My favorite thing about a race course (and the only thing I thought mattered) used to be that there are so many people running on it that I couldn't possibly get lost. That's still my favorite thing, but I have found there are other things that can be good or bad about a course. Here are two examples:
The Seattle Rock and Roll Marathon. It barely occurred to me to look up the course before I ran this race. It certainly wasn't a consideration when I chose to sign up, nor did I factor it into my training regimen. My thinking was, "I liked the half last year, so I should love the full, right?" WRONG.
The first half of the course is beautiful: full of pretty scenery, residential neighborhoods and tree-lined streets. After mile nine, the courses diverge and the full-marathoners head out across a floating bridge and back. Pay attention here, because the out-and-back component is a major feature of this race. The bridge wasn't horrible; it was flat and the day was somewhat overcast so the lack of shade wasn't that big of a deal. After heading back off the bridge, we met up with the half course again for a few miles, staying with them until we could smell the finish line and then out past the jubilation for another out-and-back, turning around at mile 18.5. The only good part of this is that I knew exactly how envious the runners were who had yet to make the u-turn as they stared glassy-eyed and longingly in my direction--because I was one of them a few short miles ago.
Meanwhile, I am pounding away on concrete, bermed (is that a word) freeway. I guess one good thing about the out-and-back model is that I screwed up my hips equally on both sides from the curvature of the road.
The course passes the finish once again at mile 23, close enough that I could hear the cheers and continues on for a final (you guessed it!) out-and-back. I'm normally a fan of this model, but it doesn't hold nearly the same charm when you double back so many times. For the last 3.2 miles I got to run near the wharf. As if running a marathon wasn't vomit-inducing enough, the course adds some nice dead-fish tang to the equation.
There was one good thing about this last bit of the course--half of it was downhill. The only problem was it was the first half. As every runner on an out-and-back knows, if it's downhill on the way down, it's uphill on the way back. Son of a bitch. The last .2 miles was the same as every other marathon I've ever run (okay, so there have only been two, but it made an impression). In fact, I think I will save my rant on the demoralizing quality of the .2 in another post, possibly entitled, "Point-F*#!ing-Two." To neatly tie up this story, despite the atrocious nature of the last half of the course, I was able to PR by nearly 45 minutes. I was 28 seconds off my goal of 4:30:59 (see Point-F*#!ing-Two).
The second race that made me question the wisdom of signing up for a race without scrutinizing the course was the Fueled by Fine Wine half marathon. Oddly enough, this is a good story. Before I signed up, I had a look at the course and even read a blogged description of it online. "Sure," they said, "there are some hills. You won't clock your best time, but you'll have the best time!" I bet they said it with a smirk on their face and a false, jocular tone. Having learned my lesson about knowing what to expect, I looked at elevation maps and practically memorized the blog post. I was expecting a big hill from mile 6 to 8, but then the worst would be over and it would be more or less downhill from there. And so it seemed until I turned the corner at around mile 11 and was confronted with a hill so steep that every single person on the course was walking. Even the guy with the Ironman logo tattooed on his calf and the old chicken-legged master that could run laps around me up and down Leaf Erickson (and probably does). The crazy thing about this is that it was so preposterous, instead of feeling demoralized, there was this collective sense of unfettered joy. Suddenly everyone had permission not to worry about their time or to be ashamed of walking; everyone was walking. I am sure that the beautiful day and stunning scenery of vineyards added to this phenomenon. The fabulous and plentiful wine at the end didn't hurt either.
In general, I think I will be more careful about selecting which courses to run. The problem with this new found wisdom is that I have yet to complete two more marathons that I have already committed to, and which I signed up for prior to realizing how much a the course really does matter. I am sure I will be back complaining about the Nike Women's Marathon and the Columbia Gorge Marathon in October.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Running Late
Sometimes Mother Nature conspires against you, and sometimes you just screw things up all by yourself.
Mental note: do not share a pitcher of PBR the night before a race. Maybe it's just me, but carbo-loading with beer (though delicious and fun) inevitably means I will have to carbo un-load in the morning.
On this particular morning, I was assigned a 16 mile run. I'd already registered for the Earthday 10k, so I thought I'd be clever and combine the runs by parking five miles from the starting line--compelling me to finish all 16 miles or hitchhike home. I scouted Google maps and consulted a Portland expert to find a likely spot for my car. I set out for Lake Oswego, having taken care of business ;) before I left bright and early.
I got to the school parking lot and started getting my gear ready. I was wearing a hydration pack without the bladder so that I would have a place to carry my dry clothes, gels, and the inevitable race swag. I carried my Nuun electrolyte drink in a hand-held water bottle and I'd already swiped my important bits with Body Glide. The only thing I didn't have were my carefully written, turn-by-turn directions. Apparently, they had somehow missed the transition from kitchen table gear pile to tightly packed bag.
Bitchcakes! I am so directionally challenged, I practically qualify for ADA status. I knew the general direction I was supposed to be heading, but decided to bring along some insurance in the form of my Garmin Nuvi, a navigational device for cars (not, as it turns out, runners).
This little hiccup in my plan set me behind somewhat, and I would have to run sub 10-minute miles to get to the race on time. The second and bigger hiccup arrived in the form of G.I. distress about a mile into the run. Cheap beer, like cheap hookers may offer instant gratification, but tends to have regrettable consequences. If Google ever asks me how I like their walking map beta, I'm going to tell them that they need to add public restrooms to the list of menu items that can be incorporated into the route. The particular path I was on was full of industrial parks, significantly lacking in public restrooms; and sparse brush, significantly lacking in both camouflage and make-shift toilet-paper options. I'm sure my chiropractor would be appalled at the biomechanics of my gait: trying to run with a tightly clinched ass and a rigid, mincing stride was probably not doing my joints any favors. Things were not looking good for an on-time arrival.
