I run, therefore, I blog

Yesterday I had the pleasure of pacing at Albany, GA in the 5^th annual Snickers Marathon Marathon. The candy company makes an energy/protein bar called the “Marathon” bar and since they have a large facility in Albany and Albany is known for its peanuts (and Ray Charles, I found out!), it makes perfect sense for this small town 3 hours south of Atlanta to have a marathon (they also are located next to the grit capital of Georgia, Warwick but my love for grits is not comparable to my love for running… I’m also digressing) 

As you know I’m coming off a weekend of extreme highs and lows with the Beast. I felt good after it but this week has put me back down into the dumps. I didn’t finish it and often, runners experience what’s known as “Post-race Depression” It’s akin to having a baby or getting married where you get all jazzed up for the big event, it comes and goes and then, well.. nothing. Life resumes. I had this after my first marathon, after my first 50 and now, after my first attempt at 100. I had been crabby and edgy for the better part of the week. I wasn’t even that optimistic about this race until I got to ATL, arrived at the marathon expo and looked at all the apprehensive, excited, tired, happy and just plain terrified faces mulling about. It’s a very quick and easy way to take one’s mind off whatever is bothering you as you suddenly realize that you are not alone in your thoughts. 

This expo was in the hotel which also served as the start line for the race. As pacers, the group is assigned specific times to man the booth at the expo, often answering questions and helping people choose their goal times. I was on from 6-9pm but by the time my shift started, there were very few people coming. Most had come earlier in the day, eager to get home and try to spend the evening relaxing. Nevertheless, I had several eager runners approach and chat as well as a number who came back when they were told the 4 hour pace leader wasn’t there yet. My favorite was a woman who came down from her room with a piece of paper in hand. She was sent down by her roommate who was running with a list of questions for me. The woman patiently wrote down the answers to the questions and even filled out her friend’s bib with her name and “4:00” on it. I had to chuckle – it was like the roommate running was a celebrity and this was her personal assistant. I had another gentleman, well into his 60s, sign up, Warren. He said “How many men do you think are running this race over 60?” I said I figured not too many which made him brighten up when I added that no matter what his pace, he’d might get an age group award. There was Robin, an experienced Ironman competitor who wanted to qualify for Boston and at 45, she needed 4 hours. I told her she was only doing part of her “normal” full race, that it would be easy for her – she still looked incredibly nervous. I mean, an Ironman! My god those freak me out… Then there was Caroline who was British (with a gorgeous accent) from Florida, attempting her 6^th try to get into Boston. I assured her that we would do it together. After a while of this, it’s easy to see how you can suddenly feel a renewed sense of self-worth. I started my shift sullen, I finished it smiling. 

The next morning, we all met in the lobby at 6:15 dressed in our new outfits supplied by runningskirts.com. This would normally not be anything out of the ordinary except for the fact that the men also were donned in running skirts. If you’ve never seen 5 grown men in very short tight lycra running skirts, you’ve missed out. Male runners tend to have nice legs and this crew was no exception, however, there is something just goofy in seeing a cheetah or a plaid print skirt set atop of two muscular hairy stems. The plaid wasn’t so bad – it looked almost akin to a kilt but the cheetah print that several opted for was just, well, bizarre. One of the runners in my pace group commented that they looked “ridiculous”. I thought it was rather humorous myself but to each his own I suppose. 

We started off in the early morning twilight with the sun rising over the river. It was absolutely beautiful. I fell into my pace and began chatting with the few people on either side of me. I happened to look back as we rounded the first corner and saw a sea of runners, all beautifully lined up behind me. There was easily 40 or so and I recognized most of the faces. The ones who came up, talked to me and wore a bib as well as those who gave the expo table a suspicious and fleeting glance the night before, choosing to scurry past rather than approach. Here was my army of many and I was thrilled to be leading them into victory.  

As the miles ticked off, I learned a little about most of them. Caroline, as I had previously mentioned, was really going to make this THE day – she had done everything right, carbo-loaded and was feeling good. Robin was in her zone and decided to stay ahead of me, with an occasional comment on a story I was telling. She had done her last Ironman in just under 11 hours and was hopeful that work would pay off in this race. Warren would occasionally get up beside me, grunt a bit, then fall back. His daughter was an art teacher who graduated from Hollins college, a small all-girls school located in my hometown as listed on my bio. Brett was a lawyer and this was his second marathon and he wanted to break 4 hours the first time but just missed it. This was retribution. Pauline was a single mother with a teenage son and with 4 hours, she could make it to Boston, but she admitted that she couldn’t afford to go. And how could I forget Randy, who was 44 yesterday and for his 44^th birthday, he wanted to break 4 hours? 4 was his lucky number, he said. 

In those 4 hours, we talked about ourselves, our families, our lives and jobs and most of all, our passion for this sport. I don’t think I can put into words how attached you get to these individuals, each with their own lives and goals. I never leave a race less enlightened than I came. I truly enjoy the minutes I spend with everyone that I come into contact with and to know that several of them did it only serves to put meaning into my race. I’ve done my fair share of marathons and I’ve achieved (almost) every running goal I’ve ever had. Sure, new PRs are nice and I hope to finish a 100 miler this, but as the years and races go by, I’ve learned to care less about the moment and more about the impact. Yesterday was no different. 

At mile 8, a cute young woman came skipping up, seemingly high as a kite, laughing and carrying on and jumping around. Her name was Cassie. I will never forget her because she taught me a lesson. She had talked to me the night before at the table and I convinced her that as her second marathon, she should go conservatively. Her first was a few months prior and she ran a 4:24. She had been training and doing speed-work so we agreed that she would start with the 4:15 group and if she felt good, to move up to my group around mile 10 or so. If she still felt good around 23, then she could go ahead and ratchet it up a notch. So it’s no surprise that at mile 8 when I heard her approaching, I was instantly nervous. It’s my inner “pacer mom” and when I see people that wired up that early, I worry. Most marathoners will hit a wonderfully high point from about 8-13 or so. The blood is pumping, the adrenaline is high and life is GOOD. REALLY good. Then reality hits. They start crashing and by 19 they feel like death. I know – I’ve been there. And I’ve seen it happen a lot. So as Cassie was swinging her arms and yelling at every single spectator and clapping, I kept warning her. “Cassie, save some of that!” “Cassie, slow it down a bit” I didn’t want her enthusiasm to get the better of her. I managed to convince her to carry my sign for a bit. She loved it. She loved it so much that around 18 I happened to look up and notice that she was a good quarter mile ahead of me. Oh shit. I can’t ask her to slow down and bring me back my sign. I looked at my pace group and said you all stay steady, I have to go get that damn sign. So I sprinted up to her. She looked at me, handed it over, laughed and said “Emily, I feel so good. I know it’s only 19 but can I go ahead??” She looked so excited and intense and at that moment, I could see the focus and determination in her eyes. This woman was on fire. YES! YES, go! You look great I said. And with that, she did. Never would I have thought she would’ve lasted that long but sometimes the will is stronger than the skill. 

I ran back to my group like a prairie dog trying to heard up the cattle. This was good because I could assess once again, where everyone was at. Robin was great, smile plastered onto her face, Warren had slid back a bit and was sweating. He was working HARD but he was quietly moving forward, still plodding along, one foot in front of the other. Randy was smiling and leaning forward, his form having fallen off miles before but he was happy. It was his birthday! Brett was waiting for me and moved over so I could fall back in next to him. But I was missing two. Oh no, my ladies. My Boston ladies. Pauline and Caroline. They were back just far enough that I could make them out but I couldn’t see them being able to surge ahead. This is the one downside to being a group pacer. You can’t sacrifice the group for a single individual. I wanted to run back. To round those two up, rally them, help them channel their inner Kenyans but I couldn’t. I still had about 11 or 12 to tend to plus a promise in my contract to hold my pace as best as I could. I had to let them go. 

