A Run on the Wild Side

A and I spent the holidays in Big Sur this year.  There was so much natural beauty to take in, it was almost hard to process.  We had to pull over every few miles on Highway 1 for a new photo opportunity that was more beautiful and very different from the last.

Here is a picture of the sun setting above the fog our first night there:

And this is the sunrise from our yurt the next morning:

After enjoying the view and eating a hearty breakfast, A and I embarked on an 8-mile trail run in Andrew Molera State Park.  Considering our penchant for losing our way on trail runs, we only missed one turn and ended up doing our intended loop in reverse.  For us, that's what I call success.

In truth, the reroute was good fortune because it turned the most concentrated length of elevation change into a climb versus a descent.  I'm chagrined to admit I walked a good portion of the steep uphill while A waited for me at the top.  That being said, running downhill gives me a worse hangover than running up.  We ran about 3.5 miles straight down a 30-degree slope and my quads were angry rubberbands the next day.

Our run was almost a nonstarter when I realized that before we could begin, we'd have to take off our shoes and wade knee-deep across a creek filled with winter-cold water.  I still don't know how A convinced me to do it, but I'm proud to say that I didn't complain for too long afterwards once I was on the other side.

The first half of the trail was single-track and technical.  We were running along a bluff overlooking the ocean, but most of the beauty was missed because it took all my concentration to navigate the rocky, narrow path.  But the biggest hazard by far was the virtual forest of poison oak that rangers can't warn you about enough.  Luckily my very sensitive husband wisely wore long pants, kept to the middle of the trail, and heeded the mantra "Leaves of three, let it be".

At one point near the summit, A stopped suddenly a few feet ahead of me.  There was an animal on the trail ahead of us.  After seeing the many posted warnings about mountain lions, A immediately thought we had our first sighting.  It ran along the dirt a few yards ahead and looked back a few times before darting into the brush.  I thought I saw pointed ears and its fur looked more gray than beige.  We decided it probably was a really big fox instead of a hungry mountain lion.  Nevertheless, A started whistling and I clapped my hands to make us sound large, in charge, and thereby unattractive prey.

Aside from that, we were completely alone for about six miles.  Finally we saw another couple hiking in the opposite direction who confirmed that we were not too far from the trailhead.  Turns out, the living creature I'm most excited to see while on a trail is another human.  I know diehards love trail running because of the solitude, but I find it spooky being so alone.  The irony is, in the city, I hate everyone I'm forced to share the sidewalk with.

After about two hours, we were crossing the creek to get back to the parking lot.  Since my shoes were quite dirty, I kept them on to give them a wash.  They took a bit longer than expected to dry, but luckily I had another pair of shoes to wear on our 5-mile hike the next day.  But I wish I had remembered to bring along a spare pair of quads.

Slacking Off!

While I've been slacking off from writing this blog, a woman in New Zealand ran 311 miles over three days straight, all while granting interviews along the way.

I can't even run 10 miles and write about it the next day.  Hopefully 2014 will give me more running and writing inspiration.

Hunger Games

Our mileage is accruing, and so are the candy wrappers.  Just like the last time we trained for a marathon, I'm hungry all the time.  This time around, I'm going to try to keep my appetite in check because the last marathon I did was run at my heaviest weight ever.

When I say that marathon training makes me gain weight, people look at me like I'm crazy.  But when you're always eating, it's bound to happen.  The holiday season is not helping my willpower, either, since I'm finding I have a lot of delicious food right at my fingertips at all hours of the day.  At least I'm burning some of it off.  And hey, since I'm running sixteen miles this weekend, I can have another cookie, right?

Rain Delay

Our 14 mile run yesterday morning was again put on hold thanks to a driving rain.   I knew that a storm was in the forecast, but I staunchly refused to accept it.  We prepped Friday night, hydrating well and eating an entire loaf of French bread.  I thought we could sneak in our run before the heavens opened and laugh in the face of Mother Nature.

