Running, or Racing?

20 May 2007

I’ve been trying to learn how to race my races lately, as opposed to running them with my own watch as a challenger. When I first started racing in 2000, the big thrill was setting new PR’s, which as a newbie, I did on a regular basis for the first 3 or 4 years. Now, I’m trying to learn how to race other people, regardless of their age or gender. It sounds so basic and so fundamental, but as I’ve discovered, I’m an inexperienced racer.

Most of my races have been against myself. That is, I set out to better a previous time on the same course, or run a PR for a specific distance. But actually, some of my best races have been when I was truly motivated to catch someone, or stay ahead of someone. My first taste of the thrill of competition was after I’d been racing about a year and a half. I had just run a significant marathon PR a month earlier, and I was feeling strong. Towards the end of a 15K, I managed to catch and pass someone I never thought I’d come close to, and the feeling was intoxicating. I crossed the finish line well ahead of her, and was amazed at how galvanized I was during the last part of that race. I never looked back to see where she was, and there were no turnarounds, so for all I knew, she was right on my tail. So I ran for all I was worth, stoked by fear and some lizard-brain doggedness. For the first time in a race, my watch meant nothing. Prior to that day, I had never thought of myself as a competitive person. Hmmm. 

After that, sometimes I raced, but it was usually by accident. One memorable time was during a Euro-style cross-country 6 mile race in Ventura. We had to run three 2-mile loops of a messy, muddy, hairy and rough course. On the last leg, with half a mile to go, I saw Kevin Young ahead. I had unfinished business with Kev, because he had unceremoniously passed me with 2 seconds to go in our last race together, the Orchard to Ocean 10K. He sat on me for miles, and made his move when we were practically in the chute. Arrgghh! So I HAD to get him. And I did. It was one of my most satisfying racing moments. 

More recently, I learned the price of not racing in an important race. I had trained for months for the Carlsbad 5000, and had my heart set on a PR. The race is an amazing event, organized in waves by age group, and chip timed. I lined up with over 600 masters women, and the feeling was awesome. I secretly hoped I would place 3rd in my new age group, 50-55. I went out just as planned, hitting the first mile in 6:31. The second mile was slower, as I knew it would be, at 6:44. The last mile was the hilliest, but I expected a faster split because, well…it was the last mile! On the final uphill, I passed a strong looking woman. About 30 seconds later, she caught and passed me. I didn’t go with her. I let her go, calculating she must be younger than me. It didn’t matter, I said to myself. An excuse not to push.As it turned out, it did matter. She was 50, and she took the third-place award. She beat me by 3 seconds, 20:41 to my 20:44. My husband, a fencer, gave me some sage advice after that race, passed on to him many years ago by his coach: “Don’t look behind the mask.” In other words, don’t try to figure out the age or ability of your opponent. Just race. 

I took the memory of the Carlsbad disappointment with me into the 10-miler last month. And when I was passed on the final hill, the one by Ty Warner’s palace-to-be, by a woman I estimated to be about 35, I used it for fuel. I hunkered down and caught her. I never looked back, and next set my sites on a group well ahead of me, two women and a man. At mile 8, they probably had about 2 minutes on me. I focused on them, and never let that focus go. I caught Bobby with about a quarter of a mile left, by Los Banos. He rallied, and sprinted ahead. I was bearing down on the two women in the last 200 when one of them looked back, saw me, and nudged her partner. They took off. I was seconds behind them, but I was happy. I was a contender. I really, really raced. 

Jeff, my husband, took pictures of the home stretch at Carlsbad, and I look nothing like the women who finished ahead of me. They were grimacing, hurting. I want to look like that when I’m done with a race. 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. Everyone I know who is a good or great runner reports feeling that way. I never feel that way. But I’m learning. 

So if you see me bent over double at the finish line of the next race, looking awful, don’t be alarmed. Congratulate me.

 

Calling all (L.A. Times-Reading) Jocks

23 Feb 2007

It all started last summer, when a column in the Los Angeles Times sports section, which I rarely even glance at, caught my eye. It was about Marion Jones finally getting busted (well, almost), and it was very well written, employing a slew of rhetorical strategies and devices, many of which I teach in my Advanced Placement English Lit course. You know, stuff like repetition, parallel construction, metaphor and simile…stuff that has fancy terms like anaphora, asyndeton (or polysyndeton), antistrophe, etc.

Or maybe you don’t know. Bill Plaschke didn’t. He thought he was just writing from the heart. So when I emailed him and asked him if he’d give my class permission to perform a style analysis on the article, he gamely accepted. I had my students scrutinize the article and, armed with a list of terms and definitions, they wrote up style commentaries, which we forwarded on to the sports columnist.

“I thought anaphora was a skin disease,” Plaschke deadpanned in an email response. He’s a pretty funny guy. He was also flattered and impressed, and he generously offered to drive up to Santa Barbara to talk to my class about writing.

