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!'
Thursday, June 12, 2014
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….
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Last of the Summer Whine: An Experiment in Summer Running goes Bad
There is nothing more damaging to a runner's psyche than fear of injury - it can keep you up at night wondering if that last long run was too long, if you have signed up for too many races, or if you need to traipse down to Sports Basement for another new pair of shoes yet….The biggest fear of all is the grandaddy of all injuries…the dreaded 'stress fracture'. This is the one where no amount of stretching, icing or ART (Active Muscle Relief) can do you any good; this is the one where only rest will work; this is the one when you can't jog through the pain or your risk fully fracturing the bone meaning an even longer lay off. It hangs over you as a disastrous, career ending situation, with visions of anorexic teenage girls on crutches due to cracks in their pelvis from heavy training and restricted calorie diets. It wasn't something I ever anticipated….
After a few years of racing I had finally developed a carefully thought out training regimen which seemed to work for me: speed day Tuesday, Tempo Thursday and long run at the weekend with fillers in between, some yoga and strength work added in here and there. Much as I loved running, I did notice I was getting a little bored with the self imposed tyranny of 'the schedule'. Sure I could break it up with fun company, new races, new goals, and by still demanding PR's of myself at 47, but truth be told it was getting old and the PR's were getting harder to eke out. I wondered if I should just give it up and run for fun?
As a mental health break I decided to go 'off schedule' for once. I had always done this at the end of a major race, but only for 4 weeks at most, and did other things, went to the gym, rode a bike and mostly indulged in 'when you feel like it running'. But now I decided I was going to take a whole summer off and that meant June - September. Summer vacation was going to be a ton of fun, I had friends to run with at weekends, and a cross country team I was working with who met at 7 pm every night on Castle Rock Road during the week. Then to make it even more fun I had the bright idea of offering 7 am training runs in gorgeous Castle Rock Park to any ambitious varsity types who wanted to add in 'two a days', or for kids who couldn't make the evening runs due to jobs etc.
Summer was suddenly wonderful again - very few kids came out in the morning, but those that did, and there were always one or two, taught me some great routes. True they were a little quiet in the mmornings, where as anyone who knows me soon learns that I am bouncing around like Tigger from 4.30 am onwards, definitely a morning gal. The runs intrigued me with their crazy names passed down from one runner to the next: Powerline because you get to the top of the hill and can virtually reach the power cables and feel you could zip line down them, Forgotten, because it changes every time you run it, or Lord of the Rings, for its Tolkien like foliage, and its vertiginous hill that challenged you just to stay in running motion.
There was also a new 'fear factor' on the trails, getting lost or not keeping up was a real possibility as were tarantulas and rattle snakes. Coming down Lord of the Rings I froze the first two times, side slipping my way down it was so steep; eventually, after watching kids happily trot down it I 'manned up' and learnt to gingerly jog down it. The kids were much more nimble on the trails, but I knew my less flexible middle age body might find getting up again to be a serious problem. I discovered you could run further and further, deep into the park on out and backs to Naked Laked and beyond that and that there really wasn't a lake, just a dried up bed of reeds. The park was cooler in the mornings and the sand and dust didn't fly in your face - just the promise of another beautiful day in California.
Returning to running in the evening was a challenge some days, I had never been an evening runner, and I really do like dinner! Knowing that Laurence and 50 or so other kids would be showing up in the evening kept me coming back and I could I could choose to run as fast or as slow as I felt. There was always a group of runners to match how my legs felt and watching them afterwards enjoy their watermelon fest at the end of the run, was a shared celebration of a great day of runnning on the trails.
Of course my legs did get sore, switching from the even pace of roads to lots of hills, uneven trails and the rocky, sandy down hills worked tendons I didn't know I had, my post tib tendon and achilles needed babying at times, but I learned which routes were flatter than others and picked the group and the route I felt like. It was liberating, fun and importantly it was spontaneous - for the first time I couldn't look at my calendar a month out and know what I would be running that day.
I didn't race all summer, and I didn't miss it one bit. I emerged at the end of it to try a 10K in downtown Walnut Creek, the race for Education. I had no expectations, it was more a diagnostic run to see where I was at and I wondered how my little experiment would leave me. I hadn't done any of the long tempo runs, I had done some distance at weekends, but mostly I had done runs of 3 - 8 miles on trails, some fast, some 13,14 or 15 minute mile paces run snail slow; none of it had been at any kind of race pace and I had no road based training to show me what speed I might run.
What emerged was interesting - my least favourite distance had clearly become my favourite distance and round about the 4 mile mark I really regretted having signed up for the 10k. A mile into the race I was feeling really good and noticed my pace as a good 15/20 seconds faster than usual, so I slowed it down, and by mile 2 started to see a good friend who was running the 5k and who runs about my pace draw up along side. She was puffing and panting and generally having what appeared to be a really hard time, I was worried, thought maybe she was having a bad day and gave her a big shout out of encouragement as she finally stepped ahead and passed me half a mile before the end of the race. I carried on cruising through the 5k mark still feeling very relaxed and at ease, and started the second loop. About the 4/5 mile mark I started to feel winded, and a combination of bored and uncomfortable that I hadn't felt for a long time, and suddenly didn't know what to do about. There was no one much on the course now, as the 10k is always small, so I trudged on disappointedly knowing my time was slowing. I finished and was not generally impressed with my effort. A nice surprise however was seeing my friend beaming on the podium with a new PR; she wasn't having a bad day at all, she had run really well and wasn't dying, she was just racing.
Turned out my 10k time was a modest PR despite my really slow second half; but my biggest surprise was to see that my 5k split was close to my 5k PR, and that had been with me deliberately taking it really easy. If I hadn't seen my time and slowed down at miles 2 and 3 I was on course for a really fast 5k time. Of course there is always an element of shouda woulda coulda. But my take home was that the summer on the trails had finally turned me from a marathoner to a 5k runner - if hills were speed work in disguise I had been inadvertently been doing 2/3 speed sessions a week that would have intimidated me on the flat but became a mental challenge to just stay upright on the trails. Conversely that long tempo work that I normally enjoyed had been eradicated and I had given out in the second half, running it much slower.
It was funny, I had spent a whole summer once on a hard training plan trying to run a 20 minute 5k and failed, only managed it finally the next spring after dropping out of the Boston Marathon at mile 18 and needing a redemption run 3 days later. But here was something beyond the scope of my goals, I never really thought I could get faster in a short race in my old age and here it was, the totally elusive 19 minutes, and it had just been dangled in my face, and then swiftly whipped away from me. I had definitely picked the wrong race that day - but it made me wonder about next summer…..
