On January 1, 2013, I will begin my fourth year as a runner. And as long as Mother Nature doesn't throw any whammies along the Mass Pike on New Year's Day, I'll begin that fourth year where I've begun the last two: At the 1st Run Lowell 5K in Lowell, Massachusetts.
When I get frustrated with my (at times glacially) slow progress, I try to remind myself that when I started running on January 1, 2010, I never intended to run any distance farther than a 5K. (Frankly, I had no plans beyond running that year's Freihofer's Run for Women.) While 2012 did not include a 5K PR (nor did 2011), it did include a 10K PR (and marked the first time I ran the entire distance of a 10K). Last year also marked my first foray into the half marathon distance. While my first half marathon ended with relief, joy, and well-deserved soreness, my other half marathon ended in frustration; in some ways, I'm still trying to get back up off the ground from Dividend Loop in Myrtle Beach. I finally had to look up the name of the road, because I got tired of calling it Mile 1.8.
So 2012 was, running-wise, the best of times and the worst of times. The Tufts 10K for Women in Boston and the Suftown Half Marathon in Misquamicut (and frustrating, nerve-testing Watch Hill), Rhode Island, were the best running experiences I'd had in 2012. The worst of times? Definitely the Myrtle Beach half. In fact, I refuse to use its official name, the Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon, because there's nothing "mini" about 13.1 miles. (Well, unless you're used to running the Leadville 100. Don't worry, that kind of distance isn't even remotely on my radar.) After Surftown, I actually thought, "Maybe I could run a full marathon someday." After Myrtle, I honestly wondered what the hell I was doing.
2012 was also my second year competing in triathlon, with two races on the schedule: the Mountaineer Girls Tri Too (and those hellacious hills that made me want to cry--but I needed to save my energy) and IronGirl Syracuse. I'd like to repeat both of those races in 2013, but the budget will probably require me to choose, and Syracuse is much closer than Morgantown, WV. Maybe the Triathlon Fairy will bring me some winning lottery tickets.
So...my resolutions for 2013...
Set new PRs at each distance:
1. 5K (currently 34:26 from the 2010 Saratoga Palio 5K)
2. 10K (currently 1:21:22 from the 2012 Tufts 10K for Women)
3. Half marathon (currently 3:09:54 from the 2012 Surftown Half Marathon)
The short list of races planned for 2013 (since additional races always come up, especially locally):
1. 1st Run Lowell on January 1st
2. Hollywood Half Marathon on April 6th
3. Boston Athletic Association 5K on April 14th
4. Run to Home Base 9K on May 4th
5. Freihofer's Run for Women 5K on June 1st
6. Saratoga Firecracker 4 on July 4th
7. IronGirl Syracuse on August 4th
8. Ballston Spa's Jailhouse Rock 5K in mid-August
9. Albany's Dunkin Run 5K and/or the Saratoga Palio 5K in September
10. Tufts 10K for Women on October 14th
11. Troy Turkey Trot on November 28th
12. Albany's Last Night 5K in December
Here's to a healthy, prosperous, and athletic new year! Keep moving!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Here Comes Gingah Boo Boo
I have a cycling friend who posts interesting truths (to which I am constantly nodding my head in agreement) under the tagline, "In life as on the bike."Well, in running as in life, you can either define yourself or allow outside forces to define you. Either way, definition can limit or liberate. After "defining myself" at the Surftown half marathon and having unprecedented personal success at the ensuing Tufts 10K for Women, I was looking forward to the Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon to improve on my 3:09:54 time from Surftown. I fully expected Myrtle to be good to La Turtle.
I've heard it said that to be a committed runner, you have to be willing to pour your blood, sweat and tears into your sport. I believe this is typically intended to mean that you dedicate yourself to your training and you do the work, and running will return to you everything you've put into it. Unfortunately, I took the "blood, sweat and tears" concept a bit too literally in Myrtle Beach.
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| Racing bibs personalized with the name of one's choice! |
I spent most of the non-running, non-sleeping hours that weekend either walking along the beach or sitting on the balcony of our hotel suite communing with the ocean. In the final analysis, the beach walking may have been part of my undoing, since these were somewhat peppy beach walks, not pokey romantic strolls. (For the latter, I need a pokey romantic walking partner...or a dog who stops to sniff something every 45 seconds. Pretty much the same thing, right?)
There's tremendous benefit in rooming with someone who keeps similar hours. A 4:13am wakeup isn't for the faint of heart, and getting to the race location early is something I treasure. Some folks like to arrive at a race 15 minutes before the gun, but I like to get there no later than when check-in opens (usually about 90 minutes prior to the race start). Saturday morning's Coastal 5K would be my first time running at all the day before a race--much less the day before a half marathon. Different approaches work for different runners, and I tend to taper the entire week leading into a long race: light cross-training, walking, but no running. So far, it's worked for me, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to try a new approach this time, especially since Surftown gave me a nice "easy" target (3:09:54) to beat. I'd felt good all week, so what could go wrong? (You can hear the maniacal laughter already, can't you? Well, simmer down; we'll get there.)
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| Coastal 5K finish, right about where I wanted to be time-wise. |
So far, so good. We headed back to the hotel and a little walk down to another hotel where our "free" race weekend breakfast buffet awaited. True to most "free" food, it was worth damn near every penny we didn't pay for it. Granted, their biscuits and gravy were actually pretty decent; unfortunately, the kitchen couldn't keep up with the demands of a buffet. (What's really scary is that the hotel typically charges about $13 a head for that buffet. Thanks, I'll gladly fork over cash for food that's actually good. Fortunately, we had plenty of options in that department.)
We spent the afternoon reconning the half marathon route. The good news: pancake-flat, as promised. The bad news? Until the final five kilometers, it looked like a seriously boring-ass route. The first mile was on the perimeter road of a shopping mall, then the rest of the course included running around a big upscale-looking industrial park, then around the ring road of an big entertainment complex (Broadway at the Beach), and a veritable crapload of distance along Grissom Highway. We noted the 10-mile marker near the intersection of Grissom and Oak. The rest of the course would head straight toward Ocean Boulevard, past our hotel at the 11-mile mark (oh, the humanity!), and down toward the 2nd Street Pier, where we would turn onto the boardwalk and head back toward the finish line on the boardwalk at 8th Street. From there, exhausted and likely sore, we would need to ride the shuttle back to the shopping mall near the airport, where we would have parked the rental car at the race start, then drive back to our hotel. No matter how we tried to find another way, that was pretty much the only feasible way to do it. (Not that the prospect of a post-race stroll of about 14 blocks or so back to the hotel was all that inviting, but it sure sounded shorter.)
Over an early dinner, Lola mentioned she'd read that Zola Budd, the famous South African barefoot runner from the 1984 Olympic Games, typically ran the Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon. We hoped neither of us would be the Mary Decker of the race. (Granted, that was an Olympic 3,000-meter race on a track oval; we would be running 18 more kilometers. The odds seemed to be in our favor. Seemed to be.) As I recall, we changed the subject rather quickly. Not that I'm even remotely superstitious or anything...(knock wood)...
Sunday morning dawned much like Saturday--clear skies, low humidity, temperatures in the upper 40s/low 50s, very light breeze...perfect running weather. I felt before this race much the same way that I felt before Surftown: a little nervous at the prospect of running 13.1 miles, hopeful for a good race, always wondering if I trained enough (the answer is always no, even if you have), but reminding myself that whatever I did or failed to do, there was nothing I could do to at this point but say a prayer, repeat my race mantra (Hebrews 12:1), and put one foot in front of the other.
As I stood in the 14:01-15:00 pace starting corral with Lola, a woman several feet to my left started shouting, "Ginger! Ginger!" Lola and I looked at each other and smiled. Was it a good omen, perhaps? Granted, she pronounced the R, so I didn't think it counted.
As the race began, we started slowly toward the start line, taking a few minutes to get there from our corral. As we approached, the incessant (loud) noise of the pre-race music and the rather annoying race announcer (who has quite a future with NASCAR) cut out suddenly. Just as I was about to cheer the welcome silence, I noticed that the loss of power to the PA system also meant a loss of power to the pumps for the inflated (and now slowly deflating) start line arch. As the runners ran through the gradually wilting arch, they held it up--some for practicality, some undoubtedly for luck. I couldn't help thinking it didn't bode well.
Once past the finish line, I started my Nike+ and my iPod. Within seconds, it was clear that my iPod, cued up to my half marathon playlist, was suddenly possessed. Instead of simply playing the music, I heard the familiar voice I like to call GPS Bitch announce the song title, artist, album, genre, then proceeded to name the rest of the menu options. "NOOOOOOO!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? DON'T MESS WITH MY TUUUUUUUUUUNES!!!" I tried to make it go away and finally had to reboot the iPod. That did the trick. So instead of Aaron Copeland's 47-second "Fanfare for the Common Man," I started my second half marathon with a two-minute panic attack that looked alarming like a toddler's tantrum (minus the tears and floor thrashing), followed by the theme from "Chariots of Fire." Meanwhile, we trudged along the mall's ring road while my shins and calves argued against running and I told them to STFU and reminded them that after the two-mile mark, they'd feel fine. I repeated to myself for a few minutes that I could stand anything for two miles.
Well, I was wrong. At the one-mile mark, before we were even all the way out of the freakin' mall, I had to slow to a walk. I picked a point at which I would start running again--just before we crossed the road into the upscale-looking industrial park. I eased into a slow jog at the selected point, figuring that if push came to shove, I could go the entire race running for one song, walking for one, and on and on.
And then it all went completely, utterly wrong. On the entire race route, all thirteen point freakin' one miles of it, there was one divot in the road surface. I know because I looked. And I only missed that one. Well, my eyes missed it. But my left foot found it. Hello, sprained ankle. Gingah fall down go boom. (And I mean BOOM!!!) Full four-point landing. My left knee escaped with just a minor surface scrape, but both hands were abraded enough to draw blood (hello, stigmata) and the right knee slammed into the road with a force that surprised even me--someone who is no stranger to falling down.
Now, as you've seen from my photos, I'm a big girl. (Really, I'm just severely under-tall.) So when I fall down, I fall hard. As soon as I hit the ground, the shooting pain in my left ankle and right knee elicited an emphatic "FUCK!" and then, a truly shocking, automatic growl of "You fat fucking clumsy cow."
WOW. If possible, that hurt more than the physical pain.
It's astounding--frightening, even--how all the positive self-talk in the world, reinforced over years of conscious effort--can fall to the wayside like a crumbling old building in a massive earthquake when an old negative attitude rears its ugly head. No matter how hard I've tried to kill those negative attitudes, they are Nosferatu--the undead. They creep in when I least expect them. And they are always the most unwelcome of guests.
So I cowered there on the ground, defeated, plucking bits of gravel that had embedded in my hands and right knee, wondering, What the fuck do they put in their asphalt down here? And I cried. I cried from frustration, disappointment, those vicious negative thoughts, and the physical pain itself. Though it seemed like I was there for some time, I was really only on the ground for perhaps ten seconds. (In retrospect, I have to laugh at the fact that the first thing I did when I hit the ground--while swearing and crying--was to check my Nike+: 1.8 miles. If that doesn't tell me I'm a runner, I don't know what does.)
With the help of some of the walkers behind me, I got up, apprehensive about whether or not I'd be able to put weight on my left ankle, since that would have required me to park my heinie on the curb and wait for someone to take me to the finish line medical tent. I gingerly (yes) put my weight on the left foot. The ankle held, tentatively, but without additional pain. The right knee hurt like crazy, but I could put weight on it. I tried taking a couple of tentative steps, waiting for the ankle to object, but it never did. After maybe 30 yards, I tried working up to a light jog again, asking my ankle for a simple Go/No Go decision, but even without pain, it just felt wrong. I kept walking, relieved that I could put weight on the ankle, and realized that the ankle really didn't even hurt as long as I was careful how I put my foot down. The knee was another story. It hurt like a son of a bitch (and continued to do so more than two weeks later). I hadn't even managed two miles. How the hell was I going to cover the remaining 11.3 miles to the finish line?
I had a decision to make.
There have been a couple of races I DNS'd (DNS=Did Not Start), and I have DLF'd (DLF=Dead Last Finish) two races (one intentionally--a 5k I walked from start to finish on a rehabbing proximal left hamstring in preparation for the 2011 Peachtree Road Race). But I have never DNF'd (DNF=Did Not Finish). There would be no shame in DNF'ing due to injury, but I hadn't come all the way from Albany to Myrtle Beach to DNF. I started crying again at the mere thought of having to bail. Of even considering it. You fat fucking clumsy cow; who the hell do you think you're kidding? You're no runner. The first five words continued to sting every time they resurfaced. Which they repeatedly did. I had to push them back down. Shut the fuck up. That's not helping. Just suck it up and keep walking. Keep walking.
As I walked, I constantly weighed the costs of continuing. I won't lie: I wanted to quit. Several times. If there'd been a legitimate opportunity to quit, I probably would have taken it. But this race lacked a course sweeper or bike-riding EMT. I decided that as long as the ankle could bear weight without additional pain, I would continue.
Near the Mile 2 marker, I briefly stopped at the fluid station to grab a few cups of water and rinse my hands. I didn't even attempt to clean my knee. I battled the constantly recurring self-doubt and self-criticism. I thought about people who endured far worse, like my Facebook friend Jackie's crash at her last triathlon, from which she's still recovering. Deep down, I knew I could keep going physically; it was going to come down to my head. And I knew I could channel the mental aspect; it was merely a question of whether or not I had the will to do so. My Surftown mantra rang in my head: Define yourself. When the negativity would come back, I kept repeating, STFU. Define yourself. I've never DNF'd and I'm not changing that now.
