Not Dead

So, let's talk about my failure to upkeep this blog: I am failing at the upkeep of this blog.
Now that we've got that out of the way...

Running is finally back in full-swing since the marathon.  I had a brief cycling-craze while I was building the running miles back up - it just so happened to coincide with the Giro d'Italia/Tour of California, so I'm sure it'll happen again during the Tour in a few weeks - but have since somewhat relegated the bike to a mode of transportation rather than something I'm actively training for.  Regardless, I managed to get a few fun rides in there: revisited Santiago and Silverado canyons, rode the coast a few times...  There's still a tentative century (or two) planned for later in the summer.

But really, running.  My legs came back around the third week of May, and by the beginning of the fourth, they were solid again.  A few highlights:

5/24 - an almost three-hour, 17.65-mile trail run with 3000' gain and loss; slow pace, but a good adventure
5/25 - 10.32 @ 7:40 average (the day after that trail run)

5/28 - 9.6 @ 7:09 average; really quick, really easy, with 2x .5-mile build-ups to 3k effort

6/1 - 7ish with 2x 1.87-mile intervals @ 6:05 pace; first time I've truly wanted to vomit during a run

6/5 - 14.74 @ 8:19; paced a friend from mile 11.5-finish of her third marathon... oh, and she qualified for Boston (congrats again, Jess!)

6/10 - 11.93 @ 7:58 average; 5.5 miles on trail at what I want to call 50k-effort
6/11 - 7.85 @ 7:00 average; 5x .67- and 1x .75-mile hilly intervals at 5mile/10k effort

I've been posting a lot more runs in the 10-15 mile range than previously in preparation for ultra training, which will begin (slowly) after July 4.  And it will start in Auburn, CA.  Why Auburn, you ask?  Because I recently signed a one-year lease for an apartment up there.  It's located about 2 miles from the finish line of the Western States 100 and American River 50, as well as a number of other ultra races in northern California.  There's a trail marathon/ultra pretty much every weekend from now until late November up there. And I'll be in the middle of it.

Needless to say, I'm looking forward to this.

Prospective races/runs for the summer/fall:
6/18 or 6/19 - Saddleback Mountain; up to Bear Springs (~2000' gain), back down, back up, walk down
7/4 - Ladera Ranch 10k; shooting for 6:00-6:05 pace (sub-38:00 finish)
7/9 or 7/10 - first long run in Auburn; I'd like 20 miles, but we'll see
7/23 - Rim-to-river-and-back at the Grand Canyon; leaving before dawn, 15 miles, shooting for sub-3:00:00 but will settle for survival
8/4 - Peter's Canyon 5-miler; shooting for 6:00 or faster (sub-30:00 finish)
9/10 - 50k race, either in Big Bear or Tahoe; sub-6:00:00 would be nice, will settle for survival
9/24 - trail marathon in Auburn, to be used as a training run
12/3 - 50-mile trail race just north of San Francisco; sub-10:00:00 would be stellar, will be overjoyed with survival

Oh, and my interpreting program starts somewhere in there.  Work?  I think running is work, right?

No Stopping Any Time: OC Marathon 2011 Race Report, Part 2

Here begins the official race report for the 2011 OC Marathon.

I woke up at 4am and felt… surprisingly refreshed, all things considered.  I was tired, but the race jitters had started to show up, just a little bit, overnight, so I was motivated to get out of bed and suit up.  I came downstairs, put some oatmeal and coffee on the stove, and made a few last minute preparations. 

I’d been posting sections of my race-day motivational speech – it’s the promo for the 2010 Versus network season – on Facebook for the last 10 days with a countdown in parentheses, and it was time for the last one: “The clock is ticking.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”  Instead of “(Zero.)” I wrote “(Meglio un giorno da leone che cento da pecora.”) and attached a picture of my bib.  Across the bottom of it is: UNGRNODALNE.  This translates to “Better one day as the lion than one hundred as the sheep.”  Which completely sums up my approach to the day. 

Over the last three weeks, my motivation to crush this race had been wavering with my confidence levels.  When I hit lows, I felt like dropping out, saying “to hell with it,” and just running for run.  When I hit highs, I was ready to seize this race and bury myself.  Fortunately, by the time I got in the car and pulled off the driveway, the latter had taken hold.  I was going to run my heart out.  I didn’t care if I blew up.  It was Boston or nothing.

We – my mom and I – showed up at the drop-off area with plenty of time to spare.  I had eaten in the car, and took my time putting on my shoes, pinning my gels to my shorts, smearing Vasoline on every possible chafing point… 

I was simultaneously trying to sort out where the hell my friends were and how they’d gotten lost.  Which was – sorry kids – an unwelcomed distraction.  To clarify, yes, I was completely happy to have them coming, but for me, running is a deeply personal thing.  Racing even more so.  And it needed to be, right now.  If I didn’t qualify for Boston on this race, I wasn’t going to want to see anyone, and I wasn’t going to tolerate seeing anyone other than my parents and the friend I’d invited.  Even if I did qualify, I’m not the gushing-with-excitement type.  I withdraw after hard workouts and races, and I reflect.  I relive my performance, critique it, relish in it, but I don’t talk.  My parents know this. 

I decided I wasn’t going to wait any longer.  If they showed up, they showed up.  If not, oh well.  This race was about me.  I sent off one last gruff text message and turned my attention inward.

I plugged in my headphones, stared out the window into nothingness, and let the speech fill my head, heart, body, and legs. 

"Whether or not you win this thing, you've got to decide how you're going to walk out of here when it's all said and done. Because the game is going to go on. 
There is only one rule you're going to need to know about: there are no second chances. There's only this moment and the next moment. Every one of those moments is a test that you get to take one time and only one time. 
So if you see an opening, tear into it. If you get a shot at victory, make damn sure you take it. Seize that moment. 
That moment is a crossroads where everything you want will collide with everything standing in your way. 
You've got momentum at your back. Fear and doubt are thundering like a freight train straight at you and all you've got, the only difference between making history and being history, the only thing - the only thing - you can count on at any given moment is you. 
It's you versus them. 
It's you versus no. 
You versus can't. 
You versus next year, last year, statistics, excuses. 
It's you versus history. 
You versus the odds. 
It's you versus second place. 
The clock is ticking. Let's see what you've got."

