This post has nothing to do with running.

Well, nothing literally. But everything, metaphorically.

Tonight, after the first joyful day of daylight saving time (that’s right, picky grammarians–no “s”), I was watching a sweet little gal I’ve known for about eight years now. She’s old, and can’t get around as nimbly as she used to. Conservatively estimating, she’s produced over 200 babies during her lifetime. You’ve probably guessed by now that she’s a denizen of my pond, a paradisiacal little ecosystem that burbles in my garden. About 90% of my troupe of 15 or so resident goldfish bear her markings: orange with splotches of white, with a gracefully long tail. I’ve given away dozens and dozens more.

She has cataracts, and is completely blind. But this intrepid matriarch manages to feed efficiently, because she’s learned how to search out the pellets. While younger fish nab a bite by sight alone, she relies on a subtler system. She nudges the periphery, hunting for stray pellets that have floated off to the sidelines and become entangled in the fringe of baby’s tears and creeping jenny that edge the pond.

I was admiring her ingenuity tonight, when something else caught my eye. Over in the corner near the parrot’s feather, a pellet was moving, seemingly by its own volition. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a tiny baby goldfish, black and invisible, propelling the ball of food (about half its size) forward with mouth attached.

Young and old alike have a place in my pond, both managing to thrive. And while I know it’s too corny, I’d like to say the same of our running club, which honors contenders of all ages and abilities. (I knew I could bring it back around to running.)

Thanks, SBAA.

Not old ones, it turns out, for the former, nor pine or ice-cream for the latter.

Today was the famously fast Roses to La Playa, a really fun race which needs a new name. “Pedregosa to La Playa?” Nah. Not nearly as romantic.

As my running buddy Kim points out, this is more like a one-mile race than a 5K, since the first two miles are straight down State Street—quick and painless. BUT that last mile has the previous two piggybacked on it, which is to say it’s like a mile race with a transfusion of concrete into your lower body if you did the foolhardy fun thang, and blasted out too fast.

I didn’t. My first two miles were right where I wanted to be, around 6:30, and so I was really surprised when the last mile-point-one ticked over at a 7:00 pace. I was pretty sure I had run faster, judging by my effort, but the clock doesn’t lie. I was still happy with my finishing time of 20:45, because my goal was just to squeak under 21:00, since I haven’t done much fast work lately.

I was discussing all this on the cooldown with George, Jana and Kim, when George asked me, “Did you kick any coots?” “Yessss,” I gleefully affirmed, “I outkicked Joe Howell by a second!”

“No, no,” George chuckled, “I mean real coots. The birds. They were flocked around the turn onto the bike path.” Oh, those coots.

Since we were nearing State Street, I wanted to have a look at the cute coots. (Not that Joe isn’t cute. He is. But he’s really not a coot yet.) I’ve always loved them, and was horrified several years ago when a local golf course started bagging them because they’re “messy.” I also wanted to have a look at the turn, because I had a nagging, guilty suspicion I’d cut the course by a cone. Just past mile two, I’d kept running on the mini-walk that joins the main sidewalk to the bike path, and the turn seemed to be a sharp angle between a bike rack and an old beaten-up cone. In my race-fuzzy mind, it wasn’t at all clear what I was supposed to do there, and I ended up running just to the inside of the cone (negotiating a turn between the cone and the bike rack seemed impossible without getting tangled with metal). As soon as I did it, I was ashamed. “I’m sorry!” I shouted to no one in particular, “I don’t know what I’m doing!”

What’s the etiquette for such a thing? Stand still for a few seconds to give back the advantage? No, that would risk collision. Slow down, to pay respects to the people I cheated? Race instinct nixes that. I hoped I wouldn’t cross the finish line one or two seconds ahead of anyone who properly went around the cone, and hunkered down for the long mile home.

But, as we now approached the scene of the crime, I noticed several shiny Caltrans-colored cones and a huge arrow directing runners across the grass. The old cone now seemed like a discarded reject, and I realized I hadn’t cut the course, I’d lengthened it! No wonder that last mile seemed slow.

Turns out Kim had done the same, so we performed a little test, and ran both at race pace. It took 17 seconds to run the mistaken angle, and 5 to cut across on the true course on the outside of the cones. After doing the math and smugly deducting 12 whole seconds from our finishing times, we ran straight into a flock of coots.

We didn’t kick any, though.

Tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled to run 2 hours. That’s about 14 miles, give or take. As I type this, rain lashes at the window. Weather.com tells me there’s a 100% chance of rain tomorrow morning. By all accounts, it’s going to be heavy.

Running in a downpour: we’ve all done it, but we runners generally sort ourselves into about four categories when it comes to sprintin’ in the rain. Take the following quiz: Where do you belong?

1. I relish direct contact with elemental fury!

2. I hunker down and do it because I’d rather get wet than run 10 miles indoors.

3. I eschew sogginess but require exercise, so I bike, run or ellipt at the gym.

4. I pity da fools! I stay home and sleep in, have breakfast and read the paper.

I confess to having flirted with all four categories, but generally place myself between 1 and 2. That is, I wouldn’t choose to run in wind, rain, snow or blazing heat, but I prefer it to running in situ in a stuffy gym. And once I’m actually out there doing it, enjoyment invariably sneaks into the mix. By the last mile, I’m usually ecstatic to be finished, but have no regrets. Heck, I trained for my first marathon in El Nino, fer chrissake. Remember that, in ‘97? People were kayaking the Garden Street underpass.

