The phone app 'Find My Friends' drew a rather sad map, showing the family flung to the four corners of the world. Guy in London - 5,382 miles, Laurence in Oregon - 543 miles, Rose in LA - 373 miles. I was home alone for about the first time in 30 years. The only reason I was home and not in any of those exotic locales was my own neurotic desire not to disrupt 'taper'. I tried to explain to one of the High School runners that whilst they race sometimes twice a week during their season, I had only raced once at the Nike half marathon and that had been as a mid training fitness test back in October, with no rest either side of it. There had been no investment in that event, no anxiety, it was really just a training run. The reason the marathon is an intimidating race is you spend 20 weeks training for it, then sit there like a dolt reading every weather forecast, because if something goes wrong on race day it might be another 6 months before you are capable of racing another.
The list of things that could go wrong was epic. My last attempt had resulted in a DNF due to weather - 90f in Boston when you have trained in 30f in Philly all winter is not something that creates optimal conditions. One glove had dropped off that year it was 14 f in Philly and I had run like a deranged Michael Jackson, switching the glove every mile to keep both hands from frost bite. A bad cold, or stomach upset just before the race can negate weeks of training. Even in the best race I had ever run it had not been perfect, over lacing of the shoes had resulted in a couple of minutes lost as I spent time relacing at mile 15 when my now swollen feet started to complain loudly.
Isolation during taper is probably not a good thing, I could feel a taper tantrum brewing. After an evening and two hours of morning being alone in the house with loud music and very little clothing I started making plans for company, lunch and dinner. Of course I could only meet with those who no longer had the bad cold that was going round, and where I could eat my 90% white unprocessed carb meals, no shellfish etc. At dinner at the local Italian I was trying to explain to my friends Pete and Renee why it was I had changed my life so much in this last week of taper, going to bed at 8 pm to rehearse getting up at 3 or 4 am, changing my diet, barely drinking alcohol, staying away from sick folks, trying not to run with students at practice, giving the briefest demonstrations of lunges or core work at practice.
It seemed to me that the final stages of preparing for a marathon was very much like preparing for birth. Of course there is the general feeling of bloat as you make sure you are fully hydrated and don't eat anything remotely good for you - stodging up on white pasta, rice and bread and eschewing all the high fibre beans, fruits and vegetables that have been your staple all training cycle. Then there was the heightened emotional sense, this exaggerated focus on every little ache or pain in your body. Pete asked if I was going to enjoy taking in all of the scenery and atmosphere of CIM to which I nearly choked on my pizza. His reasoning was it was my 6th marathon, I was a pro, of course I could relax and just run. What he couldn't appreciate was that I was still trying to PR at the vintage age of 48 which meant relaxing and taking in scenery was not part of the plan sadly. I tried to convey that like child birth you knew the marathon would be rewarding, you are excited for it to happen, but at the same time you knew it was fraught with lots of small risks and that at some stage it was surely going to hurt. In fact if it didn't hurt, you weren't doing it right.
At breakfast the week before with Laurence and Dean, Dean had politely inquired about the race: "So, are you going to win it?", "er, no", I replied "the first female will likely finish about an hour before I do". A puzzled look crossed his seventeen year old face. "So, are you going to try and win your age group then?" Dean asked encouragingly, Laurence joined in noddingy approvingly. "Er no, in this race even if I run a 3:25 I will likely get 20th, its a pretty fast race and people travel a long way to come and run it". It did sound sort of lame at this point, so I tried to help him out "But I am hoping to qualify to run Boston again in 2016". In a deliberate and 'shall we try this again' tone, Dean asked "So let me get this straight, your going to run over 26 miles just so you can do it again in a year or two…" Yup that was about it. It made zero sense to a teenager, or in fact to any intelligent human who was not a runner, but in my case running another marathon wasn't about a bucket list or really a qualifying time; at 48 I could run almost a 9 minute pace and still get into Boston. It was about working hard, putting yourself in a place of pain and seeing how long you could stay there. I knew after the delivery, regardless of the outcome, the effort would have been worthwhile. Distance running was, after all, a long conversation with myself and it didn't really matter if every one else thought I had caught the last train to Crazy Town.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Monday, November 17, 2014
Chasing that darn Unicorn from the North, the South and soon the West….
Runners often drone on to all who will listen about their PR's (personal records) and love to recite entire monogues about the how, the when, the where, and the training that resulted in these occasions - they cherish them like their children, and clutch them dear to their hearts. Conversely there are those races that engender a PW (personal worst), the equivalent of a 'problem child'. My problem child was no doubt the Boston Broilerthon of 2012 when I eventually dropped out at mile 18 and with 50 other runners limped into the van of shame at Boston College, leaving poor Cheri, or Q-Less as we like to call her, to labor on solo in 90f weather. We had thought we should have taken the deferral offered by the race directors for the following year. As we now know in 2013 the Boston Marathon was tragically bombed, with runners and spectators being maimed and killed senselessly. The emotion of seeing events unfold that year had fostered a new determintation. I wanted to head back to Boston to create a new memory of the race, more fitting to its awesomeness. Having moved to the West Coast in the summer of 2012 I truly missed my running gals and pinged the rest of the Team of Less with a heartfelt invitation to a reunion tour of Boston, suggesting we all qualify in time to celebrate 50th Birthdays for myself and Merciless. The blow felt crushing when my message was met with a resounding and disappointing silence……not even a 'no thanks!'.