When we woke up, it was still dry outside.  We thought we could get away with it, but thirty minutes later the rain started falling so we dejectedly postponed the run till the next morning.  Though I was glad we didn't get stuck in the downpour, part of me wondered if we made the right decision.

We ran errands, ate veggie sushi, and futzed around.  Blue skies slowly poked through around noon, and though the forecast still said more rain was coming, we wondered if we could squeeze our run in after all.  We digested, hydrated, looked out the window, then at the last possible moment said, "We're going for it."

We were running against potential rain and the impending sunset.  The conditions were tough.  The second half of the run was due west, right into the low sunset, the beam of which my visor couldn't shield.  It was brutally cold and the wind was the nastiest I've ever fought against.  The wind pushed so hard against me the last mile, I was practically running in place.  To top it off, seagulls were dropping clams overhead, cracking the shells on impact to get to the meat inside.  We were dodging little seafood bombs while running into a wall of wind.

I'm not sure if it was despite the harsh weather and odd hour or because of it, but we finished in record time.  We bested our pace from the half marathon in January, and it's been our fastest and longest run without stopping to date.  Maybe I should hope for rain delays more often.

Good & Twenty

I just read this article about how researchers in Australia have concluded that running ultras can add sixteen years to your life.  They studied a group of ultra runners who had an average age of 43 but were "biologically 27".  These runners logged about 40-100 kilometers (24-62 miles) per week.

With the marathon looming, we've slowly ramped up our weekly mileage.  We're running around the low end of the researchers' mileage scale now that we're at the business end of our training.  That being said, does this mean that since I'm turning 36 this month, I am really biologically only 20 years old?

If so, what's with all these greys?

Experimentation

After having our planned fourteen-mile run thwarted by Mother Nature, we called an audible the next day.  Instead of doing the fourteen as intended, A suggested that instead we try a training exercise he just read about in a running magazine I brought home from work.

It's a pretty basic interval: run a mile, walk a minute.  Even though we haven't run longer than twelve miles thus far in this marathon training cycle, hoping the walking breaks would give us more stamina, we set out to cover eighteen miles yesterday morning.

My hope was that the miles would be run at pace or faster.  This turned out not to be the case.  The miles got progressively slower and on average were about fifteen-seconds off  what we would need to run to make our goal.  A thought it was because it took us time to build up speed after our minute walks.  I thought it was because the route had a lot of elevation gain.  The truth is probably because we were just tired.

I found myself both desperate for the walking breaks but also dreading them.  I was disheartened by how long the miles felt and how quickly the minute melted away.  By the end of our eighteen-mile trek, I was both mentally and physically sore.  My lower back was in revolt.  My reserves, which I thought were so well stocked with an enormous Thanksgiving meal and equally enormous leftovers, were depleted.  My mental focus, questionable.

Despite the struggle, A felt the experiment was a success.  We went from twelve to eighteen miles in a week.  Strangely, including our sixteen minutes walking, our pace was faster than our previous marathon - by a lot.  And it broke up a training routine which gets stale quickly.  Who knows if we'll do another interval run like this again, but it was definitely worth a try.

We Are Not Warriers

We have a friend named Jean who likes to give A a good ribbing every now and then.  It's hysterical, and it's not like she's unqualified to dish it since she's a sixty-year old woman who's hiked the Himalayas and just came back from the top of Mount Whitney.

Jean's main jab towards A is his dislike for running in cold rain.  "Come on, ya wimp!"

Well, yesterday on our planned fourteen-miler, it was pouring down and really cold.  We got out of the car and walked one block, then bailed and headed back indoors.

A ended up running four miles at the gym.  Curious about how I would fare if it happened to be raining on race day, I ran around our neighborhood for about four and half miles.  I was wearing a raincoat and long sleeves, which kept the rain from soaking me, but also trapped in my sweat.  I tried to avoid as many puddles as possible, but my shoes were soggy by halfway through.  I learned that running in the rain is tougher mentally more than phsyically, but it was encouraging to know that at least, for me, it was doable.  In fact, the worst part of my run was the finish when I realized I grabbed the wrong keys and had to wait another thirty minutes outside for A to come back from his warm and dry gym.