If you’re like me, you don’t need any advice. But if you’re a “three” who would secretly like to be more “two-ish,” or even a “four” who needs a little excitement and is willing to try it, just once, here are some general tips for running in hard rain:

–Wear a cap with a bill. It keeps water off your face.

–Understand that you’re going to get soaked. Don’t try to stay dry by wearing a rain jacket. You’ll just get unbearably hot, and you’ll want to trash the thing 2 miles in.

–Wear tight, technical clothing. You’ll drown in heavy cotton, and anything loose will flap, drip and drive you nuts. I usually wear lycra tights and some sort of very snug long-sleeved polypropylene top. One layer is usually enough in our (relatively) mild temps.

–Smartwool socks keep your feet warm, and don’t trap moisture.

–If it’s chilly, wear gloves. Invest in a good pair made for running. The right gloves can make the difference between misery and joy. Trust me on this.

–If you’re wearing a heart rate monitor, don’t press any buttons after you start. I lost a $200 Polar watch by doing this, against the manufacturer’s advice.

–If you listen to music while running solo, encase your iPod or MP3 player in one of those tiny ziplock plastic bags that come with screws, jewelry or other assorted mini things. I save them up. Zip the ziplock as snugly as you can around the earphone cord. If you use an armband, you can still snap the player into the casing even if it’s sheathed in plastic. Turn it upside down, of course. I tuck my tiny iPod shuffle up into my hat.

–Be hyper aware of traffic. If you can, avoid it and run on bike paths or in quiet neighborhoods, especially if you’re listening to music. Trails are sketchy: they’re unstable, and foot traffic damages them when they’re wet.

–Sneak in the back door, preferably the one leading into the laundry room, and strip immediately. Enjoy an extra long hot shower, a hearty breakfast, and a cozy day reading, napping, or watching movies: you’ve earned it!

Which category do you belong to? Anything to add to the list? Challenges? Stories about running in the rain? Comments welcome.

The “Tough Enough” race is coming up soon, and if you’re considering forming a team, DO IT. It is tough, but it’s also loads of fun. I ran it in 2006 with Gina Fennell, Monica DeVreese, Mariann Thomas and Jill Ireland, and I’d say it ranks up there in my top three racing experiences, for the fun-factor, the beauty, the team building and the food. The Savoy Truffle spread at the end is well worth haulin’ your heinie up and over our lovely mountains. And if you’re in it to win (which I discovered halfway through what was supposed to be a ‘fun little jaunt,’ we were) well…so much the better for your adrenalin and heart rate.

When I saw that the race was coming up again, I got all reminiscent and misty-eyed (I ran leg 6, which was gritty and dusty), and dug out my race report. Here’s my unedited, stream of consciousness play-by-play. If it nudges you towards making the decision to run it, fantastic. And if it gives you the urge to wash my mouth out with soap, I blame Mariann. She started all the cussing.

April Fool’s Day, 2006

Here’s my report from the front. What an awesome race…65 miles from Toro Canyon Park up over the mountain to La Cumbre Peak, on up to the high point at Broadcast Peak, then down through Solvang to Nojoqui Falls Park. We each ran 2 out of 10 legs. We WON. Not just the women’s division, but the whole bloody race! 9 hours, 4 minutes. Hurray for our team, “The Valkyries.”

We had a planning meeting Thursday at lunch, when we figured out driving logistics, etc. Gina made some very impressive spreadsheets for us. The race started at 7 a.m. at Toro Canyon Park, so we decided Mariann would drive herself there. Rain predicted–yikes!–but we awoke to clear skies. Mariann did Leg 1 over Mountain Drive to Cold Springs Trail, Monica picked up Leg 2 over Mountain up Gibraltar, then Mariann finished the Gibraltar ascent in Leg 3 to La Cumbre Peak–the steepest leg (Go Mariann!). Jill ran Leg 4, down East Camino Cielo to 154, nine miles of pounding downhill…ouch!

Meanwhile, I had a leisurely morning and picked Gina up at 9:30 in Patty Bryant’s Xterra 4×4, which she was kind enough to lend me so we could traverse the backside of Refugio Road (unmaintained and supposedly impassable) into Santa Ynez Valley instead of driving all the way around via 101 and 126.

We were supposed to pick up Jill and drop me with Mariann, who would drive me to the start of my leg while Monica ran Leg 5. We were early, so we tootled up West Camino Cielo to see where Jill was. Of course, we ran into Jim Kornell, the race director, who had just spoken to Lisa Welch (team captain of “Girls Kick Ass”–our competition). He said the women’s teams were leading, and it was very, very close–2 minutes max differential between US and THEM. We watched as a tiny blue speck appeared on the horizon. Who was it? Lisa? Leah? Jill? She got closer, and we thought we all recognized Leah’s distinctive lope…but it turned out to be our Jill! She’d opened up our lead to about 5 minutes.

(Interject here–when we got across 154 to make the car/people switch, Mariann runs up, violently motions us to roll down our window, sticks her head in and yells “We’re gonna win this f*ckin’ race! We’re gonna f*ckin’ WIN!” Talk about pre-race anxiety…before this, it had all been “Just take it easy, it’s just a nice run with the girlfr’ens…” Yeah, right. At some critical point, she flipped over from “easy” to “hard core.” Now it was a RACE. Hoo, boy, the pressure’s ON.)