Eventually I plucked up the courage and spoke to Merciless. Surprisingly she was already commited to the New York Marathon, so it was indeed possible she would qualify for Boston; but her hesitation in replying had been to avoid additional pressure, as New York was a difficult marathon to qualify for. It wasn't especially hilly, it was no Big Sur, but the inclines were all in the worst places, in other words, near the end. This was also Merciless' re-do after Superstorm Sandy had seen the race cancelled in the fall of 2012 (2012 was really not the year for the marathon majors). Nadine was in the midst of a huge house remodel and Q-Less was playing a lot of tennis and never really liked too much pressure anyway.
Sadly I resigned myself to the prospect of a solo trip to Boston, but cheered myself up by advertising for a running partner. Through a club email list I had found very agreeable fun runner who was willing to put up with my craziness. The Hungarian Iron Man also wanted to qualify in a similar finish time and needed a 3:25 to get into Boston. Whilst fitter and potentially faster than me, he had a full time job and quite rightly prioritized spending time with his younger children, but this limited how many days he could train, making us reasonably compatible pace wise. The summer saw the weeks of training begin, speed work on Tuesday, tempo on Thursday, and finally a long run with some great company on Sunday's. A couple of weeks in a delightful weekend treat in Martha's Vineyard celebrating a close friend's birthday revealed the truth behind the months of radio silence from the East Coast. Merciless, as predicted, was training hard and stood every chance of qualifying despite her modesty; however, an even greater miracle had occurred, Q-Less was joining her on some runs and was planning on running Philly two weeks later. Sadly Nonetheless had not taken the bait, but two out of three was looking good.
First to go was Merciless, who headed up to NYC solo in her usual low key manner. Merciliess as usual was all business and despite bringing up five kids, she had some how managed to eke out a great training block that was now behind her. Of course a couple of days ahead of the race, it seemed that mother nature was yet again going to wreak havoc and brought 40 mile an hour cross winds, and a cold cold day. The marathon is supposed to be hard, but extreme weather takes a difficult task and warps it even further. Putting together the splits and hearing the race report afterwards it sounded painful. The Verrazzano Bridge had got the race off to the usual terrible start with its crowded steep incline, with sideways gales blowing pee from the male runners on top of the bridge to those below, in an icy shower. After the bridge and its 11 minute pace start was over, Merciless swiftly regrouped to motor into a nifty 7:50 pace as planned. Tossed sideways through the boroughs of NYC Merciless tried to shelter in the larger masses, drifting like Emperor penguins huddled together for warmth they made their way towards Central Park. Somewhere around mile 20 the pace started to slow as the effort of being buffeted around by the wind made the effort so much harder. The tiny 90lb Merciless began to slow, the wheels were starting to come off….and as she slowed she started to rapidly lose heat. When you are that small losing heat is rapid and potentially marathon ending. I have seen Merciless enter the medical tent a couple of times and its rather frightening as she will run herself into oblivion. In her misery Merciless for the first time in her life no longer cared if she never qualified for Boston or finished the darn race and at mile 23 was walking her way grimly and resolutely towards the end. Vaguely processing the noises of the race, Merciless heard screeching and screaming from the sidelines and looked up to see her three Philly friends cheering her on. Undeterred and stubbornly oblivious to their enthusiasm she threw them a frightening and deatlhy glare; it would take much more than that to try and get her to run! The shock of seeing the usual cheery running face of Merciless balefully staring them down forced a split second decision. Robin and Nonetheless simultaneously had the inspired idea of shoving a surprised Q-Less into the crowd so she could run Merciless in to go get her BQ. Race photos tell a thousand stories and often in only one in twenty do we actually look good. Merciless' race photos reveal a pained, frozen fragile brunette moving doggedly towards the finish line. At her side the other worn down runners are over shadowed by the image of a majestic Q-Less running tall beside her, the only New York marathoner to compete wearing jeans, a woolly scarf and a big puffer coat, long hair blowing carelessly and atmospherically across her face. It didn't matter how, but they had done it - it was not the time Merciless had wanted to run but it was a commendable 3:44 in awful weather and importantly ten minutes inside the time she needed to run Boston.