At last, like an oasis in the desert, I saw a gas station up ahead, approximately .2 miles from the race, where tent peaks were sprawled across the parking lot like a Bedouin camp. I ran into the station and made a bee line for the restroom... which was locked. I practically lapped the inside of the convenience store before I found the clerk crouched down in the chip aisle restocking the Funions. I asked her for the key, and she informed me that someone was already in there, so I stalked back to the bathroom door and crossed my arms (and my legs) to wait... and wait... and wait... Every time I heard the paper towel dispenser thump, I would get my hopes up that this person would soon be vacating the premises I so desperately wanted to occupy, but that door never did open, and time was ticking. It was about five minutes before the start of the race when I decided to give up on the obsessive-compulsive hand-washer in the gas station john and try my luck at the event port-a-potties.
This turned out to be almost as bad of a decision as drinking beer the night before. There were only four toilets for all 200+ participants and however many spectators and volunteers. Not four banks of toilets--four toilets, TOTAL. A fifth grader could have told the organizers that this was a serious oversight. But, having no choice, I joined the line of people snaked in front of the honey buckets.
Over the loudspeaker, I heard them announce that the 10k would start about ten minutes late. "Thank goodness for small favors" I thought, as I hopped from foot to foot. Then they announced the imminent start time....and then the gun went off. Without me. Because surely, anyone who orders only four johns for more than 300 people did not consider for a moment the need for toilets on the course. I had no choice. I continued to wait in line. and wait. and wait.
Finally, much relieved, I trotted over to the start line to make sure I could start with the 5k'ers. Not so, they said. I would have to start immediately for my chip to work properly. The head honcho hopped on his walkie talkie and announced that there was some chick who was in the bathroom for a really long time ("long line, I said long line!") and still wanted to do the 10k. So, traffic was stopped and I ran off down a completely empty course, crossing my fingers that I would make the right turns.
I didn't see a soul for the first mile. Convinced that I had gotten off track, I had just decided to run three miles and turn around so that I could at least make my training goal when I finally saw a little yellow sign marked "runners." About a half mile later, I passed a race volunteer, who despite the extra perky, "way to go!" couldn't quite disguise her look of utter confusion over whether I was an elite 5k runner or just a really fucking slow 10k runner. I passed some walkers at mile two, and despite having over a ten minute delay on my start time, managed to catch up with some actual runners at about mile three and a half.
I did finish the race and set a new personal record of 58:43, though I did not stick around to partake of the free beer (consider that lesson learned).
Mental note: do not share a pitcher of PBR the night before a race. Maybe it's just me, but carbo-loading with beer (though delicious and fun) inevitably means I will have to carbo un-load in the morning.
On this particular morning, I was assigned a 16 mile run. I'd already registered for the Earthday 10k, so I thought I'd be clever and combine the runs by parking five miles from the starting line--compelling me to finish all 16 miles or hitchhike home. I scouted Google maps and consulted a Portland expert to find a likely spot for my car. I set out for Lake Oswego, having taken care of business ;) before I left bright and early.
I got to the school parking lot and started getting my gear ready. I was wearing a hydration pack without the bladder so that I would have a place to carry my dry clothes, gels, and the inevitable race swag. I carried my Nuun electrolyte drink in a hand-held water bottle and I'd already swiped my important bits with Body Glide. The only thing I didn't have were my carefully written, turn-by-turn directions. Apparently, they had somehow missed the transition from kitchen table gear pile to tightly packed bag.
Bitchcakes! I am so directionally challenged, I practically qualify for ADA status. I knew the general direction I was supposed to be heading, but decided to bring along some insurance in the form of my Garmin Nuvi, a navigational device for cars (not, as it turns out, runners).
This little hiccup in my plan set me behind somewhat, and I would have to run sub 10-minute miles to get to the race on time. The second and bigger hiccup arrived in the form of G.I. distress about a mile into the run. Cheap beer, like cheap hookers may offer instant gratification, but tends to have regrettable consequences. If Google ever asks me how I like their walking map beta, I'm going to tell them that they need to add public restrooms to the list of menu items that can be incorporated into the route. The particular path I was on was full of industrial parks, significantly lacking in public restrooms; and sparse brush, significantly lacking in both camouflage and make-shift toilet-paper options. I'm sure my chiropractor would be appalled at the biomechanics of my gait: trying to run with a tightly clinched ass and a rigid, mincing stride was probably not doing my joints any favors. Things were not looking good for an on-time arrival.
At last, like an oasis in the desert, I saw a gas station up ahead, approximately .2 miles from the race, where tent peaks were sprawled across the parking lot like a Bedouin camp. I ran into the station and made a bee line for the restroom... which was locked. I practically lapped the inside of the convenience store before I found the clerk crouched down in the chip aisle restocking the Funions. I asked her for the key, and she informed me that someone was already in there, so I stalked back to the bathroom door and crossed my arms (and my legs) to wait... and wait... and wait... Every time I heard the paper towel dispenser thump, I would get my hopes up that this person would soon be vacating the premises I so desperately wanted to occupy, but that door never did open, and time was ticking. It was about five minutes before the start of the race when I decided to give up on the obsessive-compulsive hand-washer in the gas station john and try my luck at the event port-a-potties.
This turned out to be almost as bad of a decision as drinking beer the night before. There were only four toilets for all 200+ participants and however many spectators and volunteers. Not four banks of toilets--four toilets, TOTAL. A fifth grader could have told the organizers that this was a serious oversight. But, having no choice, I joined the line of people snaked in front of the honey buckets.
Over the loudspeaker, I heard them announce that the 10k would start about ten minutes late. "Thank goodness for small favors" I thought, as I hopped from foot to foot. Then they announced the imminent start time....and then the gun went off. Without me. Because surely, anyone who orders only four johns for more than 300 people did not consider for a moment the need for toilets on the course. I had no choice. I continued to wait in line. and wait. and wait.