Non-runners often think that running a half marathon is boring. Trust me, walking a half marathon is boring, especially when you want to be running. And the weather was perfect for running. Perfect. The sun was shining but still fairly low in the sky (I'd crashed to the ground not long after sunrise), the temperature stayed moderate, the breeze was light and refreshing, and there were plenty of shady spots along the route. The weather was so perfect for running, it was torture to be confined to walking.
And for the first time in my racing career, I pulled out my Droid and posted a status to Facebook. Yes, during a race. Why? Because I was bored. Because I was frustrated. Because I knew a lot of friends far away were pulling for me in this race. But mostly because I felt isolated and I shamelessly needed their support. And they did not disappoint. They encouraged me, they made me laugh, they inspired me to keep going. And they distracted me just enough to get me to the next mile marker.
Somewhere around Mile 3, I started trying to jog a little at the beginning of each song. At first, I was only jogging for perhaps 10 or 15 seconds. But I did something at the start of each song. Gradually, each new mile marker ticked by. I thanked the cops at the intersections. I joked with anyone who happened to run or walk near me. Step by step, mile after mile. When we came through the section of the course that went through the local high school campus and emerged near Oak Street, I knew I only had five kilometers to go. Just a 5K. I can walk that in less than an hour. It was the light at the end of the tunnel.
The short jogging segments gradually got a little longer. By the time I finally turned onto Ocean Boulevard, I was jogging for 30 seconds at a time. A minute. I think I might actually have hit almost two minutes at one point, but that was a rarity. I passed our hotel at Mile 11 and resisted the urge to turn in right then. Fuck that. I haven't come all this way to quit now.
Eighth Street was probably the toughest part of this final section of the course. There was about a mile left to go, but as I was passing Eighth Street on Ocean Boulevard, I could see the finish line to my left, on the boardwalk at Eighth. It should have inspired me, but it frustrated me. So close, yet so far. STFU. One foot in front of the other. Stop whining. You're almost there.
Now instead of trying to run at the beginning of each song, I was trying to run at the beginning of each block. I would manage to run maybe half a block, sometimes less, then walk to the next intersection. I started to see people wearing the surfboard-shaped finisher's medal. They cheered us back-of-the-pack stragglers and encouraged us to keep going. You're almost there. Good job. You can do it. One man noticed my bleeding right knee and said, "Look at you! And you're bleeding! You go, girl!" For the first time in the race, I actually started to feel just a teeny bit badass. And I liked it. I needed that, after all those miles of frustration. At long last, I reached Second Street and the final turn onto the boardwalk.
Before you get to the boardwalk proper (where it's actually wood) around 7th Street, the "boardwalk" is a stretch of winding concrete sidewalk. I tried to cut every tangent I could, but at that point, there were so few people left in the race that I was dodging a few tourists. There are numbered pillars along the boardwalk, reflecting the cross streets. I counted them as I ran/walked from one to the next. When I reached the 7th Street pillar, I started to jog one last time. There would be no more walking until I was across the finish line.
I grimaced with every step, desperate just to get to the finish line, finally crossing with an official (net) time of 3:34:15. I was relieved that it was over. I was, of course, disappointed in the race. But as I walked from the finish line and received my medal, I realized that I'd still managed to define myself. I had plenty of reasons to quit. But I kept going. I hated a lot of that race, but I learned a lot about myself and my commitment and resilience. I really didn't think I had nearly enough of either of those qualities. Maybe I have juuuuust enough. At least for now.
There will likely come a day when I will no longer be able to run at all--not 13.1 miles, not 10k, not 5k, not 100 yards. Thankfully, that day was not October 21, 2012 in Myrtle Beach.
I caught up with Lola (who turned in an impressive finish--one of her best in recent years) just past the finish line, after getting my official finish line photo taken--this time, not grimacing under a clock, but flashing a Teddy Roosevelt smile with a finisher's medal around my neck--half grimace, half smile--as I pointed to my injured knee. What the photo doesn't show is that I needed two people to help me stand back up.
We walked toward the shuttle pick-up location. As we approached the bus, we noticed that the steps leading up into the bus looked pretty steep. I grabbed the rails and mumbled to the runner behind me, "Be prepared to shove." When the bus arrived back at the mall, where we'd parked our cars, we learned that the bus would drop us off at the center of the mall, but our cars were parked at the far end of the mall. After I very carefully lowered myself down the steps of the bus, Lola went to get the car and brought it around to pick me up.
Back at the hotel, I spent the rest of the day in my jammies with impromptu ice packs on my left ankle and right knee, as I sipped two small bottles of cheap merlot, watched the ocean, and jotted down notes for this blog entry.
The day after the race, we trudged through Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta to catch the connecting flight back to Boston. I think I walked even harder on my injured ankle and knee to make that connecting flight than I did to finish the race. Six days after the race, with the knee still in significant pain, I finally went to urgent care to get it X-rayed. No fracture. Whew. Diagnosis: Bone bruise. They prescribed a course of antibiotics for the wound which didn't show much evidence of healing yet. A follow-up appointment with an orthopedist confirmed the urgent care doctor's diagnosis. If the pain persist, I'll go back in a few weeks for an MRI. The orthopedist told me to refrain from anything that directly impacts or causes pain to the knee, so no kneeling (Really, Holy Father! I have a doctor's note!), no squats, no lunges. I had to ask: "What about running?" He looked at me, gave me a comical little smile and replied, "You're not one of those, are you?" I smiled and said, "If by 'one of those' you mean a runner and triathlete, then yes I am!" His orders: A long as there's pain in the knee, no running. But once the pain in the knee is completely gone, build up gradually. Be smart. (Ha! As if I'm gonna start now!)
Just over two weeks later, as I write this, my knee is still recuperating, but it's responding well to the recumbent stationary bike (aka the FutilityCycle) and the elliptical trainer. I've got another day and a half of antibiotics, but I'm cautiously optimistic that I'll be able to try at least a very short jog later this week. If recovery continues as it has, the MRI won't be necessary. Granted, that also involves keeping Las Bitchitas from periodically stepping on my injured knee. I'm actually getting pretty quick at covering my knee with my hand when they start to step near it.
The ankle doesn't have full range of motion back yet, but having had plenty of experience with sprained ankles, I know it is already well on the mend.
And between the ankle brace, knee brace, wrist braces (which, thankfully, I no longer need since carpal tunnel release surgery earlier this year) and a plantar fasciitis boot (also, thankfully, not needed in about 2-3 years), I think I've got a bright future in orthopedic appliance sales.
Postscript
The East Coast got a nasty trick for Halloween, as Hurricane Sandy roared up the seaboard and made a sharp left turn, plunging sections of New Jersey, New York City and Long Island into chaos. As I write this, they're now bracing for a Nor'easter right after Election Day. The last thing that area needs.
But largely forgotten among the larger news stories of millions of NY/NJ residents without power (including many friends of mine), the cancelled NYC Marathon (the right decision--really, the only decision, in my opinion--but arrived at quite a few days later than it should have), and gasoline shortages unseen since the 1970s, there's a little story of Sandy's destruction in less-populated areas, like coastal Connecticut and a small beach town in the smallest state in the country. Westerly, RI, got hit hard, especially near Misquamicut Beach, where I ran the Surftown Half Marathon not six weeks prior.
Thankfully, they didn't suffer the truly catastrophic loss of life that was seen in Staten Island, and whole sections of neighborhoods didn't burn as they did in Breezy Point in Queens, but it was strange and saddening to see photographs of Westerly's Atlantic Avenue--which comprised nearly half the Surftown course--not only under water, but with a ton of sand beneath that blown inland from the beach. Even after the water receded and the bulldozers cleared out most of the sand, the road surface still remained obscured by sand. It was so odd to think that we'd run down that road so recently, and yet here it was, decimated by nature's fury. Many properties were severely damaged, some appearing beyond repair. No doubt this beach community will rebuild, just as Staten Island and Breezy Point will. When you live on the coast, resilience is a must. Sandy's not the first storm these areas have weathered; and sadly, she won't be the last.
I've been toying with the idea of running Surftown again next year--yes, obscenity-inducing hills and all--and if I'm able to do that, I look forward to seeing Westerly back to her leisurely beach town ways. And if I single-handedly buy out half the town's inventory of Del's lemonade, well...
And for the first time in my racing career, I pulled out my Droid and posted a status to Facebook. Yes, during a race. Why? Because I was bored. Because I was frustrated. Because I knew a lot of friends far away were pulling for me in this race. But mostly because I felt isolated and I shamelessly needed their support. And they did not disappoint. They encouraged me, they made me laugh, they inspired me to keep going. And they distracted me just enough to get me to the next mile marker.
Somewhere around Mile 3, I started trying to jog a little at the beginning of each song. At first, I was only jogging for perhaps 10 or 15 seconds. But I did something at the start of each song. Gradually, each new mile marker ticked by. I thanked the cops at the intersections. I joked with anyone who happened to run or walk near me. Step by step, mile after mile. When we came through the section of the course that went through the local high school campus and emerged near Oak Street, I knew I only had five kilometers to go. Just a 5K. I can walk that in less than an hour. It was the light at the end of the tunnel.
The short jogging segments gradually got a little longer. By the time I finally turned onto Ocean Boulevard, I was jogging for 30 seconds at a time. A minute. I think I might actually have hit almost two minutes at one point, but that was a rarity. I passed our hotel at Mile 11 and resisted the urge to turn in right then. Fuck that. I haven't come all this way to quit now.
Eighth Street was probably the toughest part of this final section of the course. There was about a mile left to go, but as I was passing Eighth Street on Ocean Boulevard, I could see the finish line to my left, on the boardwalk at Eighth. It should have inspired me, but it frustrated me. So close, yet so far. STFU. One foot in front of the other. Stop whining. You're almost there.
Now instead of trying to run at the beginning of each song, I was trying to run at the beginning of each block. I would manage to run maybe half a block, sometimes less, then walk to the next intersection. I started to see people wearing the surfboard-shaped finisher's medal. They cheered us back-of-the-pack stragglers and encouraged us to keep going. You're almost there. Good job. You can do it. One man noticed my bleeding right knee and said, "Look at you! And you're bleeding! You go, girl!" For the first time in the race, I actually started to feel just a teeny bit badass. And I liked it. I needed that, after all those miles of frustration. At long last, I reached Second Street and the final turn onto the boardwalk.
Before you get to the boardwalk proper (where it's actually wood) around 7th Street, the "boardwalk" is a stretch of winding concrete sidewalk. I tried to cut every tangent I could, but at that point, there were so few people left in the race that I was dodging a few tourists. There are numbered pillars along the boardwalk, reflecting the cross streets. I counted them as I ran/walked from one to the next. When I reached the 7th Street pillar, I started to jog one last time. There would be no more walking until I was across the finish line.I grimaced with every step, desperate just to get to the finish line, finally crossing with an official (net) time of 3:34:15. I was relieved that it was over. I was, of course, disappointed in the race. But as I walked from the finish line and received my medal, I realized that I'd still managed to define myself. I had plenty of reasons to quit. But I kept going. I hated a lot of that race, but I learned a lot about myself and my commitment and resilience. I really didn't think I had nearly enough of either of those qualities. Maybe I have juuuuust enough. At least for now.
There will likely come a day when I will no longer be able to run at all--not 13.1 miles, not 10k, not 5k, not 100 yards. Thankfully, that day was not October 21, 2012 in Myrtle Beach.I caught up with Lola (who turned in an impressive finish--one of her best in recent years) just past the finish line, after getting my official finish line photo taken--this time, not grimacing under a clock, but flashing a Teddy Roosevelt smile with a finisher's medal around my neck--half grimace, half smile--as I pointed to my injured knee. What the photo doesn't show is that I needed two people to help me stand back up.
We walked toward the shuttle pick-up location. As we approached the bus, we noticed that the steps leading up into the bus looked pretty steep. I grabbed the rails and mumbled to the runner behind me, "Be prepared to shove." When the bus arrived back at the mall, where we'd parked our cars, we learned that the bus would drop us off at the center of the mall, but our cars were parked at the far end of the mall. After I very carefully lowered myself down the steps of the bus, Lola went to get the car and brought it around to pick me up.
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| Recovery, Gingah Boo Boo style. |
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| I've got ocean. I'm good. |
Just over two weeks later, as I write this, my knee is still recuperating, but it's responding well to the recumbent stationary bike (aka the FutilityCycle) and the elliptical trainer. I've got another day and a half of antibiotics, but I'm cautiously optimistic that I'll be able to try at least a very short jog later this week. If recovery continues as it has, the MRI won't be necessary. Granted, that also involves keeping Las Bitchitas from periodically stepping on my injured knee. I'm actually getting pretty quick at covering my knee with my hand when they start to step near it.
The ankle doesn't have full range of motion back yet, but having had plenty of experience with sprained ankles, I know it is already well on the mend.
And between the ankle brace, knee brace, wrist braces (which, thankfully, I no longer need since carpal tunnel release surgery earlier this year) and a plantar fasciitis boot (also, thankfully, not needed in about 2-3 years), I think I've got a bright future in orthopedic appliance sales.