I can't wait to tell Jean how I ran in the rain while A stayed warm on the treadmill.  I can already here her telling him: "Ya wimp!"

Articles Galore

I have been not very prolific on this blog as of late.  I was traveling overseas earlier this month in what we shall call inclement weather.  And then I felled by a mild cold.  But through all this time, there have been a few great articles I wanted to share.

The first was written by a guy who signed up to be a guide for a blind woman running the New York marathon.  Their finishing time was amazing!  It made me think of the blind runner and her guide I saw a few times in Central Park.  They ran so fast and in sync, it was quite a display of trust and athleticism.  Pretty incredible athletes all around…

The next article made me laugh.  It’s about a coyote taking the field during a high school state championship.  It brought to mind a few Man Vs. X races I’ve read about:

Man versus Horse

Man versus Cheese

Man versus Robot

I don’t know if anyone has tried Man versus Housecat, but I have half a mind to hold one down my hallway and post the results.

Almost Famous

Just thought I’d share this promotional video for the Tahoe relay race we ran this past summer.  A makes a very brief cameo early on (brief because he was running so lightning fast, of course).

A Real Charmer

I overheard this nugget from my not-exactly-in-shape-in-fact-pretty-damn-doughy coworker yesterday:

“In college I ran three miles in eighteen minutes.  Eighteen minutes!  Can you imagine?  I mean, that’s six minutes per mile.  That’s insane.  Like, that’s almost pro-level.  Do you even realize how fast that really is?  That’s, like, unbelievably fast.”

At least it was a break from him screaming at his auto mechanic on the phone or quoting FOX News around the office.

It Was a Good Ten-Mile Run

…too bad we were running twelve.  I lost steam on the eleventh mile yesterday and never got it back.  Since having a great ten-miler about a month ago, I can’t seem to stay strong past that distance.  Our subsequent eleven and twelve-mile runs have both ended rather poorly.  I’ll feel okay till the ten-mile marker, then my body starts hurting, negative thoughts abound, and the rhythm falls apart.  Now I’m left wondering how best to proceed in order to build confidence in the weeks ahead because our distances are only going to get longer.

In honor of the New York City Marathon this weekend, the author Haruki Murakami posted a quote from his book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running on Facebook:  “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

I just need to keep reminding myself I can opt out.

Tricky Treading Through Trick-or-Treating

On our run last night we saw superheroes, cartoon characters, a ballerina, a lady bug, a skeleton, and two halves of an open-faced peanut butter and jelly sandwich walking their dogs.

We also saw a young man dressed as a pothead biking recklessly in high-speed traffic.  His costume came complete with skunk aromatics for a remarkably realistic effect.

We ourselves must have been inadvertently dressed as moving targets because the number of cars that almost ran us over was at an all-time high.  You would think that the presence of young trick-or-treaters would make people drive more cautiously, but the increased number of pedestrians only seemed to make drivers more impatient and aggressive.

Fortunately we survived six miles of zombies, goblins and rabid motorists.  Maybe next Halloween I’ll avoid the candy and skip the run.

Short, Little Legs…Big Fathead

When A and I are running, occasionally we’ll encounter other runners headed in the same direction.  At the risk of sounding immodest, we often end up passing them, especially if we’re on a low-mileage outing and are really pushing the pace.

A and I went on a short run last night.  We saw a guy running on the sidewalk ahead of us, so we cut into the street and hopped back onto the curb once we overtook him.  I thought nothing of it until about a half mile later when I felt a presence hovering behind us.

Not recognizing him as the guy we ran by earlier, A dropped behind me in single file to give him room to pass on the narrow sidewalk.  Instead he said, “This is the pace I should be running, if you don’t mind,” and then fell into step with us.  He asked A how fast we were running and after checking our watch, A told him our average speed.