Finally, much relieved, I trotted over to the start line to make sure I could start with the 5k'ers. Not so, they said. I would have to start immediately for my chip to work properly. The head honcho hopped on his walkie talkie and announced that there was some chick who was in the bathroom for a really long time ("long line, I said long line!") and still wanted to do the 10k. So, traffic was stopped and I ran off down a completely empty course, crossing my fingers that I would make the right turns.
I didn't see a soul for the first mile. Convinced that I had gotten off track, I had just decided to run three miles and turn around so that I could at least make my training goal when I finally saw a little yellow sign marked "runners." About a half mile later, I passed a race volunteer, who despite the extra perky, "way to go!" couldn't quite disguise her look of utter confusion over whether I was an elite 5k runner or just a really fucking slow 10k runner. I passed some walkers at mile two, and despite having over a ten minute delay on my start time, managed to catch up with some actual runners at about mile three and a half.
I did finish the race and set a new personal record of 58:43, though I did not stick around to partake of the free beer (consider that lesson learned).
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Confessions of a Lazy Blogger
Okay, okay, it has been a very long time since my last post in October. Some of you may be inclined to think that I have been sitting on the couch eating Krispy Kremes now that I can check "ran a marathon" off my bucket list, but you'd be wrong. In fact, I have run at least one event per month (more or less) since the marathon to keep my motivation going. The list includes:
Well, that was my old strategy; my new strategy is to get a coach. I found one at PSU by emailing the PE department and inquiring if there were any students in the program who needed independent credits for training someone. This strategy is way more beneficial to my training and I don't have to shell out race fees every month. My new coach is named Yassine. He is an ultra-marathoner, which is intimidating enough, but he also happens to win ultra marathons. Check out his terrific blog. So now, I have someone who just lays out what I'm supposed to do, which is so much better than reading 15 different training plans and trying to discern what I should do. That gives me a headache and usually takes up so much time that I can't fit in a run. Having a coach also makes me accountable to someone other than myself. I'm actually doing speed work for the first time and loving it.
I have a few more races coming up, Bloomsday in Spokane and the Hippie Chick Half for Mother's Day. After that it's on to the full Rock and Roll Seattle marathon in June. Then I plan to buckle down and train hard for the triple threat I have coming up in October: three marathons in three weeks, which will qualify me for Silver status as a Marathon Maniac. I'm running Portland, Nike Women's in SFO and the Columbia Gorge. Then I'm taking a week off and spending it in a hot tub with a bucket of margaritas.
- Run Like Hell 10k (October): A costume race. I went as Pippi Longstocking, which was a lot of fun, especially when people called out, "Go Pippi!" along the route. I'm considering wearing the same costume for my next marathon just to get the shout outs.
- Dirty Birdy 5k (October): Three times around a motorcross track in the cold wet mud with two "slip 'n' slides" (black plastic laid down on a steep hill--which does nothing to cushion one's ass from sharp rocks). Also done in costume. My favorite: Jen Linder as a pregnant cheerleader. I had to throw away my clothes when this was over.
- Jingle Bell Run 5k (December): F@#king cold.
- First Run 5k (January 1st): A great way to ring in the new year. Also, a testament to the oddness of runners and their penchant for weird costumes even when they aren't called for. Strangest sighting: a couple dressed completely in black with matching red thongs worn on the outside of their clothes.
- Aaron Rogers Open Invitational 5k (February): I don't know who Aaron Rogers is, but I agree with his opinion that "Open Invitational" sounds way better than "Fun Run". Apparently, he is some kid from Glencoe High School in Hillsboro who organized a 5K for his senior project. Even though I secretly think the course was less than 5k, I liked my 25:43 time so I'm not going to complain. This kid organized the hell of this race, better than the Portland marathon by about 26.2 miles.
- Red Lizard 5 Miler (March): Very well organized on a beautiful course in Lake Oswego. I'd do this again, even if I do get lapped by the elites again.
- Shamrock Run 15k (March): Straight up a hill. A really, really, really steep hill. Nothing better than running down the other side (a much more gradual descent than the ascent). Felt like I was flying. I also ran this with a group of girlfriends. Fun times.
- Hitches to Bitches half marathon (April): A group of running friends from Portland Fit put together this half marathon. We briefly ran on the course for Race for the Roses before it was open, which was a ton of fun.We hit the course on the way back too and confused the hell out of the spectators when we diverged from the course--I guess they didn't notice our kick ass H2B race bibs.
- Bridge to Brews 10k (April): Very chilly morning. Nothing like running straight up a hill as soon as the gun goes off to warm a person up.
- Earth Day 10k (April): A PR for me, funny entry featuring port-a-potties to follow.