Postscript
The East Coast got a nasty trick for Halloween, as Hurricane Sandy roared up the seaboard and made a sharp left turn, plunging sections of New Jersey, New York City and Long Island into chaos. As I write this, they're now bracing for a Nor'easter right after Election Day. The last thing that area needs.
But largely forgotten among the larger news stories of millions of NY/NJ residents without power (including many friends of mine), the cancelled NYC Marathon (the right decision--really, the only decision, in my opinion--but arrived at quite a few days later than it should have), and gasoline shortages unseen since the 1970s, there's a little story of Sandy's destruction in less-populated areas, like coastal Connecticut and a small beach town in the smallest state in the country. Westerly, RI, got hit hard, especially near Misquamicut Beach, where I ran the Surftown Half Marathon not six weeks prior.
Thankfully, they didn't suffer the truly catastrophic loss of life that was seen in Staten Island, and whole sections of neighborhoods didn't burn as they did in Breezy Point in Queens, but it was strange and saddening to see photographs of Westerly's Atlantic Avenue--which comprised nearly half the Surftown course--not only under water, but with a ton of sand beneath that blown inland from the beach. Even after the water receded and the bulldozers cleared out most of the sand, the road surface still remained obscured by sand. It was so odd to think that we'd run down that road so recently, and yet here it was, decimated by nature's fury. Many properties were severely damaged, some appearing beyond repair. No doubt this beach community will rebuild, just as Staten Island and Breezy Point will. When you live on the coast, resilience is a must. Sandy's not the first storm these areas have weathered; and sadly, she won't be the last.
I've been toying with the idea of running Surftown again next year--yes, obscenity-inducing hills and all--and if I'm able to do that, I look forward to seeing Westerly back to her leisurely beach town ways. And if I single-handedly buy out half the town's inventory of Del's lemonade, well...
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Boston and PR and Joanie...OH MY!!!
One of the big confidence boosts I carried with me from Surftown to Boston's Tufts 10K for Women on Columbus Day was the knowledge that I had it within me to run the full 6.2 miles of the Tufts. After all, I'd run first approximately 8.5 miles of the Surftown course. The Tufts would be my third 10K--the 2011 Peachtree Road Race and 2012 Patriot Finish at the 50 (my birthday race this year, and one of the few that didn't get its own blog entry) being my previous races at this distance--and I had yet to run the full distance in an official 10K race.
So, as I do with every race, I came into the Tufts with a few goals--only one of which was time-based:
The walk from my Back Bay hotel was rather chilly that morning, since I didn't wear any warm-up clothes other than my thin long-sleeved cotton Surftown half marathon souvenir shirt (the one I bought, which I was wearing over my official Surftown race shirt, to which I'd attached my Tufts 10K bib--WITH prime number, baybee!), but knowing that my car was parked so close to the race venue meant I could always pop into the garage if I needed a haven from the chill. Besides, with the sun shining down on the parade grounds in the Common, I was warming up quickly; in fact, I wondered if I shouldn't have worn sorts and a sleeveless shirt instead of capris and short sleeves. (Fortunately, the sun would tuck itself behind clouds for most of the race, so even without much of a breeze on the Cambridge side of the Charles, I wouldn't have to worry about overheating during the race.)
I think I set a PR on PRPs that morning, but I figured with about 8000 women, I would take advantage of line-less peepee teepees every chance I got. (I also had to do vain and glorious battle with a big icky yellow spider in one of the peepee teepees.) I wandered around the little expo, but for the most part, I was really just walking around and doing an extended pre-race warmup.
As race time approached, Lola and I lined up in the back of the 10-minute pace group, which may have been rather ambitious, but with only the "10:00+ and Walkers" group behind us, we figured it was a fairly safe bet. Charles Street between the Common and the Public Garden provided ample room for all the runners without even the remotest feeling of being penned in. (Freihofers Run for Women organizers, please take note.) Women of all ages, from teenage girls (even a 12-year-old!) to women in their 80s--even a few men running in solidarity with nearly 8000 women--filled in Charles Street with plenty of elbow room to spare.
It took us several minutes to reach the start line just around the corner on Beacon Street, but Lola and I started off at a good, easy pace. As we passed Arlington Street, I mumbled to myself, "pass the walkers, pace the runners". I was rather surprised at how many walkers I passed. I didn't know if they'd gotten winded early by starting out too hard, or if they had started ahead of their pace group, but since there wasn't a lot of congestion, I didn't mind. (Plus, it was nice having targets to pick off so easily so early in the race.) Before long, I was coming up along a woman who had to be in her 70s or 80s, plugging along at a very Gingah-like pace. As I passed, I gave her a thumbs-up and said, "You go, girl!" She smiled and replied something like, "Looking good yourself!" Lola turned to me and said, "That's us in 20 years." I smiled at that thought and replied, "God, I hope so!"
One of my favorite features of Back Bay is its alphabetically ordered cross streets from the Public Garden to Massachusetts Avenue. Just as Arlington gave way to Berkeley and Clarendon and Dartmouth, Exeter and Fairfield and Gloucester and Hereford ticked by next. The turn onto Mass Ave. put us almost immediately onto the Harvard Bridge, and I entered familiar race territory, having run across the Harvard Bridge and along seemingly endless stretches of Memorial Drive in Cambridge (what I have since dubbed the "Cambridge Death March") as part of the 2011 and 2012 Run to Home Base.
During the Cambridge segment, I passed a few women from time to time who were wearing 36-year T-shirts, indicating they'd run the race every year, dating back to 1977 when what was then known as the Bonne Bell Mini Marathon expected 200 runners but drew more than ten times that. (Despite the "mini marathon' moniker, it was still a 10K, since half marathons for women were all but unheard of at that time). Every time I passed someone in a "36" shirt, I'd say, "Congratulations! Here's the 36 more!" Thankfully, not one of them ever said, "Oh, dear God, NO!"
We neared the DeWolfe Boat House for the final turn in Cambridge and one last stretch of running on Memorial Drive back toward Harvard Bridge. I'd worn my two-bottle Fuel Belt just in case, but I made sure to hit every fluid station. (Better to skip one of the later ones and finish with water left in my bottles that to run dry like I did at Surftown). I only needed to take a few sips from the Fuel Belt when I ate a GU about a quarter mile past the halfway point of the race. I'd also muscled the GU packet a bit and ended up with Lemon Sublime GU on the fingers of my left hand. Thankfully, there are no race photos of me licking my fingers. It did, however, bug me for the rest of the race that my left hand was sticky. Euw. So now you know what was occupying my brain for the overwhelming remainder of the race: An endless mental chatter of YUCKMYFINGERSARESTICKY multiplied by, oh, damn near infinity.
There were a few times during the race when my brain got a little too bored and suggested I try walking. As usual, I did a quick body inventory: Since nothing hurt and everything was still functioning, I told my brain to STFU and run. As I turned back onto the Harvard Bridge, crossed over the Charles and returned to Back Bay and was still running, I knew I could run the full distance. I didn't dare check my Nike+ watch for fear of a jinx-inducing glance at my pace. Based on the mile clocks alone (and not even taking into consideration that it took us several minutes just to get to the start line), I knew I was on pace to beat my 90-minute goal, but had no idea by how much. I just tried to relax into the run.
The turn onto Commonwealth Avenue brought back the relief of Back Bay's predictable cross streets (in reverse this time) and the most creative fluid station of the race: men in tuxedos on the right side of the street in front of Victorian-era brownstones offering Dixie cups of water. I gladly took one even though I still had plenty of water in my Fuel Belt. Of course, handsome men in tuxedos also took my mind off the GU on my left hand...which means I forgot to use any of the water in the Dixie cup to rinse my hand. Oy.
And once again, Lola was there to capture another wonderful moment on video. (This is why I don't mind at all when she starts pulling away from me, as did back on Beacon Street before we even got to Mass Ave: she's there at the finish line, iPhone in hand. God love her!) For the record, although it looks like a run-by mugging and attempted kidnapping, Joanie let go of my hand last:
It wasn't until I saw the video, as Lola and I copped a squat on a piece of cardboard on the wet grass of Boston Common (our own version of Occupy Boston), that I realized she had given JBS a heads-up about the approaching redhead, as you can hear early in the video.
Once we were able to stand up again and headed our separate ways toward our cars, Lola turned back to me and said, "Two weeks to Myrtle!" If I hadn't been so high on endorphins, I would have shit a brick. (And I believe my verbal response was similar to such an emission.) But given the moment and all that had transpired that morning, instead I thought, Bring it!
So, as I do with every race, I came into the Tufts with a few goals--only one of which was time-based:
- My primary goal was to run the full distance.
- Secondly, I wanted to finish the race in under 90 minutes. (My 10K PR was 1:31:XX at the Patriot.)
- As always, I wanted to have a decent, reasonably comfortable run.
The walk from my Back Bay hotel was rather chilly that morning, since I didn't wear any warm-up clothes other than my thin long-sleeved cotton Surftown half marathon souvenir shirt (the one I bought, which I was wearing over my official Surftown race shirt, to which I'd attached my Tufts 10K bib--WITH prime number, baybee!), but knowing that my car was parked so close to the race venue meant I could always pop into the garage if I needed a haven from the chill. Besides, with the sun shining down on the parade grounds in the Common, I was warming up quickly; in fact, I wondered if I shouldn't have worn sorts and a sleeveless shirt instead of capris and short sleeves. (Fortunately, the sun would tuck itself behind clouds for most of the race, so even without much of a breeze on the Cambridge side of the Charles, I wouldn't have to worry about overheating during the race.)
I think I set a PR on PRPs that morning, but I figured with about 8000 women, I would take advantage of line-less peepee teepees every chance I got. (I also had to do vain and glorious battle with a big icky yellow spider in one of the peepee teepees.) I wandered around the little expo, but for the most part, I was really just walking around and doing an extended pre-race warmup.
As race time approached, Lola and I lined up in the back of the 10-minute pace group, which may have been rather ambitious, but with only the "10:00+ and Walkers" group behind us, we figured it was a fairly safe bet. Charles Street between the Common and the Public Garden provided ample room for all the runners without even the remotest feeling of being penned in. (Freihofers Run for Women organizers, please take note.) Women of all ages, from teenage girls (even a 12-year-old!) to women in their 80s--even a few men running in solidarity with nearly 8000 women--filled in Charles Street with plenty of elbow room to spare.
It took us several minutes to reach the start line just around the corner on Beacon Street, but Lola and I started off at a good, easy pace. As we passed Arlington Street, I mumbled to myself, "pass the walkers, pace the runners". I was rather surprised at how many walkers I passed. I didn't know if they'd gotten winded early by starting out too hard, or if they had started ahead of their pace group, but since there wasn't a lot of congestion, I didn't mind. (Plus, it was nice having targets to pick off so easily so early in the race.) Before long, I was coming up along a woman who had to be in her 70s or 80s, plugging along at a very Gingah-like pace. As I passed, I gave her a thumbs-up and said, "You go, girl!" She smiled and replied something like, "Looking good yourself!" Lola turned to me and said, "That's us in 20 years." I smiled at that thought and replied, "God, I hope so!"
One of my favorite features of Back Bay is its alphabetically ordered cross streets from the Public Garden to Massachusetts Avenue. Just as Arlington gave way to Berkeley and Clarendon and Dartmouth, Exeter and Fairfield and Gloucester and Hereford ticked by next. The turn onto Mass Ave. put us almost immediately onto the Harvard Bridge, and I entered familiar race territory, having run across the Harvard Bridge and along seemingly endless stretches of Memorial Drive in Cambridge (what I have since dubbed the "Cambridge Death March") as part of the 2011 and 2012 Run to Home Base.
As I neared the Cambridge side of the bridge, I saw the police escort and photographers' van preceding the race's front runner (and eventual winner), 34-year-old Hellen Jemutai of Kenya. Lean and fast and focused, she was perfect running form personified, and she had a substantial (and, from the looks of things, insurmountable) lead. We cheered her and the small groups of elite runners well in her wake until we turned east onto Memorial Drive.
Memorial Drive is always the toughest part of the Run to Home Base for me. You'd think that the view of the Boston skyline, that beloved stretch of "dirty watah" known as the Charles River, and the buildings of MIT would be enough to keep my mind occupied during the Memorial Drive segment, but...no. Regardless of what is playing on my iPod or how lovely the changing leaves are on the trees in October, Memorial Drive always feels like a long trudge. A hairpin turn before Longfellow Bridge provided short relief and sent us back up Memorial in the opposite direction. The short tunnel under the overpass provides entertainment as those who are standing on the overpass cheer us (even if they require a "How about a 'Woot' here?" cajoling from Gingah), as did the MIT mascot, Tim the Beaver. (I chuckled at the naughty humor of a beaver being the only mascot we saw in a run for women. Only later did I learn the mascot's name: Tim. MIT backwards. They're a clever bunch, those MIT whiz kids.)
Memorial Drive is always the toughest part of the Run to Home Base for me. You'd think that the view of the Boston skyline, that beloved stretch of "dirty watah" known as the Charles River, and the buildings of MIT would be enough to keep my mind occupied during the Memorial Drive segment, but...no. Regardless of what is playing on my iPod or how lovely the changing leaves are on the trees in October, Memorial Drive always feels like a long trudge. A hairpin turn before Longfellow Bridge provided short relief and sent us back up Memorial in the opposite direction. The short tunnel under the overpass provides entertainment as those who are standing on the overpass cheer us (even if they require a "How about a 'Woot' here?" cajoling from Gingah), as did the MIT mascot, Tim the Beaver. (I chuckled at the naughty humor of a beaver being the only mascot we saw in a run for women. Only later did I learn the mascot's name: Tim. MIT backwards. They're a clever bunch, those MIT whiz kids.)
