of that darn unicorn this year, but like the pursuit of happiness, we are still reaching for it.
So when life gives you lemons, you whine incessantly on facebook and to your poor friends, then grudgingly start making that lemonade. I panic bought a new visor in gleaming white, more sunscreen, more anti chaff stick and thanked the lord we had chosen very thin tank tops. My plan to race separately from Q-Less, went down the tube as she gleefully called me and suggested we run together so as to check on each other's impending delirium. Our goal now was simply to finish, no time in mind. The pace band I lovingly crafted with sticky back plastic now is squished unceremoniously next to my underwear, just in case New England throws another hissy fit and decides it will go back to being 50f and wet.
The race organizers have extended the length of time the course will remain open, offered deferrals and encouraged all those barring the superfit or those used to running at very warm temperatures to stay at home. Of course most people won't. There is too much investment to do that. Many will not heed the warnings regarding pace and will try and stick to plan A - there are 130 extra EMTs laid on for that reason, and I am expecting Q-less and I to see some scary sights on the way.
The only bright spot is the support crew of Berkeley, Nadine and Heide will have a fabulous day in the sun and will hopefully find some nice shady cafe to hang out in before joining what will be a tremendous crowd enjoying the sunshine. Those college kids will be up early, drinking and grilling, and enjoying what is a bizarre but rather lovely holiday for the town of Boston.
If anyone is bored and happens to tune to Universal Sports for live marathon coverage you might be treated to the sight of two very slow rather crazy looking housewives weaving down the street. You'll know it is us because the fancy race shirts will have been hurled to a ditch and we will have stripped down to tatty yellowed sports bra with names written in smeared sharpie pen, grabbing any drinks we are offered along the way.
Suspect we won't even see a glimpse of that darn unicorn this year, but like the pursuit of happiness, we are still reaching for it.
Friday, April 13, 2012
In the Lap of the Gods
The last few days before a marathon are always a bit nutty. My husband and kids know I will be border line psychotic as the lack of running, building anxiety and stress of planning the race logistics begin to kick in. As I said to Q-Less on our last run yesterday, when we were both feeling sluggish and as she put it 'a bit of an oaf', our true victory was succeeding in meeting every pace goal in the ambitious training plan us through over the last few months, but at the back of my mind is the race and only the race.
The prediction of 80f temperatures for Marathon Monday have provided a nice focus for my pre-race anxiety. The sore throat I woke with today, the lingering hamstring pain are all pushed onto the back burner so my OCD self can focus on the weather. I must have googled different local and regional forecasts every hour so far today - my internet history does not make pretty reading.
Monday saw this behaviour begin, as I started anxiously scanning early weather reports with very mixed results, but almost all of them warmer than than the 55f I was looking for. Cool, cloudy windless day would have been nice. Seeing 70f forecast was not a happy thought. Thankfully a truly awesome guy I work for, managed to dig up the only obscure European model forecast that had 50's anywhere in it with a 40 mph tail wind to boot - my one glimmer of hope. It was to prove a temporary fix to my mental instability, like a mini prozac that lasted but a few hours.
Today the forecasts are worsening, and yet more emphatic that there will indeed be a freak heat wave in Boston on Monday. There is a certain inevitability to this - like death and taxes, you just can't change the weather. The bold black numbers don't apologize, they just state, clearly and unequivocably, especially after last year's near perfect conditions, which I of course missed, due to the need to go on an all inclusive resort in Mexico for spring break!
One of my worst fears has been hot weather in a long race - growing up in England I don't do heat. I have scorned Disney marathons, even Chicago because they might be over 50f and here I am facing the prospect of running at 2 pm on one of the hottest days of the year in what would ordinarily have been chilly New England. As they say in my part of the world 'shit happens'.
Merciless' little girl Annika put it into perspective, when she asked if Q-Less and I were being paid to do the race. When she heard we weren't getting money for our efforts she was stunned. Then she asked with even more incredulity 'do they have to pay to do the race?' and then when she heard how much entry fees were, she looked at her mother as if the world suddenly made no sense at all, and suggested with a rather old fashioned look that perhaps we just shouldn't do it.
Chasing the unicorn makes no sense on a logical basis, it is an emotional journey. It is about the need to challenge yourself and expose yourself to life and all it offers, not just the 'good weather days'. My panic is slowly changing to resignation, my pace goals may have to go out of the window, staying hydrated, and finishing without ending up in the medical tent might now be my reach goals. An elite runner of a certain age put together a corporate team once who had a very sound mantra. Their hands would go into the middle before a race and he would urge 'the boys' to solemnly repeat the group chant 'Dignity and Bowel Control'. Q-Less and I will now be racing together, no longer chasing PR's, but hoping for a positive race experience. Monday will be about facing your worst fears, about adapting to the vagaries of life, and about flexibility and resilience. I have a feeling that this will be both 'the best of times' and 'the worst of times', but it will certainly be memorable. Let's hear it one more time - Dignity and Bowel Control!
The prediction of 80f temperatures for Marathon Monday have provided a nice focus for my pre-race anxiety. The sore throat I woke with today, the lingering hamstring pain are all pushed onto the back burner so my OCD self can focus on the weather. I must have googled different local and regional forecasts every hour so far today - my internet history does not make pretty reading.
Monday saw this behaviour begin, as I started anxiously scanning early weather reports with very mixed results, but almost all of them warmer than than the 55f I was looking for. Cool, cloudy windless day would have been nice. Seeing 70f forecast was not a happy thought. Thankfully a truly awesome guy I work for, managed to dig up the only obscure European model forecast that had 50's anywhere in it with a 40 mph tail wind to boot - my one glimmer of hope. It was to prove a temporary fix to my mental instability, like a mini prozac that lasted but a few hours.
Today the forecasts are worsening, and yet more emphatic that there will indeed be a freak heat wave in Boston on Monday. There is a certain inevitability to this - like death and taxes, you just can't change the weather. The bold black numbers don't apologize, they just state, clearly and unequivocably, especially after last year's near perfect conditions, which I of course missed, due to the need to go on an all inclusive resort in Mexico for spring break!
