I changed my blog title and url to Running for Bacon www.runningforbacon.blogspot.com Since I only blog about running, I thought the title was more appropriate. Please follow me there!
Amy
Friday, April 22, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Humble Pie
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| Soon-to-be-crushed optimism. |
I could tell you it was due to the crazy course conditions, but the real reason is that I was over-confident and under-prepared.
It seemed like a good idea in November—a 50k in February would be just the thing to help keep me motivated over the winter. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. I had taken six weeks off in September and October to deal with an injury, and my busy life reclaimed the time I had carved out for running. Instead of motivating me, my first 50k loomed on the horizon like impending doom. There always seemed to be a good reason why I couldn’t fit in my weekly runs and in the back of my mind, I knew I wasn’t training enough.
About two weeks before the race, I finally headed out to Forest Grove to check out the route (and to claim my superstar parking pass for attending an official training run). The course, which circles Hagg Lake twice with a small out-and-back to get the mileage up, was fairly dry when I ran it that day. It was somewhat muddy and challenging, but when I finished most of the first loop, I felt more than able to run it again. The thing is, the weather had been fair for almost a month prior to that run, but (of course) it started raining later that day and didn't let up for two weeks—just in time for the race. Words cannot adequately convey what all that precipitation did for the trail conditions.
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| Pure awesome. (But not for running.) |
It started out innocently enough with the 1.5 mile out-and-back up a gravel road. There was snow on the ground, but it was a beautiful sunny day. My husband and I started out at the back of the pack and took our time, pacing ourselves for the longest distance either of us had ever run. My strategy was to walk the steeper hills and whenever the mud was too deep to run in without maximum effort. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the majority of the course. I had wanted to run the whole race with Aaron, but I was clearly holding him back and frustrating us both. He really tried to get my level of motivation up and actually got me to run a sub-10:00 minute pace for about a half mile on the highway between trails, but we ended up making an amicable decision to part ways for the remainder of the race.
So I watched my husband streak off and I resumed my run-walk-slide-hop progression through the mud. It was a pretty frustrating way to run really—I’d just find a rhythm and then the course would degenerate into a soupy pit, only to dry out just in time for a steep incline. Or worse, the steep incline and the soup would merge and I had to pull myself up the hill with brush, nearby tree branches and the occasional blackberry vine. The only thing that saved the run from being entirely soul-sucking was that the conditions were far too terrible to take seriously (I actually laughed when I saw the washed-out bridge and the creek I’d have to ford). I mulled over the decision to complete the second loop or not for the next eight or so miles, which I covered at a snail-ish 17:00 minute pace (plenty of time to mull). When I broke through some trees and saw the finish line on the far side of the lake, I was so demoralized that I seriously thought about going for an icy swim (hey, it would wash the mud off!).
Shortly after the last aid station, I crested a hill and saw Aaron waiting for me. I have never been so relieved than when he told me he was too wrecked for loop two. We ran the last bit together and both refused the finisher socks (since we didn’t really finish). It took me four hours and sixteen minutes to run the 25k; that's only slightly less time than it takes for me to run a marathon, even though the distance is over ten miles shorter.
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| Like this all the way up to my hips. (And this is after I scraped my shoes!) |
I took two lessons away from this experience. First, I will never under-train for a race again. I had gotten over-confident after beating my course record by over 30 minutes during the Portland marathon after six weeks of complete rest due to injury. Reading several stories about professional ultra-marathoners didn’t help—I always paid attention to what I wanted to hear, like a woman whose longest training run for a 100-miler only is 20 miles (the rest is mental) or a man who decided to run 30 miles on his 30th birthday, half drunk and barely dressed after twelve years away from the sport (he ran with his heart). While sitting on my ass reading about these athletes’ heads and hearts, I blithely ignored the most important thing—to prepare my body. It takes a lot of time and effort to adequately train for a race, and I wasn’t putting in the miles. It’s as simple as that.
Second, I will never run a double-loop race again. It is far too easy to quit in the middle when you’re fifty feet from your car and you know exactly how grueling the second half is going to be. In a point-to-point or even an out-and-back, the desire to finish the race for emotional reasons and the need to finish the race for logistical reasons merge and become greater than each reason on its own. As the mileage increases, the debate rages between my heart (I really want to finish this race!) my head (My ride is at the finish line; I have to get there somehow, so it might as well be running!) and my body (I’m so tired! I’m in so much pain!). When your car and your family are right there at the mid-point and it’s so easy to just quit and go home, the body latches onto the logic of stopping and all other arguments pale in comparison. So this race, my aching legs, bruised hip (I fell) and scratched and swollen hands convinced my head that the sane choice was to bail out. What I forgot to consult was my heart; it’s not so comfortable with the fact that I quite. And so, Hagg Lake won’t be my last 50k, it will just be my last failed attempt.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Course Matters
My favorite thing about a race course (and the only thing I thought mattered) used to be that there are so many people running on it that I couldn't possibly get lost. That's still my favorite thing, but I have found there are other things that can be good or bad about a course. Here are two examples:
The Seattle Rock and Roll Marathon. It barely occurred to me to look up the course before I ran this race. It certainly wasn't a consideration when I chose to sign up, nor did I factor it into my training regimen. My thinking was, "I liked the half last year, so I should love the full, right?" WRONG.