It was time.  I hugged my mom, told her I loved her, and headed for the starting area.  It was dark, a bit chilly, but not as cold as I had thought it would be.  The start area was surprisingly quiet and low-key, but I didn’t see any porta-potties around.  I was fortunate enough to hear someone mentioning the hotel directly across the street from the starting line, and I followed a small throng of people inside.  Lots of runners lounging around, so I figured it wouldn’t be too much of a faux pas to use their restroom.  About thirty others, twenty-five of them women, had the same idea. 

Without going into too much detail, I was slightly worried after using the restroom.  Not because of anything that went wrong, but because there was barely a reason for me to use it in the first place.  Was this going to lead to GI problems later on?  I hoped not.

I shrugged it off and headed back to the starting area.  Still pretty empty for a marathon that was supposed to have over 2,000 people.  My usual have-to-pee-every-ten-minutes-before-a-run thing kicked in and I headed for the parking structure of the hotel to find a corner.  It was warm in there, so I hung out for a while with a few other runners who had the same idea.

Six o’clock came up pretty quickly.  I checked my arm warmers, did a last minute search for my friends – still not there – and headed into my corral.  I looked for the 3:10 pacer.  I saw 3:40 and 3:20… But that was it.  Really?  No 3:10?  The website said there’d be one.  Maybe I just wasn’t seeing him.

There were a few announcements, a really poorly sung national anthem, and a five minute wait.  Then three, two, one, air horn, and we were off.  Yes, it was that unceremonious. 

So, here I was, at the start of my second marathon, a race that would hopefully be over in less than three hours and ten minutes.  How did I feel?  Ambivalent.  I didn’t know what was going to come in the next 26.2 miles, but I knew that whatever came, I was going to hit it as hard as I could and leave it all on the course.

The first mile opened with a bit of a climb and a decent crowd in front of me.  I let the crowd control my pace, only jumping through openings when I got caught behind some seriously slow runners.  I knew this split didn’t matter too much; I could make up the time later.  I was happy to see my first split just over 8 minutes.

Mile 1 (these splits are all from my Garmin, not the course splits, as you’ll see the mile markers get really messed up later on): 8:03

The next two miles brought the most significant downhill of the course.  By now, the adrenaline was kicking in and I was getting excited about this race.  I knew that I should use this downhill section to pick up a little time, but I didn’t want to completely open up yet, especially after hearing how Boston’s initial downhills have a tendency to tear up people’s quads.  So much for that.  At one point, I hit a 6:11 pace.  I convinced myself that this was okay.  It was a race, I was excited.  Besides, the view at mile 2.5 was absolutely gorgeous, and I wanted to let that moment fill me with energy.  We crested a small hill and had a huge sweeping panorama of the ocean and Catalina Island in the distance.  It was clear enough to see which parts of the island – at least 20 miles away – were covered in greenery and which were rock faces.  My heart rate was still well below normal. 

Miles 2 and 3: 6:50 and 7:01.

The course weaved through a very affluent residential area for the next bit.  I was happy to see quite a few people, and entire families, with their morning coffee, in their bathrobes, sitting on their steps/driveway/lawn chairs, cheering us on.  We came to the second water station around mile 4.  I wanted water, but it was extremely congested and I didn’t want to slow down yet.  I passed it.  Next time, I told myself.  Another downhill section led to the marina near Balboa Island.  I banked a little more time on this.  By now, my legs were warmed up and the running was easy. 

Miles 4 and 5: 7:10 and 7:01.

We turned onto PCH and started the section of the course I’d trained on previously.  I knew this part was the hardest, with a number of short, steep hills.  They weren’t aerobically pressing, but they had torn my legs up the last time I’d run on them.  I knew I could bank a little time on the downhills, but opening up was going to be disastrous.  I took my first gel around here, despite not being hungry or feeling like I needed it.  I was breaking a rule of racing: don’t change anything on race day.  During training, I’d taken gels every 8-10 miles.  And I’d never taken water with them.  Now, I had just taken a water, a gel, then another water immediately after.  My stomach noticed, but didn’t seem too upset about this. 

Miles 6 and 7: 7:09 and 7:12.

Mile marker 7 was at the bottom of one of the most significant hills on the course.  I was also back on pace for a 3:10, according to my pace band…  But there was still no 3:10 pacer to be seen.  I knew my chip time was about 30 seconds off the gun time, so maybe he was 30 seconds ahead.  Then I realized I hadn’t even passed the 3:20 pacer yet.  Was I going to have to pace this one on my own?  I pushed these thoughts out.  Not important.  What was important was the hill ahead of me.  In training, I’d run up this hill at a 7:30 pace.  At the top, I looked at my Garmin and saw 7:45.  A little disappointed, but not a big deal.  I had 19 miles to make up for whatever time I lost now.  Finished the mile with a decent split.

Mile 8: 7:20.

I knew the next four miles from having run them three times.  Still, the gradients had a completely different feel at race pace and in a race situation.  The slightest uphill seemed a lot harder than  before, and the downhill sections didn’t seem nearly as helpful for banking time.  I focused on maintaining my pace through the flatter sections and pressed on.  About halfway through this part, a group of four or five other guys came together with me and we formed an implicit 3:10 pace group.  There wasn’t any talking, but we all knew and took turns leading the pace.  We were actually ahead of pace, but it wasn’t a pressing effort, so I went with it.

I had my first doubts about finishing at mile 10.  Not because any of the race had been hard – it hadn’t – but because despite having finished 10 miles, I still had over 16 to go.  Even when I hit 13, that meant another 13 to go.  How much energy had I used?  A quarter?  A third?  Wasn’t it supposed to be a third by the time I hit mile 13?  It was too early for this.  I remembered a description of the marathon I’d read once: the first ten miles are run with your brain, the second ten are run with your legs, and the last 10k are run with your heart.  My brain had gotten me through the first ten at a decent clip.  Now it was time for my legs to settle in and take over.  But they weren’t, yet.