When I initially contacted Mr. Plaschke, I had no idea what a serious mucky muck he is in the world of sports journalism. So when I perused his bio on the L.A. Times website—National Sports Columnist of the Year, regularly featured in “Best American Sports Writing” (cousin to “Best American Essays” and “Best American Short Stories”), Pulitzer nominee—well, I realized we were getting the real deal here.

My students, who also informed me that Mr. Plaschke is a regular commentator on an ESPN talk show, “Around the Horn,” were ecstatic. Some of them sported colorful costumes for the occasion, wearing bizarre combinations of colors, patterns and numbers that loudly proclaimed loyalties in ways that mystified me. I didn’t get it—I’m culturally bereft when it comes to team sports—but Bill did. “Hecklers,” he said. “Wonderful.”

And it was wonderful. For over an hour, Bill talked about how powerfully and meaningfully writing has shaped his life. He started writing, he told us, for his high school newspaper, and soon learned that writing was a compelling and effective venue for communication and expression. During his unscripted, uncanned talk, he shared inspiring, funny, and at times brutally self-critical stories about his years writing for the Times. My students were entranced. It was one of the best classes, several of them later said, they’d ever experienced in high school.

Several times during the presentation, which felt more like a tete-a-tete than a lecture, I wanted to jump up and yell “Yesssss!” when Bill passionately emphasized the beauty and power of the written word. For many of my students, seniors who will make their way into a complex web of choices in the critical years to come, his visit was an affirmation. “I’ve always wanted to major in something that would prioritize writing,” confided one student, “and now I’m sure of it.”

Bill Plaschke’s writing is fresh, smart, and blunt. He applauds the human spirit without prettifying it, and isn’t afraid to call us out for both our achievements and our frailties. Somehow, his writing manages to walk the line between sentimental and cynical, heartfelt and edgy. His hour with us in the classroom struck the same note. I can’t think of a better way to appeal to high school seniors.

Thanks, Bill. You came, you shared, you inspired. That’s called asyndeton.

To run, or not to run, Slack is the question

26 Jan 2007

I’ve kept a fairly consistent running log since my first marathon in 1998, and a few minutes ago, I was reminded of how reassuring this simple training tool can be.

Tonight, I skipped my workout for the SECOND TIME this week. Granted, I was only going for a brief easy run both times, but as a committed member of the stickler club, I hate flaking out on my plans, even if it’s only a date with myself.

A high school English teacher, I’ve been eating, sleeping, breathing and dreaming student essays for 25 consecutive days. I teach five classes, my student load is 130, and final semester grades were due today. I’ve had to assess approximately three substantial pieces of writing per student since school resumed after winter break—formal essays, final exam essays, book report essays—and at 10 to 60 minutes (NOT exaggerating) for each piece of writing, well…you do the math.

I skipped my first run on Wednesday. I’d been up since 5 a.m. working, and after a full day in the classroom, came home to 3 hours of essay grading. I bailed.

Late this afternoon, I dotted the final “i” and crossed the last “t.” My numb right hand scrawled the last “awkward—rephrase” and penned the final “Solid writing, Kristi!” After handing in my grades at 4 p.m. sharp, I tidied up my chaotic desk and trudged out to the parking lot, running clothes stowed in my nifty Santa Barbara Running mesh bag (highly recommended for gear stashing). I usually change in my classroom and head out to Elwood or the UCSB bike path, but tonight, I negotiated. “I’ll change in the car,” I thought, but somehow missed the Turnpike exit to the bike path. Then, “I’ll go to the gym instead,” but the La Cumbre exit came and went. When I turned on my blinker for Mission Street, I finally admitted that this horse was headed for the barn.

I rarely do this. When healthy and uninjured, I revel in my runs. Especially when work pressure piles on, I relish the cleansing release of sweat and stress in physical exertion. But tonight, I felt more like a castmember of “Night of the Living Dead” than “Marathon Man.”

Once home and committed to the cozy forgiveness of an old sweatshirt and slippers, I poured a nice glass of cab’, and, out of curiosity, checked my running log of exactly a year ago, when semester grades were due. Here’s what it said:

“Skipped ANOTHER workout! This is a record for me…two days in a row. I graded until dark, then couldn’t face going to the gym and working out on the ‘mill.”

There’s comfort in consistency. Tonight, I’m a slacker. But thanks to my running log, I know I’m a dependable one.

When a second really matters

11 Jan, 2007

Most long-distance racers have had the disappointing experience of finishing several minutes over a targeted goal, and had well-meaning family and friends (and even spouses) say things like “Only 7 minutes? Over a 26 mile course? That’s nothing!” or “Good for you! I could never run that fast!” or even the dreaded “Well, you should be proud of yourself for finishing.”

Imagine how those folks would react if you were bathed in misery over one lousy second. Hah! Suck it up when you’re around non-racers, folks—they just don’t get it.

One second on the clock—for our strange breed, anyway—can mean the difference between profound dejection and joyous elation. Just ask Lee Carter, who was going for a sub-18 5K this Resolution Day. He missed it by crossing the finish line a fraction of a second under 18 flat, and because regulations require the numbers to be rounded up, Lee went down in the books for 18:00. Does it matter one whit whether a 17:59 and an 18:00 both calculate to a 5:48 pace? Nope. That :59 means everything.