The first half of the course is beautiful: full of pretty scenery, residential neighborhoods and tree-lined streets. After mile nine, the courses diverge and the full-marathoners head out across a floating bridge and back. Pay attention here, because the out-and-back component is a major feature of this race. The bridge wasn't horrible; it was flat and the day was somewhat overcast so the lack of shade wasn't that big of a deal. After heading back off the bridge, we met up with the half course again for a few miles, staying with them until we could smell the finish line and then out past the jubilation for another out-and-back, turning around at mile 18.5. The only good part of this is that I knew exactly how envious the runners were who had yet to make the u-turn as they stared glassy-eyed and longingly in my direction--because I was one of them a few short miles ago.
Meanwhile, I am pounding away on concrete, bermed (is that a word) freeway. I guess one good thing about the out-and-back model is that I screwed up my hips equally on both sides from the curvature of the road.
The course passes the finish once again at mile 23, close enough that I could hear the cheers and continues on for a final (you guessed it!) out-and-back. I'm normally a fan of this model, but it doesn't hold nearly the same charm when you double back so many times. For the last 3.2 miles I got to run near the wharf. As if running a marathon wasn't vomit-inducing enough, the course adds some nice dead-fish tang to the equation.
There was one good thing about this last bit of the course--half of it was downhill. The only problem was it was the first half. As every runner on an out-and-back knows, if it's downhill on the way down, it's uphill on the way back. Son of a bitch. The last .2 miles was the same as every other marathon I've ever run (okay, so there have only been two, but it made an impression). In fact, I think I will save my rant on the demoralizing quality of the .2 in another post, possibly entitled, "Point-F*#!ing-Two." To neatly tie up this story, despite the atrocious nature of the last half of the course, I was able to PR by nearly 45 minutes. I was 28 seconds off my goal of 4:30:59 (see Point-F*#!ing-Two).
The second race that made me question the wisdom of signing up for a race without scrutinizing the course was the Fueled by Fine Wine half marathon. Oddly enough, this is a good story. Before I signed up, I had a look at the course and even read a blogged description of it online. "Sure," they said, "there are some hills. You won't clock your best time, but you'll have the best time!" I bet they said it with a smirk on their face and a false, jocular tone. Having learned my lesson about knowing what to expect, I looked at elevation maps and practically memorized the blog post. I was expecting a big hill from mile 6 to 8, but then the worst would be over and it would be more or less downhill from there. And so it seemed until I turned the corner at around mile 11 and was confronted with a hill so steep that every single person on the course was walking. Even the guy with the Ironman logo tattooed on his calf and the old chicken-legged master that could run laps around me up and down Leaf Erickson (and probably does). The crazy thing about this is that it was so preposterous, instead of feeling demoralized, there was this collective sense of unfettered joy. Suddenly everyone had permission not to worry about their time or to be ashamed of walking; everyone was walking. I am sure that the beautiful day and stunning scenery of vineyards added to this phenomenon. The fabulous and plentiful wine at the end didn't hurt either.
In general, I think I will be more careful about selecting which courses to run. The problem with this new found wisdom is that I have yet to complete two more marathons that I have already committed to, and which I signed up for prior to realizing how much a the course really does matter. I am sure I will be back complaining about the Nike Women's Marathon and the Columbia Gorge Marathon in October.
The Seattle Rock and Roll Marathon. It barely occurred to me to look up the course before I ran this race. It certainly wasn't a consideration when I chose to sign up, nor did I factor it into my training regimen. My thinking was, "I liked the half last year, so I should love the full, right?" WRONG.
The first half of the course is beautiful: full of pretty scenery, residential neighborhoods and tree-lined streets. After mile nine, the courses diverge and the full-marathoners head out across a floating bridge and back. Pay attention here, because the out-and-back component is a major feature of this race. The bridge wasn't horrible; it was flat and the day was somewhat overcast so the lack of shade wasn't that big of a deal. After heading back off the bridge, we met up with the half course again for a few miles, staying with them until we could smell the finish line and then out past the jubilation for another out-and-back, turning around at mile 18.5. The only good part of this is that I knew exactly how envious the runners were who had yet to make the u-turn as they stared glassy-eyed and longingly in my direction--because I was one of them a few short miles ago.
Meanwhile, I am pounding away on concrete, bermed (is that a word) freeway. I guess one good thing about the out-and-back model is that I screwed up my hips equally on both sides from the curvature of the road.
The course passes the finish once again at mile 23, close enough that I could hear the cheers and continues on for a final (you guessed it!) out-and-back. I'm normally a fan of this model, but it doesn't hold nearly the same charm when you double back so many times. For the last 3.2 miles I got to run near the wharf. As if running a marathon wasn't vomit-inducing enough, the course adds some nice dead-fish tang to the equation.
There was one good thing about this last bit of the course--half of it was downhill. The only problem was it was the first half. As every runner on an out-and-back knows, if it's downhill on the way down, it's uphill on the way back. Son of a bitch. The last .2 miles was the same as every other marathon I've ever run (okay, so there have only been two, but it made an impression). In fact, I think I will save my rant on the demoralizing quality of the .2 in another post, possibly entitled, "Point-F*#!ing-Two." To neatly tie up this story, despite the atrocious nature of the last half of the course, I was able to PR by nearly 45 minutes. I was 28 seconds off my goal of 4:30:59 (see Point-F*#!ing-Two).