One of my worst fears has been hot weather in a long race - growing up in England I don't do heat. I have scorned Disney marathons, even Chicago because they might be over 50f and here I am facing the prospect of running at 2 pm on one of the hottest days of the year in what would ordinarily have been chilly New England. As they say in my part of the world 'shit happens'.
Merciless' little girl Annika put it into perspective, when she asked if Q-Less and I were being paid to do the race. When she heard we weren't getting money for our efforts she was stunned. Then she asked with even more incredulity 'do they have to pay to do the race?' and then when she heard how much entry fees were, she looked at her mother as if the world suddenly made no sense at all, and suggested with a rather old fashioned look that perhaps we just shouldn't do it.
Chasing the unicorn makes no sense on a logical basis, it is an emotional journey. It is about the need to challenge yourself and expose yourself to life and all it offers, not just the 'good weather days'. My panic is slowly changing to resignation, my pace goals may have to go out of the window, staying hydrated, and finishing without ending up in the medical tent might now be my reach goals. An elite runner of a certain age put together a corporate team once who had a very sound mantra. Their hands would go into the middle before a race and he would urge 'the boys' to solemnly repeat the group chant 'Dignity and Bowel Control'. Q-Less and I will now be racing together, no longer chasing PR's, but hoping for a positive race experience. Monday will be about facing your worst fears, about adapting to the vagaries of life, and about flexibility and resilience. I have a feeling that this will be both 'the best of times' and 'the worst of times', but it will certainly be memorable. Let's hear it one more time - Dignity and Bowel Control!
Monday, April 9, 2012
VAMPIRE POWERS
Taper brings with it Vampire Powers. Like Edward and Bella you develop super enhanced powers, without even being aware of it. I found out that one of the most important rules of taper is not changing anything except volume. Lots debate how long to taper for marathon races, 2 or 3 weeks, fast or slow. However I hold that intensity, rhythm and approach should remain the same, but your mileage should drop significantly. Spring break always coincides with a major taper week for the Boston Marathon - and this brings its own challenges. 80f degree Mexico with all you can drink deals doesn't sound quite so appealing. I know, I did that last year and it was great, but there was no marathon a week later, it was followed by detox and bill paying. However, news of our impending relocation to San Francisco meant California was on the cards instead - which sounded like a good plan with its cooler temperatures and stunning landscape. My Sunday tempo run had dialed down from 12.5 miles with 10 of them at half marathon pace, to a mere 8 miles, with 6 at half marathon pace. As an added fun filled bonus I had L'il bitch for company as he had to keep his track legs on so early in the season - and we all know misery loves company.
After spending a night carousing in the hot tub with his old buddy Madi, I dragged a rather bleary and cynical looking son out onto one of the many contra costal pathways through Walnut Creek, led by our tour guide Pete, who wanted to chaperone us onto the right trail. The air was cool and inviting and after a month of rain northern california looked glorious in all its mediterranean greens, with trailing roses and bougainvillea just blooming against a backdrop of palm trees. L'il bitch expressed skepticism at his ability to keep up a 7.30 pace for 3 miles, so after a gentle warm up mile with his Dad and his bike riding tour guide we stopped for some dynamic stretching. Starting the first half of the run with him I was amused to notice the first mile fly by at a 6.50 pace, and had to tell him to settle down, after all THIS WAS TAPER, and it was all about me, not him. I reminded myself as vociferously as I had Q-Less before she went away, that all the hard work was in the bank, you couldn't make any fitness gains for a marathon two weeks before, all you can do is either draw down on the deposit or compromise it with an injury. Leg turnover needed to be maintained and you need to keep the old metabolism going so you didn't die of flu, but othewise your bye word was definitely 'easy does it'.
There is something about the power of taper that fascinates. Your legs keep turning over like a clock work toy and you have to physically stop yourself from running at a 'feel good pace' as it is way too fast. After all the weeks of running back to back days of long mileage or tough work outs your legs can't believe they feel that easy and there is a huge temptation to give in and just enjoy the run and cartwheel down the grassy banks and turns of the Walnut Creek trails. But come the 16th of April I knew I would have to stand on that start line and know I didn't siphon off any money from the bank that day, no matter how good it would have felt. Instead, I held back and showed uncharacteristic restraint - come mile 21 I will be able to add that little memory to my mental artillery and shout back at the course 'I saved some for you!'
After spending a night carousing in the hot tub with his old buddy Madi, I dragged a rather bleary and cynical looking son out onto one of the many contra costal pathways through Walnut Creek, led by our tour guide Pete, who wanted to chaperone us onto the right trail. The air was cool and inviting and after a month of rain northern california looked glorious in all its mediterranean greens, with trailing roses and bougainvillea just blooming against a backdrop of palm trees. L'il bitch expressed skepticism at his ability to keep up a 7.30 pace for 3 miles, so after a gentle warm up mile with his Dad and his bike riding tour guide we stopped for some dynamic stretching. Starting the first half of the run with him I was amused to notice the first mile fly by at a 6.50 pace, and had to tell him to settle down, after all THIS WAS TAPER, and it was all about me, not him. I reminded myself as vociferously as I had Q-Less before she went away, that all the hard work was in the bank, you couldn't make any fitness gains for a marathon two weeks before, all you can do is either draw down on the deposit or compromise it with an injury. Leg turnover needed to be maintained and you need to keep the old metabolism going so you didn't die of flu, but othewise your bye word was definitely 'easy does it'.
There is something about the power of taper that fascinates. Your legs keep turning over like a clock work toy and you have to physically stop yourself from running at a 'feel good pace' as it is way too fast. After all the weeks of running back to back days of long mileage or tough work outs your legs can't believe they feel that easy and there is a huge temptation to give in and just enjoy the run and cartwheel down the grassy banks and turns of the Walnut Creek trails. But come the 16th of April I knew I would have to stand on that start line and know I didn't siphon off any money from the bank that day, no matter how good it would have felt. Instead, I held back and showed uncharacteristic restraint - come mile 21 I will be able to add that little memory to my mental artillery and shout back at the course 'I saved some for you!'