The weather began to cool, school returned and my thoughts then turned to the Fall; it was time to get back to traditional training and I was ready mentally. Now to turn this base of speed and strength into endurance again. I signed up for a schedule of three or four 10ks and half marathons, culminating in the Goofiest of all, training for a back to back half and full marathon to celebrate my lovely friend Karen's 50th Birthday in Florida.
I previewed the training plan by a few weeks to make sure my base was strong enough, and did some pace long runs at around 12 miles. My second or third week of these found me running happily down the old Iron Horse trail, a flat and lengthy path through Danville. We had run 5 easy, and the 5 pace had been much faster and easier than was needed - I was feelin fine! Then almost as soon as I started the easy cool down I noticed a pain on the top of one foot, like the tongue of the shoe needed adjusting. I left it, not wanting to break my friend's momentum and knew I could fix it soon as it was a short cool down. At home my foot was puffy and bruised feeling but I was not too alarmed. I rested it a day or so, and it felt a fair bit better, so I risked a short 3 miler and it was good. The next day was an opportunity to revisit the scenic 'Waterfall' a gorgeous 8 miler across the trails, and it was 4 miles into that run that every step felt like a large hot rock was simultaneously under and on top of my foot.
Medical opinion was not certain if it was bruising or perhaps the dreaded monster in the room, the 'stress fracture' but several weeks of hobbling in a boot a visit to the orthopod, finally confirmed it was so. My summer holiday running experiment had been interesting, surprising and had ended in tears. Most running advice suggest trails minimize pounding and are softer and gentler than road; they are NOT. Its true, you run slower on trail, sometimes because they are difficult but the torque on your feet and ankles is much greater, and some of the ground can feel as hard as asphalt if you run them in the summer. Also, 47 year olds take longer to recover from a run than 17 year olds….none of the students did 'two a days' every day; like them I should have eased into it more gradually. I was just having too much fun and have always been immoderate!
The big question of course is would I do it again. The answer is you bet, and there is always next summer, but I will ease into it a bit and pay more attention to recovery. Now its here, it turns out a stress fracture, isn't the end of the world, just a season. Its true spinning gives me brain blisters and deep water running is only fun with a friend, and whilst I like to think I would be more cautious next time I some how doubt it. Sadly I won't get to run Goofy but I hear there are some other things to do in Disney than run?
After a few years of racing I had finally developed a carefully thought out training regimen which seemed to work for me: speed day Tuesday, Tempo Thursday and long run at the weekend with fillers in between, some yoga and strength work added in here and there. Much as I loved running, I did notice I was getting a little bored with the self imposed tyranny of 'the schedule'. Sure I could break it up with fun company, new races, new goals, and by still demanding PR's of myself at 47, but truth be told it was getting old and the PR's were getting harder to eke out. I wondered if I should just give it up and run for fun?
As a mental health break I decided to go 'off schedule' for once. I had always done this at the end of a major race, but only for 4 weeks at most, and did other things, went to the gym, rode a bike and mostly indulged in 'when you feel like it running'. But now I decided I was going to take a whole summer off and that meant June - September. Summer vacation was going to be a ton of fun, I had friends to run with at weekends, and a cross country team I was working with who met at 7 pm every night on Castle Rock Road during the week. Then to make it even more fun I had the bright idea of offering 7 am training runs in gorgeous Castle Rock Park to any ambitious varsity types who wanted to add in 'two a days', or for kids who couldn't make the evening runs due to jobs etc.
Summer was suddenly wonderful again - very few kids came out in the morning, but those that did, and there were always one or two, taught me some great routes. True they were a little quiet in the mmornings, where as anyone who knows me soon learns that I am bouncing around like Tigger from 4.30 am onwards, definitely a morning gal. The runs intrigued me with their crazy names passed down from one runner to the next: Powerline because you get to the top of the hill and can virtually reach the power cables and feel you could zip line down them, Forgotten, because it changes every time you run it, or Lord of the Rings, for its Tolkien like foliage, and its vertiginous hill that challenged you just to stay in running motion.
There was also a new 'fear factor' on the trails, getting lost or not keeping up was a real possibility as were tarantulas and rattle snakes. Coming down Lord of the Rings I froze the first two times, side slipping my way down it was so steep; eventually, after watching kids happily trot down it I 'manned up' and learnt to gingerly jog down it. The kids were much more nimble on the trails, but I knew my less flexible middle age body might find getting up again to be a serious problem. I discovered you could run further and further, deep into the park on out and backs to Naked Laked and beyond that and that there really wasn't a lake, just a dried up bed of reeds. The park was cooler in the mornings and the sand and dust didn't fly in your face - just the promise of another beautiful day in California.
Returning to running in the evening was a challenge some days, I had never been an evening runner, and I really do like dinner! Knowing that Laurence and 50 or so other kids would be showing up in the evening kept me coming back and I could I could choose to run as fast or as slow as I felt. There was always a group of runners to match how my legs felt and watching them afterwards enjoy their watermelon fest at the end of the run, was a shared celebration of a great day of runnning on the trails.
Of course my legs did get sore, switching from the even pace of roads to lots of hills, uneven trails and the rocky, sandy down hills worked tendons I didn't know I had, my post tib tendon and achilles needed babying at times, but I learned which routes were flatter than others and picked the group and the route I felt like. It was liberating, fun and importantly it was spontaneous - for the first time I couldn't look at my calendar a month out and know what I would be running that day.
I didn't race all summer, and I didn't miss it one bit. I emerged at the end of it to try a 10K in downtown Walnut Creek, the race for Education. I had no expectations, it was more a diagnostic run to see where I was at and I wondered how my little experiment would leave me. I hadn't done any of the long tempo runs, I had done some distance at weekends, but mostly I had done runs of 3 - 8 miles on trails, some fast, some 13,14 or 15 minute mile paces run snail slow; none of it had been at any kind of race pace and I had no road based training to show me what speed I might run.
What emerged was interesting - my least favourite distance had clearly become my favourite distance and round about the 4 mile mark I really regretted having signed up for the 10k. A mile into the race I was feeling really good and noticed my pace as a good 15/20 seconds faster than usual, so I slowed it down, and by mile 2 started to see a good friend who was running the 5k and who runs about my pace draw up along side. She was puffing and panting and generally having what appeared to be a really hard time, I was worried, thought maybe she was having a bad day and gave her a big shout out of encouragement as she finally stepped ahead and passed me half a mile before the end of the race. I carried on cruising through the 5k mark still feeling very relaxed and at ease, and started the second loop. About the 4/5 mile mark I started to feel winded, and a combination of bored and uncomfortable that I hadn't felt for a long time, and suddenly didn't know what to do about. There was no one much on the course now, as the 10k is always small, so I trudged on disappointedly knowing my time was slowing. I finished and was not generally impressed with my effort. A nice surprise however was seeing my friend beaming on the podium with a new PR; she wasn't having a bad day at all, she had run really well and wasn't dying, she was just racing.