Well, that was my old strategy; my new strategy is to get a coach. I found one at PSU by emailing the PE department and inquiring if there were any students in the program who needed independent credits for training someone. This strategy is way more beneficial to my training and I don't have to shell out race fees every month. My new coach is named Yassine. He is an ultra-marathoner, which is intimidating enough, but he also happens to win ultra marathons. Check out his terrific blog. So now, I have someone who just lays out what I'm supposed to do, which is so much better than reading 15 different training plans and trying to discern what I should do. That gives me a headache and usually takes up so much time that I can't fit in a run. Having a coach also makes me accountable to someone other than myself. I'm actually doing speed work for the first time and loving it.I have a few more races coming up, Bloomsday in Spokane and the Hippie Chick Half for Mother's Day. After that it's on to the full Rock and Roll Seattle marathon in June. Then I plan to buckle down and train hard for the triple threat I have coming up in October: three marathons in three weeks, which will qualify me for Silver status as a Marathon Maniac. I'm running Portland, Nike Women's in SFO and the Columbia Gorge. Then I'm taking a week off and spending it in a hot tub with a bucket of margaritas.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Six Miles of Truth
A posse ad esse, from possibility to actuality. Twenty-six weeks ago I started training for a marathon; this week I completed one. I'm not quite sure how to feel about the whole thing other than being convinced that I will run another one and probably several shorter races in between. For lack of a more creative introduction, here is how the race went:
I have never checked a bag before at a race because it seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. For the marathon however, I decided to suck it up and bring some dry clothes along; I decided this at 3 AM when I woke up to the pouring rain. Fortunately, it wasn't raining when my running partner, Vonie and I arrived in downtown Portland a few hours later. We stood in line first for the port-a-potties since those lines are always very long, especially at an event with 12,000 runners. This turned out to be a tactical mistake once we saw the lines for the bag check. I seriously contemplated donating my dry clothes to charity on the spot, but I am rather fond of the hoody I packed. At the last minute I threw my cell phone in the bag and jammed my energy gels in the small pocket of my running capris where I had intended to carry my phone. I had planned on pinning the gels to my shirt as I had seen other runners do, but since I have never run with gel packets slapping me on the ass before, I decided to follow the coach's "no new is good new" advice and pocket them instead. I could only cram three of them in there, but I figured I could pick up two more on the course at the designated stations. The whole need for gel was annoying, frankly; I'd trained with a carbohydrate/electrolyte product called Glucose throughout the season because that is the product that was supposed to be on the course. Well, a little less than two weeks prior to the race we found out that Ultima would be on the course instead. Ultima is electrolyte only, hence the need for me to add carbohydrate gel. There was a lot of discussion about this on the Portland Fit forum. Some runners were planning on bringing little packets of glucose and mixing their own during the race. This sounded like a huge time suck to me; little did I know....
At first, I lined up with the five hour (my stated goal) Red Lizard pacer. Then I got a little more optimistic and scooted up closer to the 4:45 (my secret goal) wave-start line. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon and it was a beautiful morning. I was thrilled to finally be running in my first marathon. Then we were off. I went slow, slow, slow for the first little while, trying to remember not to expend too much energy at the beginning. About ten minutes after we started running, I spotted a bank of port-a-potties that was miraculously vacant. I decided to take advantage of this anomaly and was quickly back out on the course. About this time the elite runners went racing by in the other direction - nearly finished and I had barely started. I was feeling good and smiling wide. I was only a few minutes off my goal pace and figured I could make that up later - I was keeping something in reserve for a reason, after all. There were some interesting sights along the course, not the least of which was a smushed rat. I pictured its last moments alive, frozen in the middle of the street as a knot of crazy humans mowed it down in their enthusiasm to test the limits of human endurance. More likely, it was roadkilled in the more traditional manner before traffic was blocked for the marathon, but it's always fun to speculate.
The water stations were going by quickly and I was drinking Ultima and water at each one. I had to pee again by mile six, but ignored the urge until mile eight hoping for shorter lines. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I lined up. There were two lines and I got in the wrong one. Everyone in my line was apparently carbo unloading. Finally, I was back on the course, but I had stopped for so long my left leg was tweaking badly I was limping pretty obviously. I stopped twice to rub out the cramp or whatever it was and was off again hoping I had seen the last of the inside of a port-a-potty until after the finish line; I had definitely seen the last of the 4:45 pacer.
I had already eaten two of my gels and was contemplating the third. I'd saved the best (apple pie) for last and decided to bust it out when I started to flag a bit at mile 15. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, and immediately dropped it on the ground. Horrified, I scooped it up and in the process squeezed gel all over my hand, watch and shirt. I started to lick it off my fingers until I realized that even the delicious* taste of energy gel cannot overcome the nasty taste of double-strength hand sanitizer. Abandoning that plan, I squeezed every last drop from the packet.
*Everything's relative
I reached Highway 30 and there was indeed a bit of a headwind as promised in the pre-race materials I had read diligently the night before. The helpful article had suggested finding another runner to run directly behind in order to conserve up to five heartbeats per minute. I dutifully found a strapping young man and slipped in behind him; then something slipped out of his behind and I had to veer off, gagging on the stench of too many pre-race protein bars. Oh well, nothing ventured...
I had to pee again. I couldn't believe it! I'd already peed four times more frequently than I had during my 21 mile training run. I took advantage of a vacant gas station bathroom I knew about and was pleasantly surprised to find it equipped with toilet paper. I also got to wash the crystallized gel from my hands in a real sink.
Speaking of gels, an aid station equipped with gels finally showed up. I was horrified to observe that instead of convenient little packets, they were pouring the gel from a gallon jug into paper cups. I grabbed one anyway, trying to figure out how to get it into my mouth and not my face/hands/clothes. I normally like to portion out my gel over the course of a mile - a carbohydrate miser. A Dixie cup isn't the best means of convenience for this technique, so I decided to go for broke and downed as much as I could by squishing the cup from the bottom. I immediately regretted the decision as soon as the foulness hit my taste buds. It tasted like someone had swished out a honey bear with Pinesol. (You think I'm kidding.) At least I had something to focus on besides the dull ache in my feet and the many miles left to cover. I thought wistfully of the two fruit-flavored gels I'd left behind in my checked bag and thought maybe I could have used a slap on the ass right about now...