Around 24 I started pushing people ahead of me – I let Robin go, I pushed Randy on and Brett finally agreed to leave my side at 25 as I chanted you can do it! You can do it! Go Go GO! I was doing great on time and hit 26 just right. I had to sprint in the last .2 miles, though. I had a bit of a slow SNAFU (SLOFU?) due to the jump up onto the sidewalk to wrap around the final bend. It’s a big step up onto a sidewalk curb and the tip of my shoe caught it just right. I didn’t go down but my recovery took a few seconds to come, steadying myself back up and wincing as I pulled hard at a hamstring. OUCH. It was already a bit tender from the previous weekend but I wasn’t expecting what amounted to a donkey kick in the back of my thigh right then. I saw the finish line and ran it in. I ended up a few seconds over which is never a good thing, although I was thankful to have pushed my runners ahead of me. I crossed and was greeted by 9 or 10 familiar faces and a lot of blood, sweat and tears. I’ve never had so many sweaty hugs nor have I had a line of people waiting to talk to me, thanking me for my help. It was MAGICAL. I stayed longer than I had planned and enjoyed hearing their stories, meeting their significant others and toasting (with a water bottle) to their successes.  

I made a number of new friends yesterday and I had a wonderful experience. I feel as if the ability to run and help other people when they’re running is a gift and there’s a great saying that goes “Never apologize for the gifts you’re given. Only apologize for not using them.” To my runners in the group, I’m glad that I was able to help you out. In return, you gave me back something too. In the end, we all got a gift.  

“My back is broad but it’s a hurting…”  Even though it’s a song lyric, never were truer words spoken. This past weekend, I traveled to Buffalo, NY to participate in a winter race called the Beast of Burden 100 miler and 24 hour ultra-marathon. This was the first year for this race and it is touted as the only “winter 100 miler” in the US. My friend and fellow runner (and experienced 100 mile finisher) Marc Griffin was going. He was looking for company and since Mother Nature has been shitting on us lately in the form of snow, I figured that the lemons life was handing my passion for running, deserved to be made into some frozen lemonade. That would be false assumption #1. 

The extended forecast seemed benign enough – a few snow showers but relatively higher temps and lack of heavy snow covering would be gracing the area. Fantastic I thought! I’ve spent a lot of time lately running around in the local blizzards and post-holing up and down the Mt Vernon Trail – how hard can it possibly be? False assumption #2.

The day before my arrival the northeast was hit with one hell of a whallop and the gods decided to do more than dump a foot of snow. They also sent in some strong winds. I knew because this race was on the Erie canal there would be *some* wind. I just hadn’t planned on a non-stop bitch slap. The course is an out and back, 4 times with about 25 miles each time, starting at Lockport NY which is about 20 miles from Buffalo and extending northeast to Middleport. You pass through Gasport in the middle which laid an excellent out and back aid station set-up. First aid station at the start/finish, Gasport 6 miles up, Middleport 6 miles further then turn around, hit Gasport, then back to Lockport and do it all over again, each time with feeling! Completely flat, net elevation gain/loss of 70 feet, really, besides some snow, what’s there to worry about? False assumption #3.  The week leading up the event was hectic at work which was great because it kept my mind off the impending doom but it didn’t get me in the race mindset until I was on the plane, with little more than 12 hours to spare before the gun went off. We were lucky to have gotten out but once we landed and I saw the howling wind and swirling snow, I knew this was going to be quite a challenge.  

The evening went off easy enough and Marc and I hit the sack before 10. I slept like a baby, and was lucky enough to wake up feeling refreshed and ready to go. Plenty of sleep, plenty of food the week before, plenty of fluids. Or so I thought. I would be proven wrong in fairly short order.  We got to the start line and it was still snowing. The trail had been more than a foot deep so the night before, the RD and his crew decided to drive a couple of snowmobiles over it to at least give us runners a fighting chance. NO ONE would finish if we had to slog through knee-deep snow for 100 miles or 24 hours. So two narrow but seemingly manageable ruts were carved out leaving about 6 inches to run in. We started out and all was right with the world. It was snowing but pretty and the serenity afforded by the sheer peace and calm was just delightful. It wasn’t that cold and I had managed to layer just the right amount of clothing and socks.  Felt good, strong - dare I say, confident - in my abilities to make this race. I’d log another false assumption on the meter but I’m pretty sure you can see where this is going.  We made small talk and I had the pleasure of meeting the other 6 or so females who were bold enough to enter this race, including Canada’s top 24 hour racer, Charlotte Vasarhelyi. The gun went off and much like another other ultra, we all shuffled forward looking more like little old people covered in neoprene than ultra-runners. We had to do an initial out and back of 3.7 miles in order to make the 100 miles perfect since the last aid station was about 1/5 of a mile too close. And when you’re doing 100 miles, 96.3 won’t cut it. This was good – it allowed us to test out our clothing and shoe choice as well as get a feel for whether or not we needed the assistance of microspikes or yax trax. Feeling like I was a total pro at this, I kept my selections when we came back to the start to turn around and begin the “real loops” choosing to shed only my heavy snow mittens for light running mittens.  You can see me at the end of this line:

I felt good for a long time. At some point, I didn’t feel great but I chalked it up to the mental roller coaster known as long distance running head games. I don’t typically have a long time in most races where I feel down. Often if I do, it’s fleeting, popping up occasionally but for never more than a few minutes at a time, separated by much longer highs. However, there are multiple factors which can shift this balance including physical factors, environmental factors and what I like to call, FUBAR factors. Physical factors include the time I decided that greasy pizza and beer would make a great pre-race dinner (SEE MCM, 2008) Environmental factors include long days that start warm but perhaps end cold with brutal terrain (SEE TWOT, 2009) Then there’s FUBAR factors where not one goddamn thing goes right and everything becomes a factor, an endless set of obstacles to overcome, each harder than the one before. I have been lucky thus far – I’ve never had  a FUBAR factor day… until this day. It was windy, very windy. It was snowing, then sleeting, then snowing again. It was damp and cold and miserable. This would’ve been possibly manageable except as previously mentioned, I started to not feel so good. Around mile 22 or so, I stopped at Gasport which had a wonderful warm, toasty RV. I realized that I had drank a LOT of fluid but had yet to even have an inkling of a bathroom break. My lower back was also oddly achey which I had chalked up to my camelback with its 100 ounces of water until I decided to “test the waters” by visiting the tiny little bathroom on said RV. And they were not good. I was peeing blood. Yikes. Well, ok, I know enough about my general health that your body is not designed to do that. However, I had come all this way and dammit, I wasn’t going to let a little bad urine get in my way. So I trudged on.  

I made it back to Lockport, having completed one “official loop” plus the start loop, about 28 miles. I was soaking wet and bitterly cold so I changed out of what I needed to and grabbed a cannoli (seriously… someone brought CANOLLIS) and half a banana from the aid station. I will never, ever turn down a cannoli with chocolate chips on it. EVER. In the south, we don’t have those things around very often and when we do, they typically take the form of doughnuts with cream in them. This is upstate NY. I’m not passing up one of my all-time favorite treats just because I feel bad. 

Anyway, my cannoli and I were on our way and I felt better. I was at least warmer and drier and I trudged on, this time making sure to take my ipod shuffle . The afternoon sky was flattening out and the white on white was pretty sterile and depressing. It was still snowing and I found myself counting the mile markers, each appearing to grow further apart. My friend Marc had gone ahead of me – my speed slowing and my steps grew heavier. I couldn’t keep up and he seemed to be unstoppable. I got back to Gasport again, curious as to what might be going on in my body. Once again, I visited that little RV crapper. And once again, I was with heavy heart. Not much had changed except for the fact that I had drank MORE water and had less pee. My body seemed to be taking it in and where it was going was beyond me. I felt a wash of doom. I left, having mentioned my condition to the nice aid station ladies, only to regret that later. You see, it didn’t occur to me that they have cell phones and actually know the phone numbers of the people at the NEXT aid station.  

I arrived at the far aid station and when I walked in, they already knew something was amiss. I vaguely recall the experience because by this time I was dizzy and my back was killing me, I felt paranoid and angry but also spacey. I sat down and my head went down into my lap. Someone helped me onto a table and I laid there, ears ringing. Some man was asking questions. I don’t recall them and I’m not sure if it was my condition or my heart. He was incredibly cute. He just seemed so calm and rational and nice. A slight southern drawl – OMG! Everyone here speaks fast. What…? My what? He’s asking something about what I’ve eaten and if I’ve ever run before.. it blurs. I don’t remember everything but I know a nice woman was helping me get out of my clothes, another man was taking my blood pressure. I realized suddenly that my adventure was suddenly… over. I was sad. But in some ways, relieved. I was in too bad of shape to go back out – there wasn’t a thing I could do about that. Night was setting in and there was very little chance I’d make it the 12 miles back to the start. And really, as I sat there I realized it was pointless anyway. I would gain nothing except more hours of misery and the potential for collapsing somewhere on the trail and not being found. I understood then that I was done. My very first race that I’ve ever dropped out of. My first (and surely not last) DNF. 