The second race that made me question the wisdom of signing up for a race without scrutinizing the course was the Fueled by Fine Wine half marathon. Oddly enough, this is a good story. Before I signed up, I had a look at the course and even read a blogged description of it online. "Sure," they said, "there are some hills. You won't clock your best time, but you'll have the best time!" I bet they said it with a smirk on their face and a false, jocular tone. Having learned my lesson about knowing what to expect, I looked at elevation maps and practically memorized the blog post. I was expecting a big hill from mile 6 to 8, but then the worst would be over and it would be more or less downhill from there. And so it seemed until I turned the corner at around mile 11 and was confronted with a hill so steep that every single person on the course was walking. Even the guy with the Ironman logo tattooed on his calf and the old chicken-legged master that could run laps around me up and down Leaf Erickson (and probably does). The crazy thing about this is that it was so preposterous, instead of feeling demoralized, there was this collective sense of unfettered joy. Suddenly everyone had permission not to worry about their time or to be ashamed of walking; everyone was walking. I am sure that the beautiful day and stunning scenery of vineyards added to this phenomenon. The fabulous and plentiful wine at the end didn't hurt either.
In general, I think I will be more careful about selecting which courses to run. The problem with this new found wisdom is that I have yet to complete two more marathons that I have already committed to, and which I signed up for prior to realizing how much a the course really does matter. I am sure I will be back complaining about the Nike Women's Marathon and the Columbia Gorge Marathon in October.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Going the Distance
Here is an issue I have been struggling with lately: I can only run as far as I intend to run and no further. I know that sounds silly, if I ran as far as I intended to, who cares if I can run further? And for that matter, I should be leaving everything on the course anyway; if I have something left, it just means I didn't race hard enough. But it's not just about races and it's not about pace either. I'm not blistering out 5ks at a five minute mile; my fastest chip-timed pace is 9:20, and I did that in a half marathon. No, I have the same feeling at the end of a three mile training run as I do at the end of a 16-miler.
I find this effect to be quite demoralizing, especially on my shortest runs. I know for a fact I can run 26.2 miles--I even have a t-shirt that announces it to the world--so why do I feel like I should be checking myself into the insane asylum after each crappy five miler?As my next marathon approaches, I'm trying hard to get over this mental block. Maybe I'm hitting the wall at twenty days instead of twenty miles. That would be incredibly efficient of me, to get my bonking out of the way before the race even starts. Fingers crossed that's the case.
I find this effect to be quite demoralizing, especially on my shortest runs. I know for a fact I can run 26.2 miles--I even have a t-shirt that announces it to the world--so why do I feel like I should be checking myself into the insane asylum after each crappy five miler?As my next marathon approaches, I'm trying hard to get over this mental block. Maybe I'm hitting the wall at twenty days instead of twenty miles. That would be incredibly efficient of me, to get my bonking out of the way before the race even starts. Fingers crossed that's the case.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Running Late
Sometimes Mother Nature conspires against you, and sometimes you just screw things up all by yourself.
Mental note: do not share a pitcher of PBR the night before a race. Maybe it's just me, but carbo-loading with beer (though delicious and fun) inevitably means I will have to carbo un-load in the morning.
On this particular morning, I was assigned a 16 mile run. I'd already registered for the Earthday 10k, so I thought I'd be clever and combine the runs by parking five miles from the starting line--compelling me to finish all 16 miles or hitchhike home. I scouted Google maps and consulted a Portland expert to find a likely spot for my car. I set out for Lake Oswego, having taken care of business ;) before I left bright and early.
I got to the school parking lot and started getting my gear ready. I was wearing a hydration pack without the bladder so that I would have a place to carry my dry clothes, gels, and the inevitable race swag. I carried my Nuun electrolyte drink in a hand-held water bottle and I'd already swiped my important bits with Body Glide. The only thing I didn't have were my carefully written, turn-by-turn directions. Apparently, they had somehow missed the transition from kitchen table gear pile to tightly packed bag.
Bitchcakes! I am so directionally challenged, I practically qualify for ADA status. I knew the general direction I was supposed to be heading, but decided to bring along some insurance in the form of my Garmin Nuvi, a navigational device for cars (not, as it turns out, runners).
This little hiccup in my plan set me behind somewhat, and I would have to run sub 10-minute miles to get to the race on time. The second and bigger hiccup arrived in the form of G.I. distress about a mile into the run. Cheap beer, like cheap hookers may offer instant gratification, but tends to have regrettable consequences. If Google ever asks me how I like their walking map beta, I'm going to tell them that they need to add public restrooms to the list of menu items that can be incorporated into the route. The particular path I was on was full of industrial parks, significantly lacking in public restrooms; and sparse brush, significantly lacking in both camouflage and make-shift toilet-paper options. I'm sure my chiropractor would be appalled at the biomechanics of my gait: trying to run with a tightly clinched ass and a rigid, mincing stride was probably not doing my joints any favors. Things were not looking good for an on-time arrival.
