Act II, Scene 26.2: That Damn Point Two

The way the course map was drawn, it looked like the finish line was only a few short blocks after the final turn.  I was pretty familiar with this neighborhood.  We ran these very streets when we trained for our first marathon 11 years ago.  I didn’t think the distance was as short as the map made it seem, but I ignored those doubts and approached the corner completely certain that I’d see the bright arch of the finish line right in front of me.

I was jogging as fast as I could, around 9-minute miles according to my unreliable watch.  I promised I would not walk once I made the turn.  It was only two short blocks, I told myself.

As I negotiated the turn, excited and happy for the first time in months, I looked up from the road and saw…more road.  What the hell?  Where was the finish line?  I thought I was almost done?

There were a lot of spectators cheering and holding signs behind temporary barricades.  A few people yelled, “Almost there!”  I had been hearing that since mile 20.  There is no more subjective term to a marathoner than “almost”.  After 4 hours in 80 degree heat, telling me I was “almost there” when all the visual evidence was to the contrary seemed extraordinarily cruel.

I scoured the crowd to see if I could find A.  Was he going to run the final two tenths with me and cross the finish line again?  I couldn’t fathom running one more inch once I was finished and I wondered if he was as in bad a shape as I was.

Slowly there emerged small indications that I was getting closer.  A few race volunteers were on the course holding signs that read, “Bandits cannot cross the finish line” and “Bandits, leave the course now!”  In my delirium, I wondered why outlaw cowboys would be running a marathon before I realized they were referring to unregistered runners.  I remember thinking that the end of a marathon really wasn’t the best place for euphemism.

Some of my compatriots seemed to have the same idea to run uninterrupted to the finish after the turn.  Many became equally disillusioned and stopped once they realized it was further than advertised.  I honestly cannot remember if I ended up walking at some point.  I want to say that I was on the verge of giving up right at the moment when the finish line finally materialized before me.  I’m not sure if that’s how it really went down, but it makes for a nice story so I’m sticking to it.

With the end in sight, I noticed others around me starting to shift into high gear.  I, too, tried to put a spring in my step, but no matter how hard I kicked, my step had no spring left.  It felt like I was running through molasses.

The arch was growing and the music was getting louder, but the crowd had disappeared.  Extra security measures kept spectators from the finish area to guard against any unsavory activity, but it made the finish line feel strangely desolate, like a banging party nobody showed up for.

I tried to hear if the announcer said my name as I crossed the finish.  He didn’t.  As I ran under the orange inflatable arch, even though I was 23 minutes slower than intended, I raised my arms in victory, if only for the photo op.  I might have been bitterly disappointed, but at least the historical evidence would show me victorious.

Once through, I immediately started walking.  That’s when I saw the timing mat still a few feet ahead.  Panicked that I quit too soon, I made one last pathetic lunge for those precious little milliseconds, but it didn’t really matter.  My race was done.

Act II, Scene 17-26: Too Hot To Trot

I developed a run/walk strategy that mainly revolved around how to spend the most time in the shade.  I ran from tree to tree, building to building, walking anytime I was out of the sun.

I also decided to walk the entire length of the water stations since I find it difficult to swallow and run simultaneously.  I’d take a cup from the first volunteer, sip half, then throw the rest on my head.  This process would take me to the end of the station, where’d I’d take another cup from the last volunteer and do it all again.

I quickly learned that my headphones were not waterproof.  Luckily it was only the left side that shorted out, and often it would dry and start working again before the next drenching.

With all the walking I was doing, I had a lot more time to take in my surroundings.  The long stretch on Santa Monica in Century City was particularly dead.  The layout of the road was not very spectator-friendly, and there was very little and shade.  Looking straight ahead, all you could see was a mass of people walking up one rolling cement hill after the other.

Century City aside, there were a lot of people cheering along the course, remarkable considering how very hot it was.  Even more remarkable was how a lot of them, completely unaffiliated with the race, came armed with food for the runners simply because they were awesome.  Someone gave me a half a banana.  I had countless orange slices from people on the side of the road.  I almost grabbed a stick a woman was holding out, hoping it was a popsicle, before she told me it was Vaseline.

During one particularly hot stretch, a random little girl handed me a cup of water that turned out to have an ice cube in it.  I almost cried.

I’m not quite sure where I was, but I came upon a group of Port-A-Potties.  I didn’t really need to use it, but one was unoccupied so headed on in.  Maybe because it just looked so nice and shady.  Yes, it was that hot that I sat in a poorly-ventilated, plastic outhouse just for a few minutes’ shade.

In the VA hospital around mile 20, someone held a sign that read “Near Beer” which was shortly followed by people holding cups of what smelled like actual beer.  I couldn’t tell if the sign was meant to tell me I was in close proximity to beer, or if they were serving Near Beer.  Had it been the latter, I might have partaken, but I couldn’t devote the few brain cells I had left to figuring it out before I had moved on.  I was running at this point, but that ended quickly as I approached the last major incline that many people had warned me about, exiting the grounds of the VA.