The turn came for Q-Less to do the same. With just over a week to go before Philly I was texting to congratulate Merciless on making it through such a tough race, and checking in with Q-Less to make sure taper was going well and she wasn't going too crazy. Missing the excitement of New York had given me a hankering to see Q-less come in in Philly. The North Coast Section cross country races were that Saturday and coaching the team meant there was no way I could miss that race, but if I could get a flight that afternoon maybe, just maybe I could make it. To my surprise the next day I got a text from Q-Less "OK Ruth - I ran Richmond today - we are waiting for you now!"…In her commitment phobic manner Cheri had trained, but never signed up for Philly, ensuring she she had a get out clause if she got injured or couldn't face it and the darn race had filled up and closed out on her. In her own inimitable fashion, she had convinced Heide to drive her all the way down to Virginia a week ahead of schedule, and had found a flat fast race, with great weather knocking out a very impressive 3:25.
Knowing both my friends are qualifed is awesomely awful. I am thrilled this gives us the prospect of going together in 2016, but with a three week taper period now starting, going last isn't so fun! Training at 48 has meant lots of changes, much less junk miles, many more sessions with the masseuse and more rest days. There have been several small injuries along the way, some of which have resolved, some of which haven't. Now I get to spend the next three weeks scanning bogus weather reports, avoiding new and crazy classes at the gym, and analyzing every ache and pain. The Team of Less had come through and had turned my email around. Q-less's last text is ringing in my ears "- we are just waiting for you now!!'
Eventually I plucked up the courage and spoke to Merciless. Surprisingly she was already commited to the New York Marathon, so it was indeed possible she would qualify for Boston; but her hesitation in replying had been to avoid additional pressure, as New York was a difficult marathon to qualify for. It wasn't especially hilly, it was no Big Sur, but the inclines were all in the worst places, in other words, near the end. This was also Merciless' re-do after Superstorm Sandy had seen the race cancelled in the fall of 2012 (2012 was really not the year for the marathon majors). Nadine was in the midst of a huge house remodel and Q-Less was playing a lot of tennis and never really liked too much pressure anyway.
Sadly I resigned myself to the prospect of a solo trip to Boston, but cheered myself up by advertising for a running partner. Through a club email list I had found very agreeable fun runner who was willing to put up with my craziness. The Hungarian Iron Man also wanted to qualify in a similar finish time and needed a 3:25 to get into Boston. Whilst fitter and potentially faster than me, he had a full time job and quite rightly prioritized spending time with his younger children, but this limited how many days he could train, making us reasonably compatible pace wise. The summer saw the weeks of training begin, speed work on Tuesday, tempo on Thursday, and finally a long run with some great company on Sunday's. A couple of weeks in a delightful weekend treat in Martha's Vineyard celebrating a close friend's birthday revealed the truth behind the months of radio silence from the East Coast. Merciless, as predicted, was training hard and stood every chance of qualifying despite her modesty; however, an even greater miracle had occurred, Q-Less was joining her on some runs and was planning on running Philly two weeks later. Sadly Nonetheless had not taken the bait, but two out of three was looking good.
First to go was Merciless, who headed up to NYC solo in her usual low key manner. Merciliess as usual was all business and despite bringing up five kids, she had some how managed to eke out a great training block that was now behind her. Of course a couple of days ahead of the race, it seemed that mother nature was yet again going to wreak havoc and brought 40 mile an hour cross winds, and a cold cold day. The marathon is supposed to be hard, but extreme weather takes a difficult task and warps it even further. Putting together the splits and hearing the race report afterwards it sounded painful. The Verrazzano Bridge had got the race off to the usual terrible start with its crowded steep incline, with sideways gales blowing pee from the male runners on top of the bridge to those below, in an icy shower. After the bridge and its 11 minute pace start was over, Merciless swiftly regrouped to motor into a nifty 7:50 pace as planned. Tossed sideways through the boroughs of NYC Merciless tried to shelter in the larger masses, drifting like Emperor penguins huddled together for warmth they made their way towards Central Park. Somewhere around mile 20 the pace started to slow as the effort of being buffeted around by the wind made the effort so much harder. The tiny 90lb Merciless began to slow, the wheels were starting to come off….and as she slowed she started to rapidly lose heat. When you are that small losing heat is rapid and potentially marathon ending. I have seen Merciless enter the medical tent a couple of times and its rather frightening as she will run herself into oblivion. In her misery Merciless for the first time in her life no longer cared if she never qualified for Boston or finished the darn race and at mile 23 was walking her way grimly and resolutely towards the end. Vaguely processing the noises of the race, Merciless heard screeching and screaming from the sidelines and looked up to see her three Philly friends cheering her on. Undeterred and stubbornly oblivious to their enthusiasm she threw them a frightening and deatlhy glare; it would take much more than that to try and get her to run! The shock of seeing the usual cheery running face of Merciless balefully staring them down forced a split second decision. Robin and Nonetheless simultaneously had the inspired idea of shoving a surprised Q-Less into the crowd so she could run Merciless in to go get her BQ. Race photos tell a thousand stories and often in only one in twenty do we actually look good. Merciless' race photos reveal a pained, frozen fragile brunette moving doggedly towards the finish line. At her side the other worn down runners are over shadowed by the image of a majestic Q-Less running tall beside her, the only New York marathoner to compete wearing jeans, a woolly scarf and a big puffer coat, long hair blowing carelessly and atmospherically across her face. It didn't matter how, but they had done it - it was not the time Merciless had wanted to run but it was a commendable 3:44 in awful weather and importantly ten minutes inside the time she needed to run Boston.