Turned out my 10k time was a modest PR despite my really slow second half; but my biggest surprise was to see that my 5k split was close to my 5k PR, and that had been with me deliberately taking it really easy. If I hadn't seen my time and slowed down at miles 2 and 3 I was on course for a really fast 5k time. Of course there is always an element of shouda woulda coulda. But my take home was that the summer on the trails had finally turned me from a marathoner to a 5k runner - if hills were speed work in disguise I had been inadvertently been doing 2/3 speed sessions a week that would have intimidated me on the flat but became a mental challenge to just stay upright on the trails. Conversely that long tempo work that I normally enjoyed had been eradicated and I had given out in the second half, running it much slower.
It was funny, I had spent a whole summer once on a hard training plan trying to run a 20 minute 5k and failed, only managed it finally the next spring after dropping out of the Boston Marathon at mile 18 and needing a redemption run 3 days later. But here was something beyond the scope of my goals, I never really thought I could get faster in a short race in my old age and here it was, the totally elusive 19 minutes, and it had just been dangled in my face, and then swiftly whipped away from me. I had definitely picked the wrong race that day - but it made me wonder about next summer…..
The weather began to cool, school returned and my thoughts then turned to the Fall; it was time to get back to traditional training and I was ready mentally. Now to turn this base of speed and strength into endurance again. I signed up for a schedule of three or four 10ks and half marathons, culminating in the Goofiest of all, training for a back to back half and full marathon to celebrate my lovely friend Karen's 50th Birthday in Florida.
I previewed the training plan by a few weeks to make sure my base was strong enough, and did some pace long runs at around 12 miles. My second or third week of these found me running happily down the old Iron Horse trail, a flat and lengthy path through Danville. We had run 5 easy, and the 5 pace had been much faster and easier than was needed - I was feelin fine! Then almost as soon as I started the easy cool down I noticed a pain on the top of one foot, like the tongue of the shoe needed adjusting. I left it, not wanting to break my friend's momentum and knew I could fix it soon as it was a short cool down. At home my foot was puffy and bruised feeling but I was not too alarmed. I rested it a day or so, and it felt a fair bit better, so I risked a short 3 miler and it was good. The next day was an opportunity to revisit the scenic 'Waterfall' a gorgeous 8 miler across the trails, and it was 4 miles into that run that every step felt like a large hot rock was simultaneously under and on top of my foot.
Medical opinion was not certain if it was bruising or perhaps the dreaded monster in the room, the 'stress fracture' but several weeks of hobbling in a boot a visit to the orthopod, finally confirmed it was so. My summer holiday running experiment had been interesting, surprising and had ended in tears. Most running advice suggest trails minimize pounding and are softer and gentler than road; they are NOT. Its true, you run slower on trail, sometimes because they are difficult but the torque on your feet and ankles is much greater, and some of the ground can feel as hard as asphalt if you run them in the summer. Also, 47 year olds take longer to recover from a run than 17 year olds….none of the students did 'two a days' every day; like them I should have eased into it more gradually. I was just having too much fun and have always been immoderate!
The big question of course is would I do it again. The answer is you bet, and there is always next summer, but I will ease into it a bit and pay more attention to recovery. Now its here, it turns out a stress fracture, isn't the end of the world, just a season. Its true spinning gives me brain blisters and deep water running is only fun with a friend, and whilst I like to think I would be more cautious next time I some how doubt it. Sadly I won't get to run Goofy but I hear there are some other things to do in Disney than run?
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The Unicorn Still Survives
5.30 am dawned and as usual I rolled over to check my cell phone to find 25 texts from the Team of Less on the East Coast. The texts had started with a cheery picture of our first Boston, all four of us looking fresh and snappy in the obnoxiously loud turquoise marathon jackets. The Happy Patriots Day message soon switched to the usual banter, with the two tennis players daring each other to do running drills on court and keep headbands and wrist bands with the jacket to scare the other team off. It was great to talk to them again; I had missed the inane chatter and abusive humour.
A little later I started streaming the Boston Marathon live on my computer, looked wistfully as the runners as they lined up, with a bit of a pang. Of course this year the temperatures were the perfect 47f at the start that I had been hoping for, not the 89f broilerthon it was last year - I kept thinking 'I so should have deferred last year when the race organizers offered' instead of limping through 18 miles of heat haze and then ducking out of the race with an injury. We kept in touch by cell phone during the race, rooting for Shalane and Kara, and enjoying the tactics of the worlds' best figuring out that tricky course. The fact that Shalane could still throw a wave to the crowd just before the crossed the finish line, despite her desperate attempt to move from 4th place to a podium finish, was awe inspiring. Shalane Flanagan had grown up in nearby Marblehead, and been inspired from an early age by that race and the crowd was behind her. The Boston crowd support is the best of any kind at a race and watching the hoards of locals and those who had travelled for miles brought back some really happy memories. Boston locals will bring you fresh bottles of cold water, bring you inside to treat your blisters, and throw jelly beans at you at every corner if you need it - they love that race, and despite being invaded by 26,000 runners every year are always welcoming.
Coming out of the gym at lunch time I noticed another 25 texts from the girls. This time I was shocked to see them talking about two explosions, blood and injuries....the grim reality of the bombings started to unfold through their horrified exchanges. I got home and started watching news reports and the videos showed that the chaos wrought on that iconic race was enormous. The disaster resonated strongly with me, as it would any runner. These were people being attacked who had worked for months to try and do something truly worthwhile, many raising millions of dollars for charity in the process, and they were under siege for no apparent reason. I was imagining what it would feel like to be that close to the finish line, to be feeling exhausted, slightly delirious and focused on the end, and how bewildering and confusing it must have been to see explosions, or bunches of runners holding up the road. The bomb location was very close to the church that we had all posed and met up that first year, 13 children with us marshalled by 3 slightly stressed Daddy's. We had stayed at a hotel in Copley square for convenience, and shepherding 13 young kids at a major sporting event was already chaos; all I could think was, imagine if they had been there amidst the carnage that was now the finish line. Last year would also have seen baby Berkeley directly in harm's way. The gut wrenching injustice of learning that an 8 year old was amongst the deaths, made me start to feel more strongly - he had come to support his father in the race and now his mother was having surgery for grievous injuries and his little sister had needed an amputation. That family had been ripped apart on what should have been one of their proudest and happiest of days.
Whether the perpetrator turns out to be a lone individual or politically or religiously motivated, the purpose of the attack was clearly to spread terror. With so many concentrated in one spot at such a landmark event the bombs were there to propagate unease and fear. The reports that there were more undetonanted explosives must have made for mass panic, and a sense of not knowing where to go or how to get there.