In looking back I’m not upset. I’m proud that I tried – I persevered. Only 8 finished (and there were no female finishers) The rest dropped, some of which had medical reasons like me, others who simply could not tame the beast. I haven’t decided if I want to try it again. Time will tell – I feel like I need vindication in races that I don’t do as well as I’d like. There is talk of doing a summer version which I’d be thrilled to attempt. As for the winter one, I’m not sure. Upstate New York has a history with me that goes far beyond this blog and there’s a small part that needs to go back and face it again.  

All your sickness, I can suck it up
Throw it all at me, I can shrug it off
There’s one thing baby, that I don’t understand
You keep on telling me, I ain’t your kind of man
Ain’t I rough enough
Ain’t I tough enough 

Yes, you were rough and you were tough… but I don’t know if it’s enough.

This was the first time I have blogged and written the entry before I could come up with the title. I suppose that’s not all that surprising. After all, I had decided to run Harrisburg about 2 weeks ago, choosing it over NYC because I didn’t want to pay the incredible price to spend one night in the big apple for what many consider to be the greatest marathon there is. I chose Harrisburg not because I needed to PR or because I needed yet another “long run”. I chose it simply because it was there.

Harrisburg is one of those little hidden gems. It’s supposedly a flat course with a low entry fee and some decent goodies including a wind-shirt in lieu of a cotton t-shirt and an insane amount of Hershey’s candy (score!!) It’s local for those of us within driving distance of PA and it’s small, two attributes that make a race more appealing to me. It even had race day packet pickup, which, if you don’t know what that means, it means you can save the cost of a hotel stay. MCM was a distant memory and I had yet to ever go to Harrisburg so I figured why not?

I got up early Sunday morning and made the 2+ hour trek. The website said packet pickup was available at a nearby hotel. I arrived with about 40 minutes to spare only to find out the website was wrong and I needed to get to the starting line which would require a ride on the free shuttle. Except that I had just missed the last one. As a result, I was left with a slight bit of dread and relief. Often when I’m starting to wear out, I tend to jump into these last minute races with a certain sense of confidence that quickly wanes once race day arrives. I thought that if I couldn’t make it to the start, then I couldn’t run and if I couldn’t run, then I’d have a great excuse for backing out. I didn’t feel bad, I just didn’t feel great. I also had decided, once again, to try something new on race day which was proving to be a bad decision.

The day before I had made a trip to my local running shop. I was looking for gloves but also some wisdom on running with the shin splints I had picked up right after Marine Corps. I had run 7 miles that morning with my marathon training group and had tried a technique called “taping” where strategically placed strips of heavy white medical tape help to support the leg and mask the pain. I had painstakingly watched shin splint taping videos and taped up my achy leg and much to my surprise, it worked. Of course, I wasn’t convinced it would work for 26 miles. It was great for 7 flat ones but who was I to assume that I could quadruple that mileage without issues? So it was with great excitement that I picked up a pair of compression sleeves for my legs and decided to follow the advice of a rail thin, fresh faced teenager who looked like he’d never set foot on any surface outside of a high school track. He said “you can fly in these - they’re awesome!” So, Sunday morning, I taped my leg and squeezed these incredibly small tubes of heavy elastic over my bandages and figured that the inability to move my foot would wane as I started the race. I hopped in my car and took off for Harrisburg.

Upon arriving and realizing I had missed the last bus and would undoubtedly need a cab, I did what every jittery marathoner does - I walked into the glass door, dropped my sunglasses, spilled my purse and finally earned the pity of the hotel receptionist who told me that another guest was on his way down, having already called for a cab and would most likely be willing to split it with me. I firmly believe that the receptionist was charmed by my hot pink outfit and matching knee-length argyle socks and thus, volunteered this information. The socks were serving two purposes - one, they were getting a test run since I was planning on wearing them to Space Coast at the end of the month to pace in, and two, they were covering up the hideous compression sleeves, which by this time, had squeezed my calves into two tubes of human sausage. My feet weren’t feeling great but by this point, I wasn’t paying attention and ended up jumping into a cab with an older guy who was also “braced up” in several knee and ankle accoutrements. He was trying to qualify for Boston, a race he never had the pleasure of making it to and in his quest, chose Harrisburg specifically for its reputation as a “flat fast course”. We chatted a bit and parted ways, he in dire need of stretching, me in dire need of all my stuff. Luckily I found everything including my number and chip about 10 minutes before the start time and breathed a sigh of relief. I lined up in the starting corral and realized that at that moment, my legs were already hurting. I had been wearing these sleeves now for well over 3 hours and we hadn’t even started yet. Once again, the thought of ditching the race last minute crept into my mind but I was snapped out of that mindset by a nice young woman who loved my socks and wanted to discuss them.

The gun went off and we were on our way. Immediately I knew I had made one hell of a mistake. At mile marker 1 I stopped - the tops of my calves were throbbing and the pain was intense. I was able to adjust a bit and hobble on. For the first time, I really, really wanted to turn around and call it a day but I couldn’t. The problem was I stood out. I rarely stand out in a race, usually choosing to blend rather than draw too much attention to myself. I have never worn my name on my chest, never put on a costume nor a wig, never run in something silly. But today of all days, I had chosen to wear the brightest and most energetic girlie outfit I could find. I even had a bow in my hair. There was no way I was wandering off this course without someone noticing, especially since several runners had also witnessed my attempted graceful hotel exit earlier. No, I was in this one for the long haul.

At some point, my cab friend surged by me. I knew what he was doing was utterly foolish, after all, he had never run any faster than a 4:24 and he needed a 4:15. I wanted to say something to him but I didn’t. Instead I kept my mouth shut, bitter and annoyed at my own foolishness in wearing shoes that were not broken in enough and socks that had cut off some major blood flow to an area of my body that I needed it the most. I was not flying by any stretch of the imagination. I kept trudging ahead, managing to maintain around an 8:50 pace. I knew I wouldn’t PR today and I knew I’d be tired but I didn’t realize how bad I would feel. I haven’t had a bad race day since last fall, so in some ways, I was due one. They’re good to have from time to time as a reminder that no one is invincible, no one can “fly” all the time. Bad days are what keep me grounded.

Somewhere around 11 or 12 I decided that perhaps a walk would do me some good and that’s when one of those little events occurred that changes things. Typically these are the types of things that if ignored, don’t have any adverse effect but when heeded, can change everything. That “thing” would be Robert Crowe, an older man who was wearing a ratty green 10k racing cotton t-shirt, worn out shorts and a pair of sneakers that looked like they may have been new sometime around the time I was in 8th grade. Robert came up behind me and said “now those are some nice socks!” I muttered thank you, figuring it was just an annoying old man trying to make conversation. Of course, he didn’t stop there. “Now you can do better than walk. Come on, keep running - you can do it!” I hissed that I was “trying” in that way people say things when they’re holding back a mouthful of vitriolic rage. I was trying to appear happy and content with what I was doing, knowing fully that the stranger wishing me well was right, yet I had no desire to admit it.

So I started running and caught up with him. We began conversing - it was better than staying focused like a laser on my achy legs and I find that when I run with someone that I can talk to, I’ll be more likely to finish, especially when I have very little left in the tank. For the remainder of the race which was more than half, we went back and forth both in conversation and in stride, he occasionally surging ahead, me getting in front of him, see-sawing back and forth until the last 2 miles, always saying something encouraging or just taking the moment to pat each other on the shoulder. It was at this point I realized that I was now in some serious pain and it wasn’t the kind that would just go away. Something was amiss in my legs and even my knees started buckling, almost as if suspended by some invisible puppeteer’s hands. Robert, though, would not let me stop. I didn’t have the heart to tell him my legs hurt - after all, this man had spent most of his life running (he was 62) and had not qualified for Boston in 10 years. He wanted it, badly, and he knew that at mile 24 at 3:32, we could make it in under 4 hours (his Boston qualifying time requirement). But he wouldn’t do it alone so he kept slowing up, yet still pushing me for about half a mile. Finally, I stopped, yanked those sleeves down to my ankles and said if Robert can do this at 62, I can do this. I had kept him going from 12 to 24. He was now returning the favor. So I sucked in a deep breath and started running (and it did feel better - my legs could breathe!) At 25 there is a very steep switchback up to an iron bridge. I tapped him on the back and together we ran. Halfway across the bridge his hamstring blew out. He started hobbling. I knew I couldn’t finish without him so I stayed, by his side and we hobbled in together. He hugged me and said he was grateful. Ironically, at that moment, I was too, perhaps more so than he because we both had a lesson in why we run. However, mine held more hubris and in the end, it’s humility that keeps us grounded even when we think we can fly. So Robert, this post is for you. You flew.