At last, like an oasis in the desert, I saw a gas station up ahead, approximately .2 miles from the race, where tent peaks were sprawled across the parking lot like a Bedouin camp. I ran into the station and made a bee line for the restroom... which was locked. I practically lapped the inside of the convenience store before I found the clerk crouched down in the chip aisle restocking the Funions. I asked her for the key, and she informed me that someone was already in there, so I stalked back to the bathroom door and crossed my arms (and my legs) to wait... and wait... and wait... Every time I heard the paper towel dispenser thump, I would get my hopes up that this person would soon be vacating the premises I so desperately wanted to occupy, but that door never did open, and time was ticking. It was about five minutes before the start of the race when I decided to give up on the obsessive-compulsive hand-washer in the gas station john and try my luck at the event port-a-potties.
This turned out to be almost as bad of a decision as drinking beer the night before. There were only four toilets for all 200+ participants and however many spectators and volunteers. Not four banks of toilets--four toilets, TOTAL. A fifth grader could have told the organizers that this was a serious oversight. But, having no choice, I joined the line of people snaked in front of the honey buckets.
Over the loudspeaker, I heard them announce that the 10k would start about ten minutes late. "Thank goodness for small favors" I thought, as I hopped from foot to foot. Then they announced the imminent start time....and then the gun went off. Without me. Because surely, anyone who orders only four johns for more than 300 people did not consider for a moment the need for toilets on the course. I had no choice. I continued to wait in line. and wait. and wait.
Finally, much relieved, I trotted over to the start line to make sure I could start with the 5k'ers. Not so, they said. I would have to start immediately for my chip to work properly. The head honcho hopped on his walkie talkie and announced that there was some chick who was in the bathroom for a really long time ("long line, I said long line!") and still wanted to do the 10k. So, traffic was stopped and I ran off down a completely empty course, crossing my fingers that I would make the right turns.
I didn't see a soul for the first mile. Convinced that I had gotten off track, I had just decided to run three miles and turn around so that I could at least make my training goal when I finally saw a little yellow sign marked "runners." About a half mile later, I passed a race volunteer, who despite the extra perky, "way to go!" couldn't quite disguise her look of utter confusion over whether I was an elite 5k runner or just a really fucking slow 10k runner. I passed some walkers at mile two, and despite having over a ten minute delay on my start time, managed to catch up with some actual runners at about mile three and a half.
I did finish the race and set a new personal record of 58:43, though I did not stick around to partake of the free beer (consider that lesson learned).
Mental note: do not share a pitcher of PBR the night before a race. Maybe it's just me, but carbo-loading with beer (though delicious and fun) inevitably means I will have to carbo un-load in the morning.
On this particular morning, I was assigned a 16 mile run. I'd already registered for the Earthday 10k, so I thought I'd be clever and combine the runs by parking five miles from the starting line--compelling me to finish all 16 miles or hitchhike home. I scouted Google maps and consulted a Portland expert to find a likely spot for my car. I set out for Lake Oswego, having taken care of business ;) before I left bright and early.
I got to the school parking lot and started getting my gear ready. I was wearing a hydration pack without the bladder so that I would have a place to carry my dry clothes, gels, and the inevitable race swag. I carried my Nuun electrolyte drink in a hand-held water bottle and I'd already swiped my important bits with Body Glide. The only thing I didn't have were my carefully written, turn-by-turn directions. Apparently, they had somehow missed the transition from kitchen table gear pile to tightly packed bag.
Bitchcakes! I am so directionally challenged, I practically qualify for ADA status. I knew the general direction I was supposed to be heading, but decided to bring along some insurance in the form of my Garmin Nuvi, a navigational device for cars (not, as it turns out, runners).
This little hiccup in my plan set me behind somewhat, and I would have to run sub 10-minute miles to get to the race on time. The second and bigger hiccup arrived in the form of G.I. distress about a mile into the run. Cheap beer, like cheap hookers may offer instant gratification, but tends to have regrettable consequences. If Google ever asks me how I like their walking map beta, I'm going to tell them that they need to add public restrooms to the list of menu items that can be incorporated into the route. The particular path I was on was full of industrial parks, significantly lacking in public restrooms; and sparse brush, significantly lacking in both camouflage and make-shift toilet-paper options. I'm sure my chiropractor would be appalled at the biomechanics of my gait: trying to run with a tightly clinched ass and a rigid, mincing stride was probably not doing my joints any favors. Things were not looking good for an on-time arrival.
At last, like an oasis in the desert, I saw a gas station up ahead, approximately .2 miles from the race, where tent peaks were sprawled across the parking lot like a Bedouin camp. I ran into the station and made a bee line for the restroom... which was locked. I practically lapped the inside of the convenience store before I found the clerk crouched down in the chip aisle restocking the Funions. I asked her for the key, and she informed me that someone was already in there, so I stalked back to the bathroom door and crossed my arms (and my legs) to wait... and wait... and wait... Every time I heard the paper towel dispenser thump, I would get my hopes up that this person would soon be vacating the premises I so desperately wanted to occupy, but that door never did open, and time was ticking. It was about five minutes before the start of the race when I decided to give up on the obsessive-compulsive hand-washer in the gas station john and try my luck at the event port-a-potties.