As I walked up that hill, I remember looking at my watch and thinking, if A makes his goal, he’ll be finishing right about now.  I hoped he made it.

The hill crested and the decline spit us out onto San Vicente, a stretch of road I had run a dozen times before.  I told myself that if I ran hard, I’d break 4 hours, but I simply didn’t have it in me.

The spectators were out in full force in Brentwood, leaning into the road, right on top of the runners.  Many called out to me by name, which was printed on my bib.  Every time I stopped to walk, someone would shout, “Come on, R!  You can do it!”  Sometimes I’d smile weakly back.  I appreciated the support, but my will was shattered.

About 2.5 miles from the finish, I looked down at my watch.  The screen read, “Resume time?"

Resume time?!!  Somehow my watch paused without me realizing it.  Just like my watch’s satellite connection, any hope of breaking 4 hours completely evaporated into the ether.  I thought I’d be close, but now I had no way of knowing.

I kept craning my neck for a view of the Pacific.  I knew once I saw water, I’d be close to the turn home.  Once I made that turn, I’d be mere moments away.  I just needed to get to the corner.

Act II, Scenes 7-16: I Walk Alone

After A took off, I felt myself slowing down.  I hadn’t realized that having to fight through all that traffic at the start would wear me down so early, and I had counted on the fact that I’d have A as a pace runner for longer than 6 miles.  I was still a few minutes ahead of my pace bracelet, but I was slowing a lot sooner than I had originally intended. 

I didn’t take my headphones out just yet.  I wanted to wait as long as I could so that music would be both a reward and an energy boost when I needed it.  Fortunately, tunes were already provided in the form of a squat, older gentleman shuffling next to me carrying a boom box blaring mariachi music.  I flanked him for about 2 miles, unable to pull away.  I wondered what was wrong with me.

We rounded the newly restored Echo Park Lake and headed north into Silverlake.  There was good crowd support here – who knew hipsters woke up so early?  The crowd was so thick that I vaguely remembered that A and I had lunch on this street a few weekends before, but I couldn’t find the restaurant because there were too many people in the way.

I noticed in particular how every water stop was extremely well-manned, not just in Silverlake but throughout the entire course.  Each station was a well-oiled machine, from the people who poured the beverages, to those who held out color-coded cups of water or Gatorade, to the sweepers who dodged in and out between runners to whisk away the trash we threw onto the ground.  And I noticed how the volunteers were as diverse as the city itself.  All ages and ethnicities were represented; the only common denominator was that every single person was smiling, encouraging, and enthusiastic.  Far and away, the best thing about the LA Marathon was the volunteer army.

I approached the turn west heading into Hollywood.  As we ran down the Walk of Fame, I missed seeing all the famous Hollywood landmarks advertised on the course map because I was too distracted by a strange, ugly haze.  The morning light had changed from gray to brown and I couldn’t figure why it was starting to feel so hot even though it was still overcast.  After seeing photos from this point in the race, I realized what I thought was cloud coverage was actually something else LA is famous for, though definitely not featured on the course map: air pollution.

We shimmied south off Hollywood Boulevard and onto the Sunset Strip.  The haze gave way to hot sun as I crossed the halfway point.  I was over 15 minutes slower than the half marathon I ran last year and only mere seconds ahead of my pace bracelet.  It wasn’t good.  It was time for reinforcements.  I pulled out my iPod and cranked it up.

I was entering West Hollywood, where a few people I knew might be on the sidelines.  I didn’t want the indignity of being seen walking, so I used that as motivation.  I encountered a friend cheering for me around mile 15.  I was happy to see her face, but didn’t stop lest I be tempted to ask for a ride to the finish line.  The thought had seriously crossed my mind.  If I wasn’t going to make my goal, what was the point of even finishing?  I turned my music up loader and headed toward Beverly Hills as David Byrne was sang, “Run, run, run…run, run, run away….”

The sun was beating down so brightly that the blacktop looked white.  I had slowed so significantly, I was hemorrhaging time.  After mile 16, now about a minute off pace, I realized trying to make my goal time was a lost cause.  As that reality sunk in, I started to walk.  I was immediately angry with myself, and after just a few steps, started to run again.  I tried to compel myself to push, but it didn’t last long, and a block later, I stopped…again.  I walked almost the entire length of Rodeo Drive as the well-dressed mannequins watched me in haughty disgust.

At first I spent a lot of time justifying my decision to stop running.  It was hot, it was too crowded at the beginning, it just “wasn’t my day”.  I always hated that saying, and I couldn’t believe I was using it now.  It wasn’t the day’s fault; it was my fault.  Was my strategy to blame?  Should I have finished that bagel?  Should I have worn that tech shirt after all?  Did I train hard enough?  I ran 21 miles in training, why am I failing here at 16?