The realization that we are no longer safe at such major events is the purpose of such terrorism. I agreed with the first of my friends who said it perversely made her want to go back and race Boston again - as to stay away was to be intimidated and would serve the purpose of those who had destroyed so much. In two weeks time I am heading for the Big Sur marathon, and I thought briefly about whether I would be flinching every time I heard a loud noise. I had signed up both myself and Laurence for the other big San Francisco race, Bay to Breakers in May - previously I had only worried whether he would survive the drunken revellers, now I had other things to think about. But I know as a runner you have to continue to support the events, you have to keep running and deny the terrorists.
To me Boston has always symbolized everything I like about running and the running community. The unicorn is a symbol of the perfection of racing, a perfection that is rarely if ever attained, as a faultless race is something we all seek but rarely achieve. The marathon was what started the modern day Olympic games, it unified countries in the search for athletic excellence and sportsmanship, and this was the most famous, prestigious and oldest of them all. The race is loved by many, is still a challenge to attain, with runners spending their entire careers sometimes seeking that special BQ or Boston qualifying time. It is a great celebration of life and intertwines many levels of runners from the international elites to the 80 year olds who have been running it for decades. Those who had planted the bombs knew all of this about the race, and yet wanted to smash all of those qualities in front of the worlds' media.
Terrorists may have the attention of the media, but I believe that the running community will never stay away from Boston. Next Sunday, when the gun goes off at the London Marathon, those who run it will be doing so with even more dedication and conviction after this horrific attack.
A little later I started streaming the Boston Marathon live on my computer, looked wistfully as the runners as they lined up, with a bit of a pang. Of course this year the temperatures were the perfect 47f at the start that I had been hoping for, not the 89f broilerthon it was last year - I kept thinking 'I so should have deferred last year when the race organizers offered' instead of limping through 18 miles of heat haze and then ducking out of the race with an injury. We kept in touch by cell phone during the race, rooting for Shalane and Kara, and enjoying the tactics of the worlds' best figuring out that tricky course. The fact that Shalane could still throw a wave to the crowd just before the crossed the finish line, despite her desperate attempt to move from 4th place to a podium finish, was awe inspiring. Shalane Flanagan had grown up in nearby Marblehead, and been inspired from an early age by that race and the crowd was behind her. The Boston crowd support is the best of any kind at a race and watching the hoards of locals and those who had travelled for miles brought back some really happy memories. Boston locals will bring you fresh bottles of cold water, bring you inside to treat your blisters, and throw jelly beans at you at every corner if you need it - they love that race, and despite being invaded by 26,000 runners every year are always welcoming.
Coming out of the gym at lunch time I noticed another 25 texts from the girls. This time I was shocked to see them talking about two explosions, blood and injuries....the grim reality of the bombings started to unfold through their horrified exchanges. I got home and started watching news reports and the videos showed that the chaos wrought on that iconic race was enormous. The disaster resonated strongly with me, as it would any runner. These were people being attacked who had worked for months to try and do something truly worthwhile, many raising millions of dollars for charity in the process, and they were under siege for no apparent reason. I was imagining what it would feel like to be that close to the finish line, to be feeling exhausted, slightly delirious and focused on the end, and how bewildering and confusing it must have been to see explosions, or bunches of runners holding up the road. The bomb location was very close to the church that we had all posed and met up that first year, 13 children with us marshalled by 3 slightly stressed Daddy's. We had stayed at a hotel in Copley square for convenience, and shepherding 13 young kids at a major sporting event was already chaos; all I could think was, imagine if they had been there amidst the carnage that was now the finish line. Last year would also have seen baby Berkeley directly in harm's way. The gut wrenching injustice of learning that an 8 year old was amongst the deaths, made me start to feel more strongly - he had come to support his father in the race and now his mother was having surgery for grievous injuries and his little sister had needed an amputation. That family had been ripped apart on what should have been one of their proudest and happiest of days.
Whether the perpetrator turns out to be a lone individual or politically or religiously motivated, the purpose of the attack was clearly to spread terror. With so many concentrated in one spot at such a landmark event the bombs were there to propagate unease and fear. The reports that there were more undetonanted explosives must have made for mass panic, and a sense of not knowing where to go or how to get there.
The realization that we are no longer safe at such major events is the purpose of such terrorism. I agreed with the first of my friends who said it perversely made her want to go back and race Boston again - as to stay away was to be intimidated and would serve the purpose of those who had destroyed so much. In two weeks time I am heading for the Big Sur marathon, and I thought briefly about whether I would be flinching every time I heard a loud noise. I had signed up both myself and Laurence for the other big San Francisco race, Bay to Breakers in May - previously I had only worried whether he would survive the drunken revellers, now I had other things to think about. But I know as a runner you have to continue to support the events, you have to keep running and deny the terrorists.
To me Boston has always symbolized everything I like about running and the running community. The unicorn is a symbol of the perfection of racing, a perfection that is rarely if ever attained, as a faultless race is something we all seek but rarely achieve. The marathon was what started the modern day Olympic games, it unified countries in the search for athletic excellence and sportsmanship, and this was the most famous, prestigious and oldest of them all. The race is loved by many, is still a challenge to attain, with runners spending their entire careers sometimes seeking that special BQ or Boston qualifying time. It is a great celebration of life and intertwines many levels of runners from the international elites to the 80 year olds who have been running it for decades. Those who had planted the bombs knew all of this about the race, and yet wanted to smash all of those qualities in front of the worlds' media.
Terrorists may have the attention of the media, but I believe that the running community will never stay away from Boston. Next Sunday, when the gun goes off at the London Marathon, those who run it will be doing so with even more dedication and conviction after this horrific attack.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Running Rules
One of my most vivid memories of moving to America 11 years ago, was how staggeringly enormous the quantities of food were. Wandering into a diner during our first few weeks of living in the US we naturally ordered that great American staple, the pancake, a short stack to be precise. Like many tourists, we all thought my daughter's order was for the entire table, and when we realized our mistake, we photographed the steamy stack of carbs in awe! We adjusted frighteningly fast, and for a while it didn't even register as a shock. We also learnt to order more intelligently and do 'take out' bringing half the food home. Now if we go for fondue at the Melting Pot on Christmas Eve, we know to resist the wait staff and recommendations and instead order the set meal for two as it feeds four of us really well. The combination of Pennsyvlania's delicious cheap eats, vast portions of fries and cheeseteaks, and no pavements to walk anywher, made me realize a future of obesity lay ahead of me in this new land of plenty. I had always done some running, for fun, enjoying the company of friends, jogging round the Heath in England, now it became more of a mission just to burn off the vast amounts of food that lay ahead and a more serious intent set in.
Running still keeps me on the straight and narrow in many ways, but it goes way beyond just food. Giving up a career at a similar time also made me realize there was a gaping lack of structure to my day - I could literally lie on the couch and eat bon bons all day if I felt like it. I needed some rules and purpose to my routine, other than just making dinner, laundry and running kids around.