There are things in life that you either love or you hate and occasionally, there are a few things that you both love AND hate. I don’t have a lot of those things but there is one race that I can say I both love and hate, the Marine Corps Marathon. It’s not so much that I hate it - it’s a marathon and it’s local and it’s scenic and it’s filled with wonderful people and well, it honors our great military servicemen so I can’t say I hate it but rather, I dislike running it. Or did until this past weekend.

Like I have done for the past 2 years I signed up for the race. I actually waited for several days, convincing myself that I didn’t really want to do it again. After all, the previous two years results proved that I could not run the race well, at all. Two of my worst times were both at MCM (4:06 and 4:09, respectively) and I felt as if the race in general, was frustrating. It’s always crowded, it’s partially on a course that I love when it’s only 10 miles (the Army Ten-Miler) but the Haines Point area and Crystal City and the final run down 110 is just not my cup of tea. So I told myself that if it was still open come end of the signup week, I’d do it. And sure enough, it was.

The weekend started badly - I felt awful Friday night before the race and didn’t sleep a wink. Saturday I woke up feeling just as bad and nothing stayed in. How could I possibly get in any calories and fluids when the race was less than 24 hours and I was constantly shoving things in only to have them come back out? Towards late afternoon I pulled myself together enough to go to a friend’s apartment for one of those Tupperware-esque jewelry parties. Thankfully she had really good brownies and no surprise, those stuck with me. I then decided to trudge out in the pouring rain and pick up my “winner dinner” of turkey sandwich and french toast bagel from Panera. Both times I’ve had these two things, I have gotten my 2 best marathon times. Call it what you will but voodoo magic works. At least for me.

Sunday morning I woke up and felt surprisingly well. The weather was a tad bit cool but otherwise the temps were forecasted to be perfect and I slipped out into the morning calm, albeit a bit nervous but otherwise, optimistic. I arrived at the Pentagon with the usual thousands and thousands of other runners and we dropped off our gear and started towards the start line which, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, can be a long ways away. I skipped the port-o-john knowing that last year, that cost me a good starting position as I fell in to the walking group and had a hard time getting out of it. I thought I’d give the 3:40 group a try - I only needed 3:45 for Boston and my foot seemed to be doing well so I figured if I jumped into 3:40, I’d have 5 minutes to spare when I started sliding off that pace. I knew I could probably hit it - after all, for once I had done “all the right stuff”. I had tapered in the previous two weeks running 70% of my weekly 70-80 mile average, then cutting back to 30% the week leading up to the race. I had slept a lot and generally just did what I always preach, but rarely practice. I crammed into the 3:40-3:59 corral and shortly thereafter, the gun went off and we were on our way.

For those who don’t run large races (or any races for that matter) there is this silly moment where the gun goes off, everyone surges forward and then BOOM, dead stop. And then everyone starts running, and then BOOM, dead stop. It’s comical. We did that twice before finally crossing the start mat.

As usual, the first couple of miles are the hardest. I do not stretch beforehand and my body is usually cold. So it’s always those first 20 or so minutes where I question my decision. Add to that the throng of people around you, pushing, shoving and generally just sort of elbowing and you’ve got a recipe for crabbiness. And the first few miles of MCM are pretty hilly. I made sure not to bring my Garmin - I didn’t want the distraction of knowing how slow I was running. It was me, a pace band and my “kleiner Freund” (”little Friend” aka my Casio watch from World Cup)

I couldn’t find the pace group - it was so crowded at the start that there was no way that even if I saw the guy I’d be able to get near him so I had to employ my inner pacer and watch the mile markers and compare to the paper wrapped around my wrist. We ran through Rosslyn, then through Georgetown. On M street I glanced right and saw my coaching instructor, Mike Broderick. I gave him a high five and he in return, gave me a boost of self-confidence. He’s an amazing guy - die hard ultra-runner and running coach for some of my ultra-friends. In short, good guy to see yelling your name.

At about the halfway point I realized that I was getting “hot”, meaning my pace was faster than it should be. I had about 2 minutes in the bank which would normally be bad but I felt ok and told myself that I’d need those later. So I stayed with it. We went around Haines Point, which I’ve never liked - it’s a loop and can be dull as very few spectators are there but on that day it was a welcome reprieve from the hills we had earlier in the race. We then wound around the mall area and I noticed that my pace was picking up. I had 8 miles to go and 7 minutes in the bank. I wasn’t thrilled but I still felt really good so again, I promised myself that I’d use those later, when I needed them.

I came over the bridge and saw several more VHTRC friends including Bobby who snapped this shot of me at mile 21:

Yes, I was feeling THAT good. I knew then that I would definitely make my time. I had 8 minutes still (from the 3:45 required time) and only about 5 miles to go. I could do nice and slow miles and still qualify. Did I? No.

I came through Crystal City (another area I typically don’t like) and still felt good - it’s flat there and again, I’ve done so much flat speed work that it paid off in a big way. I picked up another 2 minutes somewhere between there and mile 25. I now had 10 minutes extra - I could WALK the entire last mile and still qualify. But walking the last mile is silly if you don’t have (I’ve walked enough of those in the past few races with injuries) so I continued to run. Suddenly I was at Iwo Jima, charging the hill and hitting the end mat. I was astonished - 3:35. I blew away my old PR which, incidentally was set on the flattest course in the country, set when I was healthy and completely injury-free.

I didn’t stay to enjoy the festivities. I realized that the upside to finishing MCM around 3:30 or so is the easy ability to hop on the metro before it becomes an insane sea of spectators and other runners. Last year it took an hour or so just to make it through the line to get ON the train. So I gathered my things, trucked down the escalator (note - the big advantage to doing a lot of running is the relative ease at which you recover after such an event) and boarded the train home. And as we pulled out of the station, I happily waved goodbye to the little monkey looking at me from the tracks. Mission accomplished.

Ok, so I suck. I haven’t blogged about several races. I promise to get better about it. I think the problem is that I’m so wound up about this lingering ankle issue that actually putting the act of running into writing scares me, as if I am inviting some bad karma into my life. Just to bitch for two seconds, I am in the prime shape of my life. My resting heart rate is in the low 40s. I work out, on average, 3 hours a day. So how is it one teensy tendon wreaks so much GD havoc on my life?!?!? I could run 100 miles IF I had one new ankle. And yet, so many people have perfect posterior tiabilii and they waste them. I’m willing to pay the black market price for a brand new one. That’s got to be at least worth 5k, right? The only solace I garner is knowing that Amy Sproston, one of the fiercest ultra-runners I know and respect, also has the same issue. But it’s not fair for two awesome, hot chick-a-dees to be out of a sport where there are so few of us to begin with…

Ok, so onto this race. Way back when my foot was in a happier place, I carefully selected the race that would be my 2010 Boston Qualifier. This coming year I get an extra 5 minutes because I am now on the “downside of my 30s” and when Boston is held next year, I will be (sob) 35. And every 5 years you get an extra 5 to 10 minutes. The good news is that my average marathon pace is in the low 3:50s but I need 3:45. So I picked this little race because a) I wanted a new state (Wisconsin), b) I didn’t want to chance Erie being 90 degrees again and c) it was ranked as a flat and low attended race. Just my cup of tea. So I bought the entry, bought my flight and hotel and then bought myself a sweet, major injury.

Now I know a good deal when I see one and this gem came at a mere 300$ TOTAL. I had already amassed well over that in rehab and MRI costs so who am I to turn down a bargain when I’m mostly out of the cast and can hobble about, right? I decided, much to chagrin of my physical therapist, that I would do this race. After all, IT’S GOOD MONEY AND IN THIS ECONOMY…!! She shook her head and moaned. With that, I felt I was granted carte blanche access to the 26.2 ahead of me. She didn’t say I couldn’t do it. She merely said I shouldn’t.