At the next water stop, I poured a cup of water on my head.  It felt glorious dripping down my hair and neck.  With a cooler head, I realized that whether by running, walking, skipping, or jumping, my legs were the only thing that would deliver me to the finish line, and I still had a long way to go.

Act II, Scenes 1-6: Slow Going

It took almost 3 minutes for A and I to shuffle across the start line.  As we stepped underneath the bright orange arch, the shuffle became a trot, and after a few yards, the trot became a jog.  There were a number of pushy racers who elbowed their way ahead.  Many of them were men sprinting to an adjacent berm to water the weeds in full view of the thousands running by.

The current picked up speed thanks to a steep downhill getting out of Dodger Stadium.  A and I were trying to advance our position while keeping track of each other.  I could hear A yelling at me, “Don’t look back!  Stop looking back!” because I kept turning my head to make sure I didn’t lose him in the crowd.

We ran like this all through downtown, dodging people, looking for pathways through clustered bodies, running on and off sidewalks.  There was a steep uphill for around mile 5 that A strategically thought we could take advantage of.  It might not have been the smartest idea for people who didn’t  train hills, but we were able to pass a lot of people, many of whom were already walking.

We had picked up pace bracelets at the expo.  The bracelet I wore had printed the aggregate time needed per mile to finish at 3 hours and 35 minutes.  A was wearing one for a 3 hour and 25 minute finish.

My strategy for the race was to hang with A at his pace for at least 10 miles in order to bank some time that I could burn during the second half.  Many people had warned me in advance that this plan of action was fraught, but I hadn’t trained for and didn’t think I was capable of running negative splits.

Around the 6-mile mark, A looked down at his wrist and said he wasn’t going to make his goal.

Even though we were finally able to run the pace A needed, he was at such a deficit thanks to the logjam at the start that he knew he had to run under pace to make up all the time lost.  I knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t run any faster.  I had found all the dodging and weaving very taxing and there was still many slower runners ahead.  I could hear the frustration in A’s voice, and I told him to go ahead without me.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.

I told him to have a great race and I would see him at the finish.  He said goodbye and began to kick a little harder, pulling away into the crowd ahead.  The course made a sharp left off a freeway overpass.  I saw him running well after he made that turn, but a few minutes later I reached the corner myself and lost sight of him for good.  Now I was really on my own.

A Race in Three Acts: Act I

After nearly a week, I’m finally ready to write about my experience running the LA Marathon last Sunday.  Right off the bat, I must disclose that I did not come in under the time I was hoping for.  I didn’t even make my secondary goal, which was breaking the 4-hour mark; I missed that by 3 minutes.  But I’m happy to say I’ve processed my disappointment and have moved (or should I say hobbled?) on.  Therefore I will spare you the self-flagellation and commence in giving you my race report in three parts: the beginning, the middle, and the end.

In the beginning…

A and I had prepaid to park at the finish line and take a shuttle to the start.  There was a long line of cars to park and an even longer line of people to board the shuttles.  My anxiety and impatience kicked in immediately, but both lines moved pretty swiftly.  (A tip for future LA Marathoners: they ask you to pick a shuttle at half-hour increments, but you don’t need to abide by the time you signed up for since the shuttles run continuously and no one checks to make sure you’re boarding at your designated time.)

Since the daylight savings time change occurred mere hours before we boarded, it was still dark outside.  We took the freeway from Santa Monica to Dodger Stadium.  It was alarming how long the ride took going 60 miles per hour, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much longer it will be at a tenth of that speed.

We were sitting next to a “legacy” runner, someone who’s run the LA Marathon every year since inception.  I’m not sure if it was because of his vaunted status or if he had a miracle race at his advanced age, but he was granted a place in Corral A, the fastest seeded corral, right behind the elite runners.  He told us he expected to finish in 5 and a half hours.

I felt a pit forming in my stomach, knowing we were at least ten thousand runners behind him thanks to the seeded corrals.

When we arrived at Dodger Stadium, A and I bee-lined to the portable toilets.  My ideal intake versus output ratio before a race can be summed up in this equation:

[Fluid ounces + (1.5 hours – X minutes in line)] x 2 = < 10 minutes till start time

As any good mathematician knows, X is always the variable.  In our first round of expulsion, X ended up being about 20 minutes.  We were in good shape.

Next, we hit up the gear check.  We had all our stuff in one of the clear plastic bags they provided at the expo.  As an added security measure after last year’s Boston marathon, you were required to use the bag the race provided.  Fortunately there were two of us running since one of the bags we got fell apart before we got home from the expo.

The gear check was a series of UPS trucks organized by badge number.  They were all manned by volunteers.  The confluence of famous brown trucks and large signage was easy to see and the denominations small enough that there was practically no wait.  It was a wonderful system. 