During the Cambridge segment, I passed a few women from time to time who were wearing 36-year T-shirts, indicating they'd run the race every year, dating back to 1977 when what was then known as the Bonne Bell Mini Marathon expected 200 runners but drew more than ten times that. (Despite the "mini marathon' moniker, it was still a 10K, since half marathons for women were all but unheard of at that time). Every time I passed someone in a "36" shirt, I'd say, "Congratulations! Here's the 36 more!" Thankfully, not one of them ever said, "Oh, dear God, NO!"
We neared the DeWolfe Boat House for the final turn in Cambridge and one last stretch of running on Memorial Drive back toward Harvard Bridge. I'd worn my two-bottle Fuel Belt just in case, but I made sure to hit every fluid station. (Better to skip one of the later ones and finish with water left in my bottles that to run dry like I did at Surftown). I only needed to take a few sips from the Fuel Belt when I ate a GU about a quarter mile past the halfway point of the race. I'd also muscled the GU packet a bit and ended up with Lemon Sublime GU on the fingers of my left hand. Thankfully, there are no race photos of me licking my fingers. It did, however, bug me for the rest of the race that my left hand was sticky. Euw. So now you know what was occupying my brain for the overwhelming remainder of the race: An endless mental chatter of YUCKMYFINGERSARESTICKY multiplied by, oh, damn near infinity.
There were a few times during the race when my brain got a little too bored and suggested I try walking. As usual, I did a quick body inventory: Since nothing hurt and everything was still functioning, I told my brain to STFU and run. As I turned back onto the Harvard Bridge, crossed over the Charles and returned to Back Bay and was still running, I knew I could run the full distance. I didn't dare check my Nike+ watch for fear of a jinx-inducing glance at my pace. Based on the mile clocks alone (and not even taking into consideration that it took us several minutes just to get to the start line), I knew I was on pace to beat my 90-minute goal, but had no idea by how much. I just tried to relax into the run.
The turn onto Commonwealth Avenue brought back the relief of Back Bay's predictable cross streets (in reverse this time) and the most creative fluid station of the race: men in tuxedos on the right side of the street in front of Victorian-era brownstones offering Dixie cups of water. I gladly took one even though I still had plenty of water in my Fuel Belt. Of course, handsome men in tuxedos also took my mind off the GU on my left hand...which means I forgot to use any of the water in the Dixie cup to rinse my hand. Oy.
We finally turned onto Arlington and the western end of the Public Garden. The last half mile of the race seemed to take forever to pass by, but Arlington meant just two streets over to Boylston and then one block on Boylston to Charles. As I turned onto Charles Street, I could feel a huge smile form as I saw the finish line in the distance at the other end. As I drew closer, I saw the clock. On gun time alone, I was going to PR big-time. I still refused to look at my Nike+ watch, which I'd started as I crossed the start line. (As it happens, I always forget to turn it off as soon as I cross the finish line. When I'm lucky, I remember to turn it off within a minute or so of finishing.) When I finally remembered to turn it off, it read 1:22:00. (My official race time was 1:21:22.) I'd not only PR'd, I'd blown my previous PR right out of the water.
And then came the best moment of the race: Not only did I run the full distance. (YAY!) Not only did I PR. (DOUBLE YAY!) There, at the finish line, congratulating runners as they crossed, was my running idol, Joan Benoit Samuelson, winner of the 1984 Olympic Women's Marathon (the first Olympic women's marathon) and someone I'd had the pleasure of briefly meeting in Albany for the screening of the documentary There Is No Finish Line. (The link takes you to the trailer; the entire film is only 48 minutes long, but it inspiring and filled with surprise moments of humor.) She shook my hand and I said, "I doubt you remember me, but I met you in Albany before my first half marathon at Surftown!" She smiled and nodded and kept saying, "Yes! Congratulations!" And I thought, I don't care if you're lying through your teeth, I love you for it anyway! She was, as always, incredibly gracious. It wasn't until after the race that I found out she had run the race, finished in 38 minutes and change, and then stayed at the finish line until the rest of the runners crossed, congratulating as many of them as possible. Her initials may be JBS, but in my book, she's Class with a capital C.
And once again, Lola was there to capture another wonderful moment on video. (This is why I don't mind at all when she starts pulling away from me, as did back on Beacon Street before we even got to Mass Ave: she's there at the finish line, iPhone in hand. God love her!) For the record, although it looks like a run-by mugging and attempted kidnapping, Joanie let go of my hand last:
It wasn't until I saw the video, as Lola and I copped a squat on a piece of cardboard on the wet grass of Boston Common (our own version of Occupy Boston), that I realized she had given JBS a heads-up about the approaching redhead, as you can hear early in the video.
Once we were able to stand up again and headed our separate ways toward our cars, Lola turned back to me and said, "Two weeks to Myrtle!" If I hadn't been so high on endorphins, I would have shit a brick. (And I believe my verbal response was similar to such an emission.) But given the moment and all that had transpired that morning, instead I thought, Bring it!
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Thirteen Point Freakin' One. Because I'm Only HALF Crazy...
I've probably mentioned previously that some fairly odd thoughts come to me during races. Somewhere around the Mile 6 mark of the Surftown Half Marathon, I had this epiphany:
I'm what's known in running circles as a "back-of-the-packer." But as I've experienced in damn near every race I've done, the back of the pack is where the party really is. We're not setting world records (personal records, maybe) or astounding people with our blazing speed or athletic prowess, and the spectators typically dwindle down to just a handful of die-hards by the time we come down the homestretch; but when you cross the finish line after taking three hours to move your body 13.1 miles by endlessly putting one foot in front of the other, a handful of friends and strangers cheering you on may as well be a stadium-full.
One of the first things I noticed during the race was that there were monarch butterflies everywhere. Typically, I might see one or two a year, assuming I'm attentive enough to notice. Here, they seemed to be everywhere and would sometimes fly very close to me, commanding my attention. A few times I saw them in veritable swarms on Atlantic Avenue, while at other times a solitary butterfly would seem to pace me along the route.
After a little over two miles eastbound on Atlantic Avenue (and just after I, like a complete idiot, skipped the first water station because I was wearing my CamelBak), we crossed a small bridge over Weekapaug Breechway between Winnapaug Pond and Block Island Sound, and turned onto Wawaloam Drive--the first hill of the course.
Of all the pre-race stressors, none was more acute for me than the race's posted three-hour time limit. I'd asked about that at packet pick-up and was assured that the finish line would still be set up when I crossed, but they couldn't guarantee course protection/guidance beyond the three-hour time limit. That took a huge weight off my shoulders. Of course, the second most acute pre-race stressor for me was the hills on the Watch Hill section of the course. Frankly, I'm still a bit baffled that such a hilly course has a comparatively tight 3:00 time limit. I'd previewed the course in the car the day before and discovered that Watch Hill wouldn't be the only hilly section: there was also the long slow ascent up Wawaloam Drive. I wouldn't have minded it if this were the only hill on the course, especially since it's in the first third of the race, but I knew I needed to to conserve as much energy as I could for Watch Hill, which would be much hillier. I guess they don't exaggerate with location names in Rhody. But the view from the overlook on Wawaloam was spectacular and provided the first view of the ocean on the course.
We turned onto a private residents-only road (which had the most uneven pavement of the race) that was filled with little undulating knolls that most runners would have considered no more challenging than a speed bump. But for Gingah, even speed bumps count as hills. We wound around that section of Misquamicut Beach, among large summer cottages (the kind of "cottages" that one only calls "cottages" when one's non-summer home is a mansion), and they took my mind off the course just long enough for Mile 4 and the eventual return to Atlantic Avenue to come up sooner than anticipated. (Thank heaven for small miracles!)
Back onto Atlantic Avenue, headed back toward (and past) Misquamicut State Beach (and the finish line), I took advantage of the water station this time. There were long stretches of Atlantic Avenue with nary a spectator in sight. Along these stretches, the butterflies would rejoin me, and a flock of egrets stood in the shallow bog just off the northern side of Atlantic Avenue--the first time I'd ever seen wading birds in a flock; back home, you see a solitary crane here and there. Whatever takes your mind of how many miles lay ahead...
The course turned north off Atlantic Avenue just before Mile 7. The course continued Atlantic Avenue's blessed flatness and I ran past the first of a handful of musicians playing for the runners. I applauded their talent as I ran by, headed for Shore Road (from which I had no view of the shore) and the opening hill of the Watch Hill section of the course. As I entered Watch Hill, I was still running as I reached Mile 8, which some sadistic course director put on a long, fairly steep hill. Up to that point, I caught myself thinking that I might actually be able to run the entire distance. Within another half mile, it became clear that some walking (okay, a lot of walking) was going to be necessary to cover the remaining five miles. As soon as I slowed to a walk the first time, my legs immediately notified me that the last five miles of the race were going to be considerably harder than the first eight.
When contemplating your first half marathon, I have learned first-hand to look for phrases like "beginner-friendly" an "flat"; well, I had chosen Surftown because its description used the word "picturesque". (I would like to point out that it also said "predominantly flat"...little did I realize how not flat the rest of the non-predominant part of the course was.) Miles 8 through 12 were predominantly hills with one or two short flat stretches and only a few noticeable downhills. If what goes up must come down, how can a half marathon have so many uphills, few moderate downhills, and still end at the same level where it began? That was a bit too much of a math quandary for my exhausted brain, so I just chalked it up to a sadistic mystery and cursed every goddamn hill. When a course marshal was nearby, I used humor and sarcasm, but on the inside, yup, cursing. Every. Damn. Time.
Before I had to slow to a walk for the first time around eight and a half miles, I'd been going at about a 13:45 pace, which (if I could keep it up) would enable me to finish right around three hours. The course had another time constraint: All runners had to reach Mile 10 by 10:05 (2:35 after the start of the race). As I neared Mile 10, it was clear that I would clear that with a good 15-20 minutes to spare. Unfortunately, not long after Mile 10, I took the last drink from my CamelBak. I would have to run (well, run/walk) the remaining five kilometers with only one last water stop.
Fortunately, the last-chance water station on Ocean View Highway around Mile 11 was also one of the few remaining flat sections of the course until the final mile of the race. It was at this water station that I made my second rookie mistake (the first being skipping the first water station because I had 50oz of water in my CamelBak): I grabbed one cup of water--not nearly enough, given my drained CamelBak; I should have grabbed two or even three. By the time I realized my mistake, I was probably 10 yards at most away from the table filled with water and Gatorade cups, but there was simply no way on God's green earth that I was going to turn around and go back.
Less than a minute later, I noticed a figure about a few hundred yards in the distance (maybe even a quarter of a mile). The figure appeared to be another runner, facing me and waving. Within a minute or so, my fellow Bahston Running Divah, Jillian, appearing like a mirage, came running back to where I was. Remember, I refused to turn back maybe 10 yards (if that) to get more water, and here was Jillian, running back almost a quarter of a mile to run with me and pace me to the end. Selfless generosity, thy name is Jillian.
We walked along together for a little while as the ocean finally came into view on Ocean View Highway. We would pick up the pace and run for a bit, then take another short walk break. We turned onto Bayberry Road and as we neared Mile 12 we could see the course marshals ahead for the second-to-last turn of the race. I asked Jillian if there were any more water stops, since I was dehydrated. She said, "No, that was the last one back there. We're less than a mile from the finish line." I looked at my Nike+ watch, saw that she was correct, and said, "Oh, I can make it one last mile!" We picked up the pace a bit, running along Maplewood Avenue toward the shore. My mind is a little fuzzy on that last mile, but I'm pretty sure we ran all of it. I distinctly remember my posture changing back into good form as soon as I realized there was only a mile left to go.
We finally reached Atlantic Avenue once again and turned for the final stretch to the finish line. As we approached, I could see Lola and another of our Bahston Running Divahs, "Meredith TallGirl" (seriously, someday I need to find out what her last name is; this is the second race I've run with her, and I keep forgetting to ask), cheering us on.
So here's how it ended...
...complete with play-by-play by Lola, who captured it on video for posterity. (Good thing, since, despite the fact that there was a race photographer at the finish line, no race photos of me exist past Mile 3.) And, yes, that's Jillian running next to me, patting me on the shoulder as I start to lose it just a little.
The result? 3:09:54. Automatic PR. And a target to beat for my next half marathon (October 21st at Myrtle Beach). As soon as we finished, we received a bottle of water and our finishers' medals, and headed back to the finish line to welcome our remaining Bahston Running Divah, Angel, who was running her first half marathon as well.
Within minutes, I had already slipped into the pained geriatric shuffle of the first-time half marathoner. Walking along Atlantic Avenue with Jillian and Meredith toward the peepee teepees and chowdah line at Misquamicut State Beach, the roads had been reopened to the sparse and slow-moving beach traffic. I figured I should probably be walking on the sidewalk instead of in the road, but one look at the curb told me I didn't have the strength to take that big step up. When I got to one of the curb cutouts, I shuffled up onto the sidewalk, requiring at least eight steps and doing a dead-on impression of Tim Conway's old man character in the process. I suppose it's apropos that I also giggled a little like Harvey Korman at the unadulterated comedy of the situation.
As I caught up with Lola while enjoying some chowdah, I confirmed with her that the Myrtle Beach half marathon course would be flat. Pancake flat.