I have found that a good training plan makes me happy. I know from the minute I get up what the work out is for the day. Regardless of how many boring or exciting plans I have for the day, the run is foremost in my mind, whether it is the track, a trail or the road it is probably the most difficult and also fun thing I will do that day. A weekend is not a weekend unless I have tackled my Friday long run, Tuesday is an excellent day for intervals as it is the hardest working day of the week and my favorite run, the tempo, is often on Sundays.
So finishing up my fall race and taking a three week hiatus in training has been interesting and challenging. I know that mentally it is critical to take some time off, and my legs were about to drop off, so it was long over due. Waking up and having to choose my workout for the day with no map or plan to buy into has been interesting to say the least. Choice is stressful - should I rest, should I take a class, should I do a social run with people I don't get to spend time with normally, should I try a new destination - what do I feel like? All of those thoughts require energy, and then you second guess them, which takes even more energy, and before you know it the day has ended leaving you dissatisfied with what you chose to make of it.
In addition to the tyranny of choice of work out, there is the rest of the 'plan' to worry about. If I haven't decided what I am running the next day that means I can eat a super spicey curry and not worry about burping all through my run, I can have as many glasses of wine as I like and not suffer the consequences, and I can stay up past 9 pm and watch mind numbing tv if I really want to. Truth is that is fun for a while, but then it gets old - I haven't even made it to New Year's and being 'free of the plan' is losing its allure.
After three weeks I simply can't take it any more! All this choice is unravelling me so when I signed up for the famous costume fest of Bay to Breakers, the electronic coaching plan that came free with registration simply called my name - whispering through the ether of the internet 'Ruthless, I need you like you need me". Before I knew it I was unconsciously sucked into entering some basic parameters, previous race times, miles per week and there it was - in glorious black and white, the creation of a new week, a new life. Now the race ain't until May, I really don't need to be training until mid February, but there is something about the structure of a week with its blend of long run, tempo and interval that I just can't resist - it feels normal and comforting and I find it makes me happy.
I have coached myself for the past year, written my own training plans, and not really shared with any runners due to moving house, different pace goals etc. So when an email popped up today with my suggested 5k/10k maintenance plan for this week I realized that I was hooked and ready to do exactly as it said without dispute. Finally being told what to do is perversely freeing, now I don't have to spend an hour arguing with myself about what to do. I can grumble at the coach if I don't like it, but I know I will be a good girl and do as I am told and be happier for it. If you can't afford a real coach, get an online friend, I promise you it is very soothing - already I am fast forwarding to the moment when I will fill in my training log on line and get that wonderful satisfaction of once again 'following the plan'.....
Running still keeps me on the straight and narrow in many ways, but it goes way beyond just food. Giving up a career at a similar time also made me realize there was a gaping lack of structure to my day - I could literally lie on the couch and eat bon bons all day if I felt like it. I needed some rules and purpose to my routine, other than just making dinner, laundry and running kids around.
I have found that a good training plan makes me happy. I know from the minute I get up what the work out is for the day. Regardless of how many boring or exciting plans I have for the day, the run is foremost in my mind, whether it is the track, a trail or the road it is probably the most difficult and also fun thing I will do that day. A weekend is not a weekend unless I have tackled my Friday long run, Tuesday is an excellent day for intervals as it is the hardest working day of the week and my favorite run, the tempo, is often on Sundays.
So finishing up my fall race and taking a three week hiatus in training has been interesting and challenging. I know that mentally it is critical to take some time off, and my legs were about to drop off, so it was long over due. Waking up and having to choose my workout for the day with no map or plan to buy into has been interesting to say the least. Choice is stressful - should I rest, should I take a class, should I do a social run with people I don't get to spend time with normally, should I try a new destination - what do I feel like? All of those thoughts require energy, and then you second guess them, which takes even more energy, and before you know it the day has ended leaving you dissatisfied with what you chose to make of it.
In addition to the tyranny of choice of work out, there is the rest of the 'plan' to worry about. If I haven't decided what I am running the next day that means I can eat a super spicey curry and not worry about burping all through my run, I can have as many glasses of wine as I like and not suffer the consequences, and I can stay up past 9 pm and watch mind numbing tv if I really want to. Truth is that is fun for a while, but then it gets old - I haven't even made it to New Year's and being 'free of the plan' is losing its allure.
After three weeks I simply can't take it any more! All this choice is unravelling me so when I signed up for the famous costume fest of Bay to Breakers, the electronic coaching plan that came free with registration simply called my name - whispering through the ether of the internet 'Ruthless, I need you like you need me". Before I knew it I was unconsciously sucked into entering some basic parameters, previous race times, miles per week and there it was - in glorious black and white, the creation of a new week, a new life. Now the race ain't until May, I really don't need to be training until mid February, but there is something about the structure of a week with its blend of long run, tempo and interval that I just can't resist - it feels normal and comforting and I find it makes me happy.
I have coached myself for the past year, written my own training plans, and not really shared with any runners due to moving house, different pace goals etc. So when an email popped up today with my suggested 5k/10k maintenance plan for this week I realized that I was hooked and ready to do exactly as it said without dispute. Finally being told what to do is perversely freeing, now I don't have to spend an hour arguing with myself about what to do. I can grumble at the coach if I don't like it, but I know I will be a good girl and do as I am told and be happier for it. If you can't afford a real coach, get an online friend, I promise you it is very soothing - already I am fast forwarding to the moment when I will fill in my training log on line and get that wonderful satisfaction of once again 'following the plan'.....
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
She's Behind You!
Coming off a long cross country season, number one son whimsically decided to join me for what would be his half marathon debut. More of an endurance than speed merchant he was curious to see how he would do. I tenderly explained to him the eve of the race, that as I had trained religiously for the past three months, I had goals to achieve, and would not be derailed or lose focus by my favorite son joining the party late in the day. I was not anticipating any feel good mother son experience on race day. To further ampifly my point, I made it clear that even if both his legs were dropping off I would not be speaking or engaging with him during the race - motherhood is a strong bond, but racing was racing after all.....
The corner stone of distance training is of course the weekly long run that steadily builds in distance or pace. The the boy hadn't done any ten milers since the start of the season, and he had certainly never made it beyond those easy ten. For most of the season those long runs had instead been hilly 8 milers on the trails, but he had been frustrated at paying his dues running the Frosher 2 mile courses, spending most of the race playing catch up in these races due to his slower start so he was curious to see what a longer race was like. The normal progression would be to sign up for a 10k to figure this out....but the race organizers had eliminated that option, just leaving either the 5k or half to choose between.