I could well empathize with Lee, having just recently had my own one-second litmus test (which coincidentally, Lee witnessed) at Long Beach. I trained for a 3:15 marathon, and was in shape to meet my goal. But there was the little matter of my wedding one week later (I know, I know), so I wasn’t exactly mentally primed to run a PR. Can you say, “frazzled”? I was supposed to start out relaxed at around 7:40 pace, ease into 7:30’s, then pick it up the second half. But by around mile four I understood I this wasn’t going to be my day. Every time I passed a mile marker, I was surprised to be seconds over my split goals: 7:45, 7:37, 7:38. Clearly, some critical ingredient was missing, and it wasn’t going to magically appear. So I negotiated with myself and settled into my pace. At the halfway point, I crossed the mat at exactly 1:40:00. Fine, I bargained, I’ll still run a 3:20 PR.

Because training with Rusty and Mike had prepared me so well, I had every confidence I could come in at 3:20 or under. The funny thing about marathons, though, is that a niggling little twinge on training runs can become grossly exacerbated after mile 20 in the actual race. My hip flexors, which had been problematic but not debilitating on long runs, rusted shut over those last miles. It was the strangest sensation: lungs on duty, energy tanks still full (ask me about Rusty’s carb-depletion-load regimen!), but the legs won’t move. As I ground into the last two miles, I caught a masters runner I recognized from some races here in SB: Rikako Takei, who’s always a few steps ahead of me. This was my chance to take care of unfinished business. I charged her on a hill, passed her, and…my hips went into high rebellion. She’s tough, and she saw me and raised the bet. I couldn’t answer. Damn!

But I could still come in under 3:21. With 200 meters to go, the clock read 3:20:10. I had 49 seconds. I could do it! I’d done it hundreds of times on the track. Go, legs! I corralled all the chutzpah I could muster after over three hours of progressively downsizing my goals, and went for it! Lungs screaming, legs aching, I crossed the mat in…3:21:03. It had taken me 53 seconds to run 200 meters, and I’d missed my (revised) goal by 4 seconds.

I was peeved, I was pissed, I was one big pout. I harrumphed through the space-blanket-and-finishers-medal ritual and the food and drink line, furious with myself for not somehow finding those four seconds over 26.2 miles. I met up with some other SBAAers—Wally, Lee, Steve, Dianna, Gina—and groused about my miserable finish (even though it was almost a 2 minute PR). I wore a big fat “D” on my forehead, for Disappointment. I was not gracious. I was petulant.

And then…I remembered chip timing! The gun time was 3:21:03, but surely I’d squeaked under 3:21! Suddenly, everything changed. Within the space of one second of epiphany, I went from doldrums to delight. The sun shone, I laughed, I was happy and fulfilled. And when confirmation came—my official time was 3:20:59—the universe was right again.

Why?

Because in our funny little culture, if you run a 2:59:59 minute marathon, you are “sub-three.” If you run a 3:20:59, you earn the right to claim your status as a “three-twenty” marathoner.

Silly? Of course. But I haven’t met one racer who didn’t absolutely empathize. It’s the one-second factor.

Next stop? A 3:14:59 in Twin Cities this fall…

No Race, 2007

30 Dec. 2006

Many years ago, during a Zen retreat at Tassajara in Northern California, the featured T-shirt was emblazoned with a pudgy Buddhist monk, running, wearing robes and an expression of supreme serenity. The non-event memorialized by the shirt was “No Race, 1988,” a sort of insider’s joke about detachment and the practice of privileging process over product, path over destination.

I thought of that shirt today, and if I still had one, I’d have worn it during this morning’s Resolution 10K to celebrate the experience of a non-race race. I wasn’t planning to race today—still in off-season mode after the Long Beach marathon and my recent marriage, both events conducive to relaxed running rather than gritty, all-out training. So I did what many of us do when we don’t plan to race: I volunteered. Initially assigned to pickup duty in my pickup, I wasn’t needed until mid-morning, so I planned to join my usual group for our long/tempo run. When I got Wally’s message asking me to show up early, I decided to help out, then do the 10K as a tempo run.

Dianna Hall accompanied me, and we went out nice and easy, picking it up progressively to run our fastest mile at the end. There’s something wonderful about not racing a race. You can catch up with friendly banter the first few miles. You can shout “Looking Good!” to friends as they fly by, and thank volunteers. You can pick up the pace (or not) according to how you feel, without the race monkey on your back. You have the luxury of encouraging runners along the way, a gesture that takes too much precious oxygen when you’re going for a PR. And finally, you don’t mind those few seconds over a nice round number as you cross the line and stop your watch.

Today, I had a great workout in a gorgeous setting, with the sun shining and the sweet good nature of the running community spilling over into the rest of my day (and on into the new year). And I didn’t give a damn about my time. Hey, it’s all good.