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:

• 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.

I'll pretty much take any excuse I can get to visit Boston, and while a dead cellphone (not mine, thank God) prevented me from meeting up with one of my favorite people on this trip, that was the only miscue. Everything else contributed to a great (albeit far too short) visit: great weather, getting my "usual" awesome reserved-for-hybrid-vehicles parking space in the Boston Common Garage (I swear, it's like they save it for me!), indulging in seafood at every meal (shout out to Bistro du Midi on Boylston Street across from the Public Garden--c'est magnifique!), running most of the first mile of the race with my Bahston Running Divah friend and official race videographer Lola Buttercups (you'll see more of her handiwork below), and meeting a certain running idol of mine for the second time!

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.) 

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!

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:

Distance races are like mullets: 
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.

Artist's shell rendition of the
elusive La Tortue Enflammé.
This only looks like a still photo;
I actually DO run this slowly.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

For the non-verbose version of the course, click this image.

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.

Can you say "Bling"? Sure you can...

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.

The owner of Mel's Downtown Creamery even asked to
take my  picture for their Facebook page because
she loved my shirt!

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.

Two of my proudest sports
accomplishments: IronGirl
and my first half marathon.

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!!!