The turn came for Q-Less to do the same. With just over a week to go before Philly I was texting to congratulate Merciless on making it through such a tough race, and checking in with Q-Less to make sure taper was going well and she wasn't going too crazy. Missing the excitement of New York had given me a hankering to see Q-less come in in Philly. The North Coast Section cross country races were that Saturday and coaching the team meant there was no way I could miss that race, but if I could get a flight that afternoon maybe, just maybe I could make it. To my surprise the next day I got a text from Q-Less "OK Ruth - I ran Richmond today - we are waiting for you now!"…In her commitment phobic manner Cheri had trained, but never signed up for Philly, ensuring she she had a get out clause if she got injured or couldn't face it and the darn race had filled up and closed out on her. In her own inimitable fashion, she had convinced Heide to drive her all the way down to Virginia a week ahead of schedule, and had found a flat fast race, with great weather knocking out a very impressive 3:25.
Knowing both my friends are qualifed is awesomely awful. I am thrilled this gives us the prospect of going together in 2016, but with a three week taper period now starting, going last isn't so fun! Training at 48 has meant lots of changes, much less junk miles, many more sessions with the masseuse and more rest days. There have been several small injuries along the way, some of which have resolved, some of which haven't. Now I get to spend the next three weeks scanning bogus weather reports, avoiding new and crazy classes at the gym, and analyzing every ache and pain. The Team of Less had come through and had turned my email around. Q-less's last text is ringing in my ears "- we are just waiting for you now!!'
Thursday, June 12, 2014
What Happens in Vegas…..
Maintaining a transatlantic sibling relationship is not without its challenges -an eight hour time difference, a sister that views all form of social media as 'the devil's work', and vividly contrasting life styles all mean it takes effort to remain truly connected. It had been two years since I had last seen my only sister Jane. The expense of flying the family over to California had reduced the likelihood of visits from the UK, and the crummy weather and other tempting locations like Hawaii or Mexico for summer holidays had kept us away from England for a while. In the spirit of sibling ties we decided to meet in the middle, and make it a sister reunion, without the kids. Well the middle would have been Bermuda, which is both dull and ridiculously expensive. Miami or NYC were also possibilities, but the cost of hotel rooms there in May seemed seriously high and we had been there before. Looking for some sunny relief from the steady stream of Manchester drizzle my sister seemed thrilled at the idea of 104f in the desert, and so we settled on Vegas!
The accommodation was super reasonable, my flight was only an hour - whereas Jane's' was going to be long and horrid regardless of where she came in the US so we decided to experience this renowned flesh pot and adult theme part. Of course I really don't like gambling, smoking or the seedy side of life, so my husband was laughing at my choice, and the fact that we found a nice hotel with a great looking spa, no casino and smoke free! In a fit of teenage daughter rivalry swimmer girl announced she was coming too and promptly booked herself in the seat next to mine, but said she would be staying with her college pal, but 'she would be doing Vegas right', unlike her crazy health conscious boring as all get out mother.
I felt surrounded by opposing forces - there was swimmer girl excited for as much excess as she could get her hands on, which probably wasn't much as she was only 18 and therefore not allowed in the casinos or bars. There was my older sis, a big time party girl, famous for getting up at noon and wanting to party the night away, always the last to leave and still drinking the bar dry when others had faded. Then there was Vegas…..how one earth was this going to work out, I was usually in bed by 9 pm?
Much as I miss my sis, we are quite different in terms of our habits. She was a total nightowl, I was an extreme Lark and early bird. For the first time in our lives, we found that coming from time zones that were eight hours apart turned out to be a real boon - when I was getting heavy eyed at 9 pm, so was she. When I got up at 4:30 am, she was still sleeping, but only for an hour or so, as I came back from my run, she was all ready to either hit the strip to shop or breakfast. Jet lag had finally brought our body clocks into perfect synchronicity.
Being a runner in Vegas is a truly unique experience. The first day I had problems just getting out of the hotel - my Garmin route was hysterical when I replayed it the next day. It turned out the Vdara Hotel, was interconnected with the Aria and Crystals, and the road access really didn't exist, at least not in a way any pedestrian could navigate it. In the way that all great exhibitions route you to end via the shop, all the hotels routed you through not just one, but many casinos before you could find daylight. Emerging bright eyed and excited to run the strip on day one I quickly found myself hopping over medians, other barriers and finally running precariously on a sidewalk 3 inches wide hoping that the early morning traffic wouldn't mow me down. Finally I made it out on the strip, and decided to head South.
Running in Vegas is how I imagine an ADD kid feels without her medication, and having mainlined soda and candy for an hour. There is an assault on all of your senses. Verbal messages bombard you 'black jack tables with liberal rules" whatever that meant? were there Republican ones further down the street? 'get your fun books here…" then the flashing neon, ridiculous architecture that doesn't try to represent any reality, and crazy folk that take your breath away - literally.