We dropped down another significant downhill – this one actually started to hurt my quads a little bit – and faced a climb more or less the same as the one at mile 7.  I heard, “Oh shit, another hill?” from someone in our group, but I had known it was coming.  I surged a little on it, broke from the pace group, then eased up a bit to let them catch on when the road flattened out.  The surge hurt a bit, but I knew I had to press through the hill instead of take it easy.  Had I done the latter, my legs would’ve slowed too much to pick it back up to pace. 

Miles 9-12: 7:05, 7:13, 7:04, 7:09

My brain made its final stand as I hit the mile marker for 13.  Again, how much energy had I used?  Half?  I decided it wasn’t even close to that.  A third?  Maybe.  Maybe less.  Yeah, definitely less.  I was still feeling fresh.  I thought to myself, “I could start a marathon right now and hold this pace for another 26.”  I was 30 seconds ahead of pace, didn’t feel like I’d done any work to bank that time, and had a revelatory moment: today might be the day.  As long as my legs hold up, I’ve got this.  I took my second gel – more water, more breaking the rules – and carried on; my legs started to take over the work.

Mile 13: 7:10

I really don’t remember much from the next few miles.  There was no mile marker for 14, but there was a ClifBar group that was quite rowdy with a huge inflatable arch that went over the road.  I passed a cheering group – maybe a sorority – with signs.  One said something like “Push it a bit harder! (That’s what she said.)”  Made me laugh a bit.  My heart rate started creeping up as we moved farther inland and the sun became more of a factor.  Instead of averaging 165-168bpm, as I had for the first half, I was now averaging around 170bpm.  I remembered some advice I’d seen a while back about pacing via HR during a race: don’t do it.  I took note of it, took it as a sign that I needed to start cooling off with water and needed to keep up my hydration, and put it out of my mind. 

My enthusiasm started to falter around mile 16, so I started running some commentary through my head: it’ll hurt on miles 16-20, but then you’re running on heart.  The finish line will be within reach and you’ll be fine.  Just make it to mile 20.  It’ll be a breeze. 

I decide to break from my pace group and push ahead.  There’s a weird out-and-back section that I still don’t understand.  It’s not fun making a fast 180 turn, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Part of me just wants this to be over.  That doubting demon comes out and starts talking to me again.  Sure, I’m over 16 miles in, but that’s only 2 hours.  I still have over an hour left.  I tell him to shut up.  It’s not an hour, it’s 10 miles.  I’m counting down from 10 now.

The course then weaves through a nice business park – unfortunately, the path is more undulating than I’d like – and cross over a major street on a pedestrian bridge to arrive at South Coast Plaza, a huge mall on Costa Mesa.  We run through the parking lot.  Shoppers and passersby are cheering us on. 

I pass a water station, grab the first cup I see, and pour it on myself.  The crowd murmurs a little bit, and someone calls out, “Uh, sir?”  For a second, I actually wonder if I’ve shit myself.  I haven’t had any GI issues the entire race, but I’m wondering, what if I’m so far gone that I haven’t even noticed?  I then realize that the cup I grabbed was a Gatorade cup and I’ve just drenched myself with it.  I grab two water cups, throw one over my head, drink the other.  I find the humor in this whole situation, realize I wouldn’t have even cared if I’d shit myself, and start laughing.  I take my third gel here.

Still, I kind of want this to be over.  It doesn’t help that the mile markers for 16 and 17 were missing, and the mile marker for 18 shows up as my Garmin hits 18.77.  What?  Before, I was only clocking about .05-.1 ahead of the marker.  Now I’m off by almost 5 minutes?  Did I really lose that much time?  It’s impossible, but what if it’s true?  What if the course is actually 26.7 miles?  I can’t panic now.  If it’s 26.7, I can appeal to the BAA, or something.  All I can control is my pace, right here, right now, and despite my quads – which are now complaining almost as loudly as the demon I’m fighting in my head – and the heat, I’m not going to let it slow down.  I strip off my shirt and decide against tossing it.  I can carry it in. 

My splits for this section attest to the demons I’m battling.  This is by far the flattest part of the course so far, but I’ve leached a bit of time.  Still, I’m over 30 seconds up by now.

Miles 14-19: 7:11, 7:09, 7:14, 7:16, 7:14, 7:11.

Mile marker 19 comes at 19.7 on the Garmin.  I’m still battling that doubt, but have convinced myself that there’s no way that’s accurate.  It has to be a mistake by the organizers.  No way I lost that much time.  No way.  (After the fact, looking at the map, mile marker 18 was closer to where 19 should’ve been, and 19 was pretty much dead on where 20 should’ve been).  We turn onto a bike path, and the spectators thin out significantly.  Marker 20 comes a little faster, but it’s still a bit off. 

I hit another water station.  By now, I’m in a routine of grabbing two cups early, pouring both over my head, and then grabbing a third at the end and drinking it.  I’m also surging through them instead of slowing, and at this point, I’m not even trying to gracefully take the cups from the volunteers.  I’m sticking my hand out like a wall and just grabbing, and every time I do, half of the water explodes out of the cup and drenches the volunteers down the line.  They all start laughing and cheering for this crazed, shirtless guy who’s speeding through their table. 

I try to throw a cup into a trash bag that a volunteer is holding and accidentally hit him with it.  I feel really bad, yell, “Shit, I’m sorry!” and he very graciously says, “Not a problem!  Thanks!” 

I get excited and remember that marathon description again.  Now it’s time for heart to take over.  I can do this as long as I keep my heart in it.