Monica ran Leg 5 up to the gun club–a hard, uphill grind for 4 of 5 miles. She kinda looks like she’s hurting when we pass her in the SUV. I’m starting to hyperventilate from nervousness…can I do this? Am I going to let the team down? Meanwhile, while I wait for Monica to tag me, I talk to someone who says Refugio IS impassable–she went up there last week and couldn’t get through the barricades. Uh oh. Our handoff depended on getting through in time. We’ll see…

Monica looks strong as she blasts up to the handoff point. I’m off on leg 6, an 8 mile (later I find out it’s 9!) fire trail run, the unpaved portion of Camino Cielo to Refugio Road, up to Santa Ynez Peak, almost a 2000 foot elevation gain. The first mile is straight downhill, hard on the quads. I feel good, though. The uphill starts, not really a grind, but a gradual, definite climb. The footing is not bad at all; in fact the road is driveable, and I meet up with one jeep and two motorcyles. It’s rocky and precipitous at times, but mostly stable. But the view, the view…I break out into sobs, and song, as I run this glorious saddle. On one side of me is blue, lazy Cachuma Lake, and on the other, 4000 feet below in the distance, is the Pacific Ocean. What have I done to deserve such happiness?

But it’s getting hard. My pacing is even, but the relentless uphill grade is taking its toll. By mile 6, I’m digging in. By mile 7, I know I’m close, and I see the TV tower where my handoff is. Thank god it’s almost over. I finish mile eight, ready to stop.

But wait…I approach the fork at Broadcast Peak, where my runner is supposed to be waiting, and it’s deserted. WTF?!! What happened? Where are they? I run up the fork, thinking perhaps they’re behind the TV tower. Nope. Maybe they crashed! Maybe the road was impassable! Maybe…I waste TEN MINUTES running up and down the fork, trying to think what to do, then I just…go on. Now I’m ready to break out into sobs of frustration. I run another mile (ALL uphill, ALL hard) and finally find them at the next fork. F*ck! Hell! Damn! I tag Jill and we’re both apologizing to each other, even though it was Kornell’s fault for directing them, or me, to the WRONG fork. She takes off like a bat outta hell (I later learn she has egg-sized blisters on both arches), and two minutes later, the COMPETITION arrives! Holy hell! And it’s all my (but mostly Kornell’s) fault! I gun the car, zoom down to Jill, yell “It’s really a race now, baby!” and go on.

I get down to the West Camino Cielo/Refugio Road intersection (7 miles), scream at Kornell, get Gina all anxious, and then realize it’s just a stupid fun glorious relay race, after all. Jim says well, these things happen, and he’s right. He promises to change the course description for next year. I calm down, but Gina has the fear in her. Jill comes around the bend with a 5 minute lead (awesome, Jill) and Gina takes off like Atalanta going after the apples, running Leg 8 down Refufio Road, 6 miles. Jill and I jump in the 4×4 and head down Refugio, wondering: will we make it past the barricades? I’m ready to blast out if need be and run to the handoff.

On the bumpy, rutted road down (thanks for the 4x, Patty!), we pass Kelly, the competition, but we can’t find Gina. Where the hell is she? Damn, she’s rocketing! What if she makes it before the handoff? Oh hell! There’s the “barricade”…so called. Turns out it’s a minor obstacle, and I cruise around it like nothin’. Gina is a demon. We finally catch and pass her, but she’s running tough; it’s scaring me: the next leg is mine. We hand off at the bridge before the Santa Ynez River, and I’m running hard. Pavement, cars, straight lines–nothing like my last leg. This is serious traffic on a serious highway. The two Girlfriend Cars go by, tooting and waving, and I’m energized. I finish Leg 9 in something like my 10K pace, which feels amazing after the previous leg. After I tag Gina and she peels off, I’m told we’re a MILE ahead of the next runner. Cool!

Gina takes the last leg in stride, and the Valkyries finish first of all teams, 10 minutes ahead of “GKA.” We won the race! And notably, the women’s teams came in 1-2 ahead of mixed and mens.

Next year: I don’t screw up the handoff, and we better our time.

It’s been a little over two weeks since my marathon, and I’ve been enjoying the recovery process, with it’s concomitant lack of 1.) commitment, 2.) drive, and 3.) hard runs.

Last Saturday, when I was still giddy with the satisfaction of having run my PR (and coming within a minute of my goal), a friend who is a course monitor for the Boston Marathon emailed me, encouraging me to run it in April. He said he’d try to me a place to stay, which is a big draw…hotel rooms near the finish line are almost impossible to find under $300 a night.

I initally pooh-poohed the idea, but Sunday morning woke up and thought, “I’ll do it!” I emailed Mike (my coach), who said I could run it without expecting a PR. I started looking at flights and reserved a less expensive hotel room in Newton (several miles from the finish but an easy “T” ride away), just in case I needed it. By Sunday evening, I was full swing into marathon mode, seduced by the idea of running another good race AND being able to see the women’s Olympic trials the day before.

It took me less than 24 hours to recognize the folly of this new plan. By 3 p.m. Monday, after teaching five consecutive classes, I was beat. I imagined what it would be like to ramp up my training in January, running up to 70 miles a week, with a steady diet of tempo runs, speedwork and long runs, and I laughed. What was I thinking?