He said, “Yeah, when I saw you guys pass me, I thought I better pick it up a bit!”

I immediately thought, Um, why?  Because we look like such losers, how could we possibly be better than him?

Then he implied he normally ran faster but he had just come from a five hour bike ride.  A misheard him and asked, “Why were you biking five miles?”

And he said, “Five hours, dude!” and never answered the question.  He then said, “My body is also probably tired from running Central Park all weekend.”  To which we replied, what a coincidence, we ran Central Park last weekend, too!

The pavement was only the width of two people, so he and A were side-by-side and I was slightly ahead.  Eventually the conversation veered back to how fast we were running and he said to A, “She does pretty well, even with those short, little legs.”

That’s when it dawned on me why he caught up to us: he was upset he got passed by a girl.  I almost turned around and snapped at him that my short, little legs are better for running than his big, fat ones, but he turned off onto a side street before I could spit it out.

In running vernacular, being passed by a girl is called getting “chicked”.  I’ve chicked a few guys in my day, but I can’t remember the last time we were passed by anyone, male or female, while on a training run.  It’s a nice motivation to keep up the pace; I don’t want to be “cocked” anytime soon.

Some Kind Of Run-derful

A and I ran Central Park last Friday.  I don’t know if it was the brisk autumn weather or if the bleachers set up for next weekend’s marathon inspired me, but I logged my fastest time ever on the outer loop.  I shaved almost ten minutes off of my average time.  Granted that average was taken over ten years ago when I lived in New York City, but even so, we flew.

A said it felt long to him, but to me and it felt like the shortest six miles I’ve ever run.  Every turn, straightaway, and rolling hill was familiar, and I marked the distance by all the famous landmarks along the way.  The carousel, the boathouse, the Met and Cleopatra’s Needle, the Reservoir, the baseball fields, the swimming pool, the Delacorte Theater, Sheep Meadow…all these great places that never change.  It felt like we were running with an old friend.

Even though I could have strolled down memory lane forever, I was even more excited that I ran so quickly.  Now if only we could do it that speed three more times I would be all set….

A Capital Good Time

A and I just returned from a fantastic trip back east.  Sunday morning found us on the National Mall in Washington DC, cheering on the runners at the Marine Corp Marathon.

Considering it’s a political town, the spectator signs were particularly amusing.  My two favorites were “You’re running better than our government!” and “Faster!  The NSA is tracking your time”.

We did this race nine years ago and I could not have asked for a prettier course.  We ran through Rock Creek Park, passed a ton of monuments, and finished at the Iwo Jima Memorial in Arlington Cemetery.  I remember seeing our friends at the halfway mark near the Capitol.  Already exhausted, I promptly plopped myself onto the curb even though I had thirteen (point one) more miles to go.  I probably would have stayed there if A hadn’t yelled at me to get back up like a good soldier.

We’ve done many other races since, but never another marathon.  It would be really hard to top that one.  The route is amazing, the spirit of the crowd is infectious, and you’re in one of the best cities in the world.  Running the Marine Corp Marathon is just one of the many warm memories I have from DC and we’re pretty lucky we have such good friends there to keep us going back.

This One Goes to Eleven

A and I are toying with running a marathon but we haven’t pulled the trigger yet.  By that I mean we haven’t plunked down our money on the insanely exorbitant entry fee.   (Our last marathon was almost ten years ago.  When did the prices get so out of control?!)

We both agreed that it would only be worth committing to four months of training as long as we came in under a specific time goal.  Based on the half we ran last January we have a shot at it, but obviously there’s a big difference between a half and a whole – thirteen point one miles, to be exact.