Don’t get me wrong. I flew out scared shitless. I had no idea what to expect. As usual, I also gave myself 6 hours and 50 minutes from the start of the race to the moment my plane flight home commenced. You can see the potential problem here, yes..? Anyway, I arrived and hit my hotel first to settle in before heading to the expo. The hotel and the surrounding area were pretty bland however, I found this little gem just across the street:

Not only THE Appleton Curling Club location but one hell of a nice logo. Anyway, suffice it to say, that was about the extent of the excitement in this little place. It’s full of overweight people and Applebee’s. So it was early and I decided to strap on my walking cast and make my way to the the expo. I stood in a short line and then said that I’d like my number for the race. They looked down, and said “um is this for YOU!?!?!” and my heart sunk. Up to this point, I had still managed to log 50+ miles a week but mostly walking and any running was all flat on the high school track. I ran 10 miles for my long run the week before and ended up giving myself some of the worst blisters I’ve ever had. So I knew I had to go this one alone - just me and the shoe and the ankle. Frankly, I was really in a bad place. So I did what every good marathoner does - followed all of my voodoo magic and got the dinner I ate when I BQed last year, wore the same clothes (even the SAME PAIR OF SHOES) and bought my dry bagel for the morning.

Before calling it an early night, I made sure to document the awesomeness that is the runner’s schwag bag from this race:

That’s right - it contained tissues, notepaper, toilet paper and baby wipes. You see, this part of Wisconsin specializes in paper mills. Side note… find a race in Hershey, PA next time. Side side note - my co-worker Scott lives on the route. I was expecting to see him poke his head out and at least root me on at mile 5 or so. This XL roll of TP was the closest “Scott” got to my run. Boo, Scott Lacey, Booo!

This was a point-to-point meaning you want to park at the end so you don’t have to make your way back to the start to get your vehicle. So while I drove to the finish I made damn sure to be careful with the foot on the brake pedal. HA. 26 miles of pounding and all I could think about was “don’t push too hard when braking!” From there, we were bused to the start and I ound myself lined up rather early in the queue. This race is fun - there’s a full, half and relay for it. Next to me is some small creature in the form of a 8 year old boy. He’s got a chip on his shoe and a number pinned to his shirt. I am floored - I say “hello - um, what are YOU running??” thinking that I’m packing my shit up and leaving if this kid is doing the full. He tells me in a squeaky, matter-of-fact voice that he will be doing the first leg of the relay. I ask how long his longest training run has been and he says “4.5 miles” in a way that sounds as if he’s permanently attached to a helium tank. I am in love. Not with him, mind you, but with the fact that this small child is everything I wish every little fat munchkin in America would be. Devoted, determined and destined to grow up as a marathoner or at the very least, trying to be one on an early Sunday morning. God bless him.

Boom, we’re off. It’s pretty uneventful - and why not? It’s flat as a pancake, ugly and generally just, well, like a bunch of people running. At mile 3 I have to stop for almost 3 minutes to adjust my homegrown “double” ankle brace because my foot is swelling and turning purple (note: do not layer ankle braces) I thought two together would work well. Around mile 12 I stop and chit chat with an aid-station person because she’s very nice and smiley and askes about my brace, which is now partly around my hand since I removed one. Mile 18 my ankle gets achey but I forge on. Mile 23 my foot is screaming but not in the “bad area” It’s on the outside and I’m afraid I’m potentially injuring something else now so I walk a while. Suddenly, it dawns on me. I am on target to get my BQ time. How did this happen? I stopped for minutes at a time, I’d been walking and now somehow, I was pretty close to exactly what I needed. Yet my foot HURT. And this was the first race of the season. I could push it but for what? An injury to an injury? For some race that I didn’t like back in April that was over-priced and over-hyped and one which I would have other chances to qualify for? No, it was not going to be today. And I was ok with that. Sometimes things just change, in a matter of seconds or minutes and today I changed my goal with one swift decision. It was now to just finish well, and be happy that I had made it that far.

I finished in 3:49, my second best time ever. In looking back I lost those minutes adjusting an ankle brace, talking to a nice person and hobbling along for a bit. Then again, in those minutes that ticked by, I was allowed to remember why I run these in the first place. Not to win. Not to place. Not to even show. But just to run. So that day, I was born to run. Mostly.

I realize I have been remiss in posting my race recaps. For that, I apologize. Perhaps I’ll work on some of the missing ones later this evening. For now, I am compelled to write about one of my most favorite marathons, The Baltimore Under Armour marathon.

As a backstory, I’m coming off of a pretty severe ankle injury which happened at _______ (yet to be blogged about, ultra-marathon) This puppy has been plaguing me for months so to finally be back on my feet and actually running has been a welcoming experience for me. Truth be told, I didn’t really “recover” so much as I “tuned back my mileage and ran in my boot” And by “tuned back” I mean went to a normal weekly number (somewhere in the 40s and 50s) So having proven myself at _______ (another unblogged about marathon.. I swear, they’re coming) I felt confident that this fall would not have me down in the dumps missing all my road races. There are no trails in my future anytime soon, but I can swing the pavement. So I did.

For this race, I was lucky enough to have scored myself a spot on the official GEICO pace team that I coveted back in Frederick. It’s run by a couple named Ann and Bob who basically kick all kinds of pace team organizational ass. They’re in tight with UA and this being the official UA race meant very good things besides the race itself. We were treated to a fabulous pre-race dinner at the Marriott followed by goody packages of specially printed UA gear just for this race (pics coming soon) so needless to say, I looked pretty sweet come race day, which is good. Half the joy of running is maintaining a bad-ass style - there are enough sorry looking runners out there, slumped over in ill-fitting cotton and chafing in places I’d rather not picture. I wanted to look FIERCE! I wanted to look CUTE! And I wanted to look like part of the team! Which, coincidentally, was the first all-women’s pace group. Yes, I got to be a part of a little sliver of history known as “The 4 hour group is full of chicks” This was fun - it meant that any man coming in behind our group was beaten by a bunch of women.

So the race itself was delightful - Charm City really IS charming. Sadly, they took out the most scenic part - the loop around the Fort McHenry due to construction which was about the only part I remembered from the previous year. As a pacer you get a lot of questions from people about the course itself and I’ve always been terrible about looking at the actual course ahead of time so that I may better answer these inquiries. Things like “Where is Key Bridge in the mileage?” to which I said “Oh no, that’s in DC. We’re in Baltimore - you must be from out of town…” and “I see they’ve replaced the Fort McHenry miles with a loop up near the zoo” to which I replied “oh, Baltimore has a zoo? Who knew??” Race guide I am not.

I was a tad nervous because the day before it was 84 degrees and sunny which is heavenly to me to run in but hell for about 99.9999% of all other marathoners. On Saturday, though, it was a cool 60ish degrees with little sun and a fine drizzle that wasn’t enough to soak anything but just enough to keep us cool. The race started without a hitch - my group of 3 other women and I set forth up Paca St., happy to be on our way and confident of our abilities as pacing ninjas.

As I have previously mentioned, there’s always *something* interesting that occurs in a race. Sometimes I’m lucky and get to experience it firsthand, other times, I just hear about it. Today did not disappoint. At mile 1, I heard a very loud THUD, then a crack and an “OH SHIT!!!” The cracking sound had faint notes of human bones breaking and if you’ve ever heard a bone break, you know that sound well. I remember in third grade when Stephen fell off a fisher-price table at my babysitter’s house and broke his arm clear through, so much so, that it was sagging in the middle - he snapped both bones as if they were thin twigs. This was the same sound. I looked over and saw one of my pace group runners had run into a parked car. At mile 1. Clearly someone upstairs did NOT want this guy to run because he went down and we never saw him again. I got to witness this falling several more times and was reminded of the trail portion of JFK. The difference was that these falls were precipitated by the emergence of bright orange cones on the yellow lines of the road for the entire 26 mile course. I’m not sure why they were there but when you’re in heavy crowds and you are running, it’s really hard to see things on the ground, and subsequently, avoid them. So we had a lot of downed runners as a result of these cautionary accoutrements.

The remainder of the race was fairly uneventful - we had the largest pace group with about 200 to start and maybe half who held on the whole way. My teammates included Laveta, Juda and team captain Marci. They were all spunky and fun, petite and pretty and I’d like to think we had the cutest team in the grouping. We were definitely one of the loudest and enthusiastic and with each mile, we took turns regaling stories and laughing and getting to know the various runners who wanted a shot at 4 hours.