Here’s what: I just turned 51, and I don’t have that much more time before I start the inevitable slowdown. I mean, I’ve been running marathons for about 10 years, and I’m still getting faster. How much longer can I expect that to continue? “Not long,” whispers the marathon maven seductress, “Do it while you can.”

Only, I know better than to believe her. After all, she’s the one who got me into trouble a few years ago, when I ran four marathons in a year and had an overtraining meltdown. No, the sensible voice, the voice that eschews instant gratification and appreciates running with a strong, healthy, rested body, tells me to wait. Not too long, but long enough to give these 51-year-old bones and muscles a chance to recoup their strength, flexibility and endurance.

In the meantime, I’m having fun spinning at the gym with my iPod, going for easy jaunts, and actually having a good chunk of time on weekend mornings to leisurely shop the farmers’ market, peruse the Sunday Times, make waffles for my sweet, patient husband. The whisperer can just sit there with running socks stuffed in her mouth for a while. I’ll loosen the gag after a few months, when she’ll no doubt start crooning things like “Twin Cites…three-twelve…your last chance…” 

Well, it’s over, and if you’re reading this blog you know I managed to pull out a 3:16 at CIM, a minute shy of my goal time of 3:15.  I’m happy, because I really worked for this PR, and left it all out on the course.

The buses to the start left at around 5 a.m., so I was up by 4 a.m. cramming oatmeal, two scoops of Heed and one cup of Peet’s French Roast down my gullet (I always bring my own coffee).  When I first started marathoning, I never ate anything before the race, and if that’s you, I highly recommend you force feed yourself 2-3 hours beforehand.  It makes a big difference. 

I showered, slathered my legs and arms with petroleum jelly, bundled up in layers, decided not to risk putting my first cell phone (I’m a cell newbie) in my sweat bag, and headed out to find George for the ride to Folsom. There’s something delightful about getting on a big yellow school bus with other excited adults.  Runner camaraderie always seems so automatically abundant, and everyone was cheerful and hopeful, with hints of anxiety.  Pre-race arousal, they call it.  It’s good for you; gets your blood going. 

I had planned to stay on the bus to keep warm, but it really didn’t feel too chilly at about 38 degrees.  I hopped off and went for a little jog to warm up a bit before stowing my sweats.  Fashion report:  I did wear a skirt, and I’ll never wear anything else in a marathon.  It had leggings with pockets under the skirt, where I stashed 4 packets of Gu within easy reach.  Amazingly comfortable, which is why I chose it. Yeah, right, I can hear you saying. It’s the truth, I swear: no chafing, no bunching, no mid-race creeping.  Available in multi colors at Joe’s store.  I also wore a throwaway long-sleeve top, polyester for easy removal, a Law Day wool cap (I had two), and these really cool Mizuno gloves I got as a freebie at the Twin Cities expo. They heat up with moisture.  I jettisoned the top and cap after a few miles, but kept the gloves on for most of the race.  I also had my inhaler stashed in the back pocket of my singlet, just in case. 

Since wind was predicted, I tucked in with the 3:15 pace group for protection.  I spoke briefly with the pace leader who assured me he would run even splits. I planned to hang around on the periphery and join them if the wind picked up. We lined up fairly close to the start, so it only took me 13 seconds to cross the mat.  I needed to run a 7:25-7:27 pace for a 3:15 finish.  I’d planned to go out 10 seconds slow for the first few miles, especially since it was cold, so it didn’t alarm me when our first mile was 7:40.  But the pace group picked it up to 7:14, 7:15 and 7:10 (!) for miles two, three and four.  Whoa!  I knew I would pay for those fast miles later, especially on a rolling course, and was ready to let the group go, but the pace leader settled in after that to run remarkably even splits.  I ran as planned, mostly a few beats ahead of them for several miles, and tucked in when the gusts started picking up.  

I passed the halfway mark in 1:37:08; good–a 22 second cushion.   Up to that point, I was feeling very strong and able.  The pace seemed easy and all systems were go.  My calf injury of several weeks ago didn’t bark at all, and some niggling adductor pains that had haunted me off and on for a few weeks were nonexistent.  I enjoyed the rural scenery, complete with horses, cows, stables, red barns, and rednecks out for a look at these crazy half-naked people running down the street. We ran past pastoral enclaves, suburban residential neighborhoods, condo complexes, and the rustic village of Fair Oaks, where the whole town turned out to cheer us on.  I was on pace and confident.

When we turned south after the half, the wind hit like gangbusters.  I wouldn’t call it a driving gale, but our favorite webmaster’s diction–”mild headwinds”–doesn’t do it justice.  I mean, I saw small branches downed. That’s real wind. I nestled into the pace group then, and had a few hard but good miles.  My breathing got very labored at one point, unnaturally so, and I was thankful I’d brought along my inhaler, which opened me up immediately.  We chugged along in the gusts, which became considerable at times, and traded places to give people a rest from the brunt of it. The running was good:  hard but do-able.