Since we were only using one bag, we checked it in under A’s number since, unless something went horribly awry, he would finish first.  We unzipped our hoodies and stuffed them into the bag.  I expected to be cold since the sun still hadn’t risen, but wasn’t.  This was a bad sign since if I wasn’t cold at 6 AM, I knew I would be hot by 7 AM.

After checking our gear, there was nothing to do but wait around.  Since we were in a ballpark, the best place to sit was the bleachers.  There were people milling all over the place and a commercial for Asics, the title sponsor, was on permanent loop on the big ballpark screen.  Tons of students wearing neon yellow vests teemed like ants everywhere I looked, with a large group of them taking up an entire bleacher section and reciting motivational cheers.  These were Students Run LA.

As the half hour mark approached, we decided to do one last pee.  The stadium restrooms were available to the runners, a nice perk over a smelly outhouse.  The line for the Men’s room was long.  The line for the Women’s was catastrophic.  It wrapped around almost to center field for a bathroom at home plate.  I saw my chance slipping away.  Then a woman came by and announced there were empty restrooms on the fourth floor.  A herd of us migrated to the stairwell.  They all darted up, but a security guard chased us down and said we weren’t allowed here.  Everyone ignored him but me.  I’d like to say that it was because of my respect for authority, but really I didn’t want to climb three flights of stairs before running 26.2 miles (little did I know I was already on the 2^nd floor).

Forced to the take the elevator, I waited for an eternity.  By the time I made it to the fourth floor, the secret was out and there was a small line, but including this line and the slow elevator, I still made out well.  X was about 25 minutes.

Confident with our empty bladders, A and I headed to the mess that was the start line just as the sun was rising.

We tried our best to follow the signs, but there were so many people in our way we couldn’t go far.  We found ourselves in a big traffic jam – trees who couldn’t see the forest.  Were we able to pan out, we’d realize we were outside the Open Corral, not even inside the chute.  People tried to push forward, but there was nowhere to go.  There was only a small opening to get into a small area already heaving with 21,000 other people.

The elite women took off 20 minutes before our start time.  People tried to surge ahead, little by little.  There were waves of movement as the countdown neared.  The mayor was talking as people shuffled forward.  Those in the corral started removing their excess sweatshirts and throwing them over the fence.  They landed on my head.  A and I held hands not to get separated.  Someone from American Idol sang the national anthem as patriots took off their hats in respect and traitors tried to take advantage and advance their positions.

The announcer started the countdown, “Five!  Four!  Three!  Two!  One!”

The horn blared, people cheered, and off we…walked. 

And Soon It Will Be Done

The marathon I’ve blogged incessantly about for months is finally this weekend.  Instead of feeling exciting, I find that I’m a strange combination of apprehensive and melancholy.

The apprehension I understand since nerves are normal before a race.  The melancholy is what is more surprising.  It’s not as if I relished the training.  I know I won’t miss running so much once the race is over.  Indeed, I’ve been saying for weeks how much I look forward to just being done.

I suspect my melancholy is born from the fact that I’m pretty convinced I will not make my goal.  I’m trying to justify the experience faced with anticipated disappointment.  I fear a mountain of regret, second guessing how I trained, lamenting my lack of mental fortitude.

I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to manage my expectations.  A few people have told me just to “have fun with it”, which is easy to say since most of them are much more accomplished runners than me.  Perhaps that is because they were able to follow their own advice.

I am trying to keep this whole thing in perspective.  Not accomplishing what I set out to do in this marathon is not a tragedy.  It will not portend failure for any future goals I have in life.  It does not impugn me as a person, no matter how much it feels like it would.  Life goes on.  It’s not as if world peace depends on me crossing the finish line at a certain time, which is a good thing since I could not fathom such pressure.

I reflect on the past four months and all the things that happened while we were training for this race.  I traveled through a super typhoon, logged countless miles on the treadmill, embraced a bedtime that most consider geriatric, said goodbye to a cheerleader and friend.  Four months is a long time to dedicate to anything, and now that the end is nigh, it feels like the end will be upon me too soon.  I probably won’t feel that way around mile 10, but it’s a nice reminder that the reward is the journey, not the destination.  I hope to carry that with me over all 26.2 miles.  If I can remember to do that, regardless of whether I make my goal or not, I know I will be able to have fun with it.

The Not O.K. Corral

So one of the many things that is giving me agita about the marathon is this newfangled “seeded corrals” situation that the organizers are implementing for (I think) the first time this year.  I had never heard of a seeded corral before and the concept was so ludicrous to me that I had to read the info multiple times to make sure that I really understood.

At most races, participants generally queue at the start line based on their expected finishing time.  At our race, they are reserving the front for people who have run a marathon in the past year, based on the time they finished ranked A through E.  If you haven’t run a marathon recently (like me), then you’re relegated to the “Open Corral” behind all the seeded corrals.