We’ve been slowly increasing our mileage as the weeks progress.  This Saturday we ran eleven miles, and it was hard.  Our pace was slower than our half and barely under what we would need to run the full marathon at, and that doesn’t include when we paused the clock for water stops and traffic lights.  I found it very discouraging and made me wonder if I’m truly capable of reaching the goal we set for ourselves.

A is a lot more confident a runner than me.  His challenge is that, because we run together, he’ll probably have to mentally carry us both.  Even though registration opened three weeks ago, we still haven’t come to a firm decision.  I’ve informally decided that the first fee hike is a soft deadline for us to shit or get off the pot.  The Early Bird rate ends in ten days, and my bowels feel mighty empty.

Sock It To Me

Although you could never tell by looking, I am annoyingly particular about my workout wear.  True, I generally run in ratty cast-off t-shirts and pants that have faded from black to a mottled green, but don’t be fooled.  Every item in my workout wardrobe is prudently vetted for my specific needs, and no one garment collection is more carefully curated than the contents of my sock drawer.

It is very difficult for me to find socks that don’t piss me off.  I find that when I buy pairs specifically designed for running, they inevitably – and literally – fall short.  Workout socks tend to be ankle-length or lower, which I hate.  I have yet to find a pair that has enough elastic around the opening to prevent the whole sock from falling into my shoe the minute I start running.  I’ve even had socks slip so far down that they end up bunched underneath my arch.

I finally found a pair with a sturdy enough elastic band, but it is made of a thick material that causes my feet to get hot and my shoes to feel too tight the longer I run.

Considering these issues, I tend to run in regular old plebian socks.  In fact, the best running socks in my drawer were bought at a craft store for one dollar.  As you can imagine, one-dollar socks probably aren’t lovingly constructed from the highest quality materials.  I am constantly darning the holes where my toes poke through.  My cheap socks have more stitches than Frankenstein, but anything to make them last.

Meanwhile, A has no such sock problems.  While he has his favorites, he could go out with two different socks on each foot and not even notice.  On a lark, he bought this pair.

They don’t even fit properly but he has no problems running in them whatsoever.  With all that surplus fabric my feet would be Blister City, but the only complaint he has is the price.  Luckily, I know a good craft store he can go to.

Queen Salomon

One of the nicest features of our ill-fated trail race this summer was the presence of the trail running footwear company Salomon.  They offered a variety of styles for the runners to try out during the race.  I ended up wearing the pair I borrowed for three of my four legs.

They were great.  The bottom of the shoe had deep grooves that almost felt like cleats.  This added traction on the outsole really helped grip the road on the very technical trail, especially during the steep and sandy inclines.  And I ran over thirteen miles without a single blister.

Although I liked them a lot, I trail run so rarely that I thought to purchase a pair would be “spendy”, my term for when someone buys something just for the sake of buying.  So I left the race without them.

Well, slap some trail shoes on my feet and call me spendy because look what I got three weeks later!

I have had them for almost two months now and the number of times they’ve been worn can be counted on one hand.  But I justify my purchase by saying without them, the number of times I would have hit the trails probably would be zero.  So perhaps they are worth the price of admission.  (Although honestly the trails we go to aren’t highly technical and don’t require such sophisticated footwear – A runs in his minimal road running shoes with no problems a ‘tall.)

I know I am fooling myself into thinking by simply buying trail running shoes I will magically morph into a trail runner extraordinaire.  But I must say they look great in my closet, right next to that faux cheetah fur hoodie, electric blue “Rachel” wig, leather pants, and all those (probably fake) designer bags from eBay.

Talk It Out

I had an unfortunate misstep on our trail run last weekend.  I thought nothing of it, but after a four-miler a few days later, my ankle hurt while walking the next day.  Not sure if this is something I need to be really worried about, I decided to test it out with a light thirty-minute jog with A in the park yesterday evening.

I keep reading that the best runners are not blowing out their lungs but maintain a pace that allows them to have a conversation.  I typically am panting and heaving on any given run, but since we were slowing our roll, I decided to try to find out what, for me, is a relaxed talking pace.  Last night was definitely a fine speed for conversation, but turns out the hardest thing about talking and running is thinking of things to talk about.