With a team captain, my job was very easy - I ran whatever pace Marci ran, so really, I was there for support but I didn’t have to watch my garmin which is always a welcome reprieve. I’ve been going far more old school lately and, as a result, am a lot happier and even better at tuning into my inner-pace clock. I knew someday that my need to always know what time it was would come in handy. Now I see why. We stayed mainly on pace, although we were a tad fast until the end. This was fortuitous, though - when you’re running that last mile, and you start passing people, there is no greater feeling. With us slowing, the other runners in our group were able to get ahead of us, thereby ensuring they would finish under 4. I think Marci was stressed but as a coach, it’s the little mental things that make a huge difference and this proved no different.

I hung around the pace tent a while and enjoyed the nice spread of food and drinks provided by Ann and Bob. I was feeling a bit sad, though (mom, foot doctor and physical therapist please stop reading now). Last year I ran Steamtown the next day and I had toyed with doing another double but procrastinated to the point that I could no longer find a hotel room in Scranton. I even tried emailing the RD to ask for a last minute slot as the registration closed Thursday at midnight but he said no. As I slid in my car, feeling that I accomplished a lot (3:59:53) I couldn’t help but long to have the other have of my favorite marathon weekend. But then I remembered that I was lucky to have this one day and that somewhere, some poor schmo ran into a parked car at mile 1, his experience fully proving to be less charming than mine.

Today was the inaugural Minneapolis Team Ortho Marathon in beautiful Minneapolis, MN (for those keeping track at home, that’s now 12 road marathons in 7 states) It was truly a spectacular event for a multitude of reasons some of which were downright odd. As a back story, this wasn’t a race for me - it was a pacing gig for Under Armour and true to form, I was assigned the 4:15 group. A pace I know very well (9:44/mile)

It started out easy enough - I arrived yesterday at 10ish and had plenty of time to kill since I didn’t have to be at the expo to sucker bribe convince people that a pace team is a great idea. So I decided to do a little touring around. After all, I wasn’t really supposed to run and the weather was fabulous so I thought I should come back with *some* knowledge about this city other than it has a nice marathon course. I hopped on the light rail and decided to ride it to the Mall of America. Until I realized that it was a mall. Granted it’s a large mall, but it’s a mall. And really, no offense to Minneapolis but who cares? I hate malls.

I then decided to stay in the city and turned back around on the rail. On the way back, I found the metrodome (hard to miss), Minnehaha park (which I just like because it’s funny to say), a sex shop named “Lickety Split” (which still makes me giggle like a 5 year old boy) and this gem:

That’s right - a snot green car with the license plates “BOOGR”. I also met a bum who smelled awful, was covered in face lesions and jumped right in front of me almost touching nose-to-nose and said “CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING?!?!!??!” which startled the shit out of me and caused me to say “No, you may not and that was rude!” His response? “Go f— yourself” and stormed off. Note to bum: If you’re trying to get money out of people, this is NOT the right tactic. The downside to this encounter was that this creature wedged himself in my psyche and re-appeared in my semi-restless sleep (jerk). Thankfully, the rest of the city goers were very welcoming, giving me tidbits of info here and there on history, building architecture and what bars to visit, which sadly, was wasted knowledge on the eve of the race.

The expo was fairly interesting as I met several women who were doing one of the following:

• Running their first marathon with a longest long run of 10 miles
• Running their first marathon with the goal of qualifying for Boston but having never even tried the pace out (”I’ve saving it for race day!”)
• Running the pace that the “cute guy next to you, Emily” is running (Eric, 3:30, and I highly doubt that, ladies..)

Ahh, over-confident new marathoners. Gotta love the enthusiasm. After, the group got together for the pre-race dinner and group meeting and I happened to have a camera to commemorate such a glorious occasion (really, we all look better in person… mainly because people see us from behind):

Dinner was good and included Jim’s “Gloom and Doom, Don’t Screw This Up” speech. Once over, we hiked back to our hotel (a mile and a half away) noting that we had to make this hike at least twice tomorrow, though thankfully, Sam brought a car and agreed to drive us to the start line.

My group of about 20 or so found me at the start, shivering, wearing dark bottoms and the UA pace hot pink tops (essentially making me look like a dark chocolate dipped strawberry) and the gun and start went off as uneventfully as one could hope for for a first time race. I was slow out of the gate which isn’t unusual for a group of 4k runners and by mile 3 we were right on pace. A few decided that they could surge ahead and a few strayed behind early but most stuck by me and asked a lot of questions, as they had read my bio on the site and instantly became intrigued with the notion that, as an ultra-runner, a marathon is really a taper run. This is especially true as I have a 40 miler in 3 weeks. I talked, they listened and I had a sweet rotating audience - they would shift in and out and as soon as one stopped talking, another would start. It was like having 4 boot camp days in a row - I could give advice, be charming, laugh, enjoy the day and continually shift that annoying sign from hand-to-hand. Normally it wouldn’t have been that bothersome but there was a good wind blowing and if you’ve ever tried running holding a sign for 4 hours in a head wind (because, really, who hasn’t, right?!?!) you know it’s a rather difficult task. I even tried pawning it off - “Dan! Hey, I think there’s a camera ahead - wanna take the sign and get a running shot with it?” “Uh, no, not really.” “Hey, Gary, this would make a great holiday card photo for this winter!” “Nah, I’m good - don’t need any race photos anyway…” Pawning off sign carrying duty FAIL.

Since I was so chatty and had to stay on pace, nothing overly exciting happened. And for once, that was a very good thing. I had nightmares of people falling, me cramping, HEED sports drink which I’ve never had wreaking havoc on my intestines (that one DID come true, dammit…) so to not have anything major go wrong was great. Except that last mile. I had done a little calculating and knew the very last mile was uphill - the entire thing. I banked a little time at 24 in order to pad that uphill - you just never know until you run it, how hard it will be. And true to form, my eyes were bigger than my legs and I came up too fast. Suddenly they’re announcing names and I see that I’m right at the mat and I am 39 seconds under. DAMN. Jim will NOT be happy. But I can’t walk over the line and I’ve got no room to slow for the last few feet so I hit it. 4:14:21 for a 4:15 pace. And for once, that end just came up too fast. Then I realized I had an hour to get back to the hotel and showered and checked out. Solution? Running a mile and a half is faster than walking one. So I officially turned my marathon into an “ultra” by running another 1.5 miles, WITH THE SIGN IN HAND since no one would take it to get ready to leave. I’m sure I looked as ridiculous as the BOOGR-mobile

At any rate, the race was outstanding, the medal and finisher jacket was pretty sweet and the big surprise was that they picked up all the throw away clothes and the ratty long sleeve shirt that I agreed to toss but really didn’t want to, laid on the top of the Lost and Found pile, ready to make a repeat appearance at the next cold race. Let’s just hope it’s not next to an angry bum.

So today was my 11^th marathon in 18 months which, coincidentally, is my 11^th marathon ever (it just sounds more impressive to add the timeframe) and there was much rejoicing. Mainly because it was number 11 and I like that number and the line “it goes to 11” is from one of my favorite movies but I digress. As marathons go, it was a very good one. 

The race was the BC/BS GEICO Fredrick Marathon, in, well, Frederick, Maryland. It’s the first of the “Maryland Double” which means that if you run this one and Baltimore in the fall, you have “done the double” and you get yet another useless medal. I signed up for it because I wanted the discount and because I was hoping I’d run into the pace group that is in charge of both races and beg them to let me join the “cool team” and be a future pacer. Lucky for me, I accomplished both.  

The day began as perfectly as a marathon day could begin for most people. I prefer it to be a little warmer. 60 and overcast is too cool for this lizard and I forgot my gloves. Oh well. I would have to make do. I arrived just in time having not taken into consideration the sheer volume of traffic attempting to stream into a small fairground area at 6 am on a Sunday. My guess is that any other Sunday would have crickets chirping and roosters crowing. With 5000+ runners, I’m pretty sure we either couldn’t hear them over the din of the crowd or we backed over them attempting to park on the grassy area that doubles as horse exercise fields. I know this because I almost stepped in horseshit making my way to the start. Twice.  