And then, at mile 15, unbelievably, the pace leader dropped.  He handed his 3:15 flag over to the runner next to him, said he’d never dropped from a marathon before, encouraged us to stay together, and then he was gone.  He must really have been suffering.  I felt for the guy.  Well, no problem–I’d stick with my little wind shelter as long as I needed to.   Unfortunately, without a leader, the group sped up to a pace I knew I couldn’t hold.  Miles 16 and 17 were 7:18 and 7:19, so I reluctantly let them go, just as the wind picked up and the running turned into an epic battle.  I held pace through 18 and 19, but at 20, I started to slow, paying the inevitable price of those too-fast early miles and the struggle with the wind.  

I slowed progressively, at mile 22 reading 7:59 on my watch, with horror.  That galvanized me, and I was able to pick it back up into the 7:40 range, but I was hurtin’.  My quads were totally shot, and I was running in slo-mo.  The negotiating process began, and I began to calculate how fast I’d have to run to salvage my 3:15:00 finish.  I had to let that go, and then focused on running under 3:15:59. My heart was there, but my screaming, aching legs rebelled.  I was literally running as fast as I could, and was barely breaking 45 seconds faster than easy pace.  Now, my goal became: “under 3:17.”

Somewhere in mile 25, June, Rusty’s wife, came into my myopic vision.  She jumped in and ran with me for a few blocks, comforting me and egging me on, an angel of mercy.  I was in gallumphing mode now, my awkward lope a far cry from the quick, efficient metronomic steps of just one short hour ago.   But the countdown was on, and I knew it would soon be over.  When Rusty saw me at mile 26, he started screaming “Open up your legs!  You can do it!  You can go under 3:17!”   Just seeing him got me going.  I mean, how can you be respectable and plotz in front of your coach? Not an option.

I  summoned every available wild impulse hovering beneath my schoolteacher facade, and clawed my way to the finish, just 8 seconds under my newly-negotiated goal, crossing the mat in 3:16:52.  Rusty met me at the finish, his hands bloodied because he tripped and fell trying to pace me.  What a guy.  I could barely walk, and smiled my way through the space blankets, the chip removal, the medal, and the sweat bag retrieval station.  Limping back to the hotel, I smiled at the blowing leaves (the wind no longer my nemesis), the guy smoking a cigarette, the police officer checking out a steaming hulk of a sedan that had just crashed into an SUV (no injuries).  

I really feel I ran the equivalent of a 3:15 marathon yesterday, but those numbers are still hovering in my future somewhere, beckoning me forward.  For now, I’m still limping, and I’m still smiling.     

Saturday morning was my last really long run before Sacramento.  I logged 21 miles yesterday, and I did it solo, since I’m doing a two-week taper and everyone else wrapped it up last weekend.

I strained my calf muscle two weeks ago, and missed a key workout—the Santa Barbara Half Marathon—so I had to defer the last, hardest training session.  Right after the strain, I had my doubts about whether I’d even be able to race.  I couldn’t even walk on it the night it happened.  Miraculously (to me), all it took was 4 days off and a VERY aggressive Rusty massage to get me up and running again. I’ve never had an acute injury like this before; mine tend to be gradual and chronic, so I didn’t know what to expect.   Imagine my surprise, and pleasure, when I managed a (modified) track workout just one week after the injury.
 
Yesterday my workout was a 4-mile warmup, 10 miles at 7:25, 3 easy, then 2 at 7:10 followed by a two-mile cooldown.  Since I was on my own, I wanted to bring along my postage-stamp size iPod.  Rusty recommended against it.  Mimic race conditions, he cautioned.  OK, time to get tough.
 
After a collegial warmup with the boys (George and Lauren) on the beautiful Ellwood Bluffs, I hunkered down and started a 7-mile marked course that begins on Hollister, crosses over 101 to Cathedral Oaks, drops down Los Carneros, and heads back up Hollister to the start.  To get my 10 miles in, I had to overlap 3, which means I had to run the $%#@*! second mile twice.  It’s tough—down over across the 101 around Winchester Canyon, and UP Calle Real to Cathedral Oaks.  I was determined to run it on pace both times, and succeeded.  Just after the second time around, Rusty cruised by, which gave me a little boost—I gave the thumbs-up signal and yelled, “On pace!”  George passed me a little later, which gave me a second boost…ah, a friend.  Someone else out there is participating in this lunacy.  

I had a little embarrassing wildlife encounter during my 4th mile.  I was running the long uphill stretch of Cathedral Oaks between Glen Annie and Los Carneros, with avocado orchards to the left, and undeveloped fenced land to the right.  I heard the unmistakable shrill yipping of a coyote from the orchard side, and suddenly, there he was, crossing the road, heading straight for me!  Now, I know coyotes aren’t aggressive, and I’m bigger than a baby or a chihuahua,  but I panicked.  What if he’s deranged?  What if he goes for my newly-healed calf?   

I did what any self-respecting former dog owner would do:  I flapped my arms and ran towards him, bellowing “NO!” in my best alpha imitation.  He quailed, and ran adjacent to me for several seconds in the middle of the highway.  I saw a line of cars approaching, and waved wildly.  I’m thinking, “Help!  I’m about to be devoured!” The poor coyote, of course, is thinking “Get the hell out of my way so I can scoot over to my ‘hood!”  He zooms across the road and zips through a hole in the fence, just before the caravan of cars vrooms past, who are no doubt thinking “Oh, look!  The nice runner is trying to protect the coyote from getting hit by a car!”  I put my tail between my legs and ran on, silently cursing my insensitive idiocy AND my watch, which now reflected a 15 second altercation.  

