Great Expectations and the Zen of Running

Thumping around on the single stump of the surgical boot was not how I had anticipated greeting the New Year. The puppy opened one eye and glared at me in protest at the piratical thudding on the wood floors destroying her slumber. Too much fun attacking the downhills of Nike San Francisco had left me with a damaged Posterior Tib.  Conservative management (ie no running, lots of ice, ART) had produced no benefit after two months of treatment; the attachment point was in my arch and was constantly irritated simply by standing up.  My Boston countdown calendar screamed angrily at me that training was coming.   The doctor and I gravely agreed it was time to don the boot of shame, increase the ice baths and invest in the night splint.

The East Coast Team of Less was on stand by, long suffering expressions prepared,  bracing themselves for my usual over excited pronouncements that training was begun and for reams of training plans to start flying through their email accounts. There was a resounding silence - I had nothing to say.

Being injured is depressing at the best of times.  I work with runners, so that means you can't join the off season training fun and end up hanging around, cold, bored, just waiting to give feedback on an experience you weren't able to share. You are painfully aware that so much of your twitter feed, instagram account and facebook is filled with other runners proclaiming their fabulous exploits up mountains, at night runs, PR's, great accomplishments, fabulous running parties you no longer can attend.  Driving, you start to notice every runner on the road, wondering how they can perform this simple act that your tendon has ruled out for you.  Most of all you miss waking up wondering - what kind of run will I have today?

My thoughts drifted back constantly to the last time I had trained for Boston way back in 2012.  Q-less and I had worked our tushies off through one of the East Coast's toughest coldest winters, sometimes running thigh deep through snow.  I was driven,  and probably drove Q-Less crazy at me, but I had created for both of us a training plan guaranteed to drop our time by around ten minutes.  Within moments in mid April we watched all our work seemingly vaporize as the temperature charts for the Boston Broilerthon, as it became to be known, predicted freak hot weather, and the 45f we hoped for headed into the high 80's low 90's.  We had trained in 14f - nothing had prepared us for that race.  On race day we had set off at a ten minute pace, resigned to a huge change of plan. Q-Less had toiled on and finished but with a time way off her best, I had DNF'd at mile 18 with an irritated IT band, desiccated by the scorching heat and dehydration. It had not been in line with our dreams or expectations, but it had been an experience.The evening celebration with no medal had been a true pity party for one.

Increasingly I have found however that injury is a more peaceful process for me.  As I am about to turn 50, and as my 20 year old daughter points out "aren't you depressed to think that over half your life is over and its the crappy half left?' I realize that I have developed skills to deal with it that no 20 year old has.  I have survived stress fractures, muscle pulls and tendonitis.  You begin to finally appreciate that there is no point railing against, or wailing about your fate.  Like so much in life it is not the injury that is unfair, or the timing, it is our own inflexible set of expectations.  What makes us good runners is our drive, our planning our goal setting - yet running often has a way of throwing a spanner in the works.   Gosh darn I had planned a 50th Birthday Party at the Boston Marathon with Merciless and Q-Less and that was set in stone,  we had all trained separately and found races around the East Coast and California in our three month window and survived a variety of temperatures and weather conditions, and failure to register for races to qualify for the race.  The flight was booked the hotels were reserved and paid for.  The race would happen and I would not suffer an annoying injury that would drag on for months even though I had done all of the right things.  However, the universe is unfair and unkind and we no longer have quixotic Greek Gods to blame, so I have adopted the Running Gods in their place.  These Running Gods are every bit as random as Zeus - throwing thunder bolts at you whenever things are going too well.  In April our party will be fabulous regardless of what the Running Gods have in mind, and will be a great celebration of friends who have run together for years and shared so many good bad and random experiences.  The party will be the sort that lights you up inside and lasts a very long time.  Its time the Running Gods knew that they have done their best to bring humility and flexibility to my soul.  OK Gods I get it, let it be proclaimed publicly that great expectations and the fire of ambition have been firmly doused.  This Boston might be one where I get to cheer on my favorite runners in, or hobble 26 miles at the back of the race, just delighted to survive it and to be part of this awesome occasion.

The last time I participated in this historic race training was awesome but those fickle Running Gods made sure we did not revel in glory for long and the race was painful slow and hot.   Maybe, just maybe, this time my training will be in every measure, lousy, lack lustre and lame.  My foot will probably remain injured for another month, then it might take another month just to get close to base training. I am also open to the fact that 2016 may see me run the race of my life.  I am beginning to see that success is a very relative term and is based entirely upon our expectations. My goal is to bring my expectations towards my reality and to thoroughly enjoy everything the Running Gods hurls at me this year.

Marathon Eve - a Pregnant Pause

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.

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!!'

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!'

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….

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?

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.