This turned out to be almost as bad of a decision as drinking beer the night before. There were only four toilets for all 200+ participants and however many spectators and volunteers. Not four banks of toilets--four toilets, TOTAL. A fifth grader could have told the organizers that this was a serious oversight. But, having no choice, I joined the line of people snaked in front of the honey buckets.
Over the loudspeaker, I heard them announce that the 10k would start about ten minutes late. "Thank goodness for small favors" I thought, as I hopped from foot to foot. Then they announced the imminent start time....and then the gun went off. Without me. Because surely, anyone who orders only four johns for more than 300 people did not consider for a moment the need for toilets on the course. I had no choice. I continued to wait in line. and wait. and wait.
Finally, much relieved, I trotted over to the start line to make sure I could start with the 5k'ers. Not so, they said. I would have to start immediately for my chip to work properly. The head honcho hopped on his walkie talkie and announced that there was some chick who was in the bathroom for a really long time ("long line, I said long line!") and still wanted to do the 10k. So, traffic was stopped and I ran off down a completely empty course, crossing my fingers that I would make the right turns.
I didn't see a soul for the first mile. Convinced that I had gotten off track, I had just decided to run three miles and turn around so that I could at least make my training goal when I finally saw a little yellow sign marked "runners." About a half mile later, I passed a race volunteer, who despite the extra perky, "way to go!" couldn't quite disguise her look of utter confusion over whether I was an elite 5k runner or just a really fucking slow 10k runner. I passed some walkers at mile two, and despite having over a ten minute delay on my start time, managed to catch up with some actual runners at about mile three and a half.
I did finish the race and set a new personal record of 58:43, though I did not stick around to partake of the free beer (consider that lesson learned).
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Confessions of a Lazy Blogger
Okay, okay, it has been a very long time since my last post in October. Some of you may be inclined to think that I have been sitting on the couch eating Krispy Kremes now that I can check "ran a marathon" off my bucket list, but you'd be wrong. In fact, I have run at least one event per month (more or less) since the marathon to keep my motivation going. The list includes:
Well, that was my old strategy; my new strategy is to get a coach. I found one at PSU by emailing the PE department and inquiring if there were any students in the program who needed independent credits for training someone. This strategy is way more beneficial to my training and I don't have to shell out race fees every month. My new coach is named Yassine. He is an ultra-marathoner, which is intimidating enough, but he also happens to win ultra marathons. Check out his terrific blog. So now, I have someone who just lays out what I'm supposed to do, which is so much better than reading 15 different training plans and trying to discern what I should do. That gives me a headache and usually takes up so much time that I can't fit in a run. Having a coach also makes me accountable to someone other than myself. I'm actually doing speed work for the first time and loving it.
I have a few more races coming up, Bloomsday in Spokane and the Hippie Chick Half for Mother's Day. After that it's on to the full Rock and Roll Seattle marathon in June. Then I plan to buckle down and train hard for the triple threat I have coming up in October: three marathons in three weeks, which will qualify me for Silver status as a Marathon Maniac. I'm running Portland, Nike Women's in SFO and the Columbia Gorge. Then I'm taking a week off and spending it in a hot tub with a bucket of margaritas.
- Run Like Hell 10k (October): A costume race. I went as Pippi Longstocking, which was a lot of fun, especially when people called out, "Go Pippi!" along the route. I'm considering wearing the same costume for my next marathon just to get the shout outs.
- Dirty Birdy 5k (October): Three times around a motorcross track in the cold wet mud with two "slip 'n' slides" (black plastic laid down on a steep hill--which does nothing to cushion one's ass from sharp rocks). Also done in costume. My favorite: Jen Linder as a pregnant cheerleader. I had to throw away my clothes when this was over.
- Jingle Bell Run 5k (December): F@#king cold.
- First Run 5k (January 1st): A great way to ring in the new year. Also, a testament to the oddness of runners and their penchant for weird costumes even when they aren't called for. Strangest sighting: a couple dressed completely in black with matching red thongs worn on the outside of their clothes.
- Aaron Rogers Open Invitational 5k (February): I don't know who Aaron Rogers is, but I agree with his opinion that "Open Invitational" sounds way better than "Fun Run". Apparently, he is some kid from Glencoe High School in Hillsboro who organized a 5K for his senior project. Even though I secretly think the course was less than 5k, I liked my 25:43 time so I'm not going to complain. This kid organized the hell of this race, better than the Portland marathon by about 26.2 miles.
- Red Lizard 5 Miler (March): Very well organized on a beautiful course in Lake Oswego. I'd do this again, even if I do get lapped by the elites again.
- Shamrock Run 15k (March): Straight up a hill. A really, really, really steep hill. Nothing better than running down the other side (a much more gradual descent than the ascent). Felt like I was flying. I also ran this with a group of girlfriends. Fun times.
- Hitches to Bitches half marathon (April): A group of running friends from Portland Fit put together this half marathon. We briefly ran on the course for Race for the Roses before it was open, which was a ton of fun.We hit the course on the way back too and confused the hell out of the spectators when we diverged from the course--I guess they didn't notice our kick ass H2B race bibs.