I celebrated my first half marathon with my first Del's lemonade (a Rhode Island institution) at Mel's Downtown Creamery in nearby Pawcatuck, Connecticut. (I crossed the state line so many times that weekend, I felt like some kind of New England drug mule.) And I even learned how to drink my Del's like a true Rhode Islander, which involves a skill every runner needs: squeezing the cup to narrow the opening. I do a lot better at water stations now because of that experience. (Now if only I could convince race directors to have Del's lemonade at every fluid station.) I returned to the hotel for what I thought would be the de rigeur post-race Jurassic Nap. But a funny thing happened: After taking my dogs out pee, I discovered that, while I was physically tired, I wasn't even remotely sleepy. In fact, I was still surfing an adrenaline high that wouldn't let me sleep. So I picked up the dogs, got back in the car, and headed back to Misquamicut Beach for some beach therapy. After about 15 minutes of sitting on the beach, introducing my Chihuahuas to the concept of walking on sand (if only I'd captured that image on video), my appetite roared, so I picked up some fish & chips and another Del's lemonade and drove up to the overlook Wawaloam Drive to enjoy them.
The evening would involve relaxing and saying "ooh" and "ow" a lot. Some ibuprofen helped with the muscle soreness, while rest, periodic short walks and near-constant rehydrating helped with the stiffness. It was the most intense exercise-induced soreness I'd ever experienced (not including the acute pain of last year's proximal hamstring strain, which I incurred while walking the dogs), but there was absolutely no doubt that the accomplishment was worth every damned "ow" and creak. I've never smiled so much while walking so gingerly.
On the drive home to Upstate New York the next day, I detoured to FleetFeet Sports to get a 13.1 magnet and put it on my car. Yes, before I got to my house. Priorities, y'all.
After every race, I promise myself I'll finish the corresponding blog entry before the next race. Well, I failed at that again. As of this writing, I've finished another race and am less than 10 days away from my next half marathon. So stay tuned, because the next entry is about the Tufts 10K for Women in Boston--definitely a "bucket list" race! (And I will try to finish that before I run the Myrtle Beach half marathon!)
Until next time, keep putting one foot in front of the other! Vive La Tortue Enflammé!!!
Distance races are like mullets:
business in the front, party in the back.
business in the front, party in the back.
No, nobody snuck vodka into my CamelBak. Although perhaps I should try that for my next half marathon. (It would also help when Google Image searching for mullets. Seriously, I couldn't find a single mullet photo that didn't make me throw up in my mouth a little. Even the ones of George Clooney...with a freakin' mullet. Oh, the humanity...)
You see, Mile 6 of the Surftown Half Marathon course is on the westbound stretch of Atlantic Avenue at Misquamicut State Beach, near where the course overlaps the finish line after the final eastbound stretch on Atlantic. I don't know whether the course is designed this way to inflict maximum agony on slower runners or as some twisted form of "encouragement." So when I reached Mile 6, I got a nice view of the runners who were finishing the entire race in about an hour and a half or less; I tried not to think about the fact that I still had about seven miles left to run. (The front-runners probably crossed the finish line before I arrived at Mile 5.) Naturally, I heard a lot of cheering from the spectators, but the runners themselves seemed almost nonchalant as they finished; some smiles, but not many loud whoops. Having volunteered at the finish line of a 5k, I remember how odd it seemed that the first third or so of finishers didn't smile or cheer. There was no "Yay! I made it!" shout; not even a "Wow, I PR'd!" The first few runners across the finish line didn't even seem to register that we were volunteers there. It was all business, just like a typical day at the office...but clad in singlets and running shorts instead of business attire.
You see, Mile 6 of the Surftown Half Marathon course is on the westbound stretch of Atlantic Avenue at Misquamicut State Beach, near where the course overlaps the finish line after the final eastbound stretch on Atlantic. I don't know whether the course is designed this way to inflict maximum agony on slower runners or as some twisted form of "encouragement." So when I reached Mile 6, I got a nice view of the runners who were finishing the entire race in about an hour and a half or less; I tried not to think about the fact that I still had about seven miles left to run. (The front-runners probably crossed the finish line before I arrived at Mile 5.) Naturally, I heard a lot of cheering from the spectators, but the runners themselves seemed almost nonchalant as they finished; some smiles, but not many loud whoops. Having volunteered at the finish line of a 5k, I remember how odd it seemed that the first third or so of finishers didn't smile or cheer. There was no "Yay! I made it!" shout; not even a "Wow, I PR'd!" The first few runners across the finish line didn't even seem to register that we were volunteers there. It was all business, just like a typical day at the office...but clad in singlets and running shorts instead of business attire.
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| Artist's shell rendition of the elusive La Tortue Enflammé. This only looks like a still photo; I actually DO run this slowly. |
But I'm getting just a bit ahead of myself...
The weather on race day morning could not have been more perfect, especially for a first half marathon. In my running shorts, Bahston Runnah running shirt, and compression socks, I needed the seat heater on in the car on the drive from my hotel in Westerly, Rhode Island, to Misquamicut Beach. Temperatures were in the mid-40s (and would warm up to the low 50s by the 7:30am start time), humidity was low, and there was plenty of sun (once it came up)--perfect for what I knew would be a three-hour race for me. (I've really lucked out with great weather for the overwhelming majority of my races. Props to Mother Nature on that one, since I register for races months in advance.)
I arrived at Misquamicut State Beach before dawn for the day's race, even though I'd picked up my race packet the day before. There wasn't much traffic yet, as cars were trickling into the parking lot, so I was serenaded in the quiet parking lot by the waves crashing against the shore just over a small dune. I walked over to the beach and watched the waves wash in again and again, rhythmically carrying away most of my race day morning jitters.
I met up with one of my fellow Bahston Running Divahs, she of the sobriquet Lola Buttercups. I hadn't really decided yet whether to wear my 4-bottle (and prone to leakage) fuel belt or to go for the CamelBak. Since Lola opted for the CamelBak, I figured I would, too. Faster runners might have laughed, but they were going to be running for a little over an hour; I was going to be running for three.
Start time seemed to arrive rather quickly (and, really, despite multiple PRPs [for the uninitiated, PRP stands for Pre-Race Pee...and/or Pre-Race Poop...and/or Pre-Race Puke; fortunately, I have yet to experience Pre-Race Puke, but if it ever happens, you'll read about it here first...because that's the kind of thoughtful, generous blogger I am], I would have liked just one more). Lola and I headed toward the back and found our pace group leader. I hoped to be able to keep the pace leader within sight for the whole race. (Yeah, that part didn't work out too well. She came back to me twice during the first two miles or so; by the time I got to Mile 4, she was long gone.)
One of the first things I noticed during the race was that there were monarch butterflies everywhere. Typically, I might see one or two a year, assuming I'm attentive enough to notice. Here, they seemed to be everywhere and would sometimes fly very close to me, commanding my attention. A few times I saw them in veritable swarms on Atlantic Avenue, while at other times a solitary butterfly would seem to pace me along the route.
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| The view of Block Island Sound from the overlook on Wawaloam Drive near Misquamicut Beach. I grew so enamored of this spot, I visited it three times during race weekend, not including running along it during the race itself. |
Of all the pre-race stressors, none was more acute for me than the race's posted three-hour time limit. I'd asked about that at packet pick-up and was assured that the finish line would still be set up when I crossed, but they couldn't guarantee course protection/guidance beyond the three-hour time limit. That took a huge weight off my shoulders. Of course, the second most acute pre-race stressor for me was the hills on the Watch Hill section of the course. Frankly, I'm still a bit baffled that such a hilly course has a comparatively tight 3:00 time limit. I'd previewed the course in the car the day before and discovered that Watch Hill wouldn't be the only hilly section: there was also the long slow ascent up Wawaloam Drive. I wouldn't have minded it if this were the only hill on the course, especially since it's in the first third of the race, but I knew I needed to to conserve as much energy as I could for Watch Hill, which would be much hillier. I guess they don't exaggerate with location names in Rhody. But the view from the overlook on Wawaloam was spectacular and provided the first view of the ocean on the course.
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| For the non-verbose version of the course, click this image. |
Back onto Atlantic Avenue, headed back toward (and past) Misquamicut State Beach (and the finish line), I took advantage of the water station this time. There were long stretches of Atlantic Avenue with nary a spectator in sight. Along these stretches, the butterflies would rejoin me, and a flock of egrets stood in the shallow bog just off the northern side of Atlantic Avenue--the first time I'd ever seen wading birds in a flock; back home, you see a solitary crane here and there. Whatever takes your mind of how many miles lay ahead...
The course turned north off Atlantic Avenue just before Mile 7. The course continued Atlantic Avenue's blessed flatness and I ran past the first of a handful of musicians playing for the runners. I applauded their talent as I ran by, headed for Shore Road (from which I had no view of the shore) and the opening hill of the Watch Hill section of the course. As I entered Watch Hill, I was still running as I reached Mile 8, which some sadistic course director put on a long, fairly steep hill. Up to that point, I caught myself thinking that I might actually be able to run the entire distance. Within another half mile, it became clear that some walking (okay, a lot of walking) was going to be necessary to cover the remaining five miles. As soon as I slowed to a walk the first time, my legs immediately notified me that the last five miles of the race were going to be considerably harder than the first eight.
When contemplating your first half marathon, I have learned first-hand to look for phrases like "beginner-friendly" an "flat"; well, I had chosen Surftown because its description used the word "picturesque". (I would like to point out that it also said "predominantly flat"...little did I realize how not flat the rest of the non-predominant part of the course was.) Miles 8 through 12 were predominantly hills with one or two short flat stretches and only a few noticeable downhills. If what goes up must come down, how can a half marathon have so many uphills, few moderate downhills, and still end at the same level where it began? That was a bit too much of a math quandary for my exhausted brain, so I just chalked it up to a sadistic mystery and cursed every goddamn hill. When a course marshal was nearby, I used humor and sarcasm, but on the inside, yup, cursing. Every. Damn. Time.
Before I had to slow to a walk for the first time around eight and a half miles, I'd been going at about a 13:45 pace, which (if I could keep it up) would enable me to finish right around three hours. The course had another time constraint: All runners had to reach Mile 10 by 10:05 (2:35 after the start of the race). As I neared Mile 10, it was clear that I would clear that with a good 15-20 minutes to spare. Unfortunately, not long after Mile 10, I took the last drink from my CamelBak. I would have to run (well, run/walk) the remaining five kilometers with only one last water stop.
Fortunately, the last-chance water station on Ocean View Highway around Mile 11 was also one of the few remaining flat sections of the course until the final mile of the race. It was at this water station that I made my second rookie mistake (the first being skipping the first water station because I had 50oz of water in my CamelBak): I grabbed one cup of water--not nearly enough, given my drained CamelBak; I should have grabbed two or even three. By the time I realized my mistake, I was probably 10 yards at most away from the table filled with water and Gatorade cups, but there was simply no way on God's green earth that I was going to turn around and go back.
Less than a minute later, I noticed a figure about a few hundred yards in the distance (maybe even a quarter of a mile). The figure appeared to be another runner, facing me and waving. Within a minute or so, my fellow Bahston Running Divah, Jillian, appearing like a mirage, came running back to where I was. Remember, I refused to turn back maybe 10 yards (if that) to get more water, and here was Jillian, running back almost a quarter of a mile to run with me and pace me to the end. Selfless generosity, thy name is Jillian.
We walked along together for a little while as the ocean finally came into view on Ocean View Highway. We would pick up the pace and run for a bit, then take another short walk break. We turned onto Bayberry Road and as we neared Mile 12 we could see the course marshals ahead for the second-to-last turn of the race. I asked Jillian if there were any more water stops, since I was dehydrated. She said, "No, that was the last one back there. We're less than a mile from the finish line." I looked at my Nike+ watch, saw that she was correct, and said, "Oh, I can make it one last mile!" We picked up the pace a bit, running along Maplewood Avenue toward the shore. My mind is a little fuzzy on that last mile, but I'm pretty sure we ran all of it. I distinctly remember my posture changing back into good form as soon as I realized there was only a mile left to go.
We finally reached Atlantic Avenue once again and turned for the final stretch to the finish line. As we approached, I could see Lola and another of our Bahston Running Divahs, "Meredith TallGirl" (seriously, someday I need to find out what her last name is; this is the second race I've run with her, and I keep forgetting to ask), cheering us on.
So here's how it ended...
...complete with play-by-play by Lola, who captured it on video for posterity. (Good thing, since, despite the fact that there was a race photographer at the finish line, no race photos of me exist past Mile 3.) And, yes, that's Jillian running next to me, patting me on the shoulder as I start to lose it just a little.
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| Can you say "Bling"? Sure you can... |
Within minutes, I had already slipped into the pained geriatric shuffle of the first-time half marathoner. Walking along Atlantic Avenue with Jillian and Meredith toward the peepee teepees and chowdah line at Misquamicut State Beach, the roads had been reopened to the sparse and slow-moving beach traffic. I figured I should probably be walking on the sidewalk instead of in the road, but one look at the curb told me I didn't have the strength to take that big step up. When I got to one of the curb cutouts, I shuffled up onto the sidewalk, requiring at least eight steps and doing a dead-on impression of Tim Conway's old man character in the process. I suppose it's apropos that I also giggled a little like Harvey Korman at the unadulterated comedy of the situation.