My only maternal advice took place earlier in the week, when I was feeling benevolent and caring. I patiently told him to go out conservatively, then to run relatively easy on the hills as they would feel gentle compared to some of the courses he had run, but to pick it up and really start racing at the 10 mile mark as that was a 5k to the finish; a race he would understand and could run by feel.
The flavor of a major race in a very small city was interesting. The Walnut Creek International (yes International I hear you say!) half marathon had all the trappings of sophisticated chip timing, umbrella arches to run through and pace corrals, and of course the aura of the famous Olympian Lopez Lomong to draw the crowds. Except there were no crowds, it took us ten minutes to get there and I didn't have to visit one porta potty.
Lining up in the 7 minute pace corral felt different, as there were less than 2,000 runners in this race, unlike the 40,000 who run Broad Street or the big races in Philly. I enjoyed the feeling of space and ran some strides with the boy, feeling surprisingly relaxed as a week of various aches, pains and incipient flu symptoms had done their usual job of evaporating as they often do at the dawn of a race. Neither of us bothered to discussed strategy or expectations, we just enyoyed the buzz of the race atmosphere.
After a couple of strides I returned to the start and noticed the extremely impressive presence of Lomong, dressed as if for winter in full length tights despite the balmy 42f temperatures. Standing surprisingly alone and unmolested by fans, he was due to be leading a pace group and as he was an 800m- 5k runner, and trained at a much faster pace, was bundled up in hat, gloves etc. Like a giddy teenager I whipped out my sharpie and asked him to sign the back of my Running Housewives of Blue Bell vest which now I can not wash and is crisping up niceley, but surely a collectors item. Lomong merrily obliged and was exceptionally charming when I also asked for a photo op. The boy looked on somewhat long sufferingly but was nice enough not to mock me, I think he was somewhat in awe of Lomong himself, but was much too cool to show it.
Within minutes the starting line assembled and in such a small field we found ourselves relatively near the front. Being careful to establish my pace from the outset I set off conservatively, at about 10 seconds faster than my goal race pace. I watched in dismay as Laurence had his fastest start of the season, running alongside Lomong like a happy puppy, as he quickly disappeared into the light fog. The boy had a chance to run alongside an Olympian in the face of which his mother's advice was of course total garbage!
I tried to focus on my pace, and not to think about what I was going to do when I found my progeny crumpled by the side of the road or limping on in pain at mile 10. Going out too fast in a distance run is not a winning strategy, for some reason that additional early effort draws on your reserves of energy much more than you think, and most runners prefer to attempt a negative split for such a long race. One of the things I like about distance running is the strategy and I made sure that the first part of the race felt easy, my legs were feeling tapered and eager to turnover. Then, just at the point in a race when normally I would have been in danger of going too fast, as it takes about 4 miles for the middle age muscles to start activating, the hills began. The looming presence of each hill was strangely muted, eroded as it was by a now blanket of heavy fog. Being able to see only four feet ahead had its advantages, you didn't need to stare the hill down or worry about what was coming, you just worked at it.
Turning the corner onto Ygnacio saw yet another climb and it was a point at which I started to labor into the beginnings of a side stitch. Attacking the hill hard enough so as to not lose too much time, but not so hard you were finished too early on in the race was a tricky balance, but that side stitch at the end reminded me to keep my breathing more even and the effort more relaxed.
The dramatic zig zag down the hills of Ygnacio was a hoot - I have always loved a good downhill, my quads are defnitely more up for it than the hamstrings and it was fun to pass all the people who had in turn passed me on the hill. Every mile that passed, that I failed to see the boy, actually cheered me up, as I thought he was probably doing just fine if he was no where in sight.
At mile 7.5 I started to glimpse a familiar arm action and grey tee shirt up ahead; and there he was. He was clearly slowing down, hitting that no mans land of getting tired but no hope of finishing soon; two thirds of the way done and he was running out of gas - he had clearly gone out way too fast! I maintained pace and subtly drew alongside long enough to break my own rule and said 'hello' in the way only a mother can - loaded with meaning. Without even a sideways glance the toe rag shot off and put 15 seconds of daylight between us. He clearly did not want my company either, or was anticipating 'helpful' coaching tips about how he had probably mispaced his race.
At mile ten many runners seemed to be lagging, and I watched as the boy surged forward again, passing a few of them, now totally lost in the fog and turns of the Heather Farm park section. At mile eleven and a half I saw him again, slowing slightly and, again, came within 15 seconds of him, it cheered me up that he was at least hanging in there and wasn't by the side of the road whimpering. It was also tantalizing as I realized I couldn't quite catch him after his fast start.
Miles 12 to 13 were more challenging, we hit a very muddy trail that slowed everyone down and made it hard to summon the energy for lifting the leg higher. Running up the final short hill on the bridge crossing Ygnacio I could still see him and decided now was the best time to add any kind of kick, wouldn't it be fun to cross the finish line together just like when he ran me in for 5 miles at the Philadelphia Marathon. Coming off the hill I powerlessly watched him disappear from view as my burst of speed proved to be somewhat flat, and watched him cross the finish line as I tried to power towards it - still with that same 15 seconds ahead of me. We finished 69th and 70th in the race.
A large placard with 'Run Like Your Mother is Behind You' will be waved in the air anytime I need my kid to go faster. The familiar thud of my foot fall and irritatingly heavy breathing was so well known to him that he didn't even need to see me, it had made him speed up with an almost pavlovian response, which no words of encouragement or advice could ever come close to replicating. Even in his finish line pictures you can see my looming presence rounding the corner behind him, emerging from the thick blanket of fog to impinge and possibly photo bomb his moment of glory.
Texts and emails and phonecalls from running buddies congratulated me on a lovely mother son experience, how nice they said that you could enjoy it together, and how nice of you to let him beat you at the end! If only they knew.....
Later that night he sidled up to me and said one thing 'guess that just leaves the marathon I haven't beaten you in yet then....'
The corner stone of distance training is of course the weekly long run that steadily builds in distance or pace. The the boy hadn't done any ten milers since the start of the season, and he had certainly never made it beyond those easy ten. For most of the season those long runs had instead been hilly 8 milers on the trails, but he had been frustrated at paying his dues running the Frosher 2 mile courses, spending most of the race playing catch up in these races due to his slower start so he was curious to see what a longer race was like. The normal progression would be to sign up for a 10k to figure this out....but the race organizers had eliminated that option, just leaving either the 5k or half to choose between.
My only maternal advice took place earlier in the week, when I was feeling benevolent and caring. I patiently told him to go out conservatively, then to run relatively easy on the hills as they would feel gentle compared to some of the courses he had run, but to pick it up and really start racing at the 10 mile mark as that was a 5k to the finish; a race he would understand and could run by feel.