But soon, I’m alone again, and after we pass a band playing next to the course, there are absolutely no spectators.  The band’s music fades, and it’s just me.  And that demon.  I remember the words of an elite female runner (can’t remember her name): every time you race, you meet the Beast.  He comes out, he makes himself known, and you talk to him.  You learn to love him, to control him, to use and feed off him.  That’s what this nagging demon is.  It’s my Beast.  I say the words out loud: “Hello, Beast.  I see you.”

Miles 20-21: 7:05 and 6:57.

I wonder if I’m going to pay for that last mile.  I got excited and surged more than I should have.  My heart rate is averaging 177-178bpm by now.  That’s over 10 above what it should be.  It’s hot, there’s a dry headwind, and I’m fatigued.  My quads are aching, and despite my promises to myself that from mile 20 on it’d get easier, it’s getting harder.  It’s starting to feel like it did on my last 20, when I bled time without even realizing it and with nothing I could do about it. 

I realize it’s not going to be easy to run from the heart.  I know, absolutely know, that my body and legs have it in them.  It’s just a matter of if my heart, my dedication, can coax the energy for a good finish.  At the very least, I know I’ve got 1:40 banked right now, so even if I start to bleed 20 seconds per mile, I’ll be okay.  But I’m not going to let that happen. 

I know it would be easy to just turn on the jets and empty the tank right now.  I know that I might be able to do that for the next five miles.  But I know that doing so might jeopardize my BQ.  So I draw the line between leaving literally every last drop of my energy on the course and consolidating the BQ that I know I can get.  Then I step onto that line and balance on it.

I’m passing single runners as well as pairs, and I want to sit in with them for the company – they’re going fast enough that I won’t lose much of my banked time – but that would be lazy.  Besides, I have a Beast to deal with, and I haven’t seen him in far too long.  This is what I’ve trained for, this man-versus-himself battle, and I’m not going to drop out of it just because I’ve finally found it and it’s harder than I thought.  A fellow runner’s words from his Boston report pop into my head: I’m not a quitter.  And I’m not.  Again, I speak out loud: “I’m not a quitter.  I know you’re hurting, legs, and I know you want to stop.  But I’m not going to let you.  Not yet.”

Miles 22-23: 7:05 and 7:10.

My Garmin beeps 23: “Three to go.  Three to go.”  The miles start getting longer.  The bike path is finally over, and I turn into a nature reserve.  I weave through a maze of trails with signs directing the way, but it feels like I’m going nowhere.  The dirt trail turns to a mixture of sand and dirt, and I’m not very stoked to be running on this surface right now.  The wind, which has been picking up for the last few miles, is now a full-on headwind.  The sun is nearing its prime, there’s absolutely no shade, no water for the last mile and a half and none in sight ahead, and I’m still completely alone.  This is my make or break moment.  If I can make it to mile marker 24, I’ll be okay.  Just make it there.  Just hit 24.  Then it’s two to go. 

I dig deep for something to inspire me, to fill me with energy, to keep me going, and I get it: “You’re going to do well because you don’t need luck.  You’re amazing.”  I turn the words over in my head, feed on them, push through them.  I’m getting this BQ no matter what.  I don’t care if I cramp, if I vomit, if I fall over and collapse.  I’m getting back on my feet and dragging my ass across the line.  This is happening.  I KNOW it’s mine.

Mile marker 24 is dead on accurate with the Garmin.  I’m still at least 1:40 ahead of time.

Mile 24: 7:16.

There’s one last uphill section through a residential area now.  I don’t care what my heart rate is or what my pace is (averaging 180bpm now), I give it everything I have.  I’m completely in the zone right now, fending off the Beast, running alongside him, completely oblivious to the outside world…  Until I pass a couple of guys on their driveway playing music for us.  One is playing the guitar.  The other is playing an accordion.  An accordion?  Really?  This strikes me as hilarious.  I smile and give him a thumbs-up.  As soon as I pass him, it’s back to me and the Beast.  We’re becoming friends, now.

Mile 25: 7:11.

The crowd picks up again around 25.5.  I don’t know if I’ve run the course well enough to finish in exactly 26.2, so I waver between telling myself .75 miles left and 1 mile left.  Either way, it’s less than 10 minutes, and this one is still mine.  Un giorno da leone.  The course enters the OC Fairgrounds through the parking lot and the crowd gets thick.  People are screaming from all directions.  I’m closing in on one last runner.  A spectator yells to him, “Pick it up, he’s coming up on you fast!” and the guy throws a really impressive surge.  Then the spectator yells to me, “C’mon!  Run him down!”  Thanks a lot, Judas.  I hear – then see – my dad a few seconds later.  He’s screaming to me.  I pick it up and get right on the guy’s shoulder.

Mile 26: 7:06.

We round the final corner with me still right on his heels, and for a split second I’m terrified I’m going to slide out and hit the deck.  It doesn’t happen.  I take the left lane, the other guy is dead center on the road.  The finish line is in sight, people are screaming, but I don’t know if I can start my kick yet.  The guy pulls about 20 feet ahead of me.  I hear my name, turn my head, see my friends.  They’re a blur. 

*Note: this apparently didn’t happen.  They were after the finish line.  But I’m keeping this description in here as demonstrative of the fact that I may have blacked out for large chunks of the last 1.2 miles of the race.

I start my kick.  I’m within 10 feet and he senses I’m coming.  I’m throwing my head forward to try and give my body momentum.  My arms are churning, legs are flying in what I’m sure is the worst form anyone’s ever seen. 

Five feet.  He pulls into my lane, just slightly.  I’m ready to surge, to go around him, to close that gap and pass him in the last 150’, and he eases up just a tiny, tiny bit, turns his head to the crowd, and starts screaming, joyfully, ecstatically, “I’M GOING TO BOSTON!  I’M FUCKING GOING TO BOSTON!”

I can’t pass him.  I just can’t do it.  As I said before, I’m not the type to gush and scream at the finish line, but he is, and this is his moment to do it.  My moment will come in five minutes or five hours or five days when I catch my breath and realize what I’ve done.  His is right now, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to ruin it.  I ease off his shoulder and cross the finish line a stride behind him.  The clock reads 3:08 something.  My Garmin reads 3:07:59.  (Official time: 3:07:52.)  I made it.  I’m going to Boston.