 

I wouldn’t have an issue with this if it weren’t for the unlimited finishing times and high corral capacities.  This means that faster runners who didn’t do a marathon in 2013 are stuck behind a lot of much slower runners who did.  To give you an indication, Corral E will hold 2,000 people who took over 5 hours to complete their last marathon.  As it stands, A and I hope to finish in front of the C, D, and E groups, which essentially means we need to negotiate past at least 5,500 slower runners the moment we start the race.  This is assuming we score a good position in the Open Corral.

I fear that the start line will be so crowded that we won’t be able to run our pace until the second mile or so.  The fact that we now need to squeeze past so many people further hurts our chances to make our goal time and that, in a word, sucks. 

Hopefully my utter abhorrence of this system will work to my advantage and I’ll be pleasantly surprised at how great it worked.  Since I could not hate it any more than I do, anything is possible.

Crappy Diem

I have never been good about living in the moment.  I am constantly looking ahead to brace myself for problems that the worrier in me is wired to expect.  It’s obviously not the most Zen state of mind, but I justify my pessimism by feeling that if the issues I anticipate never materialize, than whatever relief I feel is bonus good energy I wouldn’t otherwise have had.  It’s a lame trade-off but one that’s worked for me, more or less.

My long runs have become a microcosm of my anxious approach to life.  I find myself anticipating – actually fixating – on landmarks ahead on the course.  Once I pass them, I allow myself a brief moment of relief before moving on to the next one.  I find this keeps me fairly motivated and breaks up an otherwise brutal slog, although it is a double-edged sword.  Sometimes my landmark is so far out that the thought of how long it’ll take to reach can make giving up way too tempting.

Another issue is that I fear I’m robbing myself of an experience by constantly living in the future and ignoring the present.  A keeps reminding me that we love running, we should be happy while we’re running.  I think this is code to not obsess about what’s ahead but revel in the journey your own now, a concept I obviously do not embrace.  When I’ve tried practicing mindfulness and taking anatomical inventory (“checking in” with my body, so to speak), I’ve found it only makes me lose motivation and become negative.  So for me the challenge is how to stay grounded in the moment but still focused on the goal.

When we embarked on our marathon training, I foolishly thought the point was to get my body strong and ready for race day.  More and more I’m realizing that physical strength is linear, mechanical, and will be a natural byproduct of dedication and diligence.  It’s building mental strength that has been elusive and frustratingly nonlinear.  I hope that in these last few weeks leading up to the race I find the right alchemy to create the mental fortitude I need to help me reach my goal.

Milestoned

Yesterday marked the official home stretch: only one month to go before the marathon.  The day before yesterday marked our penultimate long run before the marathon: 21 miles.  And the day before that marked the opening ceremony for the 22nd Winter Olympic Games, which has nothing to do with our marathon training other than to provide a bit of context and inspiration.

Inspiration has been much needed as of late.  I was feeling really burnt out after four months of earnest training.  And then we suddenly found ourselves off-schedule when we both got sidelined by illness.  A fell first and I followed shortly after.  All told, we lost about ten training days, which meant that by last Saturday I hadn’t run long in over two weeks and A was going on almost three.

Starting off Saturday morning, I knew the 21-miler was a Must Do.  We’re both still trying to expel that last little bit of pulmonary phlegm, so we decided to be kind to ourselves and slow down.  Our philosophy was it’s more important to get the mileage in than to keep the pace.

Even with the slower speed, I still lost my resolve around the 10th mile.  I sent A ahead solo, although he stayed in my sightline for a good few miles after that.  I put music on and tried to find that place where imagination doesn’t exist.

Still nagged by negative feedback, I was ready to pack it in after 15.  I took an honest inventory of my body and told myself there was no real reason to quit.  I told myself that walking would hurt more than running and take longer to boot.  I reminded myself that this run was a Must Do, which meant that if I didn’t get ‘er done today, I’d have to do it later this week and all of today’s miles would be for naught.  I threw down a chew and FIDO-ed on.

Talking with a friend about the run afterward, I realized how long 21 miles actually is.  We came across a lot of whacky things on our run: spray-tanning body builders prepping for a competition at the civic center; a clean-up crew along the creek that were either volunteers, convicts, or both; an entire block that reeked of what was either fresh skunk roadkill or fresh skunk weed.

Towards the end of the run, I had moments were I thought I was really jamming.  Then I’d look down at my pace watch and realize, No, no I’m not.  Disappointed, I managed to take heart in the fact that at least I felt alright.  In the end, I ran much slower than I need to come race day, but A reminded me that that was our goal for this run.  He didn’t finish at pace either but was nonplussed.

These next two weeks will be focused on both recovery and getting up to speed, preparing ourselves for our last long run before the race.

Nail in the Coffin

My toenail has been trying to emancipate itself from the second toe of my right foot for a few months now.  I have been fighting its exodus valiantly, babying the nail with scented lotions and trimming it delicately to stave off further damage.  I’ve even foregone my beloved self-painted pedicures (and thereby open-toed shoes) so I could best monitor the situation.