So just as I get there, the gun goes off. At the expo yesterday I had toyed with the idea of running with the 3:40 pace group and signed up just for fun but then decided that my idea of fun yesterday was not the same as my idea of fun today. It was going to be a 4:00 day. I need to work on perfecting my pacing without using my GPS. I like my GPS and it’s wonderful to train with but lately I’ve been wanting to kick it old-school style after Boston so I did not bring it today, opting only for my cruddy little Casio that I bought in Deutschland at World Cup when I needed to know what time the beer gardens opened (answer: ANYTIME) so I still haven’t quite figured out how to use it. The instructions only came in German. I do know how to start the timer, though, and as I crossed the mat, we began our journey, me and my little digital watch. I knew I needed to be around 9 minutes per mile so I figured this would be a good test to see how accurate I could be.  

The race on the whole was pretty uneventful. Frederick is quite hilly, “challenging” as they call it in the brochure. I’ve never been a good hill runner but I can appreciate the feeling you get once you’ve crested one and are on the downside. I made sure though to continue to maintain the pace. Even keel, even keel… left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.   

I have been asked before what I think about when I’m out there for hours. Usually the answer is whatever pops into my head. I don’t try to solve the problems of the world, nor figure out what’s wrong with the one half of my family. I don’t reflect on why I don’t date much, nor what could I do to make my current work project better. I just sort of space out. If I’m lucky, something catches my eye and holds my attention for as long as possible. And today was my lucky day. It was none other than a timeless lawn ornament in the form of 3 meerkats staring off into the distance: 

I call this “The Three Meerkateers”. Oh what a treat! Its sheer hideousness is one thing – so oddly amusing yet so incredibly insane. Of all the creatures to immortalize into a concrete statue for your front lawn, why would anyone choose the meerkat? And pair it with two companions?? On a whole different level, though, this statue reminded me of the trip my coworker/friend Layla and I took 2 weeks ago to Indianapolis. I’m not going to go into details here but the trip had some very amusing parts including a reference to the Capitol One “What’s in Your Wallet” campaign that requires many beers, chex mix and a goofy Canadian named Jim to explain the hilarity. This of course had me laughing inside as I played out the events of that trip in my mind. These situations are perfect for marathons – you can relive entire days for as long as you like since you’ve got nothing else to do but run and think. Then I snapped back to reality – “What’s in your wallet”? Capitol One. Cheesy Ad campaign. Money with eyes (WTF?) GEICO. GEICO!! Official pace team of this race. What is my pace?!? It was dead on. We were at probably mile 13 by this point which means I should be at 2 hours. Lo and behold, 1:59. “Oh you goddess of running, you… you are SO good” I told myself. I was proud. (see note above as to why I don’t date much) 

I decided that since I didn’t *have* to run a 4 hour marathon I’d try for a faster time. So I managed to find a nice looking man around mile 18 who was attempting to chat with some people around him to no avail (marathoner runners are so serious sometimes!) I saddled up next to him and for the next 70 or so minutes, we had a grand time. We talked about all the races we’d done, our experiences at Boston (which, I’m convinced is the “great uniter” of all marathoners… “Oh you’ve done Boston? Me too – what year??”) and what we think about the swine flu (it’s so over-rated!!) And then we rounded the last corner with a mile to go and I knew I was close. I could smell it. That nice scent of horseshit, wafting across the road meant the parking lot was nearby and sure enough, there it was…ULTRGRL. 

We sprinted the last quarter mile across the line and I knew that it was exactly what I had been wanting. 3:55. It was fun, or at least, my idea of fun, today. I was soaked as it had been raining steadily since a bit before mile 11 and I was beyond waterlogged. I turned the key in my car and saw it was exactly 11 am.  

I wonder if there’s a puppet show anywhere in town…

UPDATE: Note to self - never leave until the awards are over. This keeps happening and I missed getting my 2nd place award, once again for my division. Grrrr! I hope it wasn’t a meerkat plaque because then I’ll be REALLY bummed.

Have you ever wanted something so badly that you did nothing but think about it all the time until you finally achieved it and once you did, you sort of wondered what drove you? That, somehow the tangible product failed to meet your great expectations? I’m not talking a general let-down – one could NEVER consider Boston to be a let-down. But more like a mild disappointment that rather than end badly, ends differently and one that perhaps, originates in oneself more so than in the actual instance. That would be *my* Boston. Again, let me stress – it was NOT a let-down – more like a let-sideways, a bittersweet moment that is more good than bad but not perfect, if that makes any sense. Maybe an explanation is in order. 

Back story - I’ve been dealing with some issues lately including my ankle sprain from TWOT from February. I had to scrap Barkley as well as several training marathons. So I knew going into Boston that my training was inadequate (ok, really pretty much non-existent) and that I needed to find creative ways to pace myself and run on a healing ankle during those 4 hours of strenuous activity. For a fast hilly course, it was not the time for a PR. 

So mom and I traveled to Beantown in a trip that I’ve waited many years to take. The race always takes place on Patriot’s Day, an official city holiday, which is always a Monday – schools are closed because they use the buses to drive us to Hopkintown, which by the race course, is 26.2 miles. By the nerve-o-meter, it’s around 14,897, as the crow flies. The true drive ended up somewhere in the middle as it took around an hour and 15 minutes to drive there. I met a very nice woman who was on her third running of Boston and her sole piece of advice was to enjoy it. Hard to think about that when I was nervous about whether or not I’d even make the finish line. The day was also cold, about 42 degrees and included a 20 mph headwind the entire time coming from the East, coincidentally, the same direction we ran. And if you look at a map, you’ll notice there are really no turns. So this wind was a permanent fixture for the duration of the event.  

We arrived at Hopkintown, and were in a bus queue when two runners who were writhing around in an apparent need to piss like racehorses busted up to the front of the bus and begged to be let off. They disembarked and we all resumed our conversations and nervous small talk. I happened to notice others turning towards the left side of the bus and low and behold, the poor souls who ran off, bared their butts and proceeded to pee in the bushes were getting ticketed by a bike cop. Obviously he has never been a runner, nor ever had to pee that bad as their quivering upper lips and watering eyes could not dissuade him from putting pen to paper and giving them a 25$ present, compliments of the city of Hopkintown. I felt bad but was thankful that I had decided that in my haste to get out the door I didn’t bother with fluids. Who needs them!? 

We had about an hour and a half to kill in the cold so we all huddled (yes, all 22k of us or so) on the ground. We ate, drank, shivered and stood in line for port-a-johns because, well, who’s got 25$ to pay for a public indecency ticket when you’ve already dropped 100$ on a swanky race jacket to make your running friends jealous? 

The crowd was entertained by a guy yammering on a sound system for most of the time with an occasional “event” like F-15s flying over (which WAS cool). Suddenly it was 10 am and the wave one starters were lining up and off on their race. This was good news – I was starting to contemplate hitching a ride back to downtown as I had had about enough of the cold wind and nerves. As a wave 2 runner, I, like others, began herding to the start line… it was just a short walk. Well, a little further. Ok, perhaps another quarter mile. Just around the corner.. holy hell why is it so far away? I always wonder if a focus group exists to see just how far people are willing to walk to a start line of a really long race. Apparently the answer is “whatever they tell us” as runners before a marathon tend to stagger around like semi-lost puppies going for up to a few miles in search of the big fancy clock and start banner. I end up not making it into my corral due to the insane volume of people and was off the wave start clock by 6 minutes, 36 minutes total, now, for the “official start time” for those keeping score at home. 

As we started off down the initial hill, I realized something. There is a reason I started running ultras. It has to do with the ambience. I love the peace, quiet and solitude afforded to me by the serenity of being one with the woods. Yes, there are other runners but often, you are almost alone, having company perhaps for a few miles here or there, but generally being left with your thoughts. It is truly wonderful to sort out problems when in the middle of the woods as nothing seems so major when all the world is open and free. Make sure you’re thinking about that. Now. Think about the exact opposite. That is Boston. The course is marked into the pavement (which is kinda cool to know that water stop #2 is always in the exact same spot). The streets are lined, LINED with spectators. There is never a moment when there is not a spectator to your right or your left. Kids, teens, adults, old people, bikers, other runners, families, SOs… it’s a never ending sea of people some who know a runner and are holding signs with their names, while others who are simply saying “You can do it! You guys look great!” with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, the irony never failing to amuse me. And the sound – oh my god, the volume. It’s as if you’re running a marathon in the middle of FedEx field, fourth quarter when the Skins are down one touchdown and on their own 20 yard line (or the Titans are getting ready to, once again, blow their lead to the Ravens). It’s *that* loud. For all 26.2 miles. And in some places it gets louder. They say you can hear the girls a mile outside of Wellesley college. That’s actually not true – you can hear them about 3 miles outside of Wellesley college. Guys, if you like to look at cute young college girls, this is YOUR race. They’re all there, going crazy, sticking out their butts inviting any runner to “SLAP MY ASS!” This also happens to be the mid-way point which is good – halfway done. So ass-slapping and mid-point excitement abounds here. 