Last .2: 5:55 pace.

I get my medal, let the wave of nausea pass, and head towards the finisher area as much as my legs will let me.  They’ve become bricks of lactic acid in the last five seconds.  I hear what sounds like a retch and look to see the guy I sprinted with trying to hold back a dry heave.  It doesn’t work.  He loses what looks like 2-3 bottles-worth of Gatorade on the asphalt.  I hang out a few feet from him until he stops, then ask if he’s alright.  “Hell yeah, man!” he yells.  “Hell yeah!”  I slap him on the shoulder, tell him that was a hell of a sprint, and go to find my family and friends.

I hug my mom for a long, long time.  Then the friend whose text got me through the hardest mile of my life for another long, long time.  She asks me how I feel.  I do a systems check; I’m tired, my quads feel like a meat tenderizer has been slamming on them for the last two hours, and I’m extremely dehydrated, but all in all, I feel… fine.  The pain is nowhere near as much as my first marathon, and other than my quads, it’s not even close to as bad as the 22 I did during training.  Another friend then asks, “So, what do you want to do now?” (to which the typical response would be, “I’m going to Disneyland!”)  Again, I take a second to think about what the absolute truth to this question is before answering.  Then I start laughing when I realize what it is that, more than anything else in the world, I want to be doing right now:

“To be honest,” I say, “all I really want to do right now is go on a run.”

No Stopping Any Time: OC Marathon 2011 Race Report, Part 1

I would feel remiss if I were to begin this race report with my 4am wake-up call the morning of Sunday, May 1, 2011; to do that would, in no insignificant way, neglect everything that built up to that alarm: the five months I devoted to training for this race, the support I received from friends and family throughout my training (even when I became completely unlikeable, which I’m well aware happened), their continued votes of confidence through my first taper – boy, that was something – and the whirlwind forty-eight hours that preceded my toeing the start line in those final seconds before the race started. 

On the other hand, to start from the absolute beginning – early December, 2010 – and drag all of you through my entire journey would be tedious, if not completely boring.  Instead, I’ll just touch on the catalyst that started this training cycle, a piece of advice that I was completely skeptical of and completely unhappy to be heeding: run slower. 

Apparently, the key to running faster is to run slower, I was told.  And the key to fewer injuries – which plagued my first marathon training cycle – is running more miles.  What? 

Let’s fast-forward through the next four-and-a-half months with some bullet points:

My first “official” week of training for yesterday’s race was December 6-12.  This was the first time I’d ever run 6 days in a row.  I ran 40 miles.  They were slow.  Really slow.  But I wasn’t injured, and I felt good.  Of course, I was skeptical about this whole run-slow thing, especially given how easy it felt.  I had just gone from running 6- and 7-milers at a 7:30 pace to running 3- and 4-milers somewhere between 8:30 and 9:00.   

Still, it wasn’t going to do me any good to test a theory for one month and then give up on it and return to the habits that kept me straddling the line between injury and semi-injury the first time around.  I tacked on more miles to my weekly totals, running my first-ever 50+ mile week in early January.

At this point, I made a plan and proposed my goals for this race: C goal was to PR and not get injured, B goal was to hit sub-3:20 and not get injured, A goal was to BQ and not get injured.  A fellow runner told me that I should shoot for the BQ or nothing.  He assured me I was capable, and it was just going to take dedication and adherence to the high-mileage, low-speed plan.  I was uneasy about that, since 3:10 seemed like a very high bar to set, but as soon as I read his suggestion, I had already decided to go for it, despite myself.

My focus on the marathon wandered about halfway through my training.  I was reaching a mental and physical plateau, and easy miles had become boring.  I signed up for a couple trail races, finishing second in both.  After completing my second half marathon – a grueling, 14+ mile trail run that took me over 2 hours and really gave me no indication of how that result could translate to a road marathon – I realized that maybe I was doing something right by completely switching up my training.  Until that point, I had been logging tons of flat-ish, slow road miles.  The base was there.  Adding monster hills, trails, and race experience to the mix, unbeknownst to me, was the beginning of my build period.

Around the middle of March, I realized that I was putting in as many hours as I ever had before – previously, I was cross-training on the bike at least 5 hours per week – but I wasn’t tired, grouchy, or over-trained in the way I was the first time around.  I knew something good was going on, and I knew I had a huge peak in front of me.  My focus returned after that trail half.

During the last week of March through the beginning of April, I peaked and broke a cardinal rule of training: I picked up my mileage to 69 and 69.5 miles per week, respectively, and started to add tempo runs and a hell of a lot more GA work to the mix.  All at the same time.  I rode the line between over-reaching and over-training, but I felt no niggles – early warning signs of possible injuries – whatsoever.  My legs were holding up, and I was willing to push myself as hard as I could.  So I did. 

I admittedly might have over-trained a tiny bit.  I started to notice the symptoms – extremely short fuse with regards to anything that I could possibly deem as “incompetency,” feeling a lot less social, etc. – but had the support of a friend who quickly became an extremely good friend.  Every night after class, Deaf events, or just random game nights at her sister’s house, she would wait for me to say, “Hey, do you mind sticking around to talk for a little bit?”  Then she would sit and listen for hours as I rambled on and on about everything, running-related or not.

This was hugely significant for me.  I had never been able to talk to anyone about running or any sort of training before – sure, people asked how running was going, but as soon as I started to give the answer I thought was appropriate, their eyes glazed over like I was speaking another language.  Or at the very least, the details I wanted to share were never requested.  But I agree, talking running really is another language. 

But instead of losing interest and wishing she’d never asked, this friend asked more questions.  When I apologized for such a long-winded response, complete with splits and a hell of a lot of running jargon, she replied, “No, that’s exactly the kind of response I wanted.”  Her interest validated what would become over 150 hours that I spent focusing on what would hopefully be a less-than-3:10 experience.