As I caught up with Lola while enjoying some chowdah, I confirmed with her that the Myrtle Beach half marathon course would be flat. Pancake flat.
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| The owner of Mel's Downtown Creamery even asked to take my picture for their Facebook page because she loved my shirt! |
The evening would involve relaxing and saying "ooh" and "ow" a lot. Some ibuprofen helped with the muscle soreness, while rest, periodic short walks and near-constant rehydrating helped with the stiffness. It was the most intense exercise-induced soreness I'd ever experienced (not including the acute pain of last year's proximal hamstring strain, which I incurred while walking the dogs), but there was absolutely no doubt that the accomplishment was worth every damned "ow" and creak. I've never smiled so much while walking so gingerly.
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| Two of my proudest sports accomplishments: IronGirl and my first half marathon. |
After every race, I promise myself I'll finish the corresponding blog entry before the next race. Well, I failed at that again. As of this writing, I've finished another race and am less than 10 days away from my next half marathon. So stay tuned, because the next entry is about the Tufts 10K for Women in Boston--definitely a "bucket list" race! (And I will try to finish that before I run the Myrtle Beach half marathon!)
Until next time, keep putting one foot in front of the other! Vive La Tortue Enflammé!!!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The Final Countdown (or Last Chance for a Full-On Freak-Out)
Two weeks before the Surftown Half Marathon, I was in full-on basket case mode: my sleeping and eating patterns were all out of whack; my already frighteningly short attention span grew downright microscopic; my scheduled runs were all over the map in terms of how far they went and how they felt; I even started biting my nails again--a particularly nasty habit that I had as a kid but which still on rare occasion rears its ass-ugly head even now. What I craved at that point was consistency, but what I got was anything but.
So as of today, we're THREE DAYS away from my first half marathon, the Surftown Half (complete with über-stress-inducing three-hour time limit) in Westerly, RI. You would think I would be the ultimate basket case now; and yet, you would be wrong. A few weeks out, you're thinking of all the remaining training to be done, wondering if you could have tried a little harder on the rough runs, pushed a little more on the cross-training, thinking you should have done more strength training, sure you could have done something to help improve your performance on race day. (Most of this panic peaks at the start of Taper Week.) But a few days out, you're fully immersed in focusing on the here and now: any training that didn't happen the way you wanted it to (or didn't happen at all) is a fait accompli; there's nothing you can do to make up for it. At a few days, you just want the race to get here already!!! I've collected a couple of mantras, I've got my three-hour (and a bit) playlist all set in my iPod, I've got all of my venue logistics information printed out, and I already know what I'm packing for the trip (but I won't actually pack until tomorrow...because I'm only slightly psycho/OCD/anal-retentive). And even the weather for Surftown should be ideal for running a half marathon (please let the weather forecast be accurate).
Granted, I still reserve the right to completely freak the fuck out for every minute of the 24 hours preceding the race.
While my 11-mile long run was a bust, my 2012 Dunkin Run went even better than I had planned. My goal was to run comfortably and strong, and to finish feeling as though I could have run more distance if I'd had to. (In other words, I wanted it to be like a training run, rather than a race, since a certain VERY IMPORTANT RACE was exactly ONE WEEK AWAY!!!) I didn't really care about time, but hoped to keep my pace faster than 13:45 ("Surftown Sweeper Pace"--3 hours divided by 13.1 miles). I not only managed to feel stronger and more comfortable than I did at the recent Jailhouse Rock 5k (which was juuuuuuust under Surftown Sweeper Pace), I actually ran the Dunkin in 38:28--about 3:30 better than the Jailhouse Rock 5k.
Every runner (or triathlete) tapers differently for a longer-distance race. Some keep the weekly routine but just ease off on the intensity a bit, while others might be strong enough to need very little (if any) taper. I have a system for recovery post-race (basically, one day of full rest for each hour--or portion thereof--that I needed to run the race; it typically works out to one day of rest after a 5k, two days after a 10k, and I anticipate 3-4 days after a half marathon...but we'll see), but I don't have a system for taper, since this is the first running race for which I've really tapered. (OK, so I tapered for the better part of a week for IronGirl.) I basically went on gut instinct and listening to what my body felt like it needed; we'll see this Sunday morning if I got it right.
So the next blog entry I post here will be post-Surftown. The next entry I write will be as a half-marathoner...or as someone who gave it her best shot and got swept off the course. Either way, I plan on diving headfirst into some seafood afterward.
I'll leave you with my Surftown playlist, a combination of humor, inspiration, pacing, and more than just a hint of hubris:
- Fanfare for the Common Man (Aaron Copeland, Los Angeles Philharmonic)
- Chariots Of Fire (Vangelis)
- Many the Miles (Sara Bareilles)
- One Particular Harbor (Jimmy Buffett)
- Flying Sorcery (Al Stewart)
- Beautiful Day (U2)
- On a Sea of Fleur de Lis (Solas)
- I Gotta Feeling (Black Eyed Peas)
- Call Me Maybe (Carly Rae Jepsen)
- Closer to Fine (Indigo Girls)
- I'm Shipping Up to Boston (Dropkick Murphys)
- Stronger (Britney Spears)
- Standing Still (Jewel)
- Light in Your Eyes (Sheryl Crow)
- Walk Away (Kelly Clarkson)
- F**kin' Perfect (P!nk)
- Firework (Katy Perry)
- Runaway (Avril Lavigne)
- Get Out Of This House (Shawn Colvin)
- Theme from "Greatest American Hero"/"Believe It or Not" (Joey Scarbury)
- Elevation (U2)
- Someday, Someway (Marshall Crenshaw)
- Killin' Kind (Shelby Lynne)
- Desperation Samba/Halloween In Tijuana (Jimmy Buffett)
- My Life Would Suck Without You (Kelly Clarkson)
- Raise Your Glass (P!nk)
- Harder to Breathe (Maroon 5)
- Safety Dance (Men Without Hats)
- Mr. Blue Sky (ELO)
- Go (Kelly Clarkson)
- She's so High (Tal Bachman)
- All Star (Smash Mouth)
- C'mon C'mon/Theme from "Rescue Me" (The Von Blondies)
- Hot Hot Hot (Buster Poindexter)
- Where No One Knows Me (Jann Arden)
- Lust for Life (Iggy Pop)
- She Bangs (Ricky Martin)
- I Do Not Hook Up (Kelly Clarkson)
- Joy Ride (Roxette)
- It's A New Day (will.i.am)
- How Far We've Come (Matchbox Twenty)
- Tessie (Dropkick Murphys)
- Pop Goes the World (Men Without Hats)
- Philadelphia Freedom (Elton John)
- Through Your Hands (Don Henley)
- All American Girl (Melissa Etheridge)
- Walk On the Moon (Great Big Sea)
- (and, if I need another song, "Heroes" by David Bowie)
Whatever form your well wishes take--prayers, positive vibes, good juju--if you wouldn't mind sparing a few moments at 7:30am ET this Sunday to send them toward the southern RI/CT border for me to have a safe and expedient (enough) run through Misquamicut and Watch Hill, I would be most appreciative. Vive la Tortue Enflammé!!!
See you at the finish line...
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Hi! Remember Me?
It's not you, it's me.
I easily get overwhelmed by everything that's going on with work, training, Facebook screen-sucking, obsessive navel-gazing, etc., and the next thing you know, months have gone by without a blog update. I really do mean to write a post after each race, but my innate sloth and latent self-diagnosed seems-like-ADHD-but-probably-isn't-really-ADHD distract me all to easily.
So here I am again, hoping to bring you up to date without writing something that rivals War & Peace for sheer verbosity.
When last we read Gingah's adventures, I had just completed my first-ever six-mile training run in preparation of the upcoming (now freakin' imminent) Surftown Half Marathon. I thought that would enable me to run my next race without needing walk breaks, but a surprisingly warm and utterly windless May morning in Boston stymied me in that effort. I was so proud to return to Fenway Park for the second time in as many years to complete the Run to Home Base 9k (now officially the Run-Walk to Home Base). Unlike last year, I managed this year to go the entire race without crying, but I also wasn't recovering from an excess of imbibing the night before; and yet, it still took me almost a full minute longer to finish the race this year than last year. Obviously, I'll have to get plastered the night before next year's race; fortunately, I know just the person in Boston to facilitate that. This remains my favorite race and the only fundraising race I run. The big personal bonus this year was a finish line photo (at left) that captured a truly historic moment: Gingah running with both feet off the ground simultaneously!!! But most of all, I was honored and humbled by the generosity of so many individuals who sponsored my run and contributed to the Home Base Program.
Two weeks after the Run to Home Base, I was running again in my hometown of Albany at the Freihofer's Run for Women, which in 2010 was the first road race I'd entered. I hoped the third time would be the charm and that I would finally be able to run the full distance of this course; and, lo and behold, I did! I don't even care that my time was the slowest of my three runnings. There's something psychologically important to me in being able to run the full distance.
Not long afterward, I successfully increased my longest long run (all-running) distance to 7mi, which was particularly helpful, given that I had a truly ugly 2mi run a few days before).
Things were progressing more or less smoothly in my half marathon training as my second triathlon (and first of 2012) loomed: the Mountaineer Women's Triathlon in Morgantown, WV.
I hadn't seen Morgantown since I graduated from West Virginia University in the spring of 1985, and while a few things were familiar, I was struck by how many things had changed. I was particularly pleased to discover the rail trail that winds through that part of West Virginia, and I look forward to further explorations during future trips. The rail trail was supposed to be the venue for the bike course for the Mountaineer Women's Triathlon (which, by the weekend I arrived for the race, had been re-christened "Girls Tri Too"), but damage to a key section of the trail relegated the bike course to a couple of local and (characteristic of the Mountain State) fiercely hilly roads.
An elevation profile chart can be very deceiving; in some cases, it can make a course look worse than it is, while in others, it can leave you ill prepared for hills that turn out to be much more challenging than anticipated. As much as I hate hills (and, yes, I utterly loathe them), I know going in that the worst thing I'll ever have to contend with in a climb is having to dismount and walk my bike to the summit. Until a discussion with my Morgantown-resident brother over drinks the night before the race, I hadn't even considered the challenge of the descent. My approach to descents has always been pretty basic: (a) BRAKES (but not too much), and (b) do whatever it takes (including intensive prayer) to stay vertical. My brother's description of the downhills left me with considerable trepidation.
At 3:15am on race day, that trepidation exploded into a massive, frighteningly fatalistic all-out panic attack. I woke suddenly from a dead sleep in my hotel bed with my heart racing. And I mean racing. I wondered at first if I'd had a nightmare, but after a few moments of reflection, I realized that what I felt was abject terror. I was absolutely horrified by the thought of crashing on one of the downhills. I even caught myself thinking, "If I crash really, really badly, I don't think I want to survive." I wish I were kidding. Talk about a wake-up call. That was when I knew I needed to slap myself in the face and get a fucking grip already. I told myself that I would preview the bike course in the car before check-in later that morning, and that if I had serious concerns, I would reserve the right to DNS. I hoped that the fear (read: shame) of not starting a race (especially one that I had traveled hundreds of miles to compete in) would overcome my fear of the downhills. Granted, that didn't garner me any additional sleep that night. Oh, well.
The 250yd swim in the Monongahela River featured a few firsts for me: first sinking to the bottom of the river at the start of a triathlon (clearly, there is a technique to jumping off a dock into a lake, especially for someone like me, who, despite being quite well endowed with, um, buoyancy-friendly body composition, still tends to sink like the Titanic with Jack and Rose clinging to the stern railing); first time passing another competitor during the swim; first time being blinded by the sun after I came around the final buoy; and, most delightful, first Shamu heave. Despite the instructions of the announcer at the beginning of the race, this body does not "simply jump up onto the dock."
Once out of the water, up the steep riverbank and through T1, I mounted my bike for the 7mi cycling course. True to my panic attack-induced promise to myself earlier that morning, before check-in I previewed the bike course as far as the traffic cones extended. This entailed a long, seemingly gentle climb along a solid stretch of Don Knotts Boulevard. (Whenever possible, walk, don't drive, a bike course; the car minimizes hills.) As I drove along at 10mph, I kept thinking, "Oh, shit, I can handle this!!!" I even made a mental note to inform my brother that he owed me a huge drink for scaring the ever-loving crap out of me. Well, it's probably for the best that I didn't realize that the bike course actually went further; at the intersection where the traffic cones ended, there was a right turn onto Smithtown Road. Once on the bike, I discovered that segment of the bike course after struggling up that long, slow climb on Don Knotts Boulevard. Smithtown Road was a two-lane road comprised exclusively of hills and curves. But wait! There's MORE! Smithtown Road was not closed to traffic. (I discovered this the first time a car passed me; despite the generous berth the driver gave me, I'm still convinced it took a good 10 years off of my life.) I have never come so close to crying on a bike course, and I lost count of the number of times I wanted to quit and sit on the side of the road and have a good cry. But I knew that crying wouldn't do a damn bit of good and it wouldn't do a damn thing to change the course; I just had to keep cranking, beg for strength, and embrace the suck. I just kept chanting under my breath, "Three cranks more"; one word for each crank. The downhills were, for me, vastly more terrifying than the climbs were quadriceps-shredding. Straight downhills were scary enough, but the curves on Smithtown's downhills required damn near constant self-talk to get through. I have no doubt that Tour de France cyclists climb steep mountains faster than I took the descents. I tried to put out of my mind the fears of crashing, of getting a flat tire on one of the descents, of wearing out my brakes. One of the surprising upsides of that bike course is that I never noticed any soft-tissue tenderness from the saddle. Thank heaven for small favors.