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The Running Village
There are days during marathon training when despite all the motivational posters, mantras and self talk, you simply balk. By week 14 everything rebels. Your sore, your tired, your body is full of aches, pains and microtears to muscles, and you can't believe you are really doing it again - a relentless groundhog day mentality sets in. Even seeing Q-Less picking me up for a speed work out, which would normally brighten my day made me think ' huh - we doing this again?'
Twice a week I take 'recovery' runs around the High School. Recovery is really a misleading term as mostly I feel like a train wreck for the first few miles, but eventually they start to feel OK. Recovery runs also coincide with dropping the kids off at school which allows me just enough time to get a 7 mile loop in before getting ready for work at the running store. So there is none of my habitual slouching in pajamas on recovery days. I have to be dressed, ready for combat and oatmeal eaten by 7 am. That in itself wouldn't be too hard, but throw in waking up kids, getting lunches packed, breakfast inhaled and swim/track bags remembered makes it a tad more challenging. Since her 16th birthday the newly self styled 'preppy betch' now has to drive her little brother and myself to school in her shiny black bug. My mellow relaxed start to the day has been replaced by the snarling arrogance of preppy betch behind the wheel. Like the road hog Toad in Wind in the Willows she takes us on a white knuckle ride most mornings; every advice or direction I give, is rebuffed by sassy 16 year old responses, that result me in either telling her to pull over and relinquish the wheel or her beligerent silence.
Just arriving in the high school parking lot alive now feels like an achievement. Dredging up the energy to get the run in has been getting progressively harder to closer I come to taper, as I am getting worn down by the hard runs and weeks of training. On Monday I managed to negotiate a few cell phone wielding Mom's in their SUV's, probably equally stressed, who nearly wiped me out running on the road parallel to the schools. Then relaxing into my recovery pace I really started to drag. After two miles of plodding along, in the distance I saw a vision in blue approaching and was delighted to notice it was the lovely local eye doctor on her Broad Street training loop around the park. I quickly ditched my normal route and shamelessly attached myself to her, almost throwing myself at her as if she were a celebrity. Kind soul that she is, she ditched the i-pod and instead listened to my breathless babbling about how happy I was to see her as "I really needed company"to keep myself from heading straight home to the parking lot.
Probably startled by my advances, she kindly let me join her and the miles passed catching up and enjoying her excellent company. It reminded me of the huge village of runners there is out there who whilst they theoretically race against you, in reality, they will do anything to help out a fellow runner.
I finished the run actually feeling 'recovered', as in refreshed, better than I started and importantly mentally refreshed from getting to spend time with a wonderful person who I had had trouble finding the time to catch up with due to busy work schedules/kids and life in general. Those moments passing the time on my run reminded me just how important that community of runners is and how much every person I have run with has influenced or made an impression on me.
Of course, having written my own training plan, I also took it as a fairly good sign that tapering was becoming a necessity. Some argue a two week taper, others a three - I had dabbled between the two and assumed a small reduction three weeks out. Needless to say I went home and slashed the following week's mileage by 30% and declared the start of taper. Calling Q-Less to ask her if she minded me cutting her next week's hard runs was something of a no brainer. She wasn't talking too clearly for some reason, but her mumbling sounded like she was agreeing - turns out she had actually managed to hit herself in the mouth with her own racket at tennis and her lip was swollen and black and blue - boy she was tired too. Let the taper begin!
Twice a week I take 'recovery' runs around the High School. Recovery is really a misleading term as mostly I feel like a train wreck for the first few miles, but eventually they start to feel OK. Recovery runs also coincide with dropping the kids off at school which allows me just enough time to get a 7 mile loop in before getting ready for work at the running store. So there is none of my habitual slouching in pajamas on recovery days. I have to be dressed, ready for combat and oatmeal eaten by 7 am. That in itself wouldn't be too hard, but throw in waking up kids, getting lunches packed, breakfast inhaled and swim/track bags remembered makes it a tad more challenging. Since her 16th birthday the newly self styled 'preppy betch' now has to drive her little brother and myself to school in her shiny black bug. My mellow relaxed start to the day has been replaced by the snarling arrogance of preppy betch behind the wheel. Like the road hog Toad in Wind in the Willows she takes us on a white knuckle ride most mornings; every advice or direction I give, is rebuffed by sassy 16 year old responses, that result me in either telling her to pull over and relinquish the wheel or her beligerent silence.
Just arriving in the high school parking lot alive now feels like an achievement. Dredging up the energy to get the run in has been getting progressively harder to closer I come to taper, as I am getting worn down by the hard runs and weeks of training. On Monday I managed to negotiate a few cell phone wielding Mom's in their SUV's, probably equally stressed, who nearly wiped me out running on the road parallel to the schools. Then relaxing into my recovery pace I really started to drag. After two miles of plodding along, in the distance I saw a vision in blue approaching and was delighted to notice it was the lovely local eye doctor on her Broad Street training loop around the park. I quickly ditched my normal route and shamelessly attached myself to her, almost throwing myself at her as if she were a celebrity. Kind soul that she is, she ditched the i-pod and instead listened to my breathless babbling about how happy I was to see her as "I really needed company"to keep myself from heading straight home to the parking lot.
Probably startled by my advances, she kindly let me join her and the miles passed catching up and enjoying her excellent company. It reminded me of the huge village of runners there is out there who whilst they theoretically race against you, in reality, they will do anything to help out a fellow runner.
I finished the run actually feeling 'recovered', as in refreshed, better than I started and importantly mentally refreshed from getting to spend time with a wonderful person who I had had trouble finding the time to catch up with due to busy work schedules/kids and life in general. Those moments passing the time on my run reminded me just how important that community of runners is and how much every person I have run with has influenced or made an impression on me.
Of course, having written my own training plan, I also took it as a fairly good sign that tapering was becoming a necessity. Some argue a two week taper, others a three - I had dabbled between the two and assumed a small reduction three weeks out. Needless to say I went home and slashed the following week's mileage by 30% and declared the start of taper. Calling Q-Less to ask her if she minded me cutting her next week's hard runs was something of a no brainer. She wasn't talking too clearly for some reason, but her mumbling sounded like she was agreeing - turns out she had actually managed to hit herself in the mouth with her own racket at tennis and her lip was swollen and black and blue - boy she was tired too. Let the taper begin!