Up and over the St. John's Brige and past the seventeen mile marker now. I was still feeling pretty good and looking forward to getting at the chips and Glucose that Aaron and Gemma had waiting for me at mile 20.5. I stopped to pee one more time (seriously!?) and had begun to suspect it was that damn Ultima that was causing the problems. I vowed to only drink water for the rest of the race as I once again sprinted to catch up to the five-hour pacer. I had been doing this at every water station for the last several miles. I was hanging on to my five hour goal like grim death. Finally, I saw the balloon arch that marked the Portland Fit cheering station and started scanning the crowd for Aaron. I saw him wave at me then I saw Gemma with a big smile on her face. I had planned on stopping to chat with them for a minute and give Gemma a hug, but I couldn't stand the thought of that stupid pacer getting ahead of me; I swooped past, grabbing the chips and Glucose as I went. I ran maybe a hundred more yards and all the engergy left my body like it had been siphoned off by one of the Dementors from Harry Potter. I had been focusing so hard on getting to the cheering station that another six miles seemed unattainable. I slowed way down and watched the Red Lizard pack run past and out of sight. I wanted to cry. And I had to pee again. Goddamnit.
The rest of the race (after giving up any goal aside from just finishing) is sort of a blur. I don't even remember crossing the Broadway Bridge. The only good thing I can say about those last few miles is that the port-a-potties were generally vacant. Of course, this was a philosophical observation since I hadn't had to pee since I stopped guzzling that stupid diuretic they were passing off as a sports drink. It's a good thing I had checked my cell phone, because if I'd had it, the temptation to call a cab would have been very enticing.
I found my focus again maybe a half a mile from the finish line when the throng of spectators started to thicken. I had my ipod on and meant to remember the song I crossed the finish line with, but it turns out my capacity for thought was distilled down to just figuring out where the end was and getting there as soon as possible. I didn't hear Gemma and Aaron cheering for me as I rounded the final corner; I'm pretty sure I didn't hear anything at all. I managed to throw my arms up in a victory "V" as I crossed the finish line. The pictures will soon tell if that looked as good as it felt.
I have never checked a bag before at a race because it seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. For the marathon however, I decided to suck it up and bring some dry clothes along; I decided this at 3 AM when I woke up to the pouring rain. Fortunately, it wasn't raining when my running partner, Vonie and I arrived in downtown Portland a few hours later. We stood in line first for the port-a-potties since those lines are always very long, especially at an event with 12,000 runners. This turned out to be a tactical mistake once we saw the lines for the bag check. I seriously contemplated donating my dry clothes to charity on the spot, but I am rather fond of the hoody I packed. At the last minute I threw my cell phone in the bag and jammed my energy gels in the small pocket of my running capris where I had intended to carry my phone. I had planned on pinning the gels to my shirt as I had seen other runners do, but since I have never run with gel packets slapping me on the ass before, I decided to follow the coach's "no new is good new" advice and pocket them instead. I could only cram three of them in there, but I figured I could pick up two more on the course at the designated stations. The whole need for gel was annoying, frankly; I'd trained with a carbohydrate/electrolyte product called Glucose throughout the season because that is the product that was supposed to be on the course. Well, a little less than two weeks prior to the race we found out that Ultima would be on the course instead. Ultima is electrolyte only, hence the need for me to add carbohydrate gel. There was a lot of discussion about this on the Portland Fit forum. Some runners were planning on bringing little packets of glucose and mixing their own during the race. This sounded like a huge time suck to me; little did I know....
At first, I lined up with the five hour (my stated goal) Red Lizard pacer. Then I got a little more optimistic and scooted up closer to the 4:45 (my secret goal) wave-start line. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon and it was a beautiful morning. I was thrilled to finally be running in my first marathon. Then we were off. I went slow, slow, slow for the first little while, trying to remember not to expend too much energy at the beginning. About ten minutes after we started running, I spotted a bank of port-a-potties that was miraculously vacant. I decided to take advantage of this anomaly and was quickly back out on the course. About this time the elite runners went racing by in the other direction - nearly finished and I had barely started. I was feeling good and smiling wide. I was only a few minutes off my goal pace and figured I could make that up later - I was keeping something in reserve for a reason, after all. There were some interesting sights along the course, not the least of which was a smushed rat. I pictured its last moments alive, frozen in the middle of the street as a knot of crazy humans mowed it down in their enthusiasm to test the limits of human endurance. More likely, it was roadkilled in the more traditional manner before traffic was blocked for the marathon, but it's always fun to speculate.
The water stations were going by quickly and I was drinking Ultima and water at each one. I had to pee again by mile six, but ignored the urge until mile eight hoping for shorter lines. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I lined up. There were two lines and I got in the wrong one. Everyone in my line was apparently carbo unloading. Finally, I was back on the course, but I had stopped for so long my left leg was tweaking badly I was limping pretty obviously. I stopped twice to rub out the cramp or whatever it was and was off again hoping I had seen the last of the inside of a port-a-potty until after the finish line; I had definitely seen the last of the 4:45 pacer.
I had already eaten two of my gels and was contemplating the third. I'd saved the best (apple pie) for last and decided to bust it out when I started to flag a bit at mile 15. I ripped the packet open with my teeth, and immediately dropped it on the ground. Horrified, I scooped it up and in the process squeezed gel all over my hand, watch and shirt. I started to lick it off my fingers until I realized that even the delicious* taste of energy gel cannot overcome the nasty taste of double-strength hand sanitizer. Abandoning that plan, I squeezed every last drop from the packet.
*Everything's relative
I reached Highway 30 and there was indeed a bit of a headwind as promised in the pre-race materials I had read diligently the night before. The helpful article had suggested finding another runner to run directly behind in order to conserve up to five heartbeats per minute. I dutifully found a strapping young man and slipped in behind him; then something slipped out of his behind and I had to veer off, gagging on the stench of too many pre-race protein bars. Oh well, nothing ventured...
I had to pee again. I couldn't believe it! I'd already peed four times more frequently than I had during my 21 mile training run. I took advantage of a vacant gas station bathroom I knew about and was pleasantly surprised to find it equipped with toilet paper. I also got to wash the crystallized gel from my hands in a real sink.