After discussing our work days, the government shut down, and potential dinner options, I was pretty much tapped out after ten minutes.  I tried to comment on the girls’ soccer practice and the guys smoking a joint at the pull up bars, but after the first lap (of seven), the scenery was pretty much covered.

I was running…out of things to say.  Ugh, with jokes like that, maybe it’s for the best.

You Better T'work

Recently A and I found ourselves swimming together at the municipal pool.  I showed him how to swim a sequence of laps using the clock, and he turned to me and said, “Why don’t we do this when we run?”  Why indeed!

Our runs have begun to feel a little rote.  In an effort to add some variety, A started integrating intermittent periods of high speed and reduced effort along predetermined stretches of our route.  But we never actually practiced real interval training before, so we decided to give it a try.

We went to a local track with a low mileage speed set designed for distance runners that I found on the internet.  We had done a little track work in the past (or what I used to think of as “t’work” before twerking came along), but never before followed a specific workout.

The set was written in meters.  My imperial brain had to translate them into revolutions around the track.  With that in mind, this is what we did:

Warm-up (10 minutes)

Light jogging, lunges, front-and-back and side-to-side leg swings, a few sprint strides at 90% effort for 100 meters (approximately 1 long length of the field)

Main Set

600 meters (1.5 x around) sprint

300 meters (0.75 x around) jogging recovery

400 meters (1 x around) sprint

300 meters (0.75 x around) jogging recovery

300 meters (0.75 x around) sprint

300 meters (0.75 x around) jogging recovery

200 meters (0.5 x around) sprint

Cool-down (10 minutes)

Light jogging

Considering the main set was only 1.5 miles, I was pretty dubious about it’s efficacy.  The extreme soreness of my quads disabused me of that notion the next day.  In fact, I was still feeling the lactic acid three days later on our 8-mile trail run.

The next step is to do the main set twice, but it’s been over a week and we have yet to get back to the track.  I like mixing up our routine, but the intervals make me appreciate our distance running so much more and I know I better get back to t’work before long.

A Connection Missed

Me: driving the old school silver Corolla on Overland at 11pm last Friday night.  I just had vegetarian Pho with a mock chicken appetizer and a glass of Chardonnay.  The expression on my face was a combination of happily sate and overly tired from being up two hours past my bedtime.

You: wearing a loose red tank top, dark shorts, and white headphones, running along Palms and turning left onto Overland.  You first ran in front of my car as I stopped at the light and then paused on the corner next to me while we both waited to cross the intersection.  You continued to bob up and down while I stared at you without your notice.

I wanted to call out to you, Nightrunner, and ask what brings a man to this – running in a suspect neighborhood in the middle of the night?  Is your commitment to fitness so carved in granite that you steal out for a jaunt at lunch during your graveyard shift?  Ah, but your spongy core and lack of tone betrays.  Is your life so full helping the poor and downtrodden that you can’t but sneak in a run in the light of day?  Underneath the dark circles and patchy scruff, you do have the face of a giver.

Perhaps you are saving your alabaster skin from the cruel effects of the sun, a particular cross to bear for persons whose heritage yields from a Nordic clime?  Your exposed flesh was a benefit for us drivers as your white arms and legs cut through the dim.  Are you conditioning yourself for a move to Alaska during their twenty-four hours of darkness?  Are you competing in an urban ultra-marathon of one?  Did your wife demand milk for the baby in the middle of the night and you figured why not kill two birds?  What is it that drives you?  What?

I run in the day and it saddens me that our paths might never cross.  You are a man of mystery, an urban warrior who does not let time nor darkness nor lack of sleep prohibit you from a life of fitness and improved cardiac health.  I envy your overfull social calendar and applaud your commitment.  Yes is the answer, and you know that for sure.

You go, Nightrunner, go forth into the dark and prosper!