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Power of Two
Week 12 of training for Boston brought another high intensity week. 56 miles is not really that many compared to collegiate runners, or serious marathoners who with their 'two a days' can get to 120 plus miles in a week. But for the Real Housewives the fact that more than half of those miles were run at paces ranging from race pace to 5k pace meant it would be another leg melting week.
For most of our speed work or tempos I have had the less than delightful site of Q-Less' bubble butt in front of me - not that it isn't cute, Q-Less is very proud of that butt, so we have all had to admire it at times. However, it is always harder to motivate yourself if you feel you are trailing in the weeds, even if the clock tells you you are a head of pace, and some weeks I have wondered whether solo speed work might be more satisfying - just me and the clock, afterall, we have had a pretty solid relationship and my garmin rarely talks back. This week's intervals told a different story. For our 8 mile speed work out we had 5 one mile repeats. The first three went pretty smoothly - 6.50 pace, hard at times, but not gut wrenching, and for once Q-Less and I were running fairly closely together. By the third repeat Q-Less was starting to flag considerably. Not content with the 7 mile recovery run the day before she had also indulged her passion for tennis and taken on a game after the run, singles no less, and boy was she hurting. After some pathetic arm waving and gutterall noises she was motioning me to go ahead. I had a flash backs to all those miles of chasing her sorry butt and was sorely tempted to enjoy the brief satisfaction of giving her the same glorious view, even if it were for just one run.
Then a brief and probably rare expression of maturity occurred. I remembered how ludicrous competition actually becomes in the race itself, all thoughts of keeping up with your girlfriends fade in light of the grueling reality of the situation. At mile 23 all you want to do is finish and see your family again - juvenile rivalries and the spark of the boxing ring fall away, redundant and insignifcant. I think that is why so many runners raise money for charities, or to feed their village in Africa and perhaps why Ryan Hall switched coaches and decided to run for God - there has to be more to this incredible effort than an improved PR.
For the next two miles I hung back with Q-Less who both times started at what seemed incredibly slowly, but by mid interval she would courageously revive her exhausted legs into action and finish the interval somehow galvanized by seeing the end in sight and was able to run a respectable, albeit very negative, split. It was surprisingly uplifting to take the focus off myself for a moment and wait for Q-Less to make her come back, and it reminded me why we were even doing speed work together; it was down to the 'power of two'. If one loses mojo surely the other can find it for you, and vice versa.
Our long run a day or two later also included pace work, another 18 mile race simulation. I don't know if the reversed circumstances altered our running psyche, but instead of running in tandem on Kelly Drive and dodging the bikers and strollers, we came up with a new approach to the long run. My conservative steady pace, and Q-Less' more impetuous speed and strong kick, combined well for the first time as we made our 10 mile race pace section an Indian Run. At each mile we took it in turn to lead; neither one got too far ahead; neither one felt she was holding back the other.
Leading was empowering and made me feel stronger as a runner, enjoying the head wind off the river and all the views of Philadelphia. The strange sights of the city whizzed by as snapshots. Two ladies head to toe in burqas, with only the small slot revealing their eyes as they flickered over us with seemingly no emotion; the child in its buggy that they pushed seemed to do the same, as his baby blanket and hat offered an equivalent tiny window into his face. An elderly african american nanny kindly made huge efforts to let us pass her double buggy on the free way overpass and called out 'Do the Lord's Work' as we ran past.
Then every other mile we switched and I got a chance to draft off Q-less, offering me that perfect buffer against the breeze and a brief pause in the run, I could check out and let her lead the way, relaxing and knowing that no matter how big the gap got she would have to slack off to let me lead the next one. This combination of pacing brought us in at a 7.39 pace ( well ahead of our race pace goal of 7.50) with both of us feeling good - Q-Less felt redemption after feeling lousy on the intervals, and for once I didn't feel I was holding any up on the pace work.
After all it had only taken ten years of running together - but for once I think Q-Less and I actually made our partnership work. Perhaps Boston will become one long Indian Run. Turning 26.2 miles into 13.1 miles would certainly be a beautiful thing for both of us.
For most of our speed work or tempos I have had the less than delightful site of Q-Less' bubble butt in front of me - not that it isn't cute, Q-Less is very proud of that butt, so we have all had to admire it at times. However, it is always harder to motivate yourself if you feel you are trailing in the weeds, even if the clock tells you you are a head of pace, and some weeks I have wondered whether solo speed work might be more satisfying - just me and the clock, afterall, we have had a pretty solid relationship and my garmin rarely talks back. This week's intervals told a different story. For our 8 mile speed work out we had 5 one mile repeats. The first three went pretty smoothly - 6.50 pace, hard at times, but not gut wrenching, and for once Q-Less and I were running fairly closely together. By the third repeat Q-Less was starting to flag considerably. Not content with the 7 mile recovery run the day before she had also indulged her passion for tennis and taken on a game after the run, singles no less, and boy was she hurting. After some pathetic arm waving and gutterall noises she was motioning me to go ahead. I had a flash backs to all those miles of chasing her sorry butt and was sorely tempted to enjoy the brief satisfaction of giving her the same glorious view, even if it were for just one run.
Then a brief and probably rare expression of maturity occurred. I remembered how ludicrous competition actually becomes in the race itself, all thoughts of keeping up with your girlfriends fade in light of the grueling reality of the situation. At mile 23 all you want to do is finish and see your family again - juvenile rivalries and the spark of the boxing ring fall away, redundant and insignifcant. I think that is why so many runners raise money for charities, or to feed their village in Africa and perhaps why Ryan Hall switched coaches and decided to run for God - there has to be more to this incredible effort than an improved PR.
For the next two miles I hung back with Q-Less who both times started at what seemed incredibly slowly, but by mid interval she would courageously revive her exhausted legs into action and finish the interval somehow galvanized by seeing the end in sight and was able to run a respectable, albeit very negative, split. It was surprisingly uplifting to take the focus off myself for a moment and wait for Q-Less to make her come back, and it reminded me why we were even doing speed work together; it was down to the 'power of two'. If one loses mojo surely the other can find it for you, and vice versa.