Then taper started.  Whereas I’d been rehashing my college days throughout most of my training – late nights, a number of hangovers, complete “youthful exuberance,” as it was referred to – now it was time to get serious.  Maybe.

I was looking forward to the first week, since my legs had sustained some pretty decent wear and tear on back-to-back 20+ mile long runs, the second of which ended with 10 at race pace.  I went into those final three weeks extremely confident, as everything I’d ever read suggested that nailing a 20 with 10 at pace meant I was ready to hit my goal.  Of course, within the first week, I started questioning the sanity of such a conclusion.  Not only was that run 6.2 miles shorter than the race, but only half of it was at pace!  And to be honest, it didn’t feel that fantastic running those ten miles.  They hurt.  Bad.  And during the last two, for the first time in my life, I started to bleed time and couldn’t do much about it.  How the hell was that supposed to translate to a perfect race?!

The 16-miler at the end of my first taper week didn’t help my confidence.  It, too, hurt.  It was hot out.  My knees bitched.  It felt like the 22 I’d run two weeks before. 

Nor did the 12-miler help.  My anterior tibialis muscles – just to the outside of the shin, both legs – had started to hurt quite a bit in the last week, and this one didn’t really fix the problem.  But I knew that now, it was better to do less than more.  I wasn’t going to see many gains during these three weeks, so cramming a bunch of tempo runs or pace miles wasn’t going to help.  Now was time for my body to recover, my legs to heal, and my race-readiness to peak. 

Still, the runs weren’t feeling great.  Nor was I.  A series of events – sparked by, but not limited to, a funeral for a friend from high school – weren’t helping my already spinning brain.  Without my normal mileage, I didn’t have those hour-long meditative releases.  I was stuck with all of this.  And it was only getting worse.

Oh, that last week.  I suited up for my first 4-miler in God knows how long and thought to myself, “What’s the point?”  Why even bother running a measly four miles?  Then I realized that at the beginning of my cycle, I was doing two 3-milers per week.  So, drudgingly, I did it.  My legs weren’t fresh, and my mind was satisfied.  I wanted to just throw the race away and run up a mountain.  Racing was stupid, and putting myself through all this was even stupider.  What was I doing?

The stress of the rapidly approaching race weekend was bubbling over at this point.  Not only did I have a huge goal to hit – using a training system I’d never tried before and therefore was still a bit unsure of – but I also had a long two days leading up to the race. 

As many of you know, I had an interview – this is the wrong word for it, really, but since I didn’t know the sign for “screening,” I always used “interview” while discussing it with ASL-related friends, so it stuck – in Northern California on Saturday.  Which meant I had to drive up there Friday (a seven hour drive), wake up early to squeeze in my last run on Saturday, then drive from Davis to East Sacramento, focus on ASL and looking awesome from 9am-3pm, then drive another seven hours home.  Hopefully I’d get some sleep in there. 

I was not excited about all of this happening on the same weekend as my marathon.  I had put in five dedicated months for this race, and now a mandatory interview/screening day might completely blow my race…  But when I found out that I had passed the first application process, I realized that this was more important than running a perfect race.  There’d be other marathons, and it was time for my “real” life to get started.  My mom, with all good intentions, said I could always switch to the half marathon at the last minute.  Oh, Mom, you’re the more supportive person I know, but if you think I’m ever actually going to back out of a race, you’re insane.  I was going to bury myself on this race, whether it mean 7:10s as planned or walking in the last 10 miles and crawling across the finish line.

The drive up Friday was inconsequential.  I showed up at my brother’s place in Davis, cooked dinner for us, really wanted a glass of wine to help me get to bed (my body still hadn’t adjusted to earlier bed times over the last week, so I was worried I’d have trouble sleeping again), but I had sworn off alcohol – as well as all the other junk I’d been eating for the last few months as a carry-over from the holidays – for the last week of taper.  My brother’s roommate was having a dinner party, his other roommate was watching an NHL playoff game, and it was rapidly approaching 10pm.  My brother went to his room to sleep.

Fortunately, the dinner party ended, as did the hockey game, but a few people stuck around and were chatting in the kitchen.  I was trying to set myself up on the futon in the living room area, which is in no way separated from the kitchen.  I finally got into a hazy state of consciousness and was in and out until I got a text message at midnight.  I decided I could either become infuriated and probably keep myself up fuming about it or I could just turn my phone to completely silent and accept that whatever happens will happen.  I voted for the later. 

I managed to get a solid six hours of sleep in.  Woke up and felt pretty refreshed, suited up for my last run of the cycle in, and stepped out the door into gale force winds.  It was chilly, but really beautiful.  I headed east towards Sacramento along a road that paralleled the freeway and enjoyed the sunrise.  There were hardly any cars on the road.  I tried not to pay attention to my splits, but running 8:2x’s with the level of effort I was putting in wasn’t encouraging.  I picked up the pace for the last mile, finishing at race pace.  It didn’t feel great or easy, but it wasn’t terribly difficult.  I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in a full-length window.  I was happy to see that my stride looks, in my opinion, really good.  I feel like I’m landing correctly, have become much more of a midfoot striker (I used to heelstrike really awfully), and I looked relaxed.

I had some time to stretch and eat before my interview, and I made it there with about twenty minutes to spare.  We quickly got started. 

Now, I’m normally a very shy person when it comes to getting involved in a group of people I’ve never met.  If I’m with a friend and am introduced to a group or a few new people, I can ham it up and be really comfortable.  Perform a little bit, what-have-you.  But going into a situation cold?  Oof.  Fortunately, in Deaf events or ASL-related gatherings, this doesn’t seem to be an incapacitating problem for me.  It’s a cultural thing, in some ways; in the Deaf community, there’s nothing even remotely awkward or unusual about walking up to a complete stranger (at a gathering or event, of course) and introducing yourself.  I guess this is probably the same in the hearing community, but it’s not something I’m comfortable with doing.  Maybe it’s the language and interest in Deaf culture that acts as a launching point for a conversation.  I don’t know.  Either way, I was able to quickly meet about a third of the people there and strike up conversations. 