The flavor of a major race in a very small city was interesting. The Walnut Creek International (yes International I hear you say!) half marathon had all the trappings of sophisticated chip timing, umbrella arches to run through and pace corrals, and of course the aura of the famous Olympian Lopez Lomong to draw the crowds. Except there were no crowds, it took us ten minutes to get there and I didn't have to visit one porta potty.
Lining up in the 7 minute pace corral felt different, as there were less than 2,000 runners in this race, unlike the 40,000 who run Broad Street or the big races in Philly. I enjoyed the feeling of space and ran some strides with the boy, feeling surprisingly relaxed as a week of various aches, pains and incipient flu symptoms had done their usual job of evaporating as they often do at the dawn of a race. Neither of us bothered to discussed strategy or expectations, we just enyoyed the buzz of the race atmosphere.
After a couple of strides I returned to the start and noticed the extremely impressive presence of Lomong, dressed as if for winter in full length tights despite the balmy 42f temperatures. Standing surprisingly alone and unmolested by fans, he was due to be leading a pace group and as he was an 800m- 5k runner, and trained at a much faster pace, was bundled up in hat, gloves etc. Like a giddy teenager I whipped out my sharpie and asked him to sign the back of my Running Housewives of Blue Bell vest which now I can not wash and is crisping up niceley, but surely a collectors item. Lomong merrily obliged and was exceptionally charming when I also asked for a photo op. The boy looked on somewhat long sufferingly but was nice enough not to mock me, I think he was somewhat in awe of Lomong himself, but was much too cool to show it.
Within minutes the starting line assembled and in such a small field we found ourselves relatively near the front. Being careful to establish my pace from the outset I set off conservatively, at about 10 seconds faster than my goal race pace. I watched in dismay as Laurence had his fastest start of the season, running alongside Lomong like a happy puppy, as he quickly disappeared into the light fog. The boy had a chance to run alongside an Olympian in the face of which his mother's advice was of course total garbage!
I tried to focus on my pace, and not to think about what I was going to do when I found my progeny crumpled by the side of the road or limping on in pain at mile 10. Going out too fast in a distance run is not a winning strategy, for some reason that additional early effort draws on your reserves of energy much more than you think, and most runners prefer to attempt a negative split for such a long race. One of the things I like about distance running is the strategy and I made sure that the first part of the race felt easy, my legs were feeling tapered and eager to turnover. Then, just at the point in a race when normally I would have been in danger of going too fast, as it takes about 4 miles for the middle age muscles to start activating, the hills began. The looming presence of each hill was strangely muted, eroded as it was by a now blanket of heavy fog. Being able to see only four feet ahead had its advantages, you didn't need to stare the hill down or worry about what was coming, you just worked at it.
Turning the corner onto Ygnacio saw yet another climb and it was a point at which I started to labor into the beginnings of a side stitch. Attacking the hill hard enough so as to not lose too much time, but not so hard you were finished too early on in the race was a tricky balance, but that side stitch at the end reminded me to keep my breathing more even and the effort more relaxed.
The dramatic zig zag down the hills of Ygnacio was a hoot - I have always loved a good downhill, my quads are defnitely more up for it than the hamstrings and it was fun to pass all the people who had in turn passed me on the hill. Every mile that passed, that I failed to see the boy, actually cheered me up, as I thought he was probably doing just fine if he was no where in sight.
At mile 7.5 I started to glimpse a familiar arm action and grey tee shirt up ahead; and there he was. He was clearly slowing down, hitting that no mans land of getting tired but no hope of finishing soon; two thirds of the way done and he was running out of gas - he had clearly gone out way too fast! I maintained pace and subtly drew alongside long enough to break my own rule and said 'hello' in the way only a mother can - loaded with meaning. Without even a sideways glance the toe rag shot off and put 15 seconds of daylight between us. He clearly did not want my company either, or was anticipating 'helpful' coaching tips about how he had probably mispaced his race.
At mile ten many runners seemed to be lagging, and I watched as the boy surged forward again, passing a few of them, now totally lost in the fog and turns of the Heather Farm park section. At mile eleven and a half I saw him again, slowing slightly and, again, came within 15 seconds of him, it cheered me up that he was at least hanging in there and wasn't by the side of the road whimpering. It was also tantalizing as I realized I couldn't quite catch him after his fast start.
Miles 12 to 13 were more challenging, we hit a very muddy trail that slowed everyone down and made it hard to summon the energy for lifting the leg higher. Running up the final short hill on the bridge crossing Ygnacio I could still see him and decided now was the best time to add any kind of kick, wouldn't it be fun to cross the finish line together just like when he ran me in for 5 miles at the Philadelphia Marathon. Coming off the hill I powerlessly watched him disappear from view as my burst of speed proved to be somewhat flat, and watched him cross the finish line as I tried to power towards it - still with that same 15 seconds ahead of me. We finished 69th and 70th in the race.
A large placard with 'Run Like Your Mother is Behind You' will be waved in the air anytime I need my kid to go faster. The familiar thud of my foot fall and irritatingly heavy breathing was so well known to him that he didn't even need to see me, it had made him speed up with an almost pavlovian response, which no words of encouragement or advice could ever come close to replicating. Even in his finish line pictures you can see my looming presence rounding the corner behind him, emerging from the thick blanket of fog to impinge and possibly photo bomb his moment of glory.
Texts and emails and phonecalls from running buddies congratulated me on a lovely mother son experience, how nice they said that you could enjoy it together, and how nice of you to let him beat you at the end! If only they knew.....
Later that night he sidled up to me and said one thing 'guess that just leaves the marathon I haven't beaten you in yet then....'
Monday, December 3, 2012
What's it all about Alfie?
There is runnning.....and there is racing...the two are really not the same. The zen runner goes out and just runs for the sheer joy of it, based on feel, only ever pushing the pace for periods of time that feel right, but mostly running in a comfortable zone. When you run to race you learn to follow the master plan, to do speed work when your legs are not 'feeling it', to do long runs when the weather is disgusting or you have a cold and should probably be taking it easy.
Envious though I am of that zen runner, I don't think that could ever be me - without the pressure or the goal setting of a race I revert to the lazy marshmallow version of myself, and would be lying on the coach watching tv, filled with self loathing. I really enjoy the preparation and rhythm of a build up to a race, the 3 months of training, the base miles before training, the discipline of knowing day by day what the work out should be. However, the week before a race I am never a very happy camper.
This week is no different. On Saturday I am due to run the Walnut Creek International Half Marathon and should be excited. But like all runners, neurosis is already setting in. Firstly, my entire left leg feels like it might drop off, hence the need for a serious massage soon. Secondly, I finally ran the course this weekend. Not sure if that was a good idea. Preparation is key, but it is supposed to build confidence not annihilate it. Running what was supposed to be an 'easy 10 miler' on a wet and wild Saturday amidst heavy traffic, mounds of wet leaves and branches, I found the effort of ploughing up the two miles of hills on Treat and back down Ygnacio trying. Looking at a colourful elevation chart when you register is one thing, running it is another. It finally dawned on me that hitting such a long hill so early in the race was going to be a major challenge. This was no flat and friendly local town race, I had been deceiving myself, and I was going to have to run that long hill conservatively enough to survive the second half of the race, but not so slow I wiped out the benefit of all the hard training I had put in.