Our long run a day or two later also included pace work, another 18 mile race simulation. I don't know if the reversed circumstances altered our running psyche, but instead of running in tandem on Kelly Drive and dodging the bikers and strollers, we came up with a new approach to the long run. My conservative steady pace, and Q-Less' more impetuous speed and strong kick, combined well for the first time as we made our 10 mile race pace section an Indian Run. At each mile we took it in turn to lead; neither one got too far ahead; neither one felt she was holding back the other.
Leading was empowering and made me feel stronger as a runner, enjoying the head wind off the river and all the views of Philadelphia. The strange sights of the city whizzed by as snapshots. Two ladies head to toe in burqas, with only the small slot revealing their eyes as they flickered over us with seemingly no emotion; the child in its buggy that they pushed seemed to do the same, as his baby blanket and hat offered an equivalent tiny window into his face. An elderly african american nanny kindly made huge efforts to let us pass her double buggy on the free way overpass and called out 'Do the Lord's Work' as we ran past.
Then every other mile we switched and I got a chance to draft off Q-less, offering me that perfect buffer against the breeze and a brief pause in the run, I could check out and let her lead the way, relaxing and knowing that no matter how big the gap got she would have to slack off to let me lead the next one. This combination of pacing brought us in at a 7.39 pace ( well ahead of our race pace goal of 7.50) with both of us feeling good - Q-Less felt redemption after feeling lousy on the intervals, and for once I didn't feel I was holding any up on the pace work.
After all it had only taken ten years of running together - but for once I think Q-Less and I actually made our partnership work. Perhaps Boston will become one long Indian Run. Turning 26.2 miles into 13.1 miles would certainly be a beautiful thing for both of us.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Runners Anonymous
Chasing the Unicorn is beginning to feel more like chasing the dragon. Like the senseless addict I find myself deliberately destroying my body for my daily fix of running in the hopes of securing the ultimate high - running a perfect race. Those who Chase the Dragon have to keep that liquid opium constantly moving, or it turns into a single coalesced lump which is useless to the addict who wishes to breathe in its fumes. In that same way marathoners have to keep moving, six days a week, for fear they will become that same unmanageable lump should they stop.
Many people sensibly stay away from the marathon for good reason. Many run it once, for the bucket list, then never return. It is hard to run the kind of training miles you need consistently over 16 weeks. Not a single run is hard, but to do it ever day is. If you do have the time to manage the training, there is a good chance that pushing yourself through so many runs will leave you injured before you even get to the start line. The half marathon is increasingly popular for most people. You can train three hard runs a week and run a really good half marathon. Not so the marathon - the Full Monty requires 5/7 days a week of hard and easy runs. It also takes at least a month to recover, so if you wake up with a bad cold on the day, or the weather is ten degrees warmer than you had planned, you really have to wait another 6 months before you can try again.
Coming to the end of week eleven, with a couple of tough weeks of peak training behind me, and the daunting view of a couple more ahead, I find myself questioning why I am so attracted to this race. One of the reasons I like it, is it the only race you can not run by 'feel'. There is a huge mental challenge to this race, and as I am somewhat lacking in physical talent, it is a race that the short and stubby of leg, but strong of mind and spirit can tackle. I truly think the body has a built in pace maker that tells you it can sustain certain paces for a certain amount of time - I can run relatively even splits without a watch for 5k, 10k and even a half marathon. For a full marathon that is beyond me and most people. There is a science to figuring out your goal pace and then how to aportion that throughout the race. For the first 10 miles you feel as though you are holding back by around 20%, then you feel like you are at the right pace for another 10, then the last 6 are usually a struggle if you have mapped out the miles correctly. That patience and that learning to restrain during the early adrenaline fueled miles of a race while hundreds are passing you is a demanding mental challenge or the competively driven runner. Go out too hard on the first downhill ten miles of Boston and you will never make the hills that start at mile 16. Go out too slow and fail to cash in on the easy downhill, and you will not make up time, even if you speed up a tad for the second half. Whilst this race really begins at mile 20, that is only true if you have run those 20 miles at the race pace. You can't fix a mistake or play catch up in this race. The most time can drop up in the last 6 miles is one or two minutes, no matter how much fuel you still have in the tank.
If you do run perfect splits in the marathon lots of things can still go devastatingly wrong. I overlaced my shoes in my last attempt. My perfect splits, the perfect weather and the flat course had me in line for a new 3.25 PR, sadly I had to stop twice and tweak the stupid lacing because in my overly zealous preparations I had tied the laces snugger than usual and by mle 12 acute pain was setting in - that cost me two whole minutes when I checked my garmin. If it had been a half marathon I would have blasted through, but that was not even conceivable when there were 13 more miles to go.
In England there is a crude expression for going number twos which is called 'doing a Paula' because our national heroine of distance running, Paula Radcliffe, famously had to take a serious dump mid race and the camera crews, uncertain of what she was up to panned down as she unceromoniously crouched in the middle of a London pavement and off loaded what had been slowing her down, before jumping up and finishing her race. Training your bowels, bladder and stomach, also becomes part of the challenge.
For the 16 weeks of training your muscles are complaining, your tendons are rubbing, inflammation, cramping, tightening of old sinews, aches and pains are a constant factor; balanced with the fact that your breathing, heart rate and ability to withstand the rigors of those miles keeps on improving, creating a bizarre ying and yang of increased fitness and creeping debilitation. The hopes that taper will somehow maintain the hard earned cardiac fitness whilst repairing the muscle damage is clung to anxiously.
Chaffing, blisters, shoelaces, lack of correct hydration and nutrition, wind, snow, heat and other runners are all waiting to scupper you in the quest to chase the unicorn. Maybe no one ever runs the perfect marathon; I am on number five and wondering how many more I have in me, but still find myself curiously attracted to it. A glimps of the mane, or a swish of his tail on Patriot's day may be enough to keep me chasing again....
