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 My mellow relaxed start to the day has been replaced by the snarling arrogance of preppy betch behind the wheel.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!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
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.
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