The strip was at its most entertaining early on Sunday morning. At 5 am I ran gingerly through the crystal chandeliered Bellagio casino, which was around a half mile. Trotting past the Petrossian Bar still heaving with customers, bleary eyed, loud and surrounded by empty bottles it looked so different to the civilized piano bar where we had enjoyed sipping on our cosmo's the night before. Hitting the street I passed groups of police officers rounding up miscreants and reading citations to the drunks in the street. Just picking any kind of route along the pavement proved surprisingly challenging. All normal assumptions about the direction the walkers ahead of you proved to be misguided. The inebriated state of my fellow pedestrians meant that walking a straight line was pretty much impossible for them. This collective lurching and weaving on the strip added an interesting twist to the running process, much as trail running distracts you mentally I found myself having to pay a lot of attention to last minute directional shifts.
At one point I saw a group of five young Italian guys ahead, one dropped to the ground to ostentatiously do performance push ups in front of me, a night of drinking meant disinhibited strength work, but his form wasn't good to say the least. I noticed his four friends created a funnel on the other side of the pavement, forcing me to run by by them so they each got a chance to issue the usual friendly Italian greeting of a slap on my butt. Whilst it was good natured it was a bit irksome to say the least, so when I got turned around on one of the many crazy crenellated walkways of the Excalibur hotel and realized I was actually heading towards the Grand Canyon on Tropicana Ave, I was in a happier mood. Yes it got a little quiet, yes the web sites all said it was safer on the strip, but the irritation of picking my way through the dregs of last nights partiers, and the confusing plethora of moving walkways and all the escalators, meant that I was grateful for some place that went in a straight line, with no one much about. There was a bus service on this road and a few casino workers were dropped off and walking home to their apartments, so it didn't feel too sketchy. Initially there were cat calls from some of the cars 'Damn Girl' and so on…but eventually it got quiet and I started to enjoy watching the sunrise coming up over the cheap motels and run down out of town casinos.
Turning around and heading back towards the strip I realized that even at 6 or 7 am there were going to be people out partying. On my way out I wryly observed their shenanigans like some disapproving grandmother, but as I looked towards Vegas it dawned on me that really I was the total freak. It was no wonder I was attracting attention; there were hardly any runners around, and those that were, were sticking safely to 2/3 miles of jogging on the strip, with water bottle or phone in hand. No one seriously tried to run here unless they went out to somewhere pretty like Red Rocks. Seen through their eyes, waking up obscenely early and setting out to run for an hour or two was probably completely weird, and possibly only something that could be considered if you were in the Rock n Roll Marathon or completely bladdered and taking the famous Run of Shame.
After snaking my way through Crystals shopping mall and the deserted pantheon of high end but pointless Louis Vuitton stores I found a way back into the Vdara, showered, changed and headed out for breakfast. Funnily enough breakfast is hard to find in Vegas, particularly before 8 am - you can get a mojito or a margarita before you can get a cup of coffee or eggs. Anywhere we found serving coffee had a seriously long line out onto the strip. Whilst Vegas is a honey pot of excess, it reinforced my notion that no matter how long or hard you party, there comes a point round about dawn when everyone is looking for redemption, and usually in the form of a good breakfast. An entrepreneur looking for a hot new Vegas restaurant venture would do better to open a chain or hip organic breakfast bars serving great coffee, fruit smoothies, gourmet egg dishes and their own granola; of course the odd greasy bacon item might also do really well for those suffering after the night before!
Behind the facades of eccentric and eclectic architecture there was nothing much to Vegas, just some tumbleweed and tired casino workers. Surviving a trip longer than a few days, or one without a drink in your hand, would be hard unless you ventured out into the desert, or were obsessed with Cirque de Soleil. But in this human circus I had come to enjoy watching the crazies, to reconnect and laugh with my sister, and we accomplished just that. The last laugh may just be on me though, as I think that the ultimate freak show is watching someone try and attend Church of the Sunday Long Run, in Vegas after a night of partying and hedonism. Instead of staggering on impossibly high heels, I was balancing on the lugs of my Newtons; instead of sipping on the yard of red sugary cocktail that seemed obligatory, I was clutching my handy dandy nathan water bottle - now who really was the freakshow?
I texted the daughter to arrange to meet up at the airport, she tenderly replied at 5:57 am 'just got in from a party - don't talk to me on the flight' 'what are you doing up so early WEIRDO!'
The accommodation was super reasonable, my flight was only an hour - whereas Jane's' was going to be long and horrid regardless of where she came in the US so we decided to experience this renowned flesh pot and adult theme part. Of course I really don't like gambling, smoking or the seedy side of life, so my husband was laughing at my choice, and the fact that we found a nice hotel with a great looking spa, no casino and smoke free! In a fit of teenage daughter rivalry swimmer girl announced she was coming too and promptly booked herself in the seat next to mine, but said she would be staying with her college pal, but 'she would be doing Vegas right', unlike her crazy health conscious boring as all get out mother.