Many people sensibly stay away from the marathon for good reason. Many run it once, for the bucket list, then never return. It is hard to run the kind of training miles you need consistently over 16 weeks. Not a single run is hard, but to do it ever day is. If you do have the time to manage the training, there is a good chance that pushing yourself through so many runs will leave you injured before you even get to the start line. The half marathon is increasingly popular for most people. You can train three hard runs a week and run a really good half marathon. Not so the marathon - the Full Monty requires 5/7 days a week of hard and easy runs. It also takes at least a month to recover, so if you wake up with a bad cold on the day, or the weather is ten degrees warmer than you had planned, you really have to wait another 6 months before you can try again.
Coming to the end of week eleven, with a couple of tough weeks of peak training behind me, and the daunting view of a couple more ahead, I find myself questioning why I am so attracted to this race. One of the reasons I like it, is it the only race you can not run by 'feel'. There is a huge mental challenge to this race, and as I am somewhat lacking in physical talent, it is a race that the short and stubby of leg, but strong of mind and spirit can tackle. I truly think the body has a built in pace maker that tells you it can sustain certain paces for a certain amount of time - I can run relatively even splits without a watch for 5k, 10k and even a half marathon. For a full marathon that is beyond me and most people. There is a science to figuring out your goal pace and then how to aportion that throughout the race. For the first 10 miles you feel as though you are holding back by around 20%, then you feel like you are at the right pace for another 10, then the last 6 are usually a struggle if you have mapped out the miles correctly. That patience and that learning to restrain during the early adrenaline fueled miles of a race while hundreds are passing you is a demanding mental challenge or the competively driven runner. Go out too hard on the first downhill ten miles of Boston and you will never make the hills that start at mile 16. Go out too slow and fail to cash in on the easy downhill, and you will not make up time, even if you speed up a tad for the second half. Whilst this race really begins at mile 20, that is only true if you have run those 20 miles at the race pace. You can't fix a mistake or play catch up in this race. The most time can drop up in the last 6 miles is one or two minutes, no matter how much fuel you still have in the tank.
If you do run perfect splits in the marathon lots of things can still go devastatingly wrong. I overlaced my shoes in my last attempt. My perfect splits, the perfect weather and the flat course had me in line for a new 3.25 PR, sadly I had to stop twice and tweak the stupid lacing because in my overly zealous preparations I had tied the laces snugger than usual and by mle 12 acute pain was setting in - that cost me two whole minutes when I checked my garmin. If it had been a half marathon I would have blasted through, but that was not even conceivable when there were 13 more miles to go.
In England there is a crude expression for going number twos which is called 'doing a Paula' because our national heroine of distance running, Paula Radcliffe, famously had to take a serious dump mid race and the camera crews, uncertain of what she was up to panned down as she unceromoniously crouched in the middle of a London pavement and off loaded what had been slowing her down, before jumping up and finishing her race. Training your bowels, bladder and stomach, also becomes part of the challenge.
For the 16 weeks of training your muscles are complaining, your tendons are rubbing, inflammation, cramping, tightening of old sinews, aches and pains are a constant factor; balanced with the fact that your breathing, heart rate and ability to withstand the rigors of those miles keeps on improving, creating a bizarre ying and yang of increased fitness and creeping debilitation. The hopes that taper will somehow maintain the hard earned cardiac fitness whilst repairing the muscle damage is clung to anxiously.
Chaffing, blisters, shoelaces, lack of correct hydration and nutrition, wind, snow, heat and other runners are all waiting to scupper you in the quest to chase the unicorn. Maybe no one ever runs the perfect marathon; I am on number five and wondering how many more I have in me, but still find myself curiously attracted to it. A glimps of the mane, or a swish of his tail on Patriot's day may be enough to keep me chasing again....
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Wind in Our Hair......
The tenth week of Boston training potentially puts many marathon wannabes on the 'at risk list' for either injury or sickness and burn out. You are two weeks into the peak section of training, still have three more very hard weeks to come, and you suddenly start wondering why the heck you are even doing it. My previous week had seen me attempt my first 'easy' twenty, just two days after the Frosty 5 mile race. Needless to say, by mile 15 my dodgy right hamstring was complaining vociferously, making amputation seem like a positive mood. As the pain travelled down the sciatic nerve, down the whole leg and into my foot, it was becoming numb yet sore simultaneously. It didn't matter if I ran fast or slow, it still really hurt. The epidural effect of running, brought on by a rush of endorphins somehow failed to occurr. The miserable nature of this experience was further amplified by the fact that Q-Less kept telling me how great she felt and how she really wanted to feel as amazing as this at the end of Boston this year with a silly smile on her face. The only thing that kept me from biting her head off was the lip biting concentration it took to limp after her. Despite my urging her to go on ahead she loyally stayed 100 meters ahead, charitably turning around on occasion to see if the dim vision of my crippled self was still in view.
The morning after this runnus horribilis I naturally woke with a streaming cold; a second and more vicious reminder of the need to allow at least one day of recovery for every mile you race. Speed work a day or two later was more akin to running underwater, nostrils, mouth and eyes seemed to be spewing forth all kinds of bubbling liquid, and breathing was like having someone stand firmly on your chest with jack boots on. Ah the joys of Boston training I thought to myself.....
As the day of our first 18 mile race simulation arrived I was experiencing an unusual cocktail of anxiety blended with a rather large jig of ennui. The first 6 miles of 'easy' warm up on the trail didn't feel that easy - so we stopped to down some gu before tackling the ten miles of race pace on Kelly Drive, and set up the i-pods, and I mentally prepared for some gruelling miles.
Something rare and rather lovely happened. One mile into the pace work, the wind was gusting gently off the Schuykill River, the water was sparkling in the sunlight, and everything was right in the world. Q-less, bless her, had done some crazy plyometrics on a deflated bosson the day before, at what she had assumed would be her usual rinky dink tennis clinic and she was feeling really sore for once. With the playing field nicely levelled Q-less and I locked step down Kelly Drive in perfect unison, and suddenly I remembered why I had signed up for Boston - running felt effortless and pleasurable again. The weather was ridiculously warm for the first of March, so I was running virtually naked for that time of year, thin capris and a vest, not even gloves. Effortlessly gliding into the city - the wind in our hair, the sun glinting off our shades, we passed the steady stream of bikers and joggers enjoying all that the great city of Philadelphia had to offer.