The bruised area was slowly regaining life, and the small part that had lifted from the nail bed was almost past the quick.  I thought my efforts would be victorious.  This weekend, sadly, a lack of good judgment led to a likely insurmountable setback.

As it was, the nail had not taken too kindly to my new shoes.  After my 20-miler, I worried that another bruise was developing lower down the nail.  This in and of itself was still a salvageable situation, but on Saturday I unwisely decided to hit a few shots on the paddle tennis court.  One wayward pivot, and my poor toenail was done for with one quick rip.  I hobbled off the court and inspected the damage.

The center of the nail has fully risen off the nail bed.  The sides are still attached, but probably won’t be for long since everything else is white and ridged.  Now begins the process of cutting away the dead nail and teasing away the parts that are still connected to the skin so the new nail underneath can grow out.  It’s sort of like a baby tooth falling away to make room for a brand new incisor, except instead of a cute, mischievous Jack O’Lantern smile, I have a gnarly toe with a crusty yellow nail on the veiny foot of a middle-aged runner.

Something tells me that sandal season is going to come really late this year.

Spare Me

Yesterday, I vindicated myself after Saturday’s aborted 20-miler.  Ignoring fears of overtraining and insufficient recovery time, I decided it was more important to build confidence in order to build mileage.  A and I have a 21-miler on our training schedule in two weekends, and to me it felt crucial to first succeed at 20 before attempting 21.

Since A finished his 20, yesterday’s outing was all by my lonesome.  I’ve never run that far by myself, and I had some trepidation.  But I was also excited to try out a few things I couldn’t otherwise do running with a partner, like change the course on a whim, listen to music, or follow my progress on the running watch.  A wore our watch in long runs past, and if I we didn’t stay together, I wouldn’t know what pace I ended up running or the mileage I did if I veered off course.

I planned a route that consisted of two 6-mile loops followed by two 4-mile loops, with pit stops at my car in between.  I was dismayed to find that my feet started to hurt really early on.  It felt like there was nothing separating my feet from the cement but a thin sheet of cardboard.  I was slapping the ground so hard I might as well have been barefoot.  I sought out patches of dirt for a softer impact, even if for just a few steps.  That’s when I decided it was time to break out the new pair of shoes I had in my car.

Many months ago, I had a stroke of genius.  Because A opted to go with a more minimal shoe that had a lifespan of about 300 miles, I suggested he buy two pairs so that he’d have a relatively fresh pair for the marathon.  Likewise, the shoe that I wear was being phased out for a newer version, so I too decided to buy another identical pair of my current style while I had a chance.  Thus both of us had auxiliary pairs of our running shoes in the closet, waiting at the ready.

After a run a few weeks ago that left him with sore knees, A decided it was time to pull his spare out of reserve.  His next run was great, proof that he was right to retire the old pair.  One would think that I would take a cue from his example and realize my problem on previous long runs was that I too needed new shoes.  And if that wasn’t enough, the fact that my feet were sore and felt unshielded from the concrete should have been another clue.  Even though it was my brilliant idea to buy extra pairs in the first place, my genius was limited by the fact that I’m a cheapskate and wanted to keep my new pair new for as long as possible.

Returning to the car after my first loop, I promptly switched to the new pair.  It was a revelation.  I felt like a stubborn idiot having waited so long to make a switch.  I wonder how much I suffered needlessly on previous runs for lack of sufficient cushioning.  I am convinced that it was my over-worn shoes that felled my last attempt at 20.

Feeling renewed, I altered the course a little and did 8 miles before returning to my car.  That left only 6 miles, which I did with the aid of my iPod.  The music helped drown out the negative thoughts that pervaded the final miles of my previous long runs.  I felt like I was finally developing a race strategy that could work for me.

My last 6 miles were significantly slower than the first 14, and the even those weren’t fast enough to keep pace with A till the half, but I still felt good about what I accomplished.  The whole run was at a pace fast enough to make my goal (if you don’t count the pit stops).  I’m still anxious that I won’t get there come race time, but I am encouraged that at least I feel ready to face the 21-miler that’s coming up next.

Happiness Is a Warm Run

Last Sunday found A and I following a friend on Facebook who was running the Maui Oceanfront Marathon.  She posted a picture of herself giving the thumbs up at the halfway mark, and A shook his head, bemused.  “We are such different runners than M.”

It’s true, we would never burn precious minutes taking photos on the course, much less posting race updates in real time on Facebook.  I don’t even run with a phone because I don’t want to be weighed down.  But even though her time was slow and the weather was hot and humid, M seemed so happy to be running in a way that I haven’t been in a very long time.

During our long runs, A has taken to reminding me (and himself as well) that we are choosing to do this, that running is supposed to be something we enjoy.  I’ve forgotten that running isn’t work – it’s play.  So, on my next long run my focus will be on being playful and light.