I felt surrounded by opposing forces - there was swimmer girl excited for as much excess as she could get her hands on, which probably wasn't much as she was only 18 and therefore not allowed in the casinos or bars. There was my older sis, a big time party girl, famous for getting up at noon and wanting to party the night away, always the last to leave and still drinking the bar dry when others had faded. Then there was Vegas…..how one earth was this going to work out, I was usually in bed by 9 pm?
Much as I miss my sis, we are quite different in terms of our habits. She was a total nightowl, I was an extreme Lark and early bird. For the first time in our lives, we found that coming from time zones that were eight hours apart turned out to be a real boon - when I was getting heavy eyed at 9 pm, so was she. When I got up at 4:30 am, she was still sleeping, but only for an hour or so, as I came back from my run, she was all ready to either hit the strip to shop or breakfast. Jet lag had finally brought our body clocks into perfect synchronicity.
Being a runner in Vegas is a truly unique experience. The first day I had problems just getting out of the hotel - my Garmin route was hysterical when I replayed it the next day. It turned out the Vdara Hotel, was interconnected with the Aria and Crystals, and the road access really didn't exist, at least not in a way any pedestrian could navigate it. In the way that all great exhibitions route you to end via the shop, all the hotels routed you through not just one, but many casinos before you could find daylight. Emerging bright eyed and excited to run the strip on day one I quickly found myself hopping over medians, other barriers and finally running precariously on a sidewalk 3 inches wide hoping that the early morning traffic wouldn't mow me down. Finally I made it out on the strip, and decided to head South.
Running in Vegas is how I imagine an ADD kid feels without her medication, and having mainlined soda and candy for an hour. There is an assault on all of your senses. Verbal messages bombard you 'black jack tables with liberal rules" whatever that meant? were there Republican ones further down the street? 'get your fun books here…" then the flashing neon, ridiculous architecture that doesn't try to represent any reality, and crazy folk that take your breath away - literally.
The strip was at its most entertaining early on Sunday morning. At 5 am I ran gingerly through the crystal chandeliered Bellagio casino, which was around a half mile. Trotting past the Petrossian Bar still heaving with customers, bleary eyed, loud and surrounded by empty bottles it looked so different to the civilized piano bar where we had enjoyed sipping on our cosmo's the night before. Hitting the street I passed groups of police officers rounding up miscreants and reading citations to the drunks in the street. Just picking any kind of route along the pavement proved surprisingly challenging. All normal assumptions about the direction the walkers ahead of you proved to be misguided. The inebriated state of my fellow pedestrians meant that walking a straight line was pretty much impossible for them. This collective lurching and weaving on the strip added an interesting twist to the running process, much as trail running distracts you mentally I found myself having to pay a lot of attention to last minute directional shifts.
At one point I saw a group of five young Italian guys ahead, one dropped to the ground to ostentatiously do performance push ups in front of me, a night of drinking meant disinhibited strength work, but his form wasn't good to say the least. I noticed his four friends created a funnel on the other side of the pavement, forcing me to run by by them so they each got a chance to issue the usual friendly Italian greeting of a slap on my butt. Whilst it was good natured it was a bit irksome to say the least, so when I got turned around on one of the many crazy crenellated walkways of the Excalibur hotel and realized I was actually heading towards the Grand Canyon on Tropicana Ave, I was in a happier mood. Yes it got a little quiet, yes the web sites all said it was safer on the strip, but the irritation of picking my way through the dregs of last nights partiers, and the confusing plethora of moving walkways and all the escalators, meant that I was grateful for some place that went in a straight line, with no one much about. There was a bus service on this road and a few casino workers were dropped off and walking home to their apartments, so it didn't feel too sketchy. Initially there were cat calls from some of the cars 'Damn Girl' and so on…but eventually it got quiet and I started to enjoy watching the sunrise coming up over the cheap motels and run down out of town casinos.
Turning around and heading back towards the strip I realized that even at 6 or 7 am there were going to be people out partying. On my way out I wryly observed their shenanigans like some disapproving grandmother, but as I looked towards Vegas it dawned on me that really I was the total freak. It was no wonder I was attracting attention; there were hardly any runners around, and those that were, were sticking safely to 2/3 miles of jogging on the strip, with water bottle or phone in hand. No one seriously tried to run here unless they went out to somewhere pretty like Red Rocks. Seen through their eyes, waking up obscenely early and setting out to run for an hour or two was probably completely weird, and possibly only something that could be considered if you were in the Rock n Roll Marathon or completely bladdered and taking the famous Run of Shame.
After snaking my way through Crystals shopping mall and the deserted pantheon of high end but pointless Louis Vuitton stores I found a way back into the Vdara, showered, changed and headed out for breakfast. Funnily enough breakfast is hard to find in Vegas, particularly before 8 am - you can get a mojito or a margarita before you can get a cup of coffee or eggs. Anywhere we found serving coffee had a seriously long line out onto the strip. Whilst Vegas is a honey pot of excess, it reinforced my notion that no matter how long or hard you party, there comes a point round about dawn when everyone is looking for redemption, and usually in the form of a good breakfast. An entrepreneur looking for a hot new Vegas restaurant venture would do better to open a chain or hip organic breakfast bars serving great coffee, fruit smoothies, gourmet egg dishes and their own granola; of course the odd greasy bacon item might also do really well for those suffering after the night before!