- Bridge to Brews 10k (April): Very chilly morning. Nothing like running straight up a hill as soon as the gun goes off to warm a person up.
- Earth Day 10k (April): A PR for me, funny entry featuring port-a-potties to follow.
Well, that was my old strategy; my new strategy is to get a coach. I found one at PSU by emailing the PE department and inquiring if there were any students in the program who needed independent credits for training someone. This strategy is way more beneficial to my training and I don't have to shell out race fees every month. My new coach is named Yassine. He is an ultra-marathoner, which is intimidating enough, but he also happens to win ultra marathons. Check out his terrific blog. So now, I have someone who just lays out what I'm supposed to do, which is so much better than reading 15 different training plans and trying to discern what I should do. That gives me a headache and usually takes up so much time that I can't fit in a run. Having a coach also makes me accountable to someone other than myself. I'm actually doing speed work for the first time and loving it.I have a few more races coming up, Bloomsday in Spokane and the Hippie Chick Half for Mother's Day. After that it's on to the full Rock and Roll Seattle marathon in June. Then I plan to buckle down and train hard for the triple threat I have coming up in October: three marathons in three weeks, which will qualify me for Silver status as a Marathon Maniac. I'm running Portland, Nike Women's in SFO and the Columbia Gorge. Then I'm taking a week off and spending it in a hot tub with a bucket of margaritas.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Six Miles of Truth
A posse ad esse, from possibility to actuality. Twenty-six weeks ago I started training for a marathon; this week I completed one. I'm not quite sure how to feel about the whole thing other than being convinced that I will run another one and probably several shorter races in between. For lack of a more creative introduction, here is how the race went:
I have never checked a bag before at a race because it seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. For the marathon however, I decided to suck it up and bring some dry clothes along; I decided this at 3 AM when I woke up to the pouring rain. Fortunately, it wasn't raining when my running partner, Vonie and I arrived in downtown Portland a few hours later. We stood in line first for the port-a-potties since those lines are always very long, especially at an event with 12,000 runners. This turned out to be a tactical mistake once we saw the lines for the bag check. I seriously contemplated donating my dry clothes to charity on the spot, but I am rather fond of the hoody I packed. At the last minute I threw my cell phone in the bag and jammed my energy gels in the small pocket of my running capris where I had intended to carry my phone. I had planned on pinning the gels to my shirt as I had seen other runners do, but since I have never run with gel packets slapping me on the ass before, I decided to follow the coach's "no new is good new" advice and pocket them instead. I could only cram three of them in there, but I figured I could pick up two more on the course at the designated stations. The whole need for gel was annoying, frankly; I'd trained with a carbohydrate/electrolyte product called Glucose throughout the season because that is the product that was supposed to be on the course. Well, a little less than two weeks prior to the race we found out that Ultima would be on the course instead. Ultima is electrolyte only, hence the need for me to add carbohydrate gel. There was a lot of discussion about this on the Portland Fit forum. Some runners were planning on bringing little packets of glucose and mixing their own during the race. This sounded like a huge time suck to me; little did I know....
At first, I lined up with the five hour (my stated goal) Red Lizard pacer. Then I got a little more optimistic and scooted up closer to the 4:45 (my secret goal) wave-start line. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon and it was a beautiful morning. I was thrilled to finally be running in my first marathon. Then we were off. I went slow, slow, slow for the first little while, trying to remember not to expend too much energy at the beginning. About ten minutes after we started running, I spotted a bank of port-a-potties that was miraculously vacant. I decided to take advantage of this anomaly and was quickly back out on the course. About this time the elite runners went racing by in the other direction - nearly finished and I had barely started. I was feeling good and smiling wide. I was only a few minutes off my goal pace and figured I could make that up later - I was keeping something in reserve for a reason, after all. There were some interesting sights along the course, not the least of which was a smushed rat. I pictured its last moments alive, frozen in the middle of the street as a knot of crazy humans mowed it down in their enthusiasm to test the limits of human endurance. More likely, it was roadkilled in the more traditional manner before traffic was blocked for the marathon, but it's always fun to speculate.
The water stations were going by quickly and I was drinking Ultima and water at each one. I had to pee again by mile six, but ignored the urge until mile eight hoping for shorter lines. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I lined up. There were two lines and I got in the wrong one. Everyone in my line was apparently carbo unloading. Finally, I was back on the course, but I had stopped for so long my left leg was tweaking badly I was limping pretty obviously. I stopped twice to rub out the cramp or whatever it was and was off again hoping I had seen the last of the inside of a port-a-potty until after the finish line; I had definitely seen the last of the 4:45 pacer.
I had already eaten two of my gels and was contemplating the third. I'd saved the best (apple pie) for last and decided to bust it out when I started to flag a bit at mile 15. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, and immediately dropped it on the ground. Horrified, I scooped it up and in the process squeezed gel all over my hand, watch and shirt. I started to lick it off my fingers until I realized that even the delicious* taste of energy gel cannot overcome the nasty taste of double-strength hand sanitizer. Abandoning that plan, I squeezed every last drop from the packet.