For a few moments I was able to let go of the day job, that of swim, or XC Mom. The mantra of make pasta, drive, cheer, drive some more, wash towels, then get up at 5 am and do it all again was no longer in my head and the swim taxi was parked many miles away. For a few moments that week I could do and be something else. Like the kid who gets to play in the dress up box at nursery school; in my crazy make believe world I could be Paula Radcliffe for a short while. Q-less, or should I say, Kara, next to me despite being younger, gorgeous and a phenomenal athlete, was finally running my pace and all was right in my world. As we headed down the Drive and past the Falls Bridge, I glanced up at a rather elegant graveyard. At that precise moment it triggered a poignant memento mori. All those niggling naye sayers who you bump into at parties and take great pleasure in telling you running will either give you a heart attack, or blow out your knees, would eventually end up along side Q-less and I in that very ground. Did one want to die knowing you had experienced life and all that running had to give, or would you trade that for a few stodgy hours in front of the TV, remote control in hand, warning others of the dangers of all fun activities. I knew then which choice I would make.
The morning after this runnus horribilis I naturally woke with a streaming cold; a second and more vicious reminder of the need to allow at least one day of recovery for every mile you race. Speed work a day or two later was more akin to running underwater, nostrils, mouth and eyes seemed to be spewing forth all kinds of bubbling liquid, and breathing was like having someone stand firmly on your chest with jack boots on. Ah the joys of Boston training I thought to myself.....
As the day of our first 18 mile race simulation arrived I was experiencing an unusual cocktail of anxiety blended with a rather large jig of ennui. The first 6 miles of 'easy' warm up on the trail didn't feel that easy - so we stopped to down some gu before tackling the ten miles of race pace on Kelly Drive, and set up the i-pods, and I mentally prepared for some gruelling miles.
Something rare and rather lovely happened. One mile into the pace work, the wind was gusting gently off the Schuykill River, the water was sparkling in the sunlight, and everything was right in the world. Q-less, bless her, had done some crazy plyometrics on a deflated bosson the day before, at what she had assumed would be her usual rinky dink tennis clinic and she was feeling really sore for once. With the playing field nicely levelled Q-less and I locked step down Kelly Drive in perfect unison, and suddenly I remembered why I had signed up for Boston - running felt effortless and pleasurable again. The weather was ridiculously warm for the first of March, so I was running virtually naked for that time of year, thin capris and a vest, not even gloves. Effortlessly gliding into the city - the wind in our hair, the sun glinting off our shades, we passed the steady stream of bikers and joggers enjoying all that the great city of Philadelphia had to offer.
For a few moments I was able to let go of the day job, that of swim, or XC Mom. The mantra of make pasta, drive, cheer, drive some more, wash towels, then get up at 5 am and do it all again was no longer in my head and the swim taxi was parked many miles away. For a few moments that week I could do and be something else. Like the kid who gets to play in the dress up box at nursery school; in my crazy make believe world I could be Paula Radcliffe for a short while. Q-less, or should I say, Kara, next to me despite being younger, gorgeous and a phenomenal athlete, was finally running my pace and all was right in my world. As we headed down the Drive and past the Falls Bridge, I glanced up at a rather elegant graveyard. At that precise moment it triggered a poignant memento mori. All those niggling naye sayers who you bump into at parties and take great pleasure in telling you running will either give you a heart attack, or blow out your knees, would eventually end up along side Q-less and I in that very ground. Did one want to die knowing you had experienced life and all that running had to give, or would you trade that for a few stodgy hours in front of the TV, remote control in hand, warning others of the dangers of all fun activities. I knew then which choice I would make.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
'FROSTY' and the epic battle of youth versus experience....
As Bett Middler once said 'after thirty a body has a mind of its own', and having seen photos of her in recent years, she should know. Personally, I didn't think thirty was so bad, there were the constant gaining and losing of weight with having kids and a few more laughter lines - no biggy? Then forty crept up and it really wasn't as bad as everyone said; if anything I lost a little of the youthful chubbiness to my face and enjoyed a hint of definition, a suspicion of a cheek bone. Then one day around my 43rd birthday I woke up needing reading glasses, with a face that looked suspiciously like Robert Plant's (and not his early years, I might add), and a bum that was starting to resemble my morning bowl of oatmeal...what happened?
Being able to run faster or longer has been the only positive in this slow decay of flesh. The glorious thing about having been an absolute slob as a kid is that I have no PR's to look back on with nostalgia. The most exercise I did until I was in my thirties was to walk to and from the pub. As each birthday approaches now I can at least celebrate the fact that moving up to the 45 age group means I might do better in races. Happily my age advances, so do my times. This is the only thing that seems to improve in terms of my physical being. Like the painter who never wants to finish the last painting, I feel the need to always have a race to look forward to. Perhaps running is my way of avoiding the inevitable slow down and decay of old age - heck, running darn well makes you feel immortal, perhaps you can even cheat death if you run fast enough?
This past weekend saw the great Frostbite 5 Mile race in Ambler - a wonderful tradition where young and old get to duke it out on a hilly, winding course. Kids in their early teens, and eighty year olds take to the same course to run their hearts out. For years I ran with one kid or another, happy to avoid the stress of racing and hiding behind the need to get them to the finish line in a good mood, and to make, or beat their goal time. This year there was no hiding....L'il bitch was running his third Frosty, but as he had out run me in several 5k's last year, I didn't feel the need to 'coach him'. The fact that he had swum instead of run all winter didn't soften me any, I wasn't going to make it my mission to get him through the race. At the ripe old age of thirteen he had to be responsible for his own destiny and lack of training and in the words of like minded mothers out there it was going to be a case of 'suck it up kiddo'.