Behind the facades of eccentric and eclectic architecture there was nothing much to Vegas, just some tumbleweed and tired casino workers. Surviving a trip longer than a few days, or one without a drink in your hand, would be hard unless you ventured out into the desert, or were obsessed with Cirque de Soleil. But in this human circus I had come to enjoy watching the crazies, to reconnect and laugh with my sister, and we accomplished just that. The last laugh may just be on me though, as I think that the ultimate freak show is watching someone try and attend Church of the Sunday Long Run, in Vegas after a night of partying and hedonism. Instead of staggering on impossibly high heels, I was balancing on the lugs of my Newtons; instead of sipping on the yard of red sugary cocktail that seemed obligatory, I was clutching my handy dandy nathan water bottle - now who really was the freakshow?
I texted the daughter to arrange to meet up at the airport, she tenderly replied at 5:57 am 'just got in from a party - don't talk to me on the flight' 'what are you doing up so early WEIRDO!'
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Conscious Coupling in Pink Maribou
A sighting of the Ugly Pink Birthday occurred this week in the nearby town, as one of my West Coast running gals hit a ridiculously young birthday. After braving the East Bay morning commute and changing route several times employing the use of every internet aid known to man six of us figured out how to drive the eight miles to Lafayette, even if it was probably somewhat slower than we could have run it. With the aplomb that comes with a certain age, Jill sported the hat stylishly. Daringly she emerged from her car with bendy candles askew in a froth of slightly stained pink maribou that had seen better days. Rabid barking by an impressive Great Dane in the neighboring car at the sight of the pink monstrosity assured us of the general absurdity of the situation and added to our air of hilarity. The happy birthday crew enjoyed a couple of laps around the Lafayette Reservoir bonding over shared jokes and relished the ridiculous sight we had reduced our friend to.
The bond of runners is not entirely silly it is also a strong one and has a purpose - The Team of Less back in Blue Bell were still celebrating their birthdays with this quirky tradition and they had been my safe haven for debating all of the traumas of bringing up children, the heartless teachers, their first grade crushes and the rows they had with their best friends. The West Coast group was no different. Whilst we all ran for different reasons, some for competition, others to keep in shape, some to keep awake after working night shifts in the medical profession, we shared the same need for venting, discussing and confessing. Nothing much had changed about this story, except now the talk was of crazy college scrapes, of kids home but always asleep, or the strife created now by the words 'summer job' or 'internship'. Over a luscious melt in the mouth smoked salmon hash at Chow's our conversation eventually ranged away from more domestic affairs and onto other topics and some one casually asked how my recent race in Oakland had gone.
The short answer was probably what they were looking for and of course ' fine' 'nice weather, good course and great garlic fries at the end' would have been quite reasonable. But they were nice enough to listen to the very long answer. The long answer was more convoluted, and it involved a healthy dose of self awareness. My answer began with the background that I had run that same Oakland Half Marathon a year earlier. I had trained pretty hard, and after a 1:36 PR a few months earlier in Walnut Creek on a tougher course was all ready for another fast run. Sadly, that hadn't happened. For whatever reason, maybe the slightly warm weather, maybe I was stale from doing a similar training plan two times around, but I found myself consistently off pace throughout the race. In desperation I had decided to kick it a bit at mile 11 instead of my usual mile 12 and in the process gave myself a huge stitch and limped in even slower, very depressed with an uncomfortable 1:37:45 and was not too happy with myself.
So this year the same race rolled around, but having had a stress fracture all fall I couldn't really start full training until February and had hurriedly compressed the usual 12 weeks into 7 by cutting out some of the longer runs and just focused on the hard tempo runs and some filler mileage. Well, and here was the kicker - I had then run slightly faster this year, on less fitness, and minimal training, and conversely had felt really happy and satisfied at the end of the race. This year I had entered the race grateful to be running, with low expectations of success, and set very conservative pace goals. As I hit the 5k mark a minute ahead of pace, I congratulated myself and gave myself a mental pat on the back for starting well. Every mile I ran I felt successful after that - simply because I told myself I was. Instead of the shrill nagging dialogue of 'its not good enough, your off pace" I had a glorious cheerleader screaming 'you go girl, your ahead of where you need to be'. The difference in effect was remarkable. I paced well, my body felt relaxed, I was tired in a good way, but not uncomfortable and I ended with my fastest mile in the entire race feeling I had let myself run well. I had given myself permission to do well.
The take home was simple, next time let yourself be successful. Don't burden yourself with expecting a PR in every race, be happy and celebrate every small achievement and you truly will be successful. Despite less fitness, training and confidence, my body felt better and raced better than it had a year earlier as it was no longer flinching under the pressure of an internal diatribe of under achievement.
