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.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
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!'
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