The day went by pretty quickly.  I made a few mistakes, realized I made them as I was making them, but just pushed through it.  There were 30 people there and 22-23 spots available, and I was/am confident that at least 7-8 were worse than me.  When I texted this to my main confidant – who had by this point claimed herself to be my coach – she replied, “There are a lot more than that worse than you.”  Kind of a strange way to word a compliment, Coach, but I know how she meant it.  I had a few moments to shine when others in my group faltered with an explanation and started looking to the rest of us for help, and I was able to make a pretty decent impression on the director of the program, as she knew I had come from southern California for the interview and therefore stood out by default.  I was disappointed to find out that we have to wait a week or two to find out if we’re in, but then again, if I had gotten a “no,” I would’ve been devastated.  Not because it really matters – it doesn’t, as I’ve already been accepted to two other programs – but that would’ve been a huge blow to my already taper-fragile confidence.

The drive home, too, was inconsequential.  I ate my last big-carb meal as soon as the interview finished – a huge bag of pasta with some tomato sauce – which is extremely hard to do while driving.  I talked with friend-coach about possible plans for Sunday, where I would meet everyone or where they might watch from, whether or not they’d be there for the start (I wasn’t about to ask anyone else to wake up at 4am). 

We’re going to skip over what led to this text message and just transcribe it here: “You’re going to do well because you don’t need luck.  You’re amazing.”  Let me be clear about something: I know that most people don’t run marathons.  I know most people don’t even run, let alone run six days a week.  But when you train correctly and build up your mileage safely, running longer and faster doesn’t seem significant.  I tend to forget what it means to be a marathoner, what it means to go out on a Sunday morning and run twenty miles – simply because you like it – so I’d never stop to think that anyone would see my training as anything more than serious dedication.  Needless to say, that one hit me like a freight train and gave me the chills.  I thanked her profusely and prayed to God she was right.

I got home a bit earlier than expected, which gave me time to gather some things for the morning, get snappy with my mom – sorry again, Mom – and be in bed by 10pm.  I didn’t fall asleep immediately, but I was able to rest soon enough. 

In less than six hours, I’d be starting the biggest day of my running career, to date.

Preparing to find God

Over the last couple months, I've worked on a playlist to assault my ears with before important runs and races.  The idea is that by playing it before my hardest workouts, the psychological effect of those songs will compound so that by race day, I could go from comatose to race-ready by the time the list is up.  I think it's working.  The title of the playlist is the title of this entry: Preparing to find God.

I thoroughly touched on why I run two entries ago, so this is really just another way of saying it.  It's not always the case that I catch a glimpse of something divine during a run - or a ride, for that matter - but it happens.  Most prominent in my mind is a memory of a three-hour ride I did in the fall - October 26, to be specific.  I headed to the coast, turned north towards Newport Beach, and cut back inland on Newport Coast Drive.  It's a decent climb, gaining 675' over 2.5 miles.  I had tentatively planned my route and the elevation chart I'd seen suggested that this was the only big climb of the ride.  So I crushed it.

I got to the top and started looking for the road I was supposed to turn on.  After a 450' decent, I found the turn.  Then I realized that the elevation chart had lied.  In front of me was a mile-long, 7.5% climb.  Full disclosure: I love climbing until the road gets steeper than 6%.  Then I have no interest whatsoever.

My legs were still aching from the last hill.  They wanted little to do with this hill.  I gave them a break, got out of the saddle, and just started walking the pedals over one another.  One step at a time.  I looked around at the cypress trees, the 180 degrees of green rolling hillsides, the newly-paved winding black road.

"There is nowhere in the world I'd rather be, nothing in the world I'd rather be doing, than climbing this hill, right here, right now."  It wasn't a conscious thought, but it was clear enough to have been spoken.  In the midst of my suffering, the heaviness of my legs was lifted.  I felt light, nimble, fresh.  My face, drawn with pain, turned to a smile.  I started laughing.

I'm 9 days out.  That playlist is on repeat in my head already.
(I apologize in advance to everyone who has to deal with my taper madness.  I know, I'm a needy middle-school girlfriend right now.)


Notable workouts:
4/13 - 12 w/ last 4 faster than MP
4/17 - 16 @ 7:44 pace; my last run over 2 hours
4/19 - 8 @ MP+15sec
4/21 - 7 w/ mid 4 @ ~10k pace (6:19)

Un giorno da leone

The title of this post has a few raisons d'etre...

First and foremost, it's what my marathon bib will say.  My first was "ShutUpLegs!"  

The second is the phrase it comes from: Meglio un giorno da leone che cento da pecora.  Literally translated, this means "It's better to have one day as a lion than one hundred as a sheep."  More figuratively and specific to my race, "Leave it all on the course."  Fight pain, fight doubt, fight the desire to quit.  

This is how I felt about Sunday's run.  It was the peak run of this cycle, 20 miles with the last 10 @ marathon pace (MP), but to add a little fun, I scheduled 10 miles @ MP+30seconds pace the day before.  

I went out on Sunday wanting to hit somewhere around 8:00/mile (at the fastest) and 8:20/mile (at the slowest) for my first 10.  Normally, I'd start a 20 miler with 5 around 8:35-8:50/mile average, then the next 5 would be settled in around 8:30/mile.  So this was already pushing it.  Then adding the MP miles...

It hurt.  The rollers through the neighborhood on the north rim of Newport Back Bay shred my legs and left me hurting quite a bit.  Humidity was surprisingly low, so by mile 17, I was caked in sweat and completely dehydrated.  The last 3 were a struggle holding pace, and my effort level and heart rate showed it.  But as I came around the last corner from Jamboree onto Eastbluff and threw one of the most pathetic sprints I've ever thrown, I knew the run was in the bag and I was ready.  

I officially entered my 3-week taper yesterday, though the miles don't start falling off significantly until next week.  Perhaps not coincidentally, I had a dream about absolutely crushing my goal time last night.  That was nice.

