Silence and Chatter

Today I raced the McConnell’s 5K, and ran the McConnell’s 10K.  

Racing is all business, with the focus on pacing, form and breathing.  Remarks between runners, if any, are terse, purposeful…”Too fast that mile.”  ”Relax your arms.” “Good job.”  Race discourse is mostly inward: listening to body cues while feeling your way to the fastest pace you can run that particular day, talking down discomfort, directing arms/hands and legs to unclench or pick it up, ordering shoulders to relax, doing math (shudder).  

I had a fairly good race today, considering I haven’t done much speedwork lately.  I ran the first two miles with Fran, which was really fun.  We didn’t say much beyond the above-described curt dialogue, but it was a comfort and an impetus to share footfalls, drawing silent strength from the invisible cord that binds racers when they pace together.  The last mile is completely silent.  I am focusing on running under 21:15, which I almost-but-not-quite achieve, and my curses when Romi and Liz Groom pass me remain unverbalized (not only a civilized gesture, but practical–it takes too much energy to shout invective.)

Running, on the other hand, especially with talkative types like Travis and Kim, is social.  Kim and I used the 10K as a slow-side tempo, while Travis was basically jogging.  He floated us through the first three miles with genial banter.   With enough oomph left in him, I might add, after taking 2nd in the 5K, to roar “BIKE UP!!!” or “BIKE BACK” to runners fore and aft.  After he dropped us at the 5K mark, Kim and I were noticeably quieter, sort of straddling the line between serious/sociable, which is exactly how a tempo should feel.  Inevitably, we slipped into racing mode the last half mile, and zipped our lips while zipping along with our feet.

I thoroughly enjoyed both experiences, which don’t usually happen in tandem.  Normally, I’m either racing or tempo-ing, but rarely together in the same morning.  ’Nuff said.

Blog? What Blog?

I apologize for being so remiss in keeping up with this writing assignment.  I am a terrible blogger, for three reasons:

1.  I don’t know HOW to blog.  When I write, I write essays.  Little polished pieces of balance, substance (I like to think), pattern.  So it takes a long time.  I can’t just upchuck, and call it a day.  I don’t mean any disrespect to those who can write spontaneously and often; in fact, I am jealous as hell of you.  I’m tryin’.

2.  I’ve battled with asthma, so my running has not gone as well as I hoped.  I’m still learning how to deal with my breathing problems, which came “out of the blue” last year.  Actually, they came out of the grey.  I ran through the Zaca smoke with a very bad cold, and the reverberations have lingered.  I also used to be a smoker, and I think that part of my life–as much as I renounce it now as evil! evil!–is coming home to roost.  I’ve thought about writing about what I’ve learned, and my struggle, but in the end, I just…didn’t.  (Full disclosure:  I had a fantastic 10-miler in April, a PR even with the train haitus, so clearly this asthma thing is manageable.)

3.  It’s summer.  I’m a teacher.  I dedicated myself to non-productivity this summer, and I succeeded. 

In an attempt to mimic blogger spirit, I’m forcing myself to stop here, without checking over my semantics, style, grammar, and development.  See ya soon.

Adaptation, ecumenism

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.

Of Coots, and Cones

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.

Running in the Rain

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.

(I Once Was) Tough Enough

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.

The Luxury of Detraining

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…” 

Sacramento Satisfaction

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.     

Countdown to CIM: Two Weeks

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.

Back-to-Back Marathons

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.