I started the race alongside L'il bitch and his best friend's kid brother, who had at the grand old age of 11 was clearly ready to try his hand at his first Frosty. The pace was fast and furious by my standards for the first mile, we went out at around a 6.30 mile, which sounds more impressive than it was, but it was mostly downhill. Within a half mile the 11 year old's consistent winter training had paid off, and he was way ahead of me, and even my son was ten feet infront. But I knew this too would pass. By the second mile I had a momentary maternal pang as I passed my son, and then reminded myself that 'bugger it, he really has to do this one on his own' and with a few year's of therapy he will understand my need to pass him at this point. By the middle of the race, pounding up Bright's Lane, I found myself running alongside a high school girl from the track and cross country team who I had run similar times to at other races. We ran together for a little while, until I pointed out a girl up ahead in hot purple shorts and said 'go take the fast chickie ahead' to urge the girl on to maintain her pace. Clearly this was less than motivating! I sensed her resolve drifting away as she started to hang back, so I pressed on, running my consistent pace, and entered the trail section of the run - my favourite part.
Half way into the trail the girl in the hot shorts was dead in the water as I surged past her. I congratulated myself and pondered the fact that age brings wisdom and the knowledge, that whilst anyone can go out fast, holding pace mid race is something that only comes with age or experience. The rest of the final mile was spent simply hanging on and was about that mental strength that allows you to externalize and break out of your own private world of suffering. Instead of battling your own demons age tells you to remember that the people around you are easily in worse torture than you, and you will prevail.
Surprisingly, as I made my way up the final hill to the high school I found the 16 year old high school girl magically along side me again - she had battled through her mid race lull and was back for more. Now, I know that I have about as much kick as a grain fed three legged donkey at the best of times, and wouldn't normally attempt to sprint, until the finish line was fully in view. For some reason I decided it was time to take one for 'team old folk' and stupidly found myself trying to outsprint the girl with 600 meters to go; a pitiful and painful sight for the many spectators. Soaring past the High School and then turning into the parking lot with full velocity, the girl did what she came to the race to do - to show that in the end youth and strong legs are a potent mix, as she sailed past me through the chute with grace and authority. Only the harsh clarity of race photography shows how bad it looks when middle aged women try really hard to do something that doesn't come naturally.
The pinnacle of my day was after crossing the finish line I gave the high schooler a congratulatory pat on the back and said 'good......but instead of job...all that came out was a dry heave, as I spent the next ten minutes trying not to throw up all over the poor girl's sneakers. "Thanks. I've been working on my finish," she said - No Kidding!
Being able to run faster or longer has been the only positive in this slow decay of flesh. The glorious thing about having been an absolute slob as a kid is that I have no PR's to look back on with nostalgia. The most exercise I did until I was in my thirties was to walk to and from the pub. As each birthday approaches now I can at least celebrate the fact that moving up to the 45 age group means I might do better in races. Happily my age advances, so do my times. This is the only thing that seems to improve in terms of my physical being. Like the painter who never wants to finish the last painting, I feel the need to always have a race to look forward to. Perhaps running is my way of avoiding the inevitable slow down and decay of old age - heck, running darn well makes you feel immortal, perhaps you can even cheat death if you run fast enough?
This past weekend saw the great Frostbite 5 Mile race in Ambler - a wonderful tradition where young and old get to duke it out on a hilly, winding course. Kids in their early teens, and eighty year olds take to the same course to run their hearts out. For years I ran with one kid or another, happy to avoid the stress of racing and hiding behind the need to get them to the finish line in a good mood, and to make, or beat their goal time. This year there was no hiding....L'il bitch was running his third Frosty, but as he had out run me in several 5k's last year, I didn't feel the need to 'coach him'. The fact that he had swum instead of run all winter didn't soften me any, I wasn't going to make it my mission to get him through the race. At the ripe old age of thirteen he had to be responsible for his own destiny and lack of training and in the words of like minded mothers out there it was going to be a case of 'suck it up kiddo'.
I started the race alongside L'il bitch and his best friend's kid brother, who had at the grand old age of 11 was clearly ready to try his hand at his first Frosty. The pace was fast and furious by my standards for the first mile, we went out at around a 6.30 mile, which sounds more impressive than it was, but it was mostly downhill. Within a half mile the 11 year old's consistent winter training had paid off, and he was way ahead of me, and even my son was ten feet infront. But I knew this too would pass. By the second mile I had a momentary maternal pang as I passed my son, and then reminded myself that 'bugger it, he really has to do this one on his own' and with a few year's of therapy he will understand my need to pass him at this point. By the middle of the race, pounding up Bright's Lane, I found myself running alongside a high school girl from the track and cross country team who I had run similar times to at other races. We ran together for a little while, until I pointed out a girl up ahead in hot purple shorts and said 'go take the fast chickie ahead' to urge the girl on to maintain her pace. Clearly this was less than motivating! I sensed her resolve drifting away as she started to hang back, so I pressed on, running my consistent pace, and entered the trail section of the run - my favourite part.
Half way into the trail the girl in the hot shorts was dead in the water as I surged past her. I congratulated myself and pondered the fact that age brings wisdom and the knowledge, that whilst anyone can go out fast, holding pace mid race is something that only comes with age or experience. The rest of the final mile was spent simply hanging on and was about that mental strength that allows you to externalize and break out of your own private world of suffering. Instead of battling your own demons age tells you to remember that the people around you are easily in worse torture than you, and you will prevail.
Surprisingly, as I made my way up the final hill to the high school I found the 16 year old high school girl magically along side me again - she had battled through her mid race lull and was back for more. Now, I know that I have about as much kick as a grain fed three legged donkey at the best of times, and wouldn't normally attempt to sprint, until the finish line was fully in view. For some reason I decided it was time to take one for 'team old folk' and stupidly found myself trying to outsprint the girl with 600 meters to go; a pitiful and painful sight for the many spectators. Soaring past the High School and then turning into the parking lot with full velocity, the girl did what she came to the race to do - to show that in the end youth and strong legs are a potent mix, as she sailed past me through the chute with grace and authority. Only the harsh clarity of race photography shows how bad it looks when middle aged women try really hard to do something that doesn't come naturally.
The pinnacle of my day was after crossing the finish line I gave the high schooler a congratulatory pat on the back and said 'good......but instead of job...all that came out was a dry heave, as I spent the next ten minutes trying not to throw up all over the poor girl's sneakers. "Thanks. I've been working on my finish," she said - No Kidding!
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