Recap highlights since last time:

4/4 - 8 mile tempo run: 2.5mile warm-up, 4x 5min at increasing effort from moderate to threshold, then 5min at 10k pace, followed by a brisk cooldown

4/6 - 15 miles with 10 at(below) MP: 2mile warm-up, 5 at MP-5seconds, 1mile easy, 5 at MP-10seconds, 2mile cooldown

4/9+4/10 - 10 + 20, as described above

4/12 - 8 mile tempo run: same as above, but the tempo portion was run about 4-5 seconds faster, on average, and the cooldown was 1.5miles at MP-10 followed by .5 at MP+10

Tomorrow, I'll hit 1000 miles training for this marathon.  I broke 137 hours today.  Exciting.

Into the Wild

This was going to be a race report from the trail run I did two weeks ago.  Instead, it's going to be about the movie from which the race's name was taken.

Sort of.

A semi-well-planned night last night turned into another marathon - no pun intended - night-into-morning epic.  This time, it was dinner, a Deaf event, midnight pancakes, and a movie that started past 1 in the morning and went for another two and a half hours.  Most of which I spent relatively alone, as the other two were asleep.

I've always envied Christopher McCandless' courage.  He did what every young, suburban male wants to do: threw away his money, his possessions, his life as he knew it, and searched for truth.  A friend who I consider a brother once recited to me the following quote: "All human beings should try to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why."

While one of my partners in crime drove home last night, I kept her awake with a story that was only thinly veiled so as to suggest that there was some minuscule possibility that it wasn't my own.

I wrote of a young man named Everett Reilly who found himself in a life that was, in a word, comfortable; however, six months of sleepless nights finally pulled Everett from complacency and made him realize that comfort was the last thing he wanted.  Everett soon found himself halfway across the world, writing feverishly as if a linear progression of words would somehow untangle the situation in which he found himself.  He realized he was writing his sins.  When his pen ran dry, he placed the pages aside, threw away his name, and declared to himself that his life would begin anew.

The young man - no longer Everett, but nameless - found himself wanting nothing more than to love for the sake of loving, for the sake of learning to love without condition.  He found a young woman who would never return his love, but would allow herself to be doted upon, held, and watched.  He discovered the question that would drive his new life, the question that must always have an immediate and obvious answer: what are we doing here that has to do with love?

Then, as suddenly as everything happened in this new place and life, he met a woman for whom the last had been preparing him.  He called her Evve.

Evve kissed him in a way he had never been kissed before.  When they breathed together, they understood what it must have felt like to be the first person to ever gasp the word Hallelujah.

The young man learned, however, as every protagonist must, that sometimes dreams last days, weeks, or even years, but that does not mean they are not dreams.  Reality eventually forces itself into the dreamscape and shows the young man a devastating truth: for some, there are things much more important than love.

When the young man finally returned from his sojourns, he found that the mountains near his home were draped in snow.  A strange, silent call grew within him, and he began to run, as hard as he could, towards the top of the highest peak.

When I got to the snow, I fell to my knees and pressed my face against it, tried to breathe it in with hopes that the air would turn to ice in my lungs and tear my breath from me in a way I hadn't known in far too long.  In a way that would remind me of that word, Hallelujah.  Of being so overwhelmed with just being alive that tears would come uncontrollably with laughter and every goddamn second would carry with it the weight of an entire lifetime.

Of the only acceptable answer to that question that drives every moment of my life: what are we doing here that has to do with love?

The answer: everything.

From time to time, people as me why I run so much.  Whether or not I like it.  Whether or not I think it's affecting my life... for better or worse.  This is the truth that I can never articulate.

Slacking, Already

Fortunately not in my running, just in recounting it.  In my defense, I was pretty beat up after my longest-run-of-the-cycle on Saturday, and completely forgot on Sunday.

So, training for the week of of March 28-April 3.  I was coming off a 21k (~half marathon) that turned into something closer to a 23k (14.3 miles) trail race on Saturday, but wanted to push things a bit since this was week 1 of a 3-week peak period in which I'll basically bury myself and become a sleep-craving zombie until taper, when the process will reverse itself.

Mon - 8 miles @ 7:36 pace.
Tue - 8 miles @ 7:47 pace.
Wed - 15 miles @ 7:48 pace.*
Thu - 5.3 miles @ 9:02 pace + four 10-second hill sprints in the morning, 2 very easy miles + 1 mile around MP in the afternoon.
Fri - always an off day.  Dug up ~150ft^2 of the lawn to make room for a new vegetable garden addition.
Sat - 22.6 miles @ 8:21 pace.**
Sun - 7 @ 8:47 + five "strides"/hill sprints.***

Total - 69 for the week (longest Mon-Sun week to date).

*Wednesday's run started in just under 70 degree weather and ended in the low 80's.  The last four miles were definitely a gut-check.
**Something about this run really, really hurt.  It didn't help that my back was pretty sore from Friday's yardwork.  Aerobically, it was a cakewalk.  But it really tore up my knees and miles 17-20 were really tough.  Not to mention that I had to pee for the entire first hour and there were no public bathrooms on the route...  This is the Newport Back Bay loop, by the way.  By mile 20, I was dehydrated, having trouble keeping cool, in a lot of pain, but the body just went on autopilot and brought me home.
***Strides are an exercise in which you gradually (over the course of 100m or so) accelerate to a near-maximal effort, hold that for 5 seconds, then gradually slow down again.  It teaches you to increase your turnover and gives your legs some zip without tiring you out.  Hill sprints are an 8-10 second maximal effort up as steep of a hill as you can find.  The purpose of these is to strengthen joints/stabilizing muscles while greatly decreasing the amount of impact on your legs in a sprint, since you're going uphill.  

Aside from the beating I took on Saturday, the entire week was a huge confidence booster, especially after the race on Saturday.  More about that in the next post, though; I'm waiting to see if more photos get posted online from it.