By this time I was no longer having fun. When I started I was sort of convinced I could make my qualifying time (3:45) I knew my pace needed to be around 8:32 and I managed to stick to that through this point, actually shaving off time with an average 8:27 pace. But my fun meter was running substantially low by this point and I was getting more annoyed with the spectators and high-fivers. “SHUT UP” I kept thinking. “Do you REALLY need to yell so much??” “HELLO, I’m right here – get off my heels” “Get OUT of my way!” Yes, I was morphing into my now-deceased 98 year old great grandmother. This was not good.  

I stopped for aid somewhere around 16 and remembered what my friend (and veteran runner) Miles told me. “You have done all the hard work in getting here. This is the dessert. Enjoy this – you earned it.” It kept echoing and I was suddenly aware that he was correct. Why was I killing myself for this race? I was on vacation. I had dropped a wad of money to get here. I had a nice dinner and wine waiting at the end. Why am I doing this to myself?? It was then that I decided not to re-qualify. Not now. Hell, at this point I had almost convinced myself I never wanted to come back here. Once you start doing that, it’s time to give up running. This was supposed to be enjoyable. So I embraced it. I started hand-slapping. I started high-fiving. I started smiling. And I felt great. I walked longer than the aid stations. I sang a happy tune in my head. I looked around and absorbed the day and the crowds and the —- “HEY, YOUR SHIRT SAYS ‘RUN BOSTON’… STOP WALKING!” What? What did someone just say to me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!!? Listen, bitch, your Gucci-wearing-highlighted-hair-nose-job-sporting-breast-enhanced butt can just … but I decided that, instead of punching her, I’d smile and start running again. Because yes, I loved this.  I loved every painful, long and very cold loud minute of it. I worked to get here. I wanted this and I loved the experience because I had earned it. And then suddenly, it was done. 3 hours and 53 minutes after my start (4 hours and 30 minutes into the official race), I crossed the finish line. The line that the greatest runners in the world for 113 years have crossed and I felt like I too, was a winner that day. Not because I set a PR (I didn’t), not because I re-qualified (again, I didn’t). But because I had done something that so few ever do. I learned to let go, relax and enjoy it. Oh yeah. And I ran Boston.

So today was the GWBM, aka the Greenbelt Marathon. For anyone not familiar with Greenbelt, MD, it’s the location of the USDA facility, a firing range, the USDA facility, a firing range, and the USDA facility and a firing range. I know this because the marathon consists of 3 loops around, you guessed it, the USDA facility and a firing range. With hills. Lots and lots of fun hills. So in essence, pretty uninteresting.

I had decided to do this for two reasons - one, my trainees were doing the relay so I’d be able to see them on all legs and two, I wanted to get some pacing practice for Albany. Both pretty much turned into pipe dreams around mile 1 since I had contracted a nice, acute case of bronchitis over the weekend. But in the true spirit of idiocy, I decided to do the run anyway. Smart decision numero uno.

It was cold and windy which made for a pretty tough first loop. Well that and the fact that the first loop is long. It has an extra couple of miles tacked on, mostly downhill. When you get almost to 10 miles, you run into a parking lot where the relay team switches to runner number two and the marathoners, well, just keep going. It was here that I decided to pull out. I couldn’t breathe, I was wheezing so hard that my eyes were watering and the low amount of oxygen was causing my muscles to revolt, which is completely understandable. I’m no biology major but I’m fairly certain that oxygen is a fairly important component in running. So after 10 brutal miles up and down hills and in the cold and wind, I thought, hey, that’s enough for me. I’m sick. I need to go home and r— oh, well, who is THIS?!? “This” would happen to be none other than heart-throb Bobby Gill. Bobby is very easy on the eyes and what better treat on Valentine’s day weekend than a very fast, ultra-runner, yelling “Hey, BARKLEY!! WHY YOU WALKING, BARKLEY?!?! Smile for the camera, Barkley!!!”

Clearly, I am torn - he’s cute and but yet, spouts words that refuse to allow me to drop out or even walk (Note to self: talk this one into coming to every race… my dream of becoming an Olympic marathoner would easily come to fruition) After this, I cannot drop. Not yet. I must continue, regardless of whether or not he’s got one pant leg jacked up (wtf, Snoop Dog Gill?!?!). So I do, out for loop #2.

By about mile 11, I sound like I’ve put away a pack and a half of Camels for the last 20 years. I’m walking the uphills, trying to run the downhills in between hacking cough. My cough medicine I had been taking, obviously doing the trick. Suddenly, an angel in the shape of a 61 year old man wearing a t-shirt and shorts appears next to me.. dad? Is that YOU? What are you doing here?? No, it’s not dad - that’s the meds talking. This is a nice man named Dave who asks “How’s your run going?” “Well Dave, it is shitty, now that you ask.. ” or rather “HACK-HACK, NO-HACK, D-HACK-HACK AVE, it’s HACK HACK s-s-s-hack hack, bad” He proceeds to talk to me, not asking a lot of questions but occasionally looking at me and offering fatherly advice “drink water at the next station”, “don’t try to talk.. breathe…” He proceeds to regale me with stories of his marathons (over 120 now) and the fact that his daughter is an opera singer. He tells me what he made his wife for valentine’s dinner (Salmon with spinach and pasta) and about all his food allergies (peanuts, shellfish, eggs) Typically I would be annoyed, but right now, he’s keeping my mind off the discomfort flowing from my chest and the labored breathing that requires me to walk every few feet in order to get a full, deep breath. Somehow, while he’s talking, we’re speeding up. And I’m finding a rhythm. We approach an 8:30 pace. It’s feeling ok. I’m good, I think I can do this. And then suddenly we are back at the relay point. There is now one lap. And Janice Joplin has stopped singing “Me and Bobby McGill” (SWEAR TO GOD, every time I see him that song plays in my head) Ok, I can now, bail out! I’ve put in a tad over 17 miles, I can call it. And Dave says, “Oh but you can’t quit - only one loop left, you look great and hell, you can walk it if need be. But don’t quit.”

So loop 3 starts and we are still together. Coach Peter sees me and offers assistance but echos Dave’s sentiments - “hang in there…” I don’t think Peter’s seen my look this bad. And speaking of looking - I may have looked bad as in sick, but I was wearing my new UA outfit and shoes. So at the very least, I was sporting some wicked hot threads and the most comfortable running shoes I have ever worn. I am NOT LYING. Revenants. Where have you been all my running life, you magnificent shoes?!?! < end shameless sponsor plug > Even though I looked haggard, I was dressed to the nines. And if you can’t feel good, at the very least, you can look good, right??  We continue. And we talk about love and life and running. And I feel like I’ve known this guy forever. I still have to walk the uphills but I manage to catch him on every flat and downhill. And suddenly, we are past mile 22. And there is an end in sight. Sort of.

The last 2 miles of this race go back up the hills we came down in the beginning. And boy are they hills - they extend for a better part of 1.5 miles or so. As one who’s never EVER, walked across a finish line, I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it now. I might be blue int he face and on the verge of puking, because now, all the cold meds and gatorade are mixing into a toxic stew in my stomach that screams “thar she blows” with every bounce. I was pretty sure I might be sharing that with the outside world at some point, very soon, even if it meant throwing up ON me and my pretty UA jacket. Of course, that would require a deep breath to do that and right now, that’s not happening. So I was able to continue running up that very long hill, past Dave, past several others past even more. And then down to mile 26, only .2 more! OMG! Suddenly, finish line! Right up ahead. Right there next to the camera man.. wait. What are they saying? “Barkley??” Oh, well, it’s none other than …. 

“Freedom’s just another word, for nothing left to lose.. nothing and that’s all that Bobby left me…”