Who knows, maybe I’ll stop to blog at the halfway point, just for the heck of it.

Doubting, Pouting, Figure it Outing

Saturday’s long run didn’t go so well for me.  The goal was to run 20 miles.  I had hoped to keep pace with A for the first 16 miles before slowing for the last 4.  It seemed doable since we’ve run 14 miles together not too long ago, and we finished under our target pace.

Sadly, I started to break down at the start of mile 11 and once I wasn’t feeling good, it was a precipitous fall.  Little maladies now became serious infirmities.  My jaw hurt because of a minor bout of TMJ, and while it doesn’t affect my running at all, it was reason enough to stop.  My legs felt weak and I blamed the fast 6-miler we did just 2 days before, which I now was convinced was a bad decision.  And I managed to diagnose myself as anemic.  I kept trying to focus on each step and quiet the negativity, but ultimately I did not succeed.

I was struggling.   A tried his best to be encouraging, but the fact that he didn’t seem to be having any problems at all only compounded my frustration.  I finally told him to run ahead.  I had decided to dissect a loop and cut my run short.  I told A I would wait for him back at the car. 

I have no idea how slowly I was going once we separated, but I did have sporadic boosts of energy at moments along the run.  When I finally reached the car, after stretching for a few minutes I realized I actually felt well enough to continue running.  But I wasn’t sure if I should since A was still on the road and expecting to see me when he finished.  Since I had the key, I couldn’t just up and leave him tired and waterless at his finish.  So I waited, deflated at my subpar performance.

I had about twenty minutes to ponder what went wrong.  It all seemed to boil down to me not being mentally tough.  After A came in (20 miles done all at his target pace), I was in a complete state of self-loathing.  A suggested I run to our neighborhood Trader Joe’s since I told him I might have a few more miles in me, so I did.  My legs weren’t as spry as I had hoped and the soles of my shoes felt paper thin, but I was glad to get that little bit in just to know that I could.  And we got our weekly grocery shop done a day early. 

After mapping my total mileage back home, I did 16 miles and then tacked on another 1.75 after about a thirty minute rest.

A friend of ours thought I might be overtraining.  I think really I’m just over training.  I’m over the long runs.  I’m over the austerity of watching my food intake, forcing down water, running during my lunch hour, avoiding wine on a Friday night.  I’m bummed we’ve stopped playing paddle tennis because the risk of injury is too high.  I’m bummed I don’t have as much time to swim.  I'm bummed that I'm gaining weight.  I’m really bummed we can’t go to Maui with friends the week before the marathon.  I’m frustrated at all the things I’ve had to give up these many months, and if I don’t make my time goal, I’ll have to ask myself if it was worth it.

Since I was unable to complete the long run, I now feel I’m at a deficit in our training.  I am trying to figure out if running a solo 20-miler on our off week would help or hinder me.  On the one hand, accomplishing it would give me confidence, but on the other, I’d run the risk of overtraining as my friend already suggested I might be doing.  I’ve decided to see how I feel towards the end of the week before I make up my mind.

18 and Life To Go

After running a more-or-less successful 16 miles, 18 miles was our goal last Saturday.  Our format was the same: 4 loops with brief stops at the car to fuel up in between.  This time we rotated between a 5-mile loop and the same 4-miler we did before.  We ran each twice, one after the other.

Deviating from our usual bread and cheese carbo-load the night before, A and I instead enjoyed a big veggie burrito with lots of guacamole and chips.  I felt painfully full going to bed, but woke up hungry Saturday morning.  This was a worrying sign.  I ate some bites of a protein bar and banana and hoped it would do the trick.

To prevent the energy crash on the final lap that happened to me last Saturday, A started us off much slower this time around.  The idea was to run the first 3 loops almost a minute slower than our target speed and then run the last loop at pace.  I wasn’t sure if conserving energy early on would increase my stamina, but I crossed my fingers and hoped it would work.

Thanks to the slower pace, I felt good for the first two loops.  A had to repeatedly remind me to slow down since I’m so used to hurrying to get it over with.  I tried to tell myself the first 14 miles were just a warm-up for the last, fast 4.

Even though I felt good, I still felt low on energy after lap 2, so instead of a sports chew, I took a few more big bites of the protein bar I started before the run.  This turned out to be a poor decision.  The extreme sweetness was almost nauseating and it felt like a brick in my stomach.

With my hoped-for energy source weighing me down, the third lap felt like a grind.  Even though we were much slower than the weekend before, I started to really tire around the middle of the 14^th mile.  Unfortunately, we were on a crowded stretch of sidewalk and were slowly creeping up on a runner who was just a hair slower than us.  Trying to negotiate a pass with so many oncoming strollers, dogwalkers and bikers on the narrow sidewalk was difficult and annoying, so I pushed the pace just to get around her quickly.  This was my last burst of energy and I only had fumes to run on after that.