Coyotes everywhere, I apologize.  Just leave my kitties alone.

The rest of the run went well, so I bit the bullet and signed up for the race—Saturday was the last day to register online.  I’m committed:  I’ve got a plane, a hotel, a spot in the race, and even a bus ticket out to the start. With luck, barring an anomalous heat wave/winter storm, serendipitous wildlife, and a soleus flare, I’m on my way to a PR.

Since I didn’t–couldn’t!–run hard in Twin Cities (with the exception of the first 15 and last 5 minutes), I decided to go after my PR in Sacramento on December 2. That gives me 8 weeks between marathons.  Running back-to-back marathons is tricky, because you have to recover enough to train at a high level again, but not so much that you lose your fitness.  

I ran two marathons 6 weeks apart in 2002, with very good results.  Los Angeles in March was hot and hard, and I still managed a 3:25 finish.  So I wasn’t expecting a fast April race in Boston, and went out with the sole purpose of enjoying myself.  I did all the things you don’t do when you’re serious about racing: chatted with other runners, waved to good-looking men on the sidelines, blew kisses to the Wellesley girls, high-fived toddlers and other assorted tots, smiled a lot, and only glanced at my watch as a sort of amusing reference. When I reached the halfway point, I still felt good, and expected things to go downhill as the course went uphill.  Instead, I felt better and better.  At mile 22, I realized I was on pace for a PR, and turned on the jets to run a negative split 3:23–a PR for me at the time.

I don’t think I’ve ever run a more enjoyable race.  I savored every minute, AND kicked heiney.  Something in me knows I probably under-ran the race, that if I was capable of negative splitting and walking away from the finish line feeling steady and almost bouncy, I left a faster race in my legs.  But I prefer to think I ran so well because I was relaxed and flexible.  Joy helps, too.   

The experience left me with a respect for the notion of running back-to-back marathons.  I’m going to give it another try in a little over three weeks.  I’ve got my plane ticket, but I’m waiting to register until the day before the race.  I’m through with extreme-weather marathons.  If there’s a heavy storm on the way, or predicted gale force headwinds, I’ll just cheer on my friends and sneak into Arizona in January.    

Monday, Oct 1

I check the weather in Minneapolis, and it looks ideal:  lows in the 40’s, highs in the 50’s, cloud cover.

Wednesday, Oct 3

Hmmm…now the forecast is for a high of 70.  Still, with a cloud cover and an 8:00 a.m. start at 54 degrees, it’s reasonable.  Heck, I ran the L.A. marathon in 80 degree weather and did well.  Piece of cake, I tell myself.

Friday, Oct 5

Dianna and I fly out of LAX.  The flight is on time, we tolerate the adorable kids kicking our seats the entire time (mother is charming, beautiful and apologetic), and we’re upbeat.  A teacher friend from Minnesota picks us up at the airport, we check into our hotel, and he and his gracious girlfriend take us to dinner.  We eat well, drink a bit of red wine, and go back to the hotel to sleep like princesses in our “heavenly beds” (a Westin trademark, and they ARE). 

Saturday, Oct 6

Both of us are registered as elites, which means we get amenities like free massage, our own bathrooms and warmup area at the start, a hospitality suite in the race hotel where we can basically eat and hang out, and bottled water on the course.  Cool.  All of this is explained to us at a special meeting we attend in St. Paul at official race headquarters near the finish line.  After the meeting, I turn around to say hello to Melissa Marsted, and surprise!  There’s Lauren Udden, who came along on a whim, and to visit his parents, who live here.  Comforting  to see familiar faces.

Dianna and I take a bus tour of the course (a beautiful greenbelt course that winds around several lakes), shop the expo and nab some good running tops, return to the race hotel for a light massage, then head back to Minneapolis.  We go out for a nice little Italian meal, and are stoic about the weather reports, which sound ominous.  It looks like it may get up into the high 70’s during the race. 

Oh, well, we figure…it is what it is. 

Race Morning, Sunday, Oct 7

When I get out of the shower, Dianna asks, “Do you want to know?”  The answer is bad.  It’s already 75 degrees at 6 a.m.  When we get to the building housing the elites, we’re sweating from a quarter mile walk.  Because the Twin Cities Marathon is the Masters’s Marathon Championship, we are required to wear back tags with our age group.  Dianna and I are both 50 this year. I scope out our competition, making a mental note of the colors they’re wearing.

At the race start, it’s 75 degrees with 87% humidity—the hottest start in the history of the race.  We find out later the race directors were considering calling off the marathon, and came within 1.5 degrees of doing so.

We wish each other luck, and the gun goes off.  I stay on my planned pace—7:25—for exactly two miles.  Dianna moves ahead, and I lose sight of her by mile 3.  I forget trying to pace myself according to my watch, and just run by effort.  This crawls progressively up to an 8:00 pace by mile 9.

The “cloud cover” everyone kept predicting?  Never materializes.  Direct sun the entire time. Humidity stays in the high 70’s and 80’s, as does the temperature.

It is odious; the absolute worst racing conditions I’ve ever endured.  Carnage everywhere–people stopping, walking, laying down, cramping, and even throwing up.  When some of the Kenyans drop at mile 10, we know things are bad.  I walk through all the water stops after that, and take several unplanned walking breaks. 