Mountaineer Triathlon is actually four separate triathlons that share much of the same course sections, albeit in different lengths. In addition to the Girls Tri Too race, there was also a sprint-distance tri, an Olympic distance tri and a half-Ironman (70.3) tri. By the time I was struggling on Smithtown Road, one of the male sprint tri racers managed a generous, "Good job!" as he breezed past my panting corpse cranking uphill. He crossed the finish line long before I did. He may even have crossed the finish line before I even reached T2.
When I approached the final, tight curve of the bike course, I wondered if I would even be able to stand once I unclipped from my pedals. But I can honestly say I have never been so glad to get the hell off of my bike. I wobbled into T2 in my bike shoes, re-racked my bike, and comically tried to remain vertical as I changed out of my bike shoes and into my running shoes. If there's video of my transition anywhere, it should include a disclaimer that I was not intoxicated; otherwise, no one would know.
The run course for Mountaineer Girls Tri Too was "only" two miles. I ran it at a slower pace than I do my long runs. Let me tell you: that is SLOW. I did actually run all but maybe a minute or two of the run course, but my legs were solid lead. When I finally crossed the finish line, the first words out of my mouth were, "I can't believe I did it!" I quickly and futilely put my hands over my mouth, as if to capture those words before they could escape.
I actually managed to finish second in my age group and third in my weight class. Granted, given that there were only 14 competitors in the Mountaineer Girls Tri Too race, and only two people in my age group and only three people in my weight class, it still counts. I won my first award. I'm not going to nit-pick.
And wouldn't you know it, just six days later, I would successfully complete my longest long run to date: 8 miles.
Less than three weeks later, the long run distance increased yet again, this time to NINE miles. My confidence was slowly but surely building for the Surftown Half Marathon.
IronGirl gave me my best open-water swim experience to date, despite a very crowded swim wave. I swam steady and strong, which gave me the confidence I needed for the next two legs of the race.
The 30-kilometer bike course was not only the longest I'd ever encountered in a race, but it was also a longer distance than I'd ridden in training in months. (For the record, that is not a recommended training strategy.) Fortunately, it was devoid of hills, but did include two railroad crossings and a metal-grate bridge. But this time when I dismounted, my legs were made of rubber rather than lead. It still made the ensuing 5k run a particularly pokey run-walk affair, but the cheering crowds in the final quarter mile carried me to the finish line. I had hoped to finish within 2 hours and 30 minutes. I beat that estimate by just under four minutes.
Now I just needed to tack on a 5k to the end of that run and finish everything within three hours, and I'd be able to collect a finisher's medal in Westerly, Rhode Island, on September 16th.
The following weekend's scheduled 11-mile long run became a 5.7mi walk on Saturday (due to waking up feeling dizzy, which is very unusual for me) and an abysmal 5mi run on Sunday morning that provided a sudden reminder that Immodium may be a runner's best friend. Under other circumstances, I would have tried to let it go and just do my 11-mile run the following weekend; however, the following weekend will feature the Dunkin Run (5k) and then taper week for Surftown.
At this point, the bulk of the training for Surftown is behind me; what remains is more maintenance training. But I'm in that dreaded pre-race fortnight: filled with self-doubt, stress, and the accompanying emotional roller coaster. While looking for a mantra to get me through Surftown, I found one from champion runner Deena Kastor: "Define Yourself." Standing this distance from the start line, that phrase feels both empowering and terrifying. To combat the fear, I am armed with Hebrews 12:1, which a dear friend recently posted:
I easily get overwhelmed by everything that's going on with work, training, Facebook screen-sucking, obsessive navel-gazing, etc., and the next thing you know, months have gone by without a blog update. I really do mean to write a post after each race, but my innate sloth and latent self-diagnosed seems-like-ADHD-but-probably-isn't-really-ADHD distract me all to easily.
So here I am again, hoping to bring you up to date without writing something that rivals War & Peace for sheer verbosity.
Run to Home Base - May 2012
When last we read Gingah's adventures, I had just completed my first-ever six-mile training run in preparation of the upcoming (now freakin' imminent) Surftown Half Marathon. I thought that would enable me to run my next race without needing walk breaks, but a surprisingly warm and utterly windless May morning in Boston stymied me in that effort. I was so proud to return to Fenway Park for the second time in as many years to complete the Run to Home Base 9k (now officially the Run-Walk to Home Base). Unlike last year, I managed this year to go the entire race without crying, but I also wasn't recovering from an excess of imbibing the night before; and yet, it still took me almost a full minute longer to finish the race this year than last year. Obviously, I'll have to get plastered the night before next year's race; fortunately, I know just the person in Boston to facilitate that. This remains my favorite race and the only fundraising race I run. The big personal bonus this year was a finish line photo (at left) that captured a truly historic moment: Gingah running with both feet off the ground simultaneously!!! But most of all, I was honored and humbled by the generosity of so many individuals who sponsored my run and contributed to the Home Base Program.
Two weeks after the Run to Home Base, I was running again in my hometown of Albany at the Freihofer's Run for Women, which in 2010 was the first road race I'd entered. I hoped the third time would be the charm and that I would finally be able to run the full distance of this course; and, lo and behold, I did! I don't even care that my time was the slowest of my three runnings. There's something psychologically important to me in being able to run the full distance.
Not long afterward, I successfully increased my longest long run (all-running) distance to 7mi, which was particularly helpful, given that I had a truly ugly 2mi run a few days before).
Mountaineer Triathlon - June 2012
Things were progressing more or less smoothly in my half marathon training as my second triathlon (and first of 2012) loomed: the Mountaineer Women's Triathlon in Morgantown, WV.I hadn't seen Morgantown since I graduated from West Virginia University in the spring of 1985, and while a few things were familiar, I was struck by how many things had changed. I was particularly pleased to discover the rail trail that winds through that part of West Virginia, and I look forward to further explorations during future trips. The rail trail was supposed to be the venue for the bike course for the Mountaineer Women's Triathlon (which, by the weekend I arrived for the race, had been re-christened "Girls Tri Too"), but damage to a key section of the trail relegated the bike course to a couple of local and (characteristic of the Mountain State) fiercely hilly roads.
An elevation profile chart can be very deceiving; in some cases, it can make a course look worse than it is, while in others, it can leave you ill prepared for hills that turn out to be much more challenging than anticipated. As much as I hate hills (and, yes, I utterly loathe them), I know going in that the worst thing I'll ever have to contend with in a climb is having to dismount and walk my bike to the summit. Until a discussion with my Morgantown-resident brother over drinks the night before the race, I hadn't even considered the challenge of the descent. My approach to descents has always been pretty basic: (a) BRAKES (but not too much), and (b) do whatever it takes (including intensive prayer) to stay vertical. My brother's description of the downhills left me with considerable trepidation.
At 3:15am on race day, that trepidation exploded into a massive, frighteningly fatalistic all-out panic attack. I woke suddenly from a dead sleep in my hotel bed with my heart racing. And I mean racing. I wondered at first if I'd had a nightmare, but after a few moments of reflection, I realized that what I felt was abject terror. I was absolutely horrified by the thought of crashing on one of the downhills. I even caught myself thinking, "If I crash really, really badly, I don't think I want to survive." I wish I were kidding. Talk about a wake-up call. That was when I knew I needed to slap myself in the face and get a fucking grip already. I told myself that I would preview the bike course in the car before check-in later that morning, and that if I had serious concerns, I would reserve the right to DNS. I hoped that the fear (read: shame) of not starting a race (especially one that I had traveled hundreds of miles to compete in) would overcome my fear of the downhills. Granted, that didn't garner me any additional sleep that night. Oh, well.
The 250yd swim in the Monongahela River featured a few firsts for me: first sinking to the bottom of the river at the start of a triathlon (clearly, there is a technique to jumping off a dock into a lake, especially for someone like me, who, despite being quite well endowed with, um, buoyancy-friendly body composition, still tends to sink like the Titanic with Jack and Rose clinging to the stern railing); first time passing another competitor during the swim; first time being blinded by the sun after I came around the final buoy; and, most delightful, first Shamu heave. Despite the instructions of the announcer at the beginning of the race, this body does not "simply jump up onto the dock."
Once out of the water, up the steep riverbank and through T1, I mounted my bike for the 7mi cycling course. True to my panic attack-induced promise to myself earlier that morning, before check-in I previewed the bike course as far as the traffic cones extended. This entailed a long, seemingly gentle climb along a solid stretch of Don Knotts Boulevard. (Whenever possible, walk, don't drive, a bike course; the car minimizes hills.) As I drove along at 10mph, I kept thinking, "Oh, shit, I can handle this!!!" I even made a mental note to inform my brother that he owed me a huge drink for scaring the ever-loving crap out of me. Well, it's probably for the best that I didn't realize that the bike course actually went further; at the intersection where the traffic cones ended, there was a right turn onto Smithtown Road. Once on the bike, I discovered that segment of the bike course after struggling up that long, slow climb on Don Knotts Boulevard. Smithtown Road was a two-lane road comprised exclusively of hills and curves. But wait! There's MORE! Smithtown Road was not closed to traffic. (I discovered this the first time a car passed me; despite the generous berth the driver gave me, I'm still convinced it took a good 10 years off of my life.) I have never come so close to crying on a bike course, and I lost count of the number of times I wanted to quit and sit on the side of the road and have a good cry. But I knew that crying wouldn't do a damn bit of good and it wouldn't do a damn thing to change the course; I just had to keep cranking, beg for strength, and embrace the suck. I just kept chanting under my breath, "Three cranks more"; one word for each crank. The downhills were, for me, vastly more terrifying than the climbs were quadriceps-shredding. Straight downhills were scary enough, but the curves on Smithtown's downhills required damn near constant self-talk to get through. I have no doubt that Tour de France cyclists climb steep mountains faster than I took the descents. I tried to put out of my mind the fears of crashing, of getting a flat tire on one of the descents, of wearing out my brakes. One of the surprising upsides of that bike course is that I never noticed any soft-tissue tenderness from the saddle. Thank heaven for small favors.
Mountaineer Triathlon is actually four separate triathlons that share much of the same course sections, albeit in different lengths. In addition to the Girls Tri Too race, there was also a sprint-distance tri, an Olympic distance tri and a half-Ironman (70.3) tri. By the time I was struggling on Smithtown Road, one of the male sprint tri racers managed a generous, "Good job!" as he breezed past my panting corpse cranking uphill. He crossed the finish line long before I did. He may even have crossed the finish line before I even reached T2.
When I approached the final, tight curve of the bike course, I wondered if I would even be able to stand once I unclipped from my pedals. But I can honestly say I have never been so glad to get the hell off of my bike. I wobbled into T2 in my bike shoes, re-racked my bike, and comically tried to remain vertical as I changed out of my bike shoes and into my running shoes. If there's video of my transition anywhere, it should include a disclaimer that I was not intoxicated; otherwise, no one would know.
The run course for Mountaineer Girls Tri Too was "only" two miles. I ran it at a slower pace than I do my long runs. Let me tell you: that is SLOW. I did actually run all but maybe a minute or two of the run course, but my legs were solid lead. When I finally crossed the finish line, the first words out of my mouth were, "I can't believe I did it!" I quickly and futilely put my hands over my mouth, as if to capture those words before they could escape.
I actually managed to finish second in my age group and third in my weight class. Granted, given that there were only 14 competitors in the Mountaineer Girls Tri Too race, and only two people in my age group and only three people in my weight class, it still counts. I won my first award. I'm not going to nit-pick.
And wouldn't you know it, just six days later, I would successfully complete my longest long run to date: 8 miles.
Harvard Pilgrim Finish at the 50 10k - July 2012
I have this thing about running a race on or near my birthday. It began in 2011 with the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta, and this year it took me to Foxborough, Massachusetts, for a 10k that began at Patriot Place and ended at the 50-yard line of Gillette Stadium. I ran more of the distance than I had been able to manage at the Peachtree, despite similarly oppressive heat and humidity (but in the Massachusetts evening instead of a Georgia late morning), and without needing to visit the medical tent afterward. When I crossed the finish line, I thought I'd come close to my Peachtree time, but had forgotten that it took nearly 10 minutes to get to the starting line, so my finish time of 1:31 and change was a great birthday present. Later that evening, as I lay on the cool grass and looked up at a sky filled with fireworks, I thought, "Now, this is a birthday celebration!" And, like the Peachtree, this birthday celebration was made possible by loving and generous friends who opened their home to me (and, in New England, to Las Bitchitas).Less than three weeks later, the long run distance increased yet again, this time to NINE miles. My confidence was slowly but surely building for the Surftown Half Marathon.
IronGirl Syracuse - August 2012
Leading into IronGirl Syracuse, my second (and last) triathlon of 2012 and my longest-distance tri to date, I experienced what has become the customary fortnight of pre-race stress, self-doubt, and incessant second-guessing. I've reached the point where my preparation for a local 5k doesn't even begin until the alarm goes off on race day morning, but I still stress over any race longer than that.IronGirl gave me my best open-water swim experience to date, despite a very crowded swim wave. I swam steady and strong, which gave me the confidence I needed for the next two legs of the race.