Still, on the plus side Lopez Lamong was due to be there - he had been one of the lost boys of Sudan, running for three days over the boarder to Kenya at the age of 6 to escape his attackers, and then surviving refugee camps before finally being adopted by Americans and becoming an inspiring olympic athlete. One of my favourite running videos of all time was watching him turn out a 59 sec 400m final lap in the 5k when immediately prior, he had tragically miscounted and sprinted to what he thought was the finish; he had virtually stopped when the camera man wildly gesticulated that he should probably do another lap, and he pulled it off, still winning the race substantially. L'il bitch was also going to run, exhausted by the end of a very long cross country season he was going to take it fairly easy, but bring a sharpie and try and get Lopez to autograph anything he could find, body parts included.
To avoid pre-race stress I keep reminding myself that I choose to race. Indeed, I forked out 70 bucks for the treat, and should therefore be deliriously happy about it. I could easily have saved the money and had a regular Saturday sleeping late and watching the kids at their sporting fixtures. Starting to coach Cross Country had made me think about some of these things. Watching girls from the best teams in California throwing up from sheer nerves at the start line of the States Cross Country meet focused my thinking. One of the pieces of advice I had been giving the high school runners was not to worry about what you couldn't control. For instance often your place in a race is to a large extent beyond your control - who knows what elite 45 year olds will be there on Saturday. Even pace is not always something you can dictate. I had chosen a fairly ambitious training pace and hit my goals about 70% of the time leading up to the race. Throw in 2 miles of hills and the pace goal might well need to shuffle a little. Increasingly, I have found that the more one gets consumed with pace goals or place goals the more stress sets in; you can feel every muscle in the body tighten, the stomach rebelling, rational thought disintegrating with panic and none of these side effects help you to run well. The longer I run the more I realize there is only one thing I can control. That is running hard. As long as I pay attention to my form, keep relaxed and tall, maintain a steady rhythm, manage my breath, the rest will take care of itself and I will be satisfied with the outcome regardless.
At the final XC banquet one of the seniors made a speech that was gratifying in its honesty and hilarious in the context. It was not the usual back slapping, emotive celebration of the sport you see in the good ol US of A. He described how as a freshman he had come out for Cross Country and found it very challenging and not much fun at all, but he had found himself coming back because he liked the people. Now, as a Senior the running still 'sucked' a lot of the time, it was painful and difficult. But what he liked about it was its difficulty, as every day he faced doing something that was a battle with self. He casually added he also liked the way he felt about himself afterwards, and still enjoyed the people.
Choice is a beautiful thing and this week I choose not to be neurotic!
Envious though I am of that zen runner, I don't think that could ever be me - without the pressure or the goal setting of a race I revert to the lazy marshmallow version of myself, and would be lying on the coach watching tv, filled with self loathing. I really enjoy the preparation and rhythm of a build up to a race, the 3 months of training, the base miles before training, the discipline of knowing day by day what the work out should be. However, the week before a race I am never a very happy camper.
This week is no different. On Saturday I am due to run the Walnut Creek International Half Marathon and should be excited. But like all runners, neurosis is already setting in. Firstly, my entire left leg feels like it might drop off, hence the need for a serious massage soon. Secondly, I finally ran the course this weekend. Not sure if that was a good idea. Preparation is key, but it is supposed to build confidence not annihilate it. Running what was supposed to be an 'easy 10 miler' on a wet and wild Saturday amidst heavy traffic, mounds of wet leaves and branches, I found the effort of ploughing up the two miles of hills on Treat and back down Ygnacio trying. Looking at a colourful elevation chart when you register is one thing, running it is another. It finally dawned on me that hitting such a long hill so early in the race was going to be a major challenge. This was no flat and friendly local town race, I had been deceiving myself, and I was going to have to run that long hill conservatively enough to survive the second half of the race, but not so slow I wiped out the benefit of all the hard training I had put in.
Still, on the plus side Lopez Lamong was due to be there - he had been one of the lost boys of Sudan, running for three days over the boarder to Kenya at the age of 6 to escape his attackers, and then surviving refugee camps before finally being adopted by Americans and becoming an inspiring olympic athlete. One of my favourite running videos of all time was watching him turn out a 59 sec 400m final lap in the 5k when immediately prior, he had tragically miscounted and sprinted to what he thought was the finish; he had virtually stopped when the camera man wildly gesticulated that he should probably do another lap, and he pulled it off, still winning the race substantially. L'il bitch was also going to run, exhausted by the end of a very long cross country season he was going to take it fairly easy, but bring a sharpie and try and get Lopez to autograph anything he could find, body parts included.
To avoid pre-race stress I keep reminding myself that I choose to race. Indeed, I forked out 70 bucks for the treat, and should therefore be deliriously happy about it. I could easily have saved the money and had a regular Saturday sleeping late and watching the kids at their sporting fixtures. Starting to coach Cross Country had made me think about some of these things. Watching girls from the best teams in California throwing up from sheer nerves at the start line of the States Cross Country meet focused my thinking. One of the pieces of advice I had been giving the high school runners was not to worry about what you couldn't control. For instance often your place in a race is to a large extent beyond your control - who knows what elite 45 year olds will be there on Saturday. Even pace is not always something you can dictate. I had chosen a fairly ambitious training pace and hit my goals about 70% of the time leading up to the race. Throw in 2 miles of hills and the pace goal might well need to shuffle a little. Increasingly, I have found that the more one gets consumed with pace goals or place goals the more stress sets in; you can feel every muscle in the body tighten, the stomach rebelling, rational thought disintegrating with panic and none of these side effects help you to run well. The longer I run the more I realize there is only one thing I can control. That is running hard. As long as I pay attention to my form, keep relaxed and tall, maintain a steady rhythm, manage my breath, the rest will take care of itself and I will be satisfied with the outcome regardless.
At the final XC banquet one of the seniors made a speech that was gratifying in its honesty and hilarious in the context. It was not the usual back slapping, emotive celebration of the sport you see in the good ol US of A. He described how as a freshman he had come out for Cross Country and found it very challenging and not much fun at all, but he had found himself coming back because he liked the people. Now, as a Senior the running still 'sucked' a lot of the time, it was painful and difficult. But what he liked about it was its difficulty, as every day he faced doing something that was a battle with self. He casually added he also liked the way he felt about himself afterwards, and still enjoyed the people.
Choice is a beautiful thing and this week I choose not to be neurotic!
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