I stop hitting my splits at mile 16, because it is just too ugly. Water is a big problem…there isn’t nearly enough, and we don’t get the bottled water as promised for elites. I’m sure people are just grabbing them off the tables, and the volunteers just can’t control it. I see elite after elite dropping.  It is all I can do not to slog over and collapse into a chair under the increasingly tempting “drop zone” signs.

I cross the river into St. Paul and see Dianna at mile 19, surrounded by medics–holy smokes!–and stop to check out her status.  Of course if she is in serious distress, I will drop and stay with her.  After questioning her and the medics, and after she THROWS HER ICE BAG at me and demands I keep going, I know she’ll be OK, so I lurch on.  I don’t care about time, I just want to finish.

And then, the most amazing thing happens.  The slight headwind running downriver gives me just enough of a break from the humidity to stay consistent, and I start to run with purpose.  I take the hill just before mile 21 with more oopmph than I’d had the previous 10 miles, and pass people like crazy.  I run up Summit Avenue, the 2 mile climb, better than I’ve run for miles.  No one passes me, male or female, and I pass gazillions.

And then, with about .7 mile left in the race, I spot her.  A woman in a purple tank with a 50-54 back tag, just within my vision, someone I had scoped out at the start. I estimate she has about 150-200 meters on me.  I have a big chat with myself, and it goes something like this…

“OK, Mag, here’s your chance.  You always talk about how you want to race until it hurts, until you suffer, until you want to hurl, and you NEVER DO IT.  You let ‘em go.  So walk the walk, girlfr’en!!!  SUFFER, and GO!”

And I do.  I know I have to pass her like a train, make her think she’ll never catch me.  I find a gear I didn’t know I had, and charge.  I work my arms like pistons, and I am breathing so hard and loudly I actually apologize to a runner next to me.  I pass the purple tank top and don’t look back, and the whole way, people are yelling my number and screaming at me to “Go, go!”  I do this for about 5 minutes, and it is heaven and hell.  I pass dozens of people, and at the end catch and pass 3 MEN.  That’s for you, girlfriends everywhere.

I am in that tunnel.  I am in pain, and I know I am going to win, and I keep going and going, even though it is unbearable.  I finally did it.  I broke through!

And guess what?  I took 3rd, and the purple tank top took 4th.  I reversed Carlsbad!  I put it on the line, and risked it all, after 25.5 miles of abject misery.

I finished in 3:38:27, my worst time in 7 years.  But I’m happy.  I really raced.  

Cruel irony:  Monday, the next day, as we make our way to the airport, it is 57 degrees with a slight drizzle at 10 a.m.  I hear the running gods snicker.

If you read my last blog, written many months ago, you’ll remember I wanted to learn about pain, the kind of pain that accompanies truly racing. This is what I said I wanted to do: “I want my arms to be numb, or my legs on fire with burning lactic acid, or feel like I’m in a tunnel, or feel like I’m going to hurl.” This is the journal of how I finally got there, in an unlikely venue: the last 5 minutes of the nastiest racing conditions I’ve ever endured in a marathon, with my crappiest finishing time in seven years. But I’m happy.

May and June, 2007

At the end of May, I come down with a monster cold. I’m to start marathon training for Twin Cities soon, so I bomb myself with zinc, Zicam, echinacea, C, and Airborne. Nothing helps. I’m sick for three weeks with the most virulent virus I’ve had in 10 years. Elaine says she knows people who didn’t recover for over a month. Ugh. I do maintenance running during the worst of it, and try to build back up.

July 4

At mile 4 in the Semana Nautica 15K, I bail. I can’t get enough oxygen. I thought I was running 7 minute miles, but my watch doesn’t lie: no better than 7:30’s. Liz Lauderdale, also sick, becomes my drop-out buddy. We run/walk a few miles, bonding in our misery, and she veers off to run home. I finish the “race” in 1:15, ten minutes over my goal.

I need a doctor, I decide. This ain’t right.

July 6

I see a cheerful, athletic young practitioner at my doctor’s office. She gives me two inhalers, saying I have “infiltrators” left over from the infection that are causing me to have “sticky” lungs, mimicking asthma.

She encourages me to run through the condition. I like her.

July 21

We begin our marathon training!

I run with Mike and Rusty’s group on Tuesday’s and Saturdays, and receive my schedule from Mike every week. Our first official marathon workout seems aggressive but do-able: 2 x what we’ve come to call “Rusty’s Loop,” (some of us call it the “Dreaded Rusty’s Loop”) a rather challenging 4-mile course Rusty has marked every .25 miles. We’re to warm up, run the first loop at 40 secs slower than marathon pace, the second at 20 secs slower, then back to Goleta Beach (3.5 miles) at marathon pace.

I forgot my albuterol! Dang. I start out feeling very wheezy, but keep pace the whole time, even coming in ahead of pace on mile 3—the hard mile—of the second loop. I run the last 3. 5 on pace. I’m satisfied with my performance, especially given the wheezing.

July 24

I have a frustrating hill workout with the group. I can’t get my heart rate up because I can’t get full use of my lungs. It feels very strange:  my legs are fine, but my aerobic capacity–usually my strong point–is restricted.  I just can’t get enough oxygen to my working muscles to stoke ‘em.  I return to the young practitioner at my doctor’s office, who puts me on me a course of antibiotics.