The 30-kilometer bike course was not only the longest I'd ever encountered in a race, but it was also a longer distance than I'd ridden in training in months. (For the record, that is not a recommended training strategy.) Fortunately, it was devoid of hills, but did include two railroad crossings and a metal-grate bridge. But this time when I dismounted, my legs were made of rubber rather than lead. It still made the ensuing 5k run a particularly pokey run-walk affair, but the cheering crowds in the final quarter mile carried me to the finish line. I had hoped to finish within 2 hours and 30 minutes. I beat that estimate by just under four minutes.
Jailhouse Rock 5k - August 2012
Like the Freihofer's Run for Women, the Jailhouse Rock 5k in Ballston Spa, NY, has become an annual race for me. What's not to love about a race course that's predominantly flat and features an ending downhill and no uphill? Again, like the Freihofer's, my time gets longer, but I ran the full distance.Surftown Looms
And six days later, my long run reached 10miles. I was no longer measuring runs in my head with numbers; I was running from landmark to landmark. It's still a hell of a grind, but when I hit the 10-mile mark, I literally jumped for joy. (Yes, there were non-running witnesses. I can only imagine what they were thinking.) Best of all, I finished that 10-mile run in about 2:24. While hardly lightning pace, it was fast enough to enable me to keep my bib on at the 10-mile mark at Surftown...and to do it with 11 minutes to spare. My confidence was continuing to build. Holy crap...maybe I actually CAN do this!Now I just needed to tack on a 5k to the end of that run and finish everything within three hours, and I'd be able to collect a finisher's medal in Westerly, Rhode Island, on September 16th.
The following weekend's scheduled 11-mile long run became a 5.7mi walk on Saturday (due to waking up feeling dizzy, which is very unusual for me) and an abysmal 5mi run on Sunday morning that provided a sudden reminder that Immodium may be a runner's best friend. Under other circumstances, I would have tried to let it go and just do my 11-mile run the following weekend; however, the following weekend will feature the Dunkin Run (5k) and then taper week for Surftown.
At this point, the bulk of the training for Surftown is behind me; what remains is more maintenance training. But I'm in that dreaded pre-race fortnight: filled with self-doubt, stress, and the accompanying emotional roller coaster. While looking for a mantra to get me through Surftown, I found one from champion runner Deena Kastor: "Define Yourself." Standing this distance from the start line, that phrase feels both empowering and terrifying. To combat the fear, I am armed with Hebrews 12:1, which a dear friend recently posted:
Wherefore, seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses,
let us set aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us,
and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.
Stand at the start line, fears and all; breathe in and breathe out; and in whatever race you are facing, DEFINE YOURSELF.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Hello, Boston Marathon Finish Line! (For Realz!!!)
Yikes...looks like I’ve been a tad AWOL on the blogging front. Well, I’m getting ready to head to Boston this weekend for the 2012 Run to Home Base (this year, they’ve added a three-mile walk, so it’s officially the 2012 Run-Walk to Home Base), so I really should bring you up to date first, since that race will, of course, need its own blog entry. I already can’t wait to write it!
April brought the first road race for me since the Lowell 1st Run on New Year’s Day, and what an amazing spring race indeed: the Boston Athletic Association (BAA) 5k, held the morning before the Boston Marathon. It’s like having all the best of the Marathon (hello, shopping at the expo!!!), but without the 23.1-mile warmup. (Naturally, I fit in a wee bit o’ cocktailing at Legal Seafoods Harborside...I don’t imagine the marathoners were able to do that.) The BAA 5k features my favorite 5k course as it winds through Back Bay, up one thankfully short moderate hill on Park Street, then down a positively glorious long, gentle downhill on Beacon Street between the state house and the 54th Massachusetts/Robert Gould Shaw memorial (one of my favorite landmarks in Boston), then back along Arlington Street and tree-lined Comm Ave, and after turning left onto Hereford, it becomes identical to the end of the Boston Marathon (“left onto Boylston”). My familiarity with all of these streets made this race as comfortable as the ones I’ve run in Saratoga Springs, but with much closer proximity to Fenway Park, which makes everything better, in my book. I jumped at the chance to run the BAA 5k, since it is (barring a miracle) likely the only way I’ll ever get to cross the finish line of the Boston Marathon in an actual race.
The race was also an opportunity for a road trip with Las Bitchitas, as I stayed with friends in Attleboro and their brood of hounds, including the apparently lovestruck yellow lab, Cooper. Race day involved meeting up with my New England running buddies and turning some Facebook friends into the IRL variety. Spring continued winter’s bipolar disorder by providing what ended up being unseasonably warm temperatures—great for us running that morning! (For those intrepid souls running the Boston Marathon the next day—and starting their race significantly later in the morning than we began ours—not so great for grinding out 26.2mi; kudos to the Boston Marathon race director, organizers, volunteers, and everyone who helped keep the marathoners from overheating on the course!)
As we started the race from Copley Square and headed toward Boston Common, I saw two blind runners with their escorts—one runner literally tied with a short length of rope to his escort, the other holding her escort’s arm—and wondered at the courage it takes to run when you literally cannot see the course or terrain. I was so awed, I didn’t even mind that they totally smoked past me on Tremont Street. Turning onto Park Street, I had mentally prepared myself for the first and only hill of the race, willing myself to the top. Turning onto Beacon Street and beginning the long, steady downhill, we followed the direction in which Col. Robert Gould Shaw and the men of his 54th Infantry perpetually extend their bronze gaze, until we reached Arlington and turned toward Comm Ave. Turning from Beacon to Arlington, I had to slow briefly to a walk for the first of many short run/walk intervals to get me the full distance. All along the way, I did my usual shout-outs to the BPD officers on traffic patrol who were keeping us safe at the intersections, and at one point, passing a pair of bike-mounted Boston EMTs on Comm Ave, I briefly inquired as to the possibility of hitching a ride to the finish line. The male paramedic’s smiling response? “What’s it worth to you?” Hmmm. I pondered that question for about a block (did I mention he was kinda hawt? oh, and probably 15-20 years my junior?), but since we were probably only about four or five blocks from Hereford, I knew I’d much rather finish the race under my own steam.
As I turned and slowed to a walk along Hereford, I convinced myself that, come hell or high water, I would start running again as I turned onto Boylston Street and wouldn’t consider stopping until I was across the finish line. A woman on her third-floor balcony on Hereford cheered us on, so I shouted up to her, “Come join us! But don’t jump!” As we rounded the final corner onto Boylston, one of the race folks, with a bullhorn, joked with us and gave us some encouragement.
If you learn nothing else from being one of the slower runners in a 5k, it’s that the real party is in the middle and back of the pack. The front-runners and speedsters are focused first and foremost on their race performance; those of us around my pace are in it for the exercise, the experience, the fun, the T-shirt and the finisher’s medal. Decent post-race grub is always a plus.
We’re not here for the party...we are the party.
As we got closer to the finish line, around the final tenth of a mile, there were a lot more spectators lining the street (still nothing even remotely like what it would be for the next day’s marathon). As they politely applauded and cheered us on, I stretched out both arms and jokingly shouted, “All of this...for me?!?!?” and they responded with louder cheers. I’ll confess I milked it (What, YOU, Gingah? Naw...) by putting my hand to my ear and saying, “What was that? I can’t hear you!” first to one side of Boylston, then to the other. They kindly obliged me with louder cheers and I kicked in the afterburners...which got me about 50 yards before I had to slow my trot a little bit. In front of the bleachers, a woman was holding a sign cheering on a runner named Joan, and I pointed and shouted, “Hey! MY name is Joan!” Thus began a bucket-brigade of individual “Go, Joan!” cheers from the southern side of Boylston Street.
Thanks, EMT Bike Dude, I’ll take this any day.
As always, I love that dirty water...Boston, you’re my (heart’s) home!!!
PS: Here’s an update on the 2012 Run to Home Base: Thanks to so many incredibly generous folks, I actually exceeded my fundraising total from last year! I’m so grateful and so humbled to be involved in this cause. In my next post, I’ll include an image of the sign I’ll be wearing on my back during the R2HB. And since just over a week before the race, I ran SIX FULL MILES for the first time in my entire life, I am eager to get back to my favorite American city and put my running shoes onto her pavement. To Boston’s Finest, Boston’s Bravest, and the R2HB race volunteers...prepare to be copiously and enthusiastically thanked by La Gingah! MWAH!
April brought the first road race for me since the Lowell 1st Run on New Year’s Day, and what an amazing spring race indeed: the Boston Athletic Association (BAA) 5k, held the morning before the Boston Marathon. It’s like having all the best of the Marathon (hello, shopping at the expo!!!), but without the 23.1-mile warmup. (Naturally, I fit in a wee bit o’ cocktailing at Legal Seafoods Harborside...I don’t imagine the marathoners were able to do that.) The BAA 5k features my favorite 5k course as it winds through Back Bay, up one thankfully short moderate hill on Park Street, then down a positively glorious long, gentle downhill on Beacon Street between the state house and the 54th Massachusetts/Robert Gould Shaw memorial (one of my favorite landmarks in Boston), then back along Arlington Street and tree-lined Comm Ave, and after turning left onto Hereford, it becomes identical to the end of the Boston Marathon (“left onto Boylston”). My familiarity with all of these streets made this race as comfortable as the ones I’ve run in Saratoga Springs, but with much closer proximity to Fenway Park, which makes everything better, in my book. I jumped at the chance to run the BAA 5k, since it is (barring a miracle) likely the only way I’ll ever get to cross the finish line of the Boston Marathon in an actual race.
The race was also an opportunity for a road trip with Las Bitchitas, as I stayed with friends in Attleboro and their brood of hounds, including the apparently lovestruck yellow lab, Cooper. Race day involved meeting up with my New England running buddies and turning some Facebook friends into the IRL variety. Spring continued winter’s bipolar disorder by providing what ended up being unseasonably warm temperatures—great for us running that morning! (For those intrepid souls running the Boston Marathon the next day—and starting their race significantly later in the morning than we began ours—not so great for grinding out 26.2mi; kudos to the Boston Marathon race director, organizers, volunteers, and everyone who helped keep the marathoners from overheating on the course!)
As we started the race from Copley Square and headed toward Boston Common, I saw two blind runners with their escorts—one runner literally tied with a short length of rope to his escort, the other holding her escort’s arm—and wondered at the courage it takes to run when you literally cannot see the course or terrain. I was so awed, I didn’t even mind that they totally smoked past me on Tremont Street. Turning onto Park Street, I had mentally prepared myself for the first and only hill of the race, willing myself to the top. Turning onto Beacon Street and beginning the long, steady downhill, we followed the direction in which Col. Robert Gould Shaw and the men of his 54th Infantry perpetually extend their bronze gaze, until we reached Arlington and turned toward Comm Ave. Turning from Beacon to Arlington, I had to slow briefly to a walk for the first of many short run/walk intervals to get me the full distance. All along the way, I did my usual shout-outs to the BPD officers on traffic patrol who were keeping us safe at the intersections, and at one point, passing a pair of bike-mounted Boston EMTs on Comm Ave, I briefly inquired as to the possibility of hitching a ride to the finish line. The male paramedic’s smiling response? “What’s it worth to you?” Hmmm. I pondered that question for about a block (did I mention he was kinda hawt? oh, and probably 15-20 years my junior?), but since we were probably only about four or five blocks from Hereford, I knew I’d much rather finish the race under my own steam.
As I turned and slowed to a walk along Hereford, I convinced myself that, come hell or high water, I would start running again as I turned onto Boylston Street and wouldn’t consider stopping until I was across the finish line. A woman on her third-floor balcony on Hereford cheered us on, so I shouted up to her, “Come join us! But don’t jump!” As we rounded the final corner onto Boylston, one of the race folks, with a bullhorn, joked with us and gave us some encouragement.
If you learn nothing else from being one of the slower runners in a 5k, it’s that the real party is in the middle and back of the pack. The front-runners and speedsters are focused first and foremost on their race performance; those of us around my pace are in it for the exercise, the experience, the fun, the T-shirt and the finisher’s medal. Decent post-race grub is always a plus.
We’re not here for the party...we are the party.
As we got closer to the finish line, around the final tenth of a mile, there were a lot more spectators lining the street (still nothing even remotely like what it would be for the next day’s marathon). As they politely applauded and cheered us on, I stretched out both arms and jokingly shouted, “All of this...for me?!?!?” and they responded with louder cheers. I’ll confess I milked it (What, YOU, Gingah? Naw...) by putting my hand to my ear and saying, “What was that? I can’t hear you!” first to one side of Boylston, then to the other. They kindly obliged me with louder cheers and I kicked in the afterburners...which got me about 50 yards before I had to slow my trot a little bit. In front of the bleachers, a woman was holding a sign cheering on a runner named Joan, and I pointed and shouted, “Hey! MY name is Joan!” Thus began a bucket-brigade of individual “Go, Joan!” cheers from the southern side of Boylston Street.
Thanks, EMT Bike Dude, I’ll take this any day.
As always, I love that dirty water...Boston, you’re my (heart’s) home!!!
PS: Here’s an update on the 2012 Run to Home Base: Thanks to so many incredibly generous folks, I actually exceeded my fundraising total from last year! I’m so grateful and so humbled to be involved in this cause. In my next post, I’ll include an image of the sign I’ll be wearing on my back during the R2HB. And since just over a week before the race, I ran SIX FULL MILES for the first time in my entire life, I am eager to get back to my favorite American city and put my running shoes onto her pavement. To Boston’s Finest, Boston’s Bravest, and the R2HB race volunteers...prepare to be copiously and enthusiastically thanked by La Gingah! MWAH!
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