Sadly, we still had 1 lap to go.  I told A that I couldn’t run it at pace as was the plan; I was spent.  He said I could do it.  I said I could not.  I told him I would finish the run, but it had to be at my own speed.  He wanted to talk me through it, but in the end he went ahead.

For me, the last 4 miles became just about finishing.  I kept reminding myself to stay efficient and light on my feet, but I was neither.  I kept plotting the next water stop, basically willing myself from one fountain to the next.  I kept telling myself I was almost done.  I finished 4 minutes behind A, although that includes an extremely long stoplight that I could have sprinted to cross but chose to hang back for.

After the run, I came to a few conclusions:

1) For about a half-marathon distance, I can happily survive on a few sips of water every few miles.  After that, I become absolutely desperate for water.  It doesn’t matter how well-hydrated I am beforehand.  I need large gulps every mile or so and when I can’t find any water, I almost start to panic.  I’m not sure if this is mental or physical, but it’s something I need to better manage since I’m not planning on buying a water belt before the race.

2) Dense protein bars work for me before the run, but not during.  I still prefer the gels above all, but the chews are great, too, especially when I don’t have to carry them.

3) My body just shuts down after a certain amount of time on the road.  I feel I would have broken down around the same time even if we had run the first 3 loops at pace.  If my premise is correct, that means that running slower initially won’t pay dividends later on.  I’m considering a race day strategy that consists of running at A’s pace for the first half of the marathon and hopefully when I inevitably tire, at least I’ll have had the head start I need and I can hopefully will myself to the finish line.

4) The next day after a long run I’m perfectly fine.  In fact, after both long runs I’m able to run a fast 4 miles 2 days later.  This makes me feel like I’m not putting in enough effort during our long training runs, like I’m not leaving it all out on the road.  I don’t know if that’s what I should be doing, but considering I need very little recovery time, I wonder if I’m not working hard enough.

A ended up doing the last 4 miles at exactly the speed he wanted.  And since my mapping was a little off, we both ended up running a half-mile longer than intended.  I was happy to have 18.5 under my belt, but more importantly, I’m glad we’re trying out different strategies on our long runs to figure out what kind of race we’ll need to run to meet our goals.

Four Squared

After our unintentionally shortened "long" run last weekend, A and I felt like we'd hit a wall.  We hadn't built on our distance for weeks, and our longest run to date was only 15 miles.  Last Saturday we set out to run 16, and we picked a foolproof route to make it happen.

Actually, I had mapped out 16 miles on streets we know well earlier in the week, but Friday night A had an inspired idea while sitting on the toilet (hallowed ground where he usually does his most inspired thinking).  He emerged from the bathroom and said, "Why don't we do our 4-mile run 4 times?"

While this might sound arduous, it felt like exactly what the doctor ordered.  This is a route that I could (and have, in fact) run in the dark.  It's our go-to run when it has been a long day and we want to knock something out just to get it over with.  It’s our path of least resistance.  It's what we call our "Level 1".

Familiarity aside, another benefit was we that could quickly refuel at the car with water and chews after completing each loop.  It felt liberating to know I didn’t have to sherpa a bra full of energy gels over a 16-mile slog.

The one negative was that A had complained before that he was sick of running this same street over and over again.  But since this loopy plan was his idea, I figured I would run with it.

I was nervous when we began, and that translated into running faster than advised.  This was also a course we were used to doing quickly, which probably didn’t help us modulate our speed.  All through the first 4 miles, I felt great.  I even arrogantly entertained the idea of doing an extra loop.  Wouldn’t that be a kick if we just knocked out 20 right here and now as if it was nothing?

I thought the second lap felt than the first, but our running watch data shows that we maintained our pace.  The third lap I started to get weary, especially around mile 10.  I suggested to A that we do the loop clockwise instead of our standard direction, just for a slightly different view.  By the time we hit the car after mile 12, I was pretty disheartened by how exhausted I was and we hadn’t even finished a half marathon distance.  That being said, A tracked our time at the 13.1 mark and we bested our official half marathon time from last January, the second time in our training that we have done so.  But it was all for naught since at that point I was completely zonked.  I begged A to slow down at the start of the 15th mile, even though we had already slowed significantly.  At a water stop, I told A I was losing it.  Eventually I told him to run ahead.  I didn’t stop running, but I was substantially slower than A as he grew tinier with every step he ran ahead of me.  We met back up at the car, where I finished about two minutes behind.  My pace for the last 3 miles was a full minute slower than the first 10.

My struggles at the finish aside, I did like the format.  We both felt it was successful enough to try it again this weekend.  We’re adding a new loop to incrementally increase our mileage, but keeping the same basic premise.  The challenge this Saturday will be to start slow enough to conserve energy and not lose steam once I get into double digits.  A is even dreaming of a negative split, which I’m dubious about but we’ll see.  If we start slow enough, I guess anything is possible.