Speaking of gels, an aid station equipped with gels finally showed up. I was horrified to observe that instead of convenient little packets, they were pouring the gel from a gallon jug into paper cups. I grabbed one anyway, trying to figure out how to get it into my mouth and not my face/hands/clothes. I normally like to portion out my gel over the course of a mile - a carbohydrate miser. A Dixie cup isn't the best means of convenience for this technique, so I decided to go for broke and downed as much as I could by squishing the cup from the bottom. I immediately regretted the decision as soon as the foulness hit my taste buds. It tasted like someone had swished out a honey bear with Pinesol. (You think I'm kidding.) At least I had something to focus on besides the dull ache in my feet and the many miles left to cover. I thought wistfully of the two fruit-flavored gels I'd left behind in my checked bag and thought maybe I could have used a slap on the ass right about now...
Up and over the St. John's Brige and past the seventeen mile marker now. I was still feeling pretty good and looking forward to getting at the chips and Glucose that Aaron and Gemma had waiting for me at mile 20.5. I stopped to pee one more time (seriously!?) and had begun to suspect it was that damn Ultima that was causing the problems. I vowed to only drink water for the rest of the race as I once again sprinted to catch up to the five-hour pacer. I had been doing this at every water station for the last several miles. I was hanging on to my five hour goal like grim death. Finally, I saw the balloon arch that marked the Portland Fit cheering station and started scanning the crowd for Aaron. I saw him wave at me then I saw Gemma with a big smile on her face. I had planned on stopping to chat with them for a minute and give Gemma a hug, but I couldn't stand the thought of that stupid pacer getting ahead of me; I swooped past, grabbing the chips and Glucose as I went. I ran maybe a hundred more yards and all the engergy left my body like it had been siphoned off by one of the Dementors from Harry Potter. I had been focusing so hard on getting to the cheering station that another six miles seemed unattainable. I slowed way down and watched the Red Lizard pack run past and out of sight. I wanted to cry. And I had to pee again. Goddamnit.
The rest of the race (after giving up any goal aside from just finishing) is sort of a blur. I don't even remember crossing the Broadway Bridge. The only good thing I can say about those last few miles is that the port-a-potties were generally vacant. Of course, this was a philosophical observation since I hadn't had to pee since I stopped guzzling that stupid diuretic they were passing off as a sports drink. It's a good thing I had checked my cell phone, because if I'd had it, the temptation to call a cab would have been very enticing.
I found my focus again maybe a half a mile from the finish line when the throng of spectators started to thicken. I had my ipod on and meant to remember the song I crossed the finish line with, but it turns out my capacity for thought was distilled down to just figuring out where the end was and getting there as soon as possible. I didn't hear Gemma and Aaron cheering for me as I rounded the final corner; I'm pretty sure I didn't hear anything at all. I managed to throw my arms up in a victory "V" as I crossed the finish line. The pictures will soon tell if that looked as good as it felt.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Glutton for Running
Through a happy set of coincidences, I found myself on a Hood to Coast team. Hood to Coast is a relay that covers 197 miles and 6000 feet of elevation from Mt. Hood to Seaside. There are 1000 teams of twelve runners each plus a Portland to Coast walk and High School Challenge. Since this is my first running season, I was a HTC virgin and didn't know any better when I was assigned slot nine (ranked first for distance and second for difficulty). Or rather, I was suspicious but grateful for the opportunity and did not complain. I really have to say that runners as a group are really the most masochistic people; who else would devise a run that can last the better part of a day and a half and requires the runners to also sit in gridlocked traffic on narrow country roads in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Since I am new to this running game, I had to guess what my 10K time would be (in order to estimate what time the next runner would need to be in position). I rather flippantly told the coach that I could run a ten minute mile (which is occasionally true). I have run two half marathons at about a 10 minute pace, but since I have been working more on distance for the full marathon in October, I have been getting slower and slower. To see my name on a spreadsheet with an estimated time (that was already way over everyone else's pace) was a bit nerve racking. Here is a breakdown of how each of my legs went:
The Leg of Despair
Leg 9 - 6.89 miles, moderate difficulty.
As I was waiting near the hand-off shoot, the runner who came in just before my teammate was white as a sheet and puffing like a freight train. Lynn, my teammate, tactfully warned me to get out of the way so as not to be in the line of fire should this guy loose his lunch. Just about that time Tanya came sailing up and tagged me with the "baton" (one of those contraptions that starts out flat and curls itself around your wrist when you slap it against said appendage - I remember these from Jr. High, when it was fun to see how hard you could slap it onto someone else's wrist. I seem to recall they got taken away from us for having sharp edges. Hmmmmm...) Shortly after I headed out for my leg an ambulance passed me going the other way - presumably to rescue the runner I mentioned) . Awesome; I had already witnessed a casualty and was less than a quarter mile into my first run. The route quickly took me onto the Spring Water Trail. My biggest fear with this race was getting lost; I am rather talented at going the wrong direction. I was assured that it was next to impossible to get lost because a volunteer would be posted at every turn to direct me. I needn't have worried - if I started to get lost, I could always follow the person behind me. That's right, I got passed 26 times. Some of these runners blew by me like I was running backwards. Unlike a regular race, there were no mile markers along the route so I had no idea what my pace was. After getting passed so regularly, I started to worry that I was running at a 12 or 13 minute pace and began devising my excuses. Here are a few I came up with:
- I stopped to chat on my cell phone (it did ring twice and I was tempted...)
- I stopped to pick blackberries for the team
- I stopped to chat with some homeless people
- I unwisely looked for the source of the smell that was emanating from the bushes and got tied up in a homicide investigation.