*Everything's relative
I reached Highway 30 and there was indeed a bit of a headwind as promised in the pre-race materials I had read diligently the night before. The helpful article had suggested finding another runner to run directly behind in order to conserve up to five heartbeats per minute. I dutifully found a strapping young man and slipped in behind him; then something slipped out of his behind and I had to veer off, gagging on the stench of too many pre-race protein bars. Oh well, nothing ventured...
I had to pee again. I couldn't believe it! I'd already peed four times more frequently than I had during my 21 mile training run. I took advantage of a vacant gas station bathroom I knew about and was pleasantly surprised to find it equipped with toilet paper. I also got to wash the crystallized gel from my hands in a real sink.
Speaking of gels, an aid station equipped with gels finally showed up. I was horrified to observe that instead of convenient little packets, they were pouring the gel from a gallon jug into paper cups. I grabbed one anyway, trying to figure out how to get it into my mouth and not my face/hands/clothes. I normally like to portion out my gel over the course of a mile - a carbohydrate miser. A Dixie cup isn't the best means of convenience for this technique, so I decided to go for broke and downed as much as I could by squishing the cup from the bottom. I immediately regretted the decision as soon as the foulness hit my taste buds. It tasted like someone had swished out a honey bear with Pinesol. (You think I'm kidding.) At least I had something to focus on besides the dull ache in my feet and the many miles left to cover. I thought wistfully of the two fruit-flavored gels I'd left behind in my checked bag and thought maybe I could have used a slap on the ass right about now...
Up and over the St. John's Brige and past the seventeen mile marker now. I was still feeling pretty good and looking forward to getting at the chips and Glucose that Aaron and Gemma had waiting for me at mile 20.5. I stopped to pee one more time (seriously!?) and had begun to suspect it was that damn Ultima that was causing the problems. I vowed to only drink water for the rest of the race as I once again sprinted to catch up to the five-hour pacer. I had been doing this at every water station for the last several miles. I was hanging on to my five hour goal like grim death. Finally, I saw the balloon arch that marked the Portland Fit cheering station and started scanning the crowd for Aaron. I saw him wave at me then I saw Gemma with a big smile on her face. I had planned on stopping to chat with them for a minute and give Gemma a hug, but I couldn't stand the thought of that stupid pacer getting ahead of me; I swooped past, grabbing the chips and Glucose as I went. I ran maybe a hundred more yards and all the engergy left my body like it had been siphoned off by one of the Dementors from Harry Potter. I had been focusing so hard on getting to the cheering station that another six miles seemed unattainable. I slowed way down and watched the Red Lizard pack run past and out of sight. I wanted to cry. And I had to pee again. Goddamnit.
The rest of the race (after giving up any goal aside from just finishing) is sort of a blur. I don't even remember crossing the Broadway Bridge. The only good thing I can say about those last few miles is that the port-a-potties were generally vacant. Of course, this was a philosophical observation since I hadn't had to pee since I stopped guzzling that stupid diuretic they were passing off as a sports drink. It's a good thing I had checked my cell phone, because if I'd had it, the temptation to call a cab would have been very enticing.
I found my focus again maybe a half a mile from the finish line when the throng of spectators started to thicken. I had my ipod on and meant to remember the song I crossed the finish line with, but it turns out my capacity for thought was distilled down to just figuring out where the end was and getting there as soon as possible. I didn't hear Gemma and Aaron cheering for me as I rounded the final corner; I'm pretty sure I didn't hear anything at all. I managed to throw my arms up in a victory "V" as I crossed the finish line. The pictures will soon tell if that looked as good as it felt.
I have never checked a bag before at a race because it seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. For the marathon however, I decided to suck it up and bring some dry clothes along; I decided this at 3 AM when I woke up to the pouring rain. Fortunately, it wasn't raining when my running partner, Vonie and I arrived in downtown Portland a few hours later. We stood in line first for the port-a-potties since those lines are always very long, especially at an event with 12,000 runners. This turned out to be a tactical mistake once we saw the lines for the bag check. I seriously contemplated donating my dry clothes to charity on the spot, but I am rather fond of the hoody I packed. At the last minute I threw my cell phone in the bag and jammed my energy gels in the small pocket of my running capris where I had intended to carry my phone. I had planned on pinning the gels to my shirt as I had seen other runners do, but since I have never run with gel packets slapping me on the ass before, I decided to follow the coach's "no new is good new" advice and pocket them instead. I could only cram three of them in there, but I figured I could pick up two more on the course at the designated stations. The whole need for gel was annoying, frankly; I'd trained with a carbohydrate/electrolyte product called Glucose throughout the season because that is the product that was supposed to be on the course. Well, a little less than two weeks prior to the race we found out that Ultima would be on the course instead. Ultima is electrolyte only, hence the need for me to add carbohydrate gel. There was a lot of discussion about this on the Portland Fit forum. Some runners were planning on bringing little packets of glucose and mixing their own during the race. This sounded like a huge time suck to me; little did I know....