July 31

We run three sets of half-mile intervals up on More Mesa, at 80/85/90%. I feel much better. I’m recovered!

August 4

Our first 20+ miler. We warm up 8-9 miles, then run 5 miles at MP. Cooldown is 7 miles. I feel good. My heart rate is higher than it should be, but I’m satisfied.

August 7

The track workout was hard, and I didn’t make my paces on all the repeats. Still, I’m way under what I was running last year at this same juncture in marathon training, so I’m pretty happy.

August 11

It’s BAAAAACK. I wheeze like crazy during our 6 mile marathon pace run. I manage to stick to the pace, but sound like a dying toad. I apologize to Stu, Lauren, Kim, my pace mates, for having to listen to me moan for 44 minutes. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I breathe normally?

August 15

Back to the doctor. This time, I schedule an appointment with the practitioner I’ve seen for years. She’s older, experienced, and I trust her.

She immediately recognizes what I have. It isn’t a virus, and it isn’t a bacterial infection. It’s a non-specific condition called “reactive airway disease,” and it was caused by my lengthy cold in May and June. The airway passages become irritated by coughing and throat clearing, exacerbated by acid reflux. The condition is self-perpetuating, and causes asthma-like symptoms, including bronchial spasm and wheezing. My lungs are functioning well below capacity, which she tests with a little meter that I blow into. She also tests the oxygen levels in my blood with a nifty machine that clips onto my finger—cool. Luckily, my blood is fully oxygenated, so the problem is in the upper airways.

I go home with three different inhalers, acid reflux medication, and an admonition to limit coffee and alcohol. It might take weeks, but she thinks I can recover in time for the marathon in October.

August 16-20

We’re visiting Richard and Gail Ward at their condo in Park City, Utah. I feel like a walking arsenal of breathing apparatuses. I carry two inhalers on my long run, a 23 mile “progression run” starting at 8:00 minute pace, ramping up to 7:15 by the end.

This is difficult to do at elevation, 6800 feet. It’s also hard to do alone in wind and pouring rain. I wear a bike jersey to hold all my accoutrements—inhalers, Gu, TP—and set up a water station so I can loop back around every 8 miles. The scenery is breathtaking, and I gut it out.  Soaked and absolutely depleted, I slog through a brutal cooldown.  When I crawl back into the dry, cozy condo, Gail says she almost went out after me, but stopped worrying when Jeff (my husband) shook his head, smiled, and said “She knows what she’s in for.”

The next day, we climb up two mountains. Richard keeps saying, “it isn’t that far…only about 45 minutes.” Two and a half hours later, he admits he might have been off a bit. I summit the last crest by walking sideways, hanging onto Jeff’s arm like an 80-year old. I’m whimpering, weak and wasted. But we get to take the ski lift down! Wheeeeee!

August 28

I’ve practically given up coffee, and limit myself these days to one small glass of red wine. I’ve been feeling better and better during the hard and long runs, and my training has been going well.

So I’m totally unprepared for what happens this morning.

During a two-miler, my airways close up. I come in on pace in 13:20, but am gasping and wheezing like an angry goose. My mouth is agape, and I’m fire-engine red. Rusty takes one look and says, “this isn’t right.” He modifies the rest of the workout for me, and I’m disconcerted almost to the point of tears, wondering whether I’ll ever beat this lingering lung thang. I walk off the track dejected, thinking of dropping out of the marathon.

Sept. 1

Unfathomably, the condition seems to have all but disappeared. I have a little trouble on the tempo segment of today’s long run, starting to lapse into a voicy wheeze, but I visualize fresh cold mountain air flowing through my lungs, and am able to control my breathing. I have new respect for Nancy, my practitioner, who has told me the condition is partly predicated on psychology: when I panic, the condition worsens. If I relax, it gets better.

Sept. 8

I have the best long run in months. For the tempo section, we do ten miles of “Rusty’s Loop” in reverse, which means 3 x up Turnpike to Cathedral Oaks. I take the hills with alacrity, even speeding up a bit. My average pace for the 10 miles is 7:19. Finally, I feel I can actually run a 3:15 marathon. I’m there.

Sept 11

YOW! I have the best workout EVER! We are supposed to run 3 repeat miles at 6:25, and I DO it! Hurrah! I don’t ever feel like I’m struggling to the point of not making it, and in fact, the last one seems easy. Rusty tells me to quit running behind everyone and get right in the middle, and not to check my watch. So I do that–tuck in behind Jill–and it’s  great. Melissa G. brings up the rear, so we we’re a snug little group. Her breathing is very comforting and confidence instilling. The group gets split up because we have to run through a large pack, but Kim and I hold on and run a 6:24 last mile!

Sept 15

My last long run before the taper, and the best marathon workout I’ve ever had.

The workout was to run two loops of a 4 mile marked course in Goleta at MP, then pick it up for one last loop plus another mile. So, 8 miles at MP, 5 miles at 10-15 secs faster than MP.

I DID IT!!! It was great. During the MP segment, I knew I could run the pace for 26 miles. The faster segment was hard, but I got through it. Here are my splits:

1 7:27

2 7:17

3 7:25

4 7:23

5 7:25

6 7:18

7 7:17

8 7:24

9 7:10

10 7:04

11 7:16

12 7:11

13 7:15

Next: Twin Cities, here I come!