- I stopped to collect litter (it did occur to me, especially race-related litter like those little packets of Gu)
- I got caught in the slipstream of some of the runners who passed me and was blown off course
The Leg of Darkness
Leg 21 - 5 miles, moderate difficulty
Some things I learned from the last leg - check the map for a landmark so you know when you are halfway done and don't count the people who pass you, only those you pass (roadkill). I should take a moment to expand on roadkill - this is any runner you pass. It's not particularly scientific as just about anyone counts as roadkill - runners (of course), runners who are unfortunate enough not to be met by a teammate and are waiting around anxiously at the hand-off while there van is stuck somewhere in traffic, lost or getting a ticket for not wearing seatbelts (which happened to be the situation with my first roadkill), walkers, people who eventually pass you, homeless people, passed-out drunks..... This is serious stuff at Hood to Coast, and nearly every van has their roadkill numbers prominently displayed. I was represented on dozens of vans by now - my little contribution to someone else's self esteem.
There were not a lot of landmarks on this leg - a house about halfway through the course. It was the middle of the night (around 2 am) and watching the runners ahead of my get quickly swallowed by the darkness did not bode well. I was equipped with a head lamp and a reflective vest. There were two runners in the shoot whose teammate that they were supposed to hand off to had not shown up. This was kind of emotionally stressful for me to witness; I was very glad when Tanya showed up and I was off following the others into the dark. Right away I nearly turned my ankle. The road was gravel and there was a big berm of it pushed up along the left shoulder. This was the same route the vans take to the next hand-off, so I had to run a fine line between getting run over by a van and getting mired in the gravel. It was like running in sand. There were stretches where I was totally by myself. It was as dark as the womb. There was enough cloud cover to obscure the moon and stars and my headlamp cut a weak swath through the night. There was a little moisture in the air so the light caught the reflection of the tiny droplets and it looked exactly like driving through the snow at night. I couldn't see far enough ahead with just my headlamp to really see what direction the road was curving. It was an incredibly surreal feeling to be basically be taking it on faith that there was a road beneath my feet. Every few minutes or so a van or group of vans would pass me, illuminating the road so I could see where I would be going. Then they would pass by and I would be plunged back in to the night that seemed darker than before. I was passed frequently again and actually passed four people. It was nice to be able to see the other runner's lights and reflectors in the distance. Like those lights in The Great Gatsby (I read that book on my own a long time ago and now I'm thinking maybe those lights were a portent of death so possibly not the best metaphor, but they were comforting at the time and I hated to see them wink out as the runner curved with the road or simply got too far ahead to see.) I was starting to worry about my pace again and thinking I would never finish when a girl sailed by me and said "two more minutes". Her reflective vest looked like wings and I couldn't help but think I had been visited by Mercury, the messenger of the Gods. I poured on a little speed and beat my estimated time by five minutes. Hallelujah.
The Leg of Disco
Leg 33 7.72 miles, difficulty hard
After a shower in a high school gym, an overpriced, under-good pancake breakfast and a few snatches of sleep, I was feeling somewhat human for this last leg. Mostly I was looking forward to being done. This was a really beautiful part of the course (the last leg was too, but I couldn't see the beauty for the dark). Rolling hills through the countryside. The cool thing about this leg was that there was good van access the whole way so my team stopped twice to cheer me on and give me water. That definitely gave me a little kick each time - especially when they started dancing to Stayin' Alive; I must say they have some fine moves and there is Youtube evidence posted on Facebook. I even got cheered on by another van or two, "Keep it up Red!" from the Maple Bar team was a nice boon, though I would have preferred an actual maple bar. There was a guy sitting in his lawn chair watching the spectacle. He told me I had two miles to go, though I suspect he was rounding down. I even had five roadkills this leg, of course one of them passed me again and the other was a walker, but I'm claiming them. I beat my estimate by seven minutes.
All in all, it was an interesting experience. I suspect that much like childbirth, after I recover from the aches and pain I will revise my assessment from "interesting" to "fun!" and come back for more next year.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Running for Distance
Apparently, running and chaffing go together like tequila and hangovers or flight attendants and polyester - always think this time will be different, but it never is....
I've made the acquaintance of Body Glide. In fact, we're on intimate terms - it's definitely been between my legs more frequently in the last six months than anything else has. The trouble with Body Glide is that you have to guess where to apply it like some sado-masochistic game pin the tail on the donkey. Sure, there are the obvious spots (I believe I just mentioned the most obvious one since my thighs stubbornly insist on rubbing together); also under the bra strap (learned that one the hard way) and my arm pits where the seams of my shirt tends to dig in a bit. Well, this week I discovered a new place to chafe and I have the welts on my back to prove it. I bought a pair or running capris last week to replace the other new pair I had to return after running for exactly two blocks in them and discovering that the crotch preferred to reside somewhere near my knees instead of where it belonged -- you know, at my crotch. They were made of some kind of magical fabric invented by frat boys that literally pulled off of my body with the slightest friction. An interesting reason to abort a run; I'm adding it to my list of logical excuses for when my bed is just too warm and the morning just too early.
Anyway, last Sunday was my 30K benchmark. That's 18.6 miles for you non-runners (and/or non-Canadians). I have a nifty hydration system that once I figured out how it worked, has stood me reasonably well. On Sunday however, it failed me - or rather I failed to fill it correctly, I'm not exactly sure. The end result was that around mile 15 or so I realized that I was literally soaked in Glucose (fancy sport beverage). I'm not sure if it actually leaked or if I simply filled the backpack portion up with liquid electrolytes instead of the pouch itself at the last water stop. The fancy tech fibers I was wearing did their best but when confronted with liquid from both sides but they were no match from the duel assault. It made for an interesting wet mark - sort of like I stood on my head and wet my pants. Awesome :l I had to forewarn the delightful massage therapist who worked on me after the run. That was an interesting conversation, "So, if you have to actually touch my thigh here where I'm tight, you're hands might get sticky."