At first, I lined up with the five hour (my stated goal) Red Lizard pacer. Then I got a little more optimistic and scooted up closer to the 4:45 (my secret goal) wave-start line. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon and it was a beautiful morning. I was thrilled to finally be running in my first marathon. Then we were off. I went slow, slow, slow for the first little while, trying to remember not to expend too much energy at the beginning. About ten minutes after we started running, I spotted a bank of port-a-potties that was miraculously vacant. I decided to take advantage of this anomaly and was quickly back out on the course. About this time the elite runners went racing by in the other direction - nearly finished and I had barely started. I was feeling good and smiling wide. I was only a few minutes off my goal pace and figured I could make that up later - I was keeping something in reserve for a reason, after all. There were some interesting sights along the course, not the least of which was a smushed rat. I pictured its last moments alive, frozen in the middle of the street as a knot of crazy humans mowed it down in their enthusiasm to test the limits of human endurance. More likely, it was roadkilled in the more traditional manner before traffic was blocked for the marathon, but it's always fun to speculate.
The water stations were going by quickly and I was drinking Ultima and water at each one. I had to pee again by mile six, but ignored the urge until mile eight hoping for shorter lines. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I lined up. There were two lines and I got in the wrong one. Everyone in my line was apparently carbo unloading. Finally, I was back on the course, but I had stopped for so long my left leg was tweaking badly I was limping pretty obviously. I stopped twice to rub out the cramp or whatever it was and was off again hoping I had seen the last of the inside of a port-a-potty until after the finish line; I had definitely seen the last of the 4:45 pacer.
I had already eaten two of my gels and was contemplating the third. I'd saved the best (apple pie) for last and decided to bust it out when I started to flag a bit at mile 15. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, and immediately dropped it on the ground. Horrified, I scooped it up and in the process squeezed gel all over my hand, watch and shirt. I started to lick it off my fingers until I realized that even the delicious* taste of energy gel cannot overcome the nasty taste of double-strength hand sanitizer. Abandoning that plan, I squeezed every last drop from the packet.
*Everything's relative
I reached Highway 30 and there was indeed a bit of a headwind as promised in the pre-race materials I had read diligently the night before. The helpful article had suggested finding another runner to run directly behind in order to conserve up to five heartbeats per minute. I dutifully found a strapping young man and slipped in behind him; then something slipped out of his behind and I had to veer off, gagging on the stench of too many pre-race protein bars. Oh well, nothing ventured...
I had to pee again. I couldn't believe it! I'd already peed four times more frequently than I had during my 21 mile training run. I took advantage of a vacant gas station bathroom I knew about and was pleasantly surprised to find it equipped with toilet paper. I also got to wash the crystallized gel from my hands in a real sink.
Speaking of gels, an aid station equipped with gels finally showed up. I was horrified to observe that instead of convenient little packets, they were pouring the gel from a gallon jug into paper cups. I grabbed one anyway, trying to figure out how to get it into my mouth and not my face/hands/clothes. I normally like to portion out my gel over the course of a mile - a carbohydrate miser. A Dixie cup isn't the best means of convenience for this technique, so I decided to go for broke and downed as much as I could by squishing the cup from the bottom. I immediately regretted the decision as soon as the foulness hit my taste buds. It tasted like someone had swished out a honey bear with Pinesol. (You think I'm kidding.) At least I had something to focus on besides the dull ache in my feet and the many miles left to cover. I thought wistfully of the two fruit-flavored gels I'd left behind in my checked bag and thought maybe I could have used a slap on the ass right about now...
Up and over the St. John's Brige and past the seventeen mile marker now. I was still feeling pretty good and looking forward to getting at the chips and Glucose that Aaron and Gemma had waiting for me at mile 20.5. I stopped to pee one more time (seriously!?) and had begun to suspect it was that damn Ultima that was causing the problems. I vowed to only drink water for the rest of the race as I once again sprinted to catch up to the five-hour pacer. I had been doing this at every water station for the last several miles. I was hanging on to my five hour goal like grim death. Finally, I saw the balloon arch that marked the Portland Fit cheering station and started scanning the crowd for Aaron. I saw him wave at me then I saw Gemma with a big smile on her face. I had planned on stopping to chat with them for a minute and give Gemma a hug, but I couldn't stand the thought of that stupid pacer getting ahead of me; I swooped past, grabbing the chips and Glucose as I went. I ran maybe a hundred more yards and all the engergy left my body like it had been siphoned off by one of the Dementors from Harry Potter. I had been focusing so hard on getting to the cheering station that another six miles seemed unattainable. I slowed way down and watched the Red Lizard pack run past and out of sight. I wanted to cry. And I had to pee again. Goddamnit.
The rest of the race (after giving up any goal aside from just finishing) is sort of a blur. I don't even remember crossing the Broadway Bridge. The only good thing I can say about those last few miles is that the port-a-potties were generally vacant. Of course, this was a philosophical observation since I hadn't had to pee since I stopped guzzling that stupid diuretic they were passing off as a sports drink. It's a good thing I had checked my cell phone, because if I'd had it, the temptation to call a cab would have been very enticing.
I found my focus again maybe a half a mile from the finish line when the throng of spectators started to thicken. I had my ipod on and meant to remember the song I crossed the finish line with, but it turns out my capacity for thought was distilled down to just figuring out where the end was and getting there as soon as possible. I didn't hear Gemma and Aaron cheering for me as I rounded the final corner; I'm pretty sure I didn't hear anything at all. I managed to throw my arms up in a victory "V" as I crossed the finish line. The pictures will soon tell if that looked as good as it felt.
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