The applications to this philosophy were many and varied - where else in my life had I handicapped myself by being too relentless in pursuit of perfection, it gave me much pause for thought. The self discovery that came with that simple question, brought us on to other more light hearted topics. Gwyneth Paltrow's Conscious Uncoupling from Chris Martin, as reported on her website Goop was yet another example of crazy Hollywood lives. Now that terminology, which for everyone else had been divorce or separation, had us in guffaws of laughter - she made it sound more like some existential train spotter convention than a rift in your personal life. Would there be a cook book on how to consciously uncouple with macrobiotic adzuki beans or knit your own greek yogurt so that Apple and Moses could be physically as well as emotionally nourished on this journey. Well, when in California, If Gwyn could divorce with breathing exercises and kindness, maybe I could do the same with my race attitude. Kindness and breath were probably two very important aids to my running experience that day. As the group continued to consciously couple over breakfast, I sat licking Risa's perfect lemon cupcake and thought - there is something to this west coast craziness after all….
The bond of runners is not entirely silly it is also a strong one and has a purpose - The Team of Less back in Blue Bell were still celebrating their birthdays with this quirky tradition and they had been my safe haven for debating all of the traumas of bringing up children, the heartless teachers, their first grade crushes and the rows they had with their best friends. The West Coast group was no different. Whilst we all ran for different reasons, some for competition, others to keep in shape, some to keep awake after working night shifts in the medical profession, we shared the same need for venting, discussing and confessing. Nothing much had changed about this story, except now the talk was of crazy college scrapes, of kids home but always asleep, or the strife created now by the words 'summer job' or 'internship'. Over a luscious melt in the mouth smoked salmon hash at Chow's our conversation eventually ranged away from more domestic affairs and onto other topics and some one casually asked how my recent race in Oakland had gone.
The short answer was probably what they were looking for and of course ' fine' 'nice weather, good course and great garlic fries at the end' would have been quite reasonable. But they were nice enough to listen to the very long answer. The long answer was more convoluted, and it involved a healthy dose of self awareness. My answer began with the background that I had run that same Oakland Half Marathon a year earlier. I had trained pretty hard, and after a 1:36 PR a few months earlier in Walnut Creek on a tougher course was all ready for another fast run. Sadly, that hadn't happened. For whatever reason, maybe the slightly warm weather, maybe I was stale from doing a similar training plan two times around, but I found myself consistently off pace throughout the race. In desperation I had decided to kick it a bit at mile 11 instead of my usual mile 12 and in the process gave myself a huge stitch and limped in even slower, very depressed with an uncomfortable 1:37:45 and was not too happy with myself.
So this year the same race rolled around, but having had a stress fracture all fall I couldn't really start full training until February and had hurriedly compressed the usual 12 weeks into 7 by cutting out some of the longer runs and just focused on the hard tempo runs and some filler mileage. Well, and here was the kicker - I had then run slightly faster this year, on less fitness, and minimal training, and conversely had felt really happy and satisfied at the end of the race. This year I had entered the race grateful to be running, with low expectations of success, and set very conservative pace goals. As I hit the 5k mark a minute ahead of pace, I congratulated myself and gave myself a mental pat on the back for starting well. Every mile I ran I felt successful after that - simply because I told myself I was. Instead of the shrill nagging dialogue of 'its not good enough, your off pace" I had a glorious cheerleader screaming 'you go girl, your ahead of where you need to be'. The difference in effect was remarkable. I paced well, my body felt relaxed, I was tired in a good way, but not uncomfortable and I ended with my fastest mile in the entire race feeling I had let myself run well. I had given myself permission to do well.
The take home was simple, next time let yourself be successful. Don't burden yourself with expecting a PR in every race, be happy and celebrate every small achievement and you truly will be successful. Despite less fitness, training and confidence, my body felt better and raced better than it had a year earlier as it was no longer flinching under the pressure of an internal diatribe of under achievement.
The applications to this philosophy were many and varied - where else in my life had I handicapped myself by being too relentless in pursuit of perfection, it gave me much pause for thought. The self discovery that came with that simple question, brought us on to other more light hearted topics. Gwyneth Paltrow's Conscious Uncoupling from Chris Martin, as reported on her website Goop was yet another example of crazy Hollywood lives. Now that terminology, which for everyone else had been divorce or separation, had us in guffaws of laughter - she made it sound more like some existential train spotter convention than a rift in your personal life. Would there be a cook book on how to consciously uncouple with macrobiotic adzuki beans or knit your own greek yogurt so that Apple and Moses could be physically as well as emotionally nourished on this journey. Well, when in California, If Gwyn could divorce with breathing exercises and kindness, maybe I could do the same with my race attitude. Kindness and breath were probably two very important aids to my running experience that day. As the group continued to consciously couple over breakfast, I sat licking Risa's perfect lemon cupcake and thought - there is something to this west coast craziness after all….
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