I'll have to try running in those tights again to see if it was actually the waistband itself that was the issue or if it was the soaking it in liquid portion of the fun that caused the issue. This would be good information to have before I decide what to wear for the marathon in October. Either way, I'm adding yet another part of my anatomy to the list of Body Glide destinations.
I've made the acquaintance of Body Glide. In fact, we're on intimate terms - it's definitely been between my legs more frequently in the last six months than anything else has. The trouble with Body Glide is that you have to guess where to apply it like some sado-masochistic game pin the tail on the donkey. Sure, there are the obvious spots (I believe I just mentioned the most obvious one since my thighs stubbornly insist on rubbing together); also under the bra strap (learned that one the hard way) and my arm pits where the seams of my shirt tends to dig in a bit. Well, this week I discovered a new place to chafe and I have the welts on my back to prove it. I bought a pair or running capris last week to replace the other new pair I had to return after running for exactly two blocks in them and discovering that the crotch preferred to reside somewhere near my knees instead of where it belonged -- you know, at my crotch. They were made of some kind of magical fabric invented by frat boys that literally pulled off of my body with the slightest friction. An interesting reason to abort a run; I'm adding it to my list of logical excuses for when my bed is just too warm and the morning just too early.
Anyway, last Sunday was my 30K benchmark. That's 18.6 miles for you non-runners (and/or non-Canadians). I have a nifty hydration system that once I figured out how it worked, has stood me reasonably well. On Sunday however, it failed me - or rather I failed to fill it correctly, I'm not exactly sure. The end result was that around mile 15 or so I realized that I was literally soaked in Glucose (fancy sport beverage). I'm not sure if it actually leaked or if I simply filled the backpack portion up with liquid electrolytes instead of the pouch itself at the last water stop. The fancy tech fibers I was wearing did their best but when confronted with liquid from both sides but they were no match from the duel assault. It made for an interesting wet mark - sort of like I stood on my head and wet my pants. Awesome :l I had to forewarn the delightful massage therapist who worked on me after the run. That was an interesting conversation, "So, if you have to actually touch my thigh here where I'm tight, you're hands might get sticky."
I'll have to try running in those tights again to see if it was actually the waistband itself that was the issue or if it was the soaking it in liquid portion of the fun that caused the issue. This would be good information to have before I decide what to wear for the marathon in October. Either way, I'm adding yet another part of my anatomy to the list of Body Glide destinations.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Running Rural
I'm back home in St. Ignatius, Montana for the annual family visit. I grew up here in this tiny town of about a thousand people in the Mission Valley of the Rocky Mountains. It's beautiful here. I had a twelve mile run on the training schedule for the weekend so I struck out at 6:30 AM for what turned out to be a jog down memory lane. I decided to run around the town a bit and then head out towards farm country to crank out the miles. I was nearly to the high school when I came upon a road that I have never been down before. I don't know why in the seventeen years I lived in Mission that I had never had cause to travel down Griffin Lane. I guess I don't know any Griffins. In any case, it was a dead end and I turned around rather quickly, but not before a lady drove past me with her window down smoking a cigarette. The smoke combined with the smell of fresh grass made me think of Ireland, where the Irish need there morning cigarette the way Americans need their morning coffee. I ran past the Methodist Church, where I spent many Sundays growing up, and my whole Forth Grade year with Mrs. K while the new elementary school was being built. It is a private home now, with significantly better landscaping and (I hope for the new owner's sake, better plumbing). I proceed past the school which has grown in size somewhat, but not in personality. The whole thing is beige now, without a bit of blue or red trim to be seen and not a mural in sight. Beige paint must have been on sale or else there was some obscure catch in the latest round of grants, or maybe they just cut the art department. I guess they cut the track and field program too, because as the track comes into view, I see that there are waist high weeds growing out of the track itself. You'll be glad to know the football filed in the center is weed free and green (owing to the irrigation pipes I would have to leap across if I run the track). Every school has its priorities. Giving the track a pass, I head down the hill and over the bridge crossing Mission Crick (that's Creek to those of you who didn't grow up here). I spent lots of hot summer days playing in the creek and wishing I had a cool girls name like Samantha that could be shortened to a cool boys name like Sam. Christina/Chris and Andrea/Andy also fit this scenario depending on my mood. From here, I headed out of town on St. Mary's Lake Road. The 35 mph speed limit on these rural roads is really just the faintest suggestion. Fortunately these speed demons are also exceedingly polite, scooting to the other side of the road at least a half mile away and giving me a wide berth (and usually a return wave). Very peaceful out here running towards the Mission Mountains with the sun just peeking out from behind Mt. Harding. There is also a lot of tall grass that might make a convenient screen should a girl have to pee. Just sayin'. Oddly, the dogs out here are all chained or fenced, while the dogs in town seem to run wild through the streets. I see a sign in the distance with what looks like two pieces of burnt toast. As I get closer, I see that it is depicting the Ten Commandments. Surely this is a joke I think, as it appears to be in front of a post and timber business and not say, a church. Then I catch the subtitle, "The Wages of Sin are Death" and decide to run a little faster past this place lest they decide to take their shotgun to this heathen Sunday runner. I turn on to Airport Road and head through recetntly minted Amish Country. There were no Amish here when I graduated, but a colony has since settled in the area. Though I don't see anyone today, I have seen them biking to town or riding along in a wagon this trip. I finally pass the airport for which the road is named, and there are several shiny new hangers. At least, I think they are hangers. I suppose they could be storage units, which seems to be the latest cottage industry craze around here. Even my Dad got in on that one (or maybe he started it). Dismayingly, I also see signs offering the surrounding fields up for development, complete with an artist's rendering of a big shopping center and planned neighborhood. This makes me terribly sad. I don't want to think about the day when I come back for a run down memory lane, and